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Chapter Text

The others might have been worried about him, and he might have acknowledged that if either of them had the balls to express it in his presence. Mista shot nervous looks at him when he thinks he’s not looking, sometimes at Trish too if she’s in eyeshot. But she is more likely to speak up about it.

Once she did, as blunt as always.

“Hey, when was the last time you slept? And I mean in your room upstairs, not in here.” She had said, gestured to his office, all mahogany and marble-topped tables. Not comfortable to nap on.

Giorno had only replied, “There’s no need to worry. I’ve only been busy.”

“You’ve been ‘busy’ for weeks. You need to rest.”

“I can’t do anything about that, Trish.”

“You can at least act like a human for once! My god, what is y-!”

Mista pulled her back and took over, speaking quieter but no less firmly.

“You look like shit. Please Boss, before you get sick or something.”

Giorno laughed hollow, his face in a stiff grimace. “I don’t even think that’s possible anymore.”

All three fell quiet. Mista, who had been resting his hands on the desk, stood up slowly and glanced at Trish. She was dressed for a meeting with her agent and hadn’t even been expected for a visit to the Palazzo today, wrapped up in a long black felt coat and an ornate silver belt. Her delicate and expensive smelling perfume had begun to fill the room in place of their words. Before Giorno could begin to speak again Mista took Trish’s wrist.

“You should head out before you’re late. And,” he said to her, “I don’t want you to hear this.”

Trish’s face hardened. She didn’t like that. “I want to hear it,” She looked back over to Giorno, sat stiffly at his desk with a pen still in his hand. “It’s still my business.”

Giorno lifted the pen to wave at them both. “I’m no-one’s business. Neither of you should be concerned about my health if I tell you I’m fine.” He said. When Trish looked ready to spit at him again his eyes turned cold and he added, “And, I am perfectly fine.”

Neither looked convinced. That tone was one he used more commonly on those he was planning to coerce into some contract, or the poor souls he had crossed paths with the previous spring before taking the throne of Passione. It was no less effective on his allies and friends. It made Mista’s blood run cold, leaving him perhaps scared a little by a boy three years his junior. Trish had more of a resilience against it knowing they were the same age and coming from such similar circumstances before meeting earlier in the year. And after all, she had her own habits for getting what she wants from others.

“There are better ways to distract yourself.” She said.

Giorno said nothing.

“You’re doing a pretty terrible job at it actually.” She sighed. “It’s kinda pathetic if I’m being frank.”

Mista looked like he wanted to grin but nodded instead. “If you keep this up the others will think you’re not cut out for the job.”

Giorno looked down at the desk. He traced the edge of a document with one finger slowly. “I know.”

But what more can I do? Was what he was ready to say, but it wasn’t worth asking for their help. He was sure they had enough on their plate without him doubling their grief.

It was disgusting, grief.

A lonely childhood and an apathetic adolescence led Giorno to the unique position at the age of 15 where he felt the loss of a loved one, and for the first time, it hurt. Sure, he could imagine being affected by the death of his mother or step-father but surely not to the degree to which he had been shattered –

Was that the right word to use?

It was hard to tell. Grief might have been the singular most revolting sensation of them all. It turned his life from the carefully crafted slope up from the gutter to stardom into a fractured timeline now freshly split by the new and unexpected concepts of “before” and “after”. He almost wished someone had warned him that it would happen like that. Not only feeling that life in the past tense now existed in two different hues but also how it split him too.

“Giorno!”

Mista snapped fingers under his nose, bringing Giorno back to attention.

“Pardon?”

“If you’re ready to do your job again, I’d come all the way down here to give you some news.” Mista said, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets.

“Sorry. But,” he gestured to Trish, who didn’t seem ready to leave, “is it not rude to speak about business around someone it doesn’t concern?”

“Oh, no I guess so. But this- Well, I think she’d be pissed if we didn’t tell her about it at some point anyhow.”

Trish shifted her weight. “Yeah, I believe you.”

“Carry on then.” Giorno said.

“It’s the latest bit of news from the SPW Foundation, received at 09:23 from Washington. They’ve finally agreed to your request.” Mista said. He sounded anxious, although Giorno’s face cleared as he said it.

“Were there any details given?”

“Uhh. The message said this Thursday coming, no time given yet though. It’ll be at the reception house, not any of our…professional venues.”

“Ah, makes sense.” Trish said. “Looks waaaay less like a place the mafia would work. It might even pass for a four-star hotel if you squint.” She oozed sarcasm, but Giorno ignored her.

“Were there any details about who would be meeting me?”

Mista paused, wracking his brain to remember one of the many foreign names attached to the message. “A Signor Kujo? That might be wrong.”

“No. That’s right.”

“That someone important? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

“He might be.” Giorno had become suddenly engrossed in his documents again. “I guess I’m going to find out soon enough.”

He pushed some folders around and pulled out a small leather diary. The date was marked in with neat handwriting and some text in his own code underneath for more mysterious purposes. Both Trish and Mista felt that the conversation was coming to end; that they weren’t going to get much else out of him at this point. So Trish bit the bullet. She leant across the desk, her coat’s fabric dragging over neatly arranged piles of paper and card. A hand shot under Giorno’s chin and grasped his collar, pulling his face up to hers in one swift motion. Two pairs of blue eyes stared into each other, one steely and concerned, the other surprised and severely under-slept.

“You,” Trish said, talking loud enough for Mista to hear her clearly behind her, “are a child. No matter how many suits you wear or meetings you hold or times you’ve treated me like another of your greasy subordinates. There are people who put their lives in your hands and as much as you may hate it that means people are going to get hurt and you might choose to blame yourself for that, but it does not give you the right to act like you’re the only one hurting. You’re a child, Giorno we both are, so act like one.”

She let him go, her hand sliding from his silky collar to the surface of the desk.

“Try giving yourself a break. Start there.”

Mista closed the office door behind them. The room had become uncomfortably warm after that and neither wanted to give Giorno another opportunity to chastise them for poking into his business, so they left.

Trish sighed and pulled her coat around her tighter.

“Hey Trish?” Mista’s voice was tinged with hesitancy.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think that I’m greasy?”

*

Three days later a slick black car carried a group of immensely wealthy American officials from the Napoli City airport to the newly refurbished Passione reception building. It was smaller than most of the other sites owned by the organisation but represented a more hospitable side of the gang and so used every inch of space to accommodate its guests and provide a somewhat luxury experience for the evening.

Mista hated it.

Plush velvet seating and green marble felt cheap when it was regularly hosting those from overseas who were readily dealing in the same kind of business he’d reserved for the deepest and hottest parts of hell. Everyone has standards, and Mista was proud to know his weren’t the lowest.

Giorno fidgeted next to him. He’d never seen him nervous before, but then again this might not be nervousness per se. He might have just been very concerned by the alignment of his cufflinks. And the fold of his jacket’s breast. And his braid. There were a lot of component parts to his outfit this evening, Mista noted. More shiny than usual. It wasn’t a surprise to him after overhearing a rumour that one of the ambassadors from the SPW was a man the Boss suspected to be a relative. If that was what had kept Giorno up for the last few nights before today, he didn’t blame him.

They stood on a stripe of dark green carpet leading through the foyer from the closed front doors, shoulder to shoulder.

“I called Fugo in this morning. He’s on the east balcony with Sheila so they’ll see anything from up there before I can.” Mista said.

“That’s unnecessary.”

Mista didn’t turn to face Giorno and continued, “I’ve looked into these people we’re hosting, if you don’t mind me saying so. This Kujo guy sounds formidable.”

Giorno kicked the side of his carefully polished shoe into Mista’s. “I didn’t request for him to visit just to initiate a fight. This is purely-”

The doors opened, Trish pushing through with one arm, the other opening out to the foyer to lead in the guests. Half a dozen men and women in clean suits followed her into the hall from the evening air. Most looked tired from their flight and several were tugging at their collars, not used to the late August heat of Italy. Trish trotted over to Giorno and Mista and whispered something into Giorno’s ear before slipping behind them to find some drinks to offer the SPW assembly.

Despite the discomfort shown by the rest of the guests one of them stood out with unnerving composure. Mista easily found his eyes drawn to the man, for many reasons. First, he was the only one who did not seem to be fazed at all by the heat and wore a clean white trench coat reaching almost down to his ankles. Second, he was enormous, and the huge coat only added to the impression he was giving of a walking iceberg moving slowly towards Mista across the room. Third, the man was tickling Mista’s déjà vu, in an unnerving and entirely unpleasant way.

This man drew close enough for Mista to see his irises, a sharp green-blue, from under the shade of his hat-brim. As he tipped his head to greet the two it clicked for Mista. This was the same aura of reserved confidence Giorno had given off the day he’d first introduced himself in that restaurant.

“Mr Kujo, I presume.” Giorno said, stiffly. His hands were tight at his sides, possibly to keep them from tugging at his cuffs again, but his face was the usual mask of angelic calm.

Kujo didn’t respond to Giorno but glanced at Mista beside him, who was beginning to feel his insides clench up under his gaze. He really hoped that wasn’t showing on his face, but in all likelihood, it was. Crap. Is his whole family like this?

“If you’re ready now the room behind us is prepared to hold us for the duration of our…conversation. Your friend is waiting for you inside.” Giorno held an arm out behind him to one of the closed doors leading out of the reception hall, flanked by two small tables topped by tall vases of white lilies. Little details insisted upon by Trish. Mista now suspected the pomp was closer to insult than impression to Kujo.

He nodded and silently followed Giorno into the room with a flap of his coat and the soft click of the door’s lock.

Mista was left stunned in the hall. He wasn’t needed, that was no surprise in the end, but the air surrounding those two had been heavy enough to leave him out of breath once they’d left him alone again as if he’d been put through some sort of rigorous exam. Trish nudged his shoulder, appearing beside him without a sound.

“Did he not want a drink?” She asked. She was holding two empty glasses in one hand and a half full wine bottle in the other.

“No,” Mista replied, “We should leave them be.”

They retired to a corner of the reception area where several tables were set out to let guests or hosts rest beside the small tables set out with snacks and refreshments, once Mista had done his rounds greeting the others in the room. The representatives were much readier to talk to them than he had expected, to Trish’s surprise as well. Despite the fact she technically wasn’t affiliated with the gang the SPW workers and Kujo’s entourage had been happily chatting with her for the evening.

After almost an hour of leaving the two in the room in the back Mista had left Trish to entertain the entourage while he kept an eye of the locked door from a chair near the tables.

Polnareff had refused to give Giorno much more information about his family than cryptic glimmers of the truth, even less to Mista and the others. He’d claimed it wasn’t his place to tell “the poor boy”; that he had the right to hear the whole story from the mouth of his real family. That was an idea that really set Giorno off, even if he would have denied it. After hearing there was in fact a family to speak of a whole swarm of contacts to the Speedwagon Foundation had been sent across the Atlantic within days. All were requesting a formal greeting in Napoli. Relations with the foundation had been remote but benevolent before then, so it was a major step. Then some time later a couple more delicately worded and carefully addressed letters were sent asking for a representative of the Joestar family, by request of Giovanna himself.

The quiet frenzy Giorno had been sent into by the excitement might have made his condition worse for those last few days, perhaps dreaming up what his true family would be like, how they would treat him, or what they’d think of him and his work.

But that was just a fantasy Mista weaved as he aimlessly twisted his hat between his hands under the table. He doubted the Boss really had time for that kind of childish stuff when there were more important things to deal with along with the sudden introduction of blood relatives to the Don of Passione; considering that the last time something like this came to light for a Boss, there was no happy ending.

He glanced over to Trish. He really wished they talked more, her and Giorno. They had more in common than Giorno wanted to admit, and Trish liked to remind them both of it.

“Excuse me?” A small young man, Japanese and nervous, ducked into Mista’s view from behind a stack of buttered rolls. “Has Mr. Kujo returned yet?”

“No.” Mista replied. “They’re taking their time.”

“Oh.” The young man looked down at his shoes, then glanced hopefully at the empty chair next to Mista which Trish had left a while ago. “May I?”

“Yeah sure.” Mista waved him off, keeping an eye on the closed door.

The young man bowed and collapsed into the seat, exhausted from the long journey and Trish’s interrogation.

“You made the right decision, getting away from her I mean. If you weren’t careful she’d talk you into letting her use your jacket as a hand towel.”

The man seemed to think Mista was joking and waited for a follow-up, but he didn’t blink or even break eye contact with the door across the hall. He put out a hand. “Koichi Hirose. I’m a friend of Mr. Kujo. He asked me along to keep him company but I’m genuinely quite fond of Italy so I’m glad to back anyway.”

Mista took his hand and shook it, turning in his seat to face him properly. “Mista. Is it often that he asks for…company on business trips? He looked more like the type to take care of things himself.”

“Oh, well. I think this is a unique circumstance.” Koichi said.

“Because it’s Italy?”

“Because it’s family.”

Well, at least that’s cleared it up, Mista thought. It made sense in way, maybe Kujo was as nervous as the Boss was to finally meet a relative. It was almost endearing, if both didn’t scare the crap out of him.

“Oh,” Koichi paused, a glass of water halfway to his mouth, “I don’t think I was supposed to tell you that.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Mista said, “It’s not hard to guess. They look sorta similar, if you look real close. And if you ignore the huge height difference.”

Koichi laughed. “Yeah, I suppose. I thought that too the first time I met him.”

“You’ve met the Boss before?”

“Uh,” Koichi looked embarrassed again; he wasn’t used to these kinds of conversations. But he appeared to give up on scolding himself and carried on. “We met last Spring, before he was Don. That was on Mr. Kujo’s request as well so I couldn’t get to know him much before I had to head back home to Japan. But from what I did see of him I could tell he wasn’t a bad guy, even if he’s a little spooky sometimes.”

“Yeah I know what you mean.” Mista said. Something Koichi had said bugged him, and he frowned. “Did you say you were in Italy to find Giorno? On Kujo’s request?”

Koichi stuck his nose deep into his glass, not meeting Mista’s gaze.

“Did Kujo know he was a relative? And he didn’t even let us know?”

“He’s a complicated man.”

Mista sighed. “Yeah they’ve got that in common too. But really,” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “he could have let Giorno know before now. That guy’s really hung up on the whole family thing right now.”

Koichi looked troubled.

“What do you know about their family?” Mista asked tentatively.

“A bit.” He didn’t look like the type to lie. “But it’s not my place to tell.”

“Yeah. I’ve heard that before.”

Mista decided to change the topic before the guy got any more anxious. He gave the impression of a small dog with an over-eager, yet gentle, temperament.

“Your Italian’s really good, by the way. So, how did you first meet Kujo?”

He laughed. “Thanks. That’s a funny story actually, it-”

The door behind Mista clicked open. The sound was quiet enough for Koichi to not notice above the noise of the guests about them but Mista shot up out of his seat with a clatter to face the opening door. Mr. Kujo immediately swept past the table and vanished into the crowd without a word. After a moment of awkward silence Koichi shuffled his feet then followed the man after a polite nod to Mista and to Giorno, who had just emerged from the room behind him.

Mista waited with his eyes trained on Giorno, waiting for a command to usher the other guests out for the evening, or to follow Kujo. But he said nothing so Mista edged closer.

“Boss?”

Giorno looked up at Mista, not giving anything away in his expression.

“Take me home.”

There was nothing ulterior behind those words. And the way he said it didn’t let Mista ask any further questions, Giorno knew.

Mista nodded and pointed to the side of the room where a door opened out to a parking space where the car they’d taken here was waiting. He then turned on his heel to find Trish before leaving but Giorno’s thin, but strong hand closed around his forearm.

“I’m leaving now.”

Then there was little he could do. “Alright.”

They left, weaving through the guests careful not to bump into wandering elbows and shoulders, an easier task for the short and nimble Giorno than Mista. As he slipped through the backdoor Mista caught Trish’s eyes and gave her a tight-lipped smile. She only nodded back and turned away to, assumedly, send the rest of the room to a hotel booked out by Giorno the previous day.

Outside the night had turned cold. Giorno silently waited in the car, the driver’s door held open beside him as he undid his collar and brusquely pulled a hair tie from the end of his braid.

That bad.

Mista was smart enough not to say a word to him as he took the driver’s seat, pulled out into the road and drove them back to the Palazzo in under ten minutes. With the car’s roof down the night air pulled Giorno’s hair entirely free of the neat and meticulously kept braid which, along with those strange little loops, had become as much a symbol of his position as the entourage of armed gangsters who followed him all hours of the day. Mista suspected most of the lower ranking affiliates of the gang wouldn’t even recognise the boy without his signature hairstyle.

Giorno leant back in the passenger’s seat, the blouse under his stiff jacket flapping after the top two buttons had been pulled out. He screwed his eyes shut.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. Seeing disappointment or heartbreak from the outside was common for Mista at this point in his life, he’d become used to it after all that he and his closest friends had experienced six months ago.

Only, it was new on this kid. New and not right.

He held back from asking about it, not wanting a mouthful of beetles or a spine-shattering stare for his troubles.

Once back at HQ, Mista insisted on preparing a hot drink for him before heading for bed. Giorno agreed but vanished as soon as Mista turned his back to turn on the kettle in the small kitchen next to the Boss’s quarters, possibly to his room next door. Mista got to work quickly; afraid Gio would fall asleep before he had the chance to ask about the events of the next day.

They still had the responsibility of hosting the SPW workers for the morning and afternoon of Friday, bringing them around the city then recounting the events of that spring in further detail than had been shared prior. But perhaps not the whole truth, even then. The only individuals who knew the whole truth of that week were the three who survived the experience, and the one who technically hadn’t. Giorno refused to share it with any other of his closest associates and advised Trish and Mista to do the same, as if they needed to know that.

In fact, Giorno had spoken little about the specifics of that time even to them. He had managed to circumnavigate the topic with expert charisma every time they came close to even joking about it. It might have pissed Mista off, acting as if even the less gruesome details were a delicate topic, if he had the balls to press the conversation.

Mista thought this over as he dropped another spoonful of something sickeningly sweet into the mug of steaming chocolate, just like it should be. The idea of this much sugar in one cup turned his stomach and made his teeth ache but it was how Giorno liked it, so he had no right to argue.

He came to a stop outside his door. It opened into a smaller corridor which then led to many rooms including a bedroom, a bathroom, an office slightly smaller than the one downstairs, and a room large enough to entertain half a dozen, if needed. The door was currently closed but not locked. Mista considered knocking but decided against it knowing that there was a high chance that Giorno had already fallen asleep from exhaustion. Weeks of unrest had to catch up on him sometime and this was as good a time as any. He pushed through into the anteroom and came to the bedroom door, resting his ear against it to listen for movement, or snoring.

He heard a crash.

Mista threw the door open and stumbled into the master bedroom, Pistols already buzzing around his head.

Giorno stood in the middle of the room, chest heaving and staring right back at Mista with wide eyes. Most of the furniture have been thrown across the room, all of it broken. A table lay in half by Mista’s feet, a broken vase next to it. Several drawers had been pulled right out of the dresser by the bed and mounds of clothing were scattered across the floor, over and under fragments of wood and plaster. The curtains remained drawn but had been slashed from the top to the floor and now let in a thin stream of moonlight to cut through the room and fall across Giorno’s shoulders.

He closed his eyes, still breathing heavily, and sunk to his knees among the wreckage. His head tilted back, it could have been beautiful. He felt sick.

“Should I g-” Mista began, then rephrased, “Do you want me to stay.”                                              

*

Four hours later he was still awake. Mista had fallen asleep, curled up on the small sofa after he’d cleared away some splinters and a couple of stray shirts, and was now quietly snoring. Giorno sat with his back to the sofa, legs spread out towards the open window, head inches from Mista’s. A tray with two mugs of stone-cold chocolate sat on a table.

Curse it.

“Curse it.” he said, knowing he wouldn’t wake Mista up, a notoriously heavy sleeper. He wondered if Mista would be upset; waking up to find him still awake after all that. Pity, there was nothing left for him to dream about anyway.

There he was over-reacting. The rational, and larger portion of Giorno’s mind spoke up. Nothing had changed. It was the same as before, wasn’t it?

Giorno had blamed most of his troubles from earlier childhood on the lack of a positive father figure and it wasn’t much of a stretch to say it was true. The closest he had come to one was his brief but invigorating relationship with Buccellati, the lasting effects of which might have confirmed his suspicions in that department. Searching for a father wasn’t hard, he’d already created one for himself. One which had on countless occasions swept into his life and carried small, scared and hopelessly restless Haruno away from Napoli and his mother and her husband and Italy itself and out across the ocean and to a place where he could make a world for himself. A man with the same birthmark he had.

He had grown out of that soon after hitting his teenage years. And those dreams were quickly replaced, if not evolved, into the dream he was living out now. Yet he was still in want of a father, in a way, and the man in the photograph remained somewhat of a mystery at the back of his mind despite apparently growing out of it.

Maybe worse than hearing the truth was seeing the raw disgust in the eyes of the man who had met his father.

No wonder you didn’t want to see me.

He halfway wanted to apologise for dragging him across the world for it. Just to relive a battle from over a decade ago and to have to see what might as well have been that man’s face again. And to be received by nothing but childish denial and what must have been taken as a tantrum.

Giorno made a mental note to send flowers to Kujo Jotaro. Or something.

He eased himself up to his feet, wobbling a little when one of his legs had fallen asleep from sitting for so long. A splinter the size of a finger was kicked out of the way as he walked to where he’d thrown his jacket and pulled out a small leather wallet. Inside, still, was a folded photograph. But he didn’t take it out. He wouldn’t give that man the pleasure of being looked upon again, not just yet.

The wallet dropped to the dresser’s top, next to a scant few framed photographs of his mother, one borrowed from Mista of Buccellati and Abbaccio from ’99, and one of the Napoli skyline taken by himself the previous summer from his school dorm room window. He rarely spent time in his room outside of sleep, so they didn’t get looked at much. But he kept the room clean and dusted off the frames when he remembered, which was quite often. Mista once jokingly asked why there weren’t any of him – Giorno, he meant – but it was for the simple reason that there weren’t any taken of him. At least not recent ones; all that he had kept from his childhood were of a kid that very few would recognise as him anyway.

Trish had then offered to take a photo of them together but Giorno had declined. He couldn’t remember why.

As he rubbed some plaster dust off one photo frame a glint caught his eye. He turned to find where the light had bounced off, thinking that he could have broken a mirror or something but once he found what he was looking for his heart skipped a beat.

A wall had been partially cracked by the force with which a table had been shoved into it, Giorno would have blushed if he were the sort, and a small portion had come free from the brickwork to reveal a hole about the size of a shoebox. The hole itself was no surprise; Giorno was the one who put it there many months ago. He was only taken aback by the reappearance of what he had hidden inside.

The small, and highly polished despite its age, arrowhead leered at him from its hiding place at knee-height. Giorno crouched down and almost reached out to touch it again, before pulling back his hand and shoving it between his knees to stop himself. Of course, no-one else knew exactly where the arrow had ended up after Roma but most who knew about the arrow had assumed it was still embedded within his own body. That might have been half-true, and Giorno would have explained that to his friends if he understood it himself. He had put it in his wall the first night in the Passione HQ, and had woken up the next morning with it next to him in the bed. Some days he felt a pressure on his chest in its shape. Others it remained in the wall.

Once, on a memorable occasion, it had turned up in his laundry.

Despite its wandering habits it didn’t seem to want to leave him. Thankfully. And he had yet to have any need of it since Roma either, so he simply ignored it whenever it left the hole in the wall.

Giorno considered the devious little thing. On countless occasions he’d wondered exactly what the arrow was expecting him to do with it since it had hung around for so long out of use. The only time he had used it was nothing more than a blurred memory, a shimmering golden haze and the figure of Requiem standing some distance away and-

The memory made his head hurt to think about, so he left it at that. If it wasn’t something a human was meant to process, then there was no need to step out of his place. He already had enough experience stepping into the boundaries of gods and between life and death. He hated it. But he was always going to be drawn to it.

He felt his hand begin to rise towards the arrow again and he snapped out of his daydreams.

The realm of God was where his father had been striving for and it was what killed countless people and many of Kujo’s and Polnareff’s close friends and family. Even the similarities between his and his father’s childhoods were too much to ignore. Hearing the slivers of information about his life in England before taking the mask were tantalising, as if he were hearing the story of his own life from a different world, one where the boy with no true family and an insatiable hunger for control over the world he had been forced to live in chooses to become a monster rather than fight them.

The similarities ended there, as far as Giorno could tell. It sounded as if the man Kujo met in the eighties had little in common with the angry young boy from East London.

He stood, tearing his eyes away from the arrowhead and looking over to the table, wondering if he could possibly pull it over to cover the gaping hole in the wall until he had time to fix it again. The table had a mirror still propped up on it, one which had miraculously not been smashed. Giorno found himself angling it up to face him, the light through the window strong enough to see a clear reflection.

His hair had been mussed entirely by the ride home and his arrival, not resembling his usual craftmanship at all and a couple curls sticking out around his face at odd angles. A small down feather from the sofa clung to his wrecked fringe. He looked younger, maybe because he had ditched the suit jacket and was now covered in dust and dirt and might have passed as 16 for the first time in a long while. As he pushed dirty curls away from his eyes he began to compare his features with his father’s after years of being too old for that.

His eyes were the wrong colour, for one thing. His face was rounder, younger, his jawline not yet one of a grown man. With close inspection a small constellation of pale freckles ran over his nose and upper cheeks; something he hid well with a small amount of makeup when meeting associates. Too much of him was still a child but even more was far too much like that man. He imagined himself taller, broader and colder. Sharper features and even sharper eyes. His hands weren’t slim and graceful, they were large and strong and had held dozens of throats until they turned cold. They killed his only remaining relative and then half of his adoptive family. They were hands that might have held him as a child, if for only the briefest of moments. They also might have killed him, in another world.

Giorno ran a hand through his hair and hissed through clenched teeth. It was too much to think about and his body still begged to fall asleep, even standing up. The ground swung under him. A dull throb at the back of his skull was thrumming along to his heartbeat. It was too much. He was thinking about unnecessary things again. Unnecessary, useless things. Useless, useless and driving him up the walls.

When he looked at his hands again they were covered in blood. Blood of his brother. Then of his father. Then his brother again. Then he held Bruno, but not really. He was holding flowers. For a funeral he had arranged.

The flowers bled.

He loved flowers. They followed him everywhere. He took flowers wherever he went, in a way. He gave flowers to his friends like goodbyes.

His hands held nothing. His hands held the arrow. Giorno frowned. It was heavier than he remembered, then again, he hadn’t held it in months and he was apparently forgetting a lot of things.

“What do you want?”

Whether he or the arrow said it was not clear; the details of the room around him had begun to fade away since it came to be in his hands and things were getting harder to focus on, as if in a dream. Specks of light danced in the corner of his eyes and his fingertips were turning numb. It was just like the last time he’d taken it for himself, it didn’t feel real, but it sent pure electricity up his spine in anticipation.

Requiem had, as far as Giorno had understood, given its user whatever he wanted. Polnareff wanted a way to disable Diavolo by putting him inside his own dying body at the last moment. Giorno himself had only wanted some way to take Diavolo down outside of the reach of K. Crimson’s power.  Both times the ability gifted to them was more than they had bargained for. Giorno feared giving the arrow the slightest hint of a wish without careful consideration would result in a disaster.

“What do I want?”

One very dangerous idea raised an ugly head in his mind.

Whatever Requiem chose to make of that wish Giorno had no plans to let it become a threat again to anyone but himself; since he was so determined to throw himself down the path of destruction once more without his friends’ permission it felt only fitting. He glanced over his shoulder at Mista still asleep, a mound on his sofa which rolled over with a quiet grunt. Trish must be fast asleep too right now elsewhere in the city, tucked away in one of her family’s flashy apartments. God knows where Fugo is.

Giorno turned his back on Mista after one last long look. Requiem faced him, waiting. A cascade of gold and pale opal, hard to look at directly and already giving him a dull headache from the effort. No one besides himself and the old Boss had seen it, thank God. The thing looked like a Lovecraftian-Klimt monstrosity.

It tilted its head, staring at him like a cat at a bird through glass.

Giorno shivered and dropped his arms to his sides, the metal of the arrow rubbing ice-cold against his thigh through thick cotton. It was going to hurt again, that was to be expected. It might even be something like what it had done to Diavolo, who knows.

Like pulling out a baby tooth it was better to get it over with than to stand around thinking about getting it over with. Even if it was an irrational, dangerous, and wholly unnecessary tooth he was pulling on.

“Take me to him.” he said.

Requiem was fast and silent, plunging an arm deep through his chest in one swift motion.

Giorno gasped and his room exploded into fragments of light and noise and it felt like water was rising above his toes then his feet and shins then it was gone then it was raining and then he couldn’t breathe at all and-

Letting oblivion pass right through you hurts.

It really really stings. Actually, Giorno decided, it was worse than anything else he’d ever experienced before then. And that included the feeling of pushing an arrowhead into his own chest. He would much rather have that again than be on the receiving end of Requiem’s tour through the fourth dimension.

As the last of his vision faded out into a dim grey buzz and a strong ache at the back of his head, Giorno wondered if he would have made such a rash decision if he’d just listened to Trish and Mista and taken his mind away from work. If he’d slept for more than three hours at a time for the past few months. If he’d maybe spoken to them about the dreams he would have whenever he did fall asleep.

And he wished he’d payed more attention in English lessons.

Chapter Text

The feeling of cold stone hit Giorno hard in the side of his face.

He gasped, reaching hands out to catch himself on whatever he’d collided with. It was a street, narrow and paved with small and cracked cobbles which had already cut into Giorno’s cheek from the impact. There was also a cold dampness seeping into his shirt, so he assumed he had landed in a puddle. The air was chilled and filled with distant noise of chattering and hurried activity a few streets away but the only noise close by was the pattering of water dripping from drainpipes after the end of a recent rain shower.

It smelt awful; rubbish mixed with animal waste and rotting wood. But that lifted Giorno’s spirits somewhat, face still pressed to the cobblestone in shock. It didn’t smell anything like Napoli. He had succeeded.

His joy was broken by a shout from his left.

“Oy! Who’s this kid?”

A second voice joined him. “He a friend of yours? Eh?”

Then a third. “Looks like just a drunk to me.”

The second came back, more jovial. “Give him a kick. He might actually ‘ave money on ‘im.”

Giorno was building up strength to turn his head towards the voices when a fourth spoke up from further away.

“I don’t know him.”

The last voice was smaller than the others and sounded angrier. Giorno really wished he could turn his head without a pang of nausea and pain shooting down his neck. The journey had been rough, and he was in a way jetlagged.

“Oh? Then what’s he doin’ ‘ere? We’re not looking for an audience.” As this was said Giorno felt a strong hand reach under his shoulder and grip his shirt, pulling him half to his feet. He finally faced one of the men who had been speaking, eyes meeting the dirty and angry face of a boy a few years older than him. “Who are ya then? You wantin’ somethin’?”

Giorno felt it polite to make it clear as soon as possible that he had had no idea what these men had been saying the whole time. Through their thick accents, the speed they were speaking, and his own disorientation the dialect was entirely lost on him.

He pointed lazily to his own face and said the first suitable English word which came to mind. “Foreigner.”

“Oh?” The man holding him up grinned and looked back at his friends who were gathered around a darker corner of the back-alley. “Pretty boy ‘ere’s a European.”

“He got any money?”

“Idiot.” The first who had spoken smacked the third over the head. “We can’t do nothing with European coins.”

As they argued the fourth boy behind them began to slink down the wall away from them, but the first caught him by the collar and threw him to the ground by a pile of broken crates and newspapers.

“Hey! Don’t move you piece of crap, we’re not done with you.”

Now that he was being held up Giorno could finally get a good view of the action across the street. A younger and better dressed boy was hunched up by the wall, having been thrown down with enough force to leave him coughing, the other two leering over him with sleeves pushed up and knuckles already bloodied. One held a pair of shoes in his hand, presumably stolen from the younger boy earlier. The man still gripping Giorno glanced anxiously to the other two, wanting to return to the real action but hesitating, frowning at Giorno’s face like he was near to figuring something out.

“If you ‘aven’t got any real cash on you then give us your clothes.” The first man said to the younger boy.

“Hey,” the other said, “that in your pocket there, that a pocket watch?”

“Hey, hey, it is. Hand it over. Or I’ll knock your teeth out.”

The boy on the ground was livened by this and scrambled to his feet and took a swing at the man who had spoken. Before he could connect the other one punched him under the ribs, hard. The boy gasped and doubled over again, still depriving Giorno of a good look at his face. His light blond hair had been stained a dull brown from the puddle water and dirt from the alley-floor. Although he had been wearing what looked like expensively tailored clothing it was now ruined, and a rip ran up his trouser leg on one side.

“Don’t try anything funny you posh little rat.”

“Yeah! Just give us your clothes an’ your watch an’ then you can bog off to your rich little family out of town.”

The man by Giorno frowned harder and pulled him entirely to his feet. He said something else and shook him by the shoulders, clearly trying to get a question across, but Giorno’s gaze was locked on the boy by the wall who has beginning to raise his head again. And he given up on trying to decode the men’s frantic gibberish.

His attention caught by something the man had been shouting, the blond boy shot a glare in their direction and shouted back, “No you twat, my piece of shit brother’s nowhere near. And we’re not even related. What are you going on about?”

The boy’s mouth was flecked with blood from being punched a few times and a blue-green bruise was beginning to bloom from under one eye but through the dirt and blood Giorno finally saw what he had been looking for. It was the same face half-shadowed in his mother’s photograph and it was the same one he could almost see in his own.

Requiem really had taken him as close as it could get, down to just a few meters from the look of it. But exactly when he had been taken to Giorno was unsure of. His father looked not much older than himself which put them firmly in the late 1880s and most likely in central London from the appearance of their surroundings.

He had finally heard his father’s voice. He had met his father. That was him. Right there. Right in front of Giorno, living and breathing and glaring daggers at everyone in the alley around him. His father looked so human and so much like any other teen Giorno had seen it was staggering. He might as well have been his brother. That probably was why that mugger had given him such a strange look; them being so similar in appearance must have thrown him off for a moment. His father wasn’t a murderer in that moment. His father was just sitting across the street from him, his eyes locked with Giorno’s as recognition began to dawn on him too.

His father got kicked in the face.

“Bugger it. Easier to get his clothes from ‘im if he’s not moving. Take him out proper, will ya?”

Dio fell head first into a muddy puddle and didn’t get up. One man flicked out a small blade from a back pocket and moved slowly towards where Dio lay in the street, and Giorno finally made his move.

He jerked free of the grinning man’s hands and thrust his head forwards, his forehead connecting with the man’s nose. He yelped in surprise and his hands flew to his face to catch a spray of blood as Giorno jumped to his feet and swung back one leg, his boot connecting the side of the man’s head a moment later. He fell to the side as a second man rushed forward.

Giorno’s balance wavered before he brought G. Experience’s leg out to hold himself up from behind and ducked to avoid a wide right hook. From below he hit the man square in the stomach and, as he then doubled over, grabbed his head with both hands and thrust it down into one raised knee. Giorno’s knee connected square with the man’s forehead with a satisfying crack and the man fell to the side, his eyes rolling back in his head. After giving the second man one last kick to the stomach for good measure Giorno straightened his collar and turned to where the last mugger was standing.

This man was less confident than the other two. He held the small knife out before him as Giorno walked closer and he glanced nervously down at the still unmoving figure of Dio in the gutter.

“H-hey. Hey, kid! I dunno know what your deal is, or – or who you think you are, but-” The man thrust his knife out further, a mere inch from Giorno’s chin. “I’m not gonna wait to think before guttin’ you like-like a-”

“A fish?” Giorno offered.

The man swallowed and took a step back, his foot nudging Dio’s shoulder.

“What? You’re talking now?”

Giorno didn’t feel like pulling the man’s words apart any longer and simply nodded down to the knife he was brandishing between them. The man glanced down, confused and then screamed as a large brown rat squirmed out of his hand and hung from his wrist.

“What the hell?” The man yelled and spun around to try fling the rat from his sleeve, but it clambered up his arm and towards his neck before the man made off running out of the alleyway, still yelling and waving his arms about madly. The noise in the alley finally died down and Giorno closed his eyes for a moment. His balance was held steady with G.E.’s help but his vision was swimming again. He felt that if he wasn’t careful he could pass out from the stress the journey must have put on his heart and already exhausted body.

Soon he noticed movement below him. Dio stared back up at him from the alley-floor, eyes narrowed as he pressed a long thin knife to Giorno’s inner thigh.

Shame. He’d failed to even notice that Dio hadn’t truly fallen unconscious at all, then failed to notice the second blade. Now things had become awkward.

“What do you want?” Dio asked. His voice had the same taut anger from before.

Giorno’s head lolled. It was getting hard to keep his eyes open.

“Dovresti ringraziarmi.” He mumbled.

“What?” Dio snarled and pressed the blade closer to Giorno, carefully keeping it close to the largest arteries as Giorno swayed. “I know you know English. Tell me why you didn’t attack me too, you bastard.”

Giorno laughed. “Ah, è vero,” He tilted his head down to Dio and smiled, or hoped he did, his vision was fading into static, “Tuo bastardo ti ha finalmente trovato.”

What? What is he saying? He’s mocking me.

Dio was ready to strike him for making a fool of him but the strange boy collapsed forward in a flutter of pale blue fabric and blond hair before he had the chance to. Dio reached forward to check he was still breathing, yes, he was, and turned him over onto his back. With a furrowed brow Dio flicked muddy curls from the boy’s face and wiped away a smear of gutter water from his cheek. The resemblance was striking, though this kid’s features were softer and less beaten by years on the streets and under the hands of men like the arseholes unconscious in the street around them.

Thinking of which-

Dio eyed the bodies of the men the boy had felled a minute earlier. Neither looked like they were faking it and might even need a few days recovering from their injuries afterwards, so Dio had to give the kid some credit. If the odds hadn’t been so unfairly stacked against him, Dio wouldn’t have hesitated to deal the same damage, but…

He eyed the boy up and down. There was no chance of a look-alike stumbling into this alley by sheer coincidence, nothing in Dio’s life had been dictated by coincidence like that. But the sight of the kid put unease in his mind for an inexplicable reason. With a grunt Dio pulled the boy up and over a shoulder, staggering to his feet and walking out of the alley the same way the mugger had ran out before. Call it tying up loose ends. If there was something Dio hated more than posh assholes, and people who called him a posh asshole, it was was being in someone’s debt.

*

Giorno woke up to semi-darkness, the pain in his head and neck now faded to nothing more than an ache, and incredibly hungry. When he touched his face with one hand he felt a small cotton wad over where his cheek had been cut. He tugged it off to find that the cut was all but healed. The small room he was in reminded Giorno of a classroom; the bed he was sitting on may as well have been a desk and the colourful posters across the opposite wall looked an awful lot like the ones he had made himself for school projects. Many of the words on the wall were unfamiliar to him, the few he could understand let him know that he had not woken up in a school building.

This meant a few things. One, he had passed out. Two, someone had taken him into the hospital from the street. Three, he had been asleep for a few days straight.

A lot could happen in just two days, experience had taught him, and the idea of Dio escaping him so soon after his arrival was frustrating. He doubted he could ask Requiem for another hint to find him again. He couldn’t even use his standard method because in his hurry to faint in the middle of a conversation he’d forgotten to take any personal item of Dio’s to use to locate him later. Giorno chewed his lip in his annoyance and hopped off the little wooden cot to find he was barefoot.

Looking down at himself he realised with a start that his clothes had been changed entirely. He was now wearing a clean white shirt and simple green-blue trousers a couple sizes too large for him. The hospital must have given him whatever clothes they had on hand to replace his own muddy and possibly bloodied clothing from three days prior. With a sigh of relief Giorno spotted his own shoes sitting neatly by his bedside, they were expensive and had been spared the muck his clothing had been treated to the other day. After rolling up the trouser legs so as not to trip himself over and walking to the room’s small window he twitched the curtain aside hoping to get a grip on his new location.

None of the scenery was familiar. What a surprise.

As he shuffled his feet into his shoes a door to his left opened and a young woman in a white apron and blouse stuck her head into the room. She seemed surprised to see he was awake so immediately apologised and closed the door behind her, walking over to where he stood.

She looked timid, possibly new to the role of a nurse, and found it hard to make eye contact.

The nurse girl said, “You had collapsed from exhaustion. The young man who gave you into our care didn’t give us any personal information so if you could help us identify him, I’d be very grateful.”

Giorno answered, “I think he-” before stopping to cough, his throat dry and sore from resting for so long.

The nurse started and hurried to a small sink to the side to pour a glass of water. Giorno thanked her, and after drinking the whole glass, continued “A young man, blonde hair, this high?”. He waved a hand shortly above his own head to indicate.

The girl nodded.

“I do not know him.”

“Oh.” The nurse glanced away, then brought her eyes back to Giorno’s with a modest tilt of her head. “I heard he was in a terrible mood, too. You two didn’t happen to have started a fight, did you?” She asked, looking very concerned. Giorno wondered if the details were necessary for usual hospital procedure. He was used to no-questions-asked treatment for injuries he couldn’t heal himself, so the question came as a shock.

“No. Only an accident.” He hoped the conversation ended quickly.

“Hm? Well if that is the case I must still ask for your signature,” she said, holding out a sheet of paper and a fountain pen. “The charge for your care will be sent to your address in a few days.”

Giorno stared at the form. This was tricky. He thought very quickly, riffling through many ways out of the situation and eliminating them one by one based on his decision not to cause any injury, damage to property, or the attention of the city’s police force. The option he was left with was desirable, by those standards, but temporarily sacrificed his dignity.

Giorno’s face went blank. “I am sorry. English is new to me. Help to understand?”

It was a long shot and he felt every atom in his body screaming against it, but he pushed down his basic instincts for the time being and blinked vacantly at the young nurse.

The girl’s eyes widened, and she hurried to straighten her nurse’s cap pinned onto her frizzy black hair, struggling to find words to respond. She spat out another apology. Her face was turned redder as both stood in silence for a few moments.

Giorno was shocked by the effectiveness of the charade and wondered just how distracted she must have been not to notice his accent beforehand. Sure, he had hammed it up for the last line, but he knew he was far from fluent having payed little attention in school due to his easy aptitude in most classes. Language however was a skill hard to maintain if it wasn’t used frequently and unfortunately Giorno was neglectful, and he found it much more difficult than the other performative sciences he had studied such as politics and psychology. It was something he thought himself to be more skilled in considering his ability in rhetoric, yet it never came naturally to him.

Watching the young nurse fiddle with her apron in embarrassment, Giorno shifted gears slightly.

He softened his expression and rested a hand on her arm. “I apologise mio caro, I have no money. A very beautiful girl like you should not have to worry about foreigners who cannot even pay for care.”

“Ah, well… no I suppose not.” The nurse flushed further.

Giorno lifted his hand to her chin and tilted it up so he could look straight into her eye, and then dialled it up to ten.

“If there was any way I could make it up to you, stellina, I would. No one in London is like you to me yet. I have woken to the most welcome kindness today; my exhaustion was so much and you…” He rubbed the empty glass between his index fingers behind his back as he spoke, keeping his eyes low and voice lower. “…you have been so kind to me. Piccola, tell me how to thank you.”

The nurse gaped and failed to respond.

“Ay, cuore mio take this for now.” He said, bringing a whole fistful of bright violets out from behind him, “I can only hope you understand my gratitude anche se sei più bella.”

Gingerly taking the flowers from his hands the nurse slowly sat herself down on the wooden cot and made a quiet noise which could have been an agreement. Giorno took the opportunity to back out of the room and slip into the corridor outside.

The interaction had worn him out; those sorts of performances being so out-of-character his very soul rejected it.  He shook his discomfort off and moved on down the hall.

Most of the nurses ignored him but some shot strange glances at him, he assumed because of his slightly wild appearance and too-large clothing. Giorno tugged his collar into place and walked with more purpose, hoping confidence would help him blend in better and let him pass though the hospital faster. Unfortunately, the halls seemed to twist around and become only busier with nurses as he walked further. He paused for a moment by a large room resembling a waiting area populated by old men with canes and mothers with wailing toddlers. He might have to ask for assistance.

A strong hand clamped over his shoulder and a male voice boomed from behind him, “Madam, your mother has been looking for you all over. She’s worried sick.”

Giorno screwed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. The longer he remained in this hospital the more his patience was being tested. He turned slowly, keeping his face as expressionless as possible as he watched the doctor turn pale.

“Oh. I am sorry. Must have mistaken you for someone entirely different.” The man said. “I am so sorry.”

Giorno’s irritation must have passed through the very air somehow because the man began sweating. Before either could speak again a young blonde nurse appeared by the doctor’s shoulder with a stack of documents.

“Sir, the Stevenson family has requested you return to their room at once. The young miss Rebecca is greatly concerned about her father, Mr Stevenson is complaining about his backpain again, and I’ve been told that-” the girl began but stopped dead once she spotted Giorno, who had begun to leave after seeing his chance to get away. Her eyes widened and the next time she spoke she spoke directly to him.

“What do you think you’re doing here? Do you have no shame at all?”

Giorno turned back to her, visibly cross. “I do not know you. Leave me be.” He said and turned on his heel.

Or at least almost did. As he took a step away the nurse reached out one arm and brought the back of her hand down hard across his right cheek.

Giorno staggered, taken aback by the sudden flash of pain, and backed up against the corridor wall. He clutched his cheek and stared back at the girl who was panting through flared nostrils. The doctor looked about as shocked as Giorno.

“Pardon you!” The man said, taking the documents from the girl’s hand. “Explain yourself, Pendleton!”

“Cosa diamine! Sei matta o stupida?” Giorno spat. He was now sure everyone in the hospital was out to make him as miserable as possible.

Erina frowned. She took a step closer and peered at Giorno, who fumed back at her.

“Cagna pazza.” He muttered and stumbled away from her and the doctor.

As he half-ran down the hall away from them he could hear the man continue to question the nurse and her shouting something out after him, but he had no wish to listen anymore. Her voice faded soon before he eventually found what looked like an entrance to the hospital building.

One minute later and he was finally outside. From the outside the hospital looked even larger, looming, red-brick, and very Victorian, it could have passed as a prison. The entrance to the building opened out to a small courtyard area surrounded by high walls spotted by small windows into more hospital rooms with rich green vines running up them, a round fountain sitting in the centre. It was dry for now, but half a dozen ceramic pots positioned around it looked well-watered and held bursts of colour; mainly poppies and pale-yellow daffodils. But one was holding a bunch of little newly blooming violet plants.

Giorno flicked one with a finger as he passed. He’d done a much better job.

Out the front gates and into the street he considered his next steps. He had no way of finding where the mansion Dio and the Joestars must have been living in in at this time, having failed to glean that information from Kujo’s stiff and unyielding narration of the family’s past. It hadn’t been information the boy needed to know, so he didn’t tell. Giorno wondered if it was something the current generation knew about anyway; Kujo’s grandfather must have grown up around the area, having been raised by Jonathan’s widow, but in the current day… Not a single descendant remained in England. Besides Giorno.

He almost smiled at that. Sure, he wasn’t really there and he had yet to technically be a relative in this timeline. But nonetheless it was comforting to know that there were none in this time and place who could stand a chance at stopping him in his path. Given he didn’t faint again. Giorno dug around in his pockets - still hung up on how large and hideous the clothing given to him was - and found a scrap of paper with illegible writing scrawled over it, an unused handkerchief, and a long piece of string. He ditched the handkerchief and note by the roadside and pulled his hair back into a rough braid with the string as he walked.

The streets were busy, choked mostly by children running along with hoop-toys and men who looked like they Had Business To Attend To elsewhere in the city. It was an atmosphere not unlike what Giorno felt at home in Napoli. Which was strange, he had expected something much more foreign from a world over a century in the past and halfway across the continent. Hopping into the road and crossing, dodging two carts and one slow moving automobile, he began to formulate a plan. It involved his usual style of interrogation and probably a certain amount of breaking and entering, but Giorno figured any meddling on his part was fair game after what he’d already accomplished the previous day. He wasn’t sure how his inclusion to the timeline worked. Film and tv said he had already changed the future by an immeasurable amount, simply by interacting with his father before he had even been born. Logic and reason said there was a certain amount of interaction he could hope for before his future was changed enough for 2001-era Giorno to not want to meet the real deal for whatever reason.

Keeping it all in mind Giorno was content with carrying on as he was, for as long as he could, before parts of him begin to fade away or an alternate version of himself appeared through another time portal to beg him to return to present day lest space and time rip itself apart. The possibilities were fascinating.

As he entered a small clothing store two blocks away from the hospital a young woman turned onto the street, gasping from near-running after him. Her nurse’s cap and apron were gone but she had also left her coat and other personal items behind in her rush out of the building. She pushed long strands of blonde hair from her eyes behind her ears as she searched the street.

Erina cursed silently. She’d lost sight of him.

Chapter Text

The fashion of the day was something to behold. The women wore long, and highly detailed dresses designed to shape the body into an exaggerated S, many of them covered in rich floral patterns and paired with one of an endless number of hats or bonnets. The sight of it all was enough to send stars into Giorno’s eyes. And by comparison the male equivalent was deathly boring.

Holding up a pale cream blazer, he wrinkled his nose. It would have to do. Besides, very few items in the shop fit into his budget at the time; a handful of pennies he’d lifted from men on his way over to the shop which added up to almost two pounds, some of which came directly from the pockets of other shoppers. The currency of the time was confusing but apparently his money would buy him one clean and well-fitting outfit from a modestly priced shop as well as some food later. The shop assistant had insisted on showing Giorno the hats along with his outfit, but he’d turned him down firmly - rather would he have cut another of his own arms off than be seen in a bowler. He’d also refused to part with his shoes. Finally leaving the shop with new clothing, his old clothes tucked under one arm, he walked through the street with confidence much stronger than before. The lines of the suit were almost like his own favoured clothing, and he had to admit he’d picked out a flattering shade.

He neared a bakery, the appealing scent of warm bread wafting through the air to meet him. As he reached the door he paused, rubbing his chin, and carried on. He then followed the street around a corner. This next road was busier, so he found himself weaving through a crowd before taking a sharp left. He was on a smaller street now, of mainly jewellery stores and street vendors. He crossed the road again.

Here he sped up and darted through an alley, then another. He finally reached a corner and ducked behind an abandoned chest of drawers, folding himself into the shadow as brisk footsteps passed his alleyway.

A minute passed.

Sure enough, the same footsteps returned and paced steadily into the alley and closer to his hiding place.

Giorno leapt out and wrapped an arm around the pursuer’s neck as they passed, pushing his hip into theirs and forcing them forward together with the same momentum. He marched them out of the alley, keeping his mouth by their ear as he spoke low.

“Why do you follow me?” He said. They were walking down a less populated street, but one busy enough for them to attract attention if either were to initiate aggression.

The stranger gasped and answered in shocked half sentences.

“I was- you were just too fast. I had seen you through the shop window but didn’t want to- oh it’s so rude of me. I wanted to talk, or speak with you about, no, to just apologise- I’m sorry about earlier. And following you.”

Giorno finally turned his head to see who he was talking to, and his heart sunk as he recognised the rude girl from the hospital. She looked terrified, so he loosened his grip and simply slid his arm down to rest on her far elbow.

“You apologise?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice high from the shock, “I mistook you for someone else and acted out of place. I am deeply sorry for humiliating you.”

Giorno nodded. “It was humiliating.”

“Yes. And it must have hurt.”

“No.”

“Really?”

Giorno looked at her, confused. The girl sounded as if she was waiting for a compliment, after back-handing him.

“Did you want it to hurt?”

Her eyes widened, and she looked away. “Oh, no! I simply thought… I was so upset so I assumed I had hit you with some considerable force. I apologise again.”

Giorno rubbed his cheek, frowning. It had been a very forceful slap.

“Hm. It was a strong one. You must really hate whoever I was not.” He said.

The girl pursed her lips. “I shouldn’t say that. I’m only glad I don’t have to apologise to him.”

Giorno watched the girl and kept their pace until they came to a stop outside the bakery he had first intended on entering before running off.

“Miss, can I know your name?” he asked politely.

“Erina Pendleton. I’m an assistant nurse, or at least I hope I still am after how I behaved back there.”

Giorno smiled. He had suspected correctly. “Giorno Giovanna, a visitor to England.” He said, flicking his fingers out in what could have been a polite flourish, and pushed open the door to the bakery.

“Oh! I shouldn’t, I don’t want to waste any more of your time.” Erina said, pushing Giorno’s hand from her arm.

“I think it is only fair, you were looking for a way to apologise after all.”

Erina considered it. “I suppose. Why this though? We usually settle for flowers or a written apology.” She said.

Giorno cocked his head. “I am very hungry, Signora Erina.” He smiled. “And I grow my own flowers.”

*

It was time to go home.

He’d spent three days in London letting himself enjoy his peace and quiet away from the household while George was off on business, meeting some old friends, and old enemies, reminding himself of what the city was like. And what the people were like. And how it smelled. It was all very nostalgic, Dio decided, but the little visit could have gone without the hitch.

He boarded the last train in his journey out of the city and tried his best to put the memory out of his mind, failing miserably.  It was two days on and yet the event was fresh like he’d only just walked out from that alley. Not only was it a humiliating experience to be seen in such a state but…

The boy’s face arose in his mind again. Like he was looking into a mirror.

Dio took a seat near the back of the carriage, glowering at the other passengers from his cubicle as he loosened his collar. Everyone was engrossed in their own business; reading the paper they’d picked up in the station earlier and picking through the latest news from abroad and the popular drivel, nose stuffed in between the pages of a sensational novel, talking loudly to their husband while bouncing a young child on their lap. Dio sniffed and crossed his knees, turning his attention to his window as a whistle sounded and the train began chugging out the station. Brickwork and steel fences slid past and was quickly replaced by sparse trees and empty fields. It was dull scenery. Not much more passed by him than plain fields of maize, broken by a horse paddock or dairy farm. Soon Dio found himself thinking back on the same irritating things.

The Italian had no reason to start a fight, as far as he could tell, and would never have gotten anything out of scaring away a bunch of petty muggers. Maybe he wanted repayment. Dio snorted. If that was what the kid wanted, then he could sod right off. As if he, Dio, would ever reward silly heroism. The lone reason he’d carried the kid out of the alley was so that he would have no reason to hunt him down later to demand a favour.

He had been light. So light on his shoulder in fact that Dio had almost been concerned for the kid’s health. Maybe he was just so used to the weight Jonathan could easily throw onto him in one of their friendly fights or during rugby practice.

Bugger. Dio had reminded himself of Jonathan, waiting at the mansion and expecting Dio to return in one piece. Well, he was in one piece, but there was still a distinct bruise under his right eye and he’d also have to give a reason as to why he’d bought an entirely new outfit of clothing in the three days he’d been gone. Obviously, he’d have to lie. There was no way Dio was going to admit to Jonathan of all people that he’d been beaten near to a pulp after meeting an old friend in a pub and talking heartily about how much of a wanker the guy’s second cousin had been back in the day, not realising said wanker cousin was sitting two stools behind him. He might even have won the scuffle had he not been particularly hungover at the time.

He could already see the look on Jonathan’s face. Sickly pitiful. Disgustingly sympathetic. Don’t try acting sympathetic now, you inbred scum, you’ve never had to work a day in your life let alone spare a thought for those who do. Even when your filthy rich father leaves the country for a fortnight all you want to do is laze around the estate like some pampered lapdog.

Oh, poor Dio, if only I could understand him.

Dio felt a pain in his palms. He looked down and unclenched his fists to find the little crescent moon cuts his nails had left.

Yeah, poor Dio. Let’s see what fun you had while I was gone.

*

The bakery he’d picked was pleasant - if simplistic and a little busy - and offered Giorno exactly what he needed at that time, so he had no reason to complain.

He tore a loaf open and took a moment to appreciate the smell it released. Almost as good as the stuff back in Napoli that he could get from the pasticceria five minutes’ walk from the Palazzo. It tasted like home. It was wonderful. And it still was once he started eating it, but he was in fact so hungry that he soon forgot to think about the taste in his hurry to inhale the entire loaf at the speed of sound. Erina watched him, waiting for Giorno to come up for a breath before speaking.

“Where in Italy are you from then?” She asked. She’d never been to Europe herself but had always dreamed of visiting Florence and its many museums.

“Napoli,” Giorno said after swallowing a mouthful of bread.

“Oh, Naples!” Erina exclaimed, clapping her hands. “I’ve heard it’s a beautiful city.” She had in fact heard many things about the city, most of which were not particularly about its aesthetics, but she kept her words to herself.

“Yes, it is. I have lived in the city my whole life and did not leave Italia until now, so London has been very strange.”

“I suppose it would be. Your English is very good though. I apologise for not knowing any of your language, I only know French and a little German.”

Giorno shook his head. “No need to apologise. You have said sorry enough.”

Erina had lead them to nearby park where they could rest, finding an empty bench by a duckpond. Many of the ducks had left the pond by now and had begun to waddle over to Giorno’s feet. One was brave enough to peck at his shoe.

“Do you know a man named Jonathan Joestar?” He asked.

Erina jumped in her seat, startling some of the ducks. “Gosh! Well, yes, I do. Although I haven’t spoken to him in some years.”

Giorno looked at her curiously. He hated to tease her, but it was the easiest way to get what he needed. “Were you two friends?”

“Um. Yes, you could say that.” Erina was blushing violently. “How do you know him?”

“I am in England looking for him,” Giorno said. “Or more accurately, his brother.”

Erina looked at him, hands tangling the skirts laying over her lap. “You’re looking for Dio.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“He is a relative.”

“Oh.” Erina smiled and looked away again. Her fingers whitened among the folds of her skirt. “I thought so. You do look so like him.”

Giorno tore off a corner of his bread and threw it to the ducks. They quickly ripped it apart.

“We are distant cousins, but we have never met before. I know very little about him and want to meet him but do not know exactly where he is living at this moment.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” Erina said. “He is a terrible man.”

Giorno remained impassive.

“Even if you are family, if you do not mind me saying,” she continued, “you will not be pleased to meet him. He is only cruel and hurtful to those closest to him. I have never met a more unpleasant individual. I just hope to make you aware of this before you expect a warm welcome.”

“I understand,” Giorno said. “He is why you were upset by seeing me. But I must meet him. If you can, please do tell me where to find him.”

Erina pursed her lips. “I can. But promise me this Giorno, when you get there, tell Jojo that I-” she caught herself and frowned, “when you do, tell him not to let Dio push him around. As if he needs me to tell him that.” She stared at the pond and fell quiet.

“I will.” Giorno tossed the rest of his bread to the ground and watched the birds carry off scraps and crumbs until it was all gone. Erina was much more closed off to him now, holding her arms tight around her chest and lowering her eyes. He felt sorry for her, but knew it wasn’t right to ask much more about what his father had done to her. Kujo had told him very little about his great-great-grandmother’s childhood and probably had said all he knew anyway; this wasn’t the kind of thing to be passed down as family knowledge. He was curious, certainly, but felt it fair to leave her be for the time being.

“I’ll point you to the station,” she said, rummaging around in her skirts to pull out a notepad and pencil. “You’ll need to take two different trains, one out of the city then another to a village near the estate. It’ll take you about four and a half hours in total if you don’t miss your train.”

“Thank you.” Giorno took the piece of paper she held out, neat handwriting giving him directions between platforms and then from the second station to the Joestar mansion. “You are so kind.”

He walked Erina out the park before saying goodbye, surprising her when he kissed her cheeks, and they went their separate ways.

Erina gave him a small wave from the other end of the street before crossing the road and vanishing from sight, returning to her hospital. She reminded Giorno of Trish a little bit. She was strong, sharp tongued and held back by even stronger self-control. The restraint Giorno remembered seeing in Trish during those first few days on the run was impressive and had to have been to keep her from speaking to him and the others the way she would have liked. Even the few times she had lashed out it was with acute awareness of the position she was in. Despite the lashings he got these days, he was immensely glad she felt comfortable enough around him and Mista now to tell them what she wanted to, act how she needed, and, well, be a little mean sometimes. In another time, maybe Erina would be the same. Giorno wondered if her and Trish would get along.

From passing a clocktower above a chapel, Giorno learned it was nearing 4pm so hurried his pace towards where Erina had told him to find the nearest station. It was low and hidden under dark stone apartments bustling with people coming back from work ready to leave the city for the weekend. He joined the flow of the crowd and was quickly jostled along through the gates and into the station.

The sounds of whistles were only just heard above the chatter and rattles of the passengers and their luggage around him, so Giorno jumped up onto his toes to try see above the crowd to which train he was looking for. Many of the trains were being boarded, the machines belching huge plumes of steam up into the rafters of the station and misting the furthest corners giving the impression of the space not quite being contained in four walls. The effect was only doubled by how many people were crammed in and hurrying towards the platforms. One woman by Giorno was wrangling two young boys by the side, keeping one from running off through the crowd while she counted her tickets up in the other hand. Her second was wailing, clutching at her coat but not being heard above the noise of the station. A young man on his other side was arguing with a station-worker, waving his tickets between them and bright red in the face. A dog ran past Giorno’s ankles.

It was all so much, and soon Giorno had tuned it out. He drifted past the ticket salespeople and towards his train, leant one elbow on a low wall and watched the crowd push its way down the platform and onto the carriages. It was a busy train. All tickets for seats were taken for the day, that was easy to tell, so Giorno simply waited his turn.

The young man who had been shouting at the worker a minute earlier stormed onto the platform, shoving a boxy black hat onto his head with a huff. He’d been cheated out of a class change. It was as if his day could not get any worse; the ticket-worker didn’t listen to a word he had said, he could very well miss his train if he tried to get his way again, and it just had to be today that the love of his life turned him down in favour of his closest friend. As he neared the first carriage a small weed by his feet managed to catch in his shoelace, sending him down onto his hands and knees. He swore loudly and dropped his hat. There was very little time now until his train left.

A slim hand reached down and picked up his hat from where it had rolled some paces away from where he fell. The man looked up a moment before he felt himself being lifted onto his feet, by what he could only assume was an angel. The angel handed him his hat and smiled.

“You should watch your step, sir.”

Disregarding the near-visible golden halo surrounding the stranger, his experience was only made more bewildering by his discovery that the pain in his knees from falling and the sprained muscle in his lower back – the reason for his desire to change classes for the journey – was all but gone. Even looking back as he continued down the platform and onto his carriage the troublesome weed he could have sworn had been only a foot from the ashtray by the side had vanished from sight. Perhaps heavenly intervention had saved him the discomfort of riding with a sprained back after all. Or maybe it was simply a sign of good fortune to come. The man left those thoughts be and settled into his seat, wondering if the angel would have made itself visible to the entire station populace or just lucky ol’ him.

Two rows behind the man, taking off his blazer and partially unbuttoning his shirt, was Giorno. He found the carriage stuffy and wished to open the window as soon as he got the chance. Before he did however, he took out a creased ticket from the lining of his blazer and smiled just a little.

He’d feel more remorse if that man felt any for the trouble he had been causing that ticket-worker.

The train left the station and Giorno cracked the window. He held his face close to the gap and took deep breathes of air, beyond eager to leave the dirt of London behind, even if it had been entertaining for a time.

Chapter Text

The train arrived on time, but the sun had set over half an hour earlier so Giorno disembarked in semi-darkness.

Beyond the train station he could just make out the outline of the horizon, blurred by the golden-brown haze of dusk and the cloud of steam the train had exhaled on its arrival. The area was semi-rural; on one side of the station it was all farmland and woods, on the other he could see the beginnings of the village Erina had told him about.

Yawning, Giorno picked himself up and got out the carriage. The air was chilled, 8pm and no farther than two miles from the Irish Sea and the sun was getting closer by the moment to vanishing entirely. He pulled his jacket closer around himself before G.E. reached out its arms and laid itself over his shoulders. It was a kind gesture and began to warm him more as he walked further into the darkening streets of the village, but as was always the case G.E. soon felt the need to nuzzle him like a sleepy kitten. So Giorno waved it off and settled for ducking into a nearby pub to escape the cold. G. Experience felt neglected, he knew it from the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but the simple fact was that Giorno was enjoying his brief break from the frequent need to use his stand for anything but keeping him company and the occasional parlour trick.

English pubs smelt strange. Maybe smell was an odd thing to focus on but Giorno had always been sensitive to the sense, filling his childhood bedroom and student dorms with fresh flowers whenever he could for as long as he could. It was always the first thing which occurred to him and was the first thing he judged by. And again, pubs smelt odd. It was somewhere between clean waxed wood, like a bowling alley, and booze-stained cork. The delicacy of Passione’s formal drinking events was miles above whatever was happening in the cramped space of the pub, yet this felt more like a family gathering than a party.

Giorno slid into an empty seat by a window, as far as he could get from the cloud of pipe smoke partially filling the room. A sign behind the bar told him there were vacant rooms for travellers in the floor above. That was a relief. Giorno had begun to wonder how hard it would be to grow his own tent outside the village. The man behind the bar caught his eye and waved him over. He seemed friendly.

“You want something to drink, visitor?” His voice was deep and delicately accented, possibly German.

“Something warm please. I did not anticipate how cold it had become.” Giorno said, shrugging his coat off and draping it over his arm. The man was huge, towering over Giorno with a thick red beard and moustache but something told him that he was also smiling under it all.

“You’re Italian?” The man asked, pouring steaming water from a kettle into a pan. Giorno nodded, folding his arms over the bar top and watching the man work. “I knew many people from Italy before coming here, good close friends and some family. You make the most wonderful food! Ha ha!”

“You are from Germany?”

“Switzerland.” He said it in a soft voice, keeping his eyes on the dark sweet-smelling liquid he was pouring into a small pot. “I will go home one day, to my family, and tell them about England. It’s a strange country but the people here are kind.”

He met Giorno’s eye and winked.

“Or, most of the time.”

The smaller pot had been left in the pan of hot water and had begun to steam. It smelt like cinnamon and berries and reminded Giorno of something he’d drink around the new year.

“What is it?” Giorno asked, resting his chin on one hand.

“A secret.” The man tapped his nose and grinned, which resulted in a momentous folding and shifting of his beard, something like mountains forming over tectonic collisions. He poured the syrupy drink into a stout ceramic cup and slid it across to counter to Giorno. “You must try it before you’re scared away, my mother taught me the recipe and she would be so sad for you to not drink it first.”

Giorno was baffled by why the man would think he’d turn the drink down; it smelt fantastic, almost like the drinks Mista would make when he asked for it. He took a sip, then a gulp.

“This is wonderful.” He didn’t hide the joy in his eyes. “I don’t suppose you will tell me what is in it?”

The man laughed. “Of course not. That would ruin the magic.” He said.

Giorno returned to his seat with the drink - after generously paying the man for it and booking a room upstairs for the night - and finished it off next to the window. The drink sank down like tar and warmed him from the toes up, so he closed his eyes and let his mind wander for a few minutes. He wondered exactly what was in the drink, it wasn’t alcoholic, more like a punch than anything else. Maybe some sort of winter fruit. Whatever it was, it was making Giorno’s teeth ache like nothing else.  He almost laughed. Mista would always say his habits would rot his teeth away before he hit twenty. Giorno would respond with, a very valid point, how he could simply replace any of those teeth at a moment’s notice. The idea of it made Mista balk. It was fair enough, he’d had experience with Giorno’s on-the-job surgeries and was a real wimp about it so had every reason to want to keep it out of his mind, especially when talking about these things over dinner.

Mista would hate this drink.

Giorno blinked. His cup was empty and most of the pub’s patrons had left for the night. He yawned behind a hand. Why he was tired when he’d recently slept for almost 48 hours, he was not sure. He’d spent the slow journey from London carefully formulating his plan once he’d found the estate and-

A tiny little problem arose in Giorno’s mind. He patted his trouser pockets, then his blazer pockets. Then finally rummaged around in the blazer’s lining. He had guessed right; that he had finally run dry on money.

It was bound to happen eventually. He’d spent most of it on his clothes and the rest on a small amount of food on the first train, the train fare out of Liverpool, and finally his wonderfully sweet drink and lodgings. Still Giorno cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. He didn’t even have a toothbrush on him. The only option left was to find a shop open nearby at this time of night and either buy the necessities he could afford with what little he had left, or with a little luck, retrieve those items on his own merit.

Four minutes later Giorno stood in the last local shop open in the village, twisting his lip over a comb.

He did need that comb. His hair would need to be washed and only got curlier if not brushed through properly afterwards. There was also a brooch which had caught his eye in the window of a shop already shut for the day, but he could let it go for now with only the slightest disappointment.

He looked at the change in his hand again. It couldn’t even buy him a bag of boiled sweets.

Two minutes later Giorno left the shop, having not bought anything, and bid goodnight to the man closing its door for the evening behind him. The stars had begun to wake and without the smog of a city to blind it the moon joined the sky from behind a church spire. He was the only one left on the street but still walked like he did not wish to be watched. Which was true, he strongly disliked the feeling of being observed by anyone without knowing their real reason for it, but it also gave the unfortunate impression that he was always up to no good. Which was also usually true. He reached into a pocket and brought out a single apple flavoured sweet. He’d heard England was known for these kinds of hard sweets but had yet to come to a verdict on them; the glass-like shards were cutting viciously into his cheek.

As he passed the last lamp before the pub a shadow moved in front of Giorno, confusing him for a moment before he realised someone was reaching for him from behind.

He ducked and spun around in time for someone to pick him up.

Pick him up.

He almost screamed at the thought. No one in their right mind would try to pick him up, even his closest friends had enough sense to understand that. And yet, he had been slung over the shoulder of someone very large and was being carried off the main street into one of the nearby alleys.

Holy mother of-I AM NO STRAY CAT.

And Giorno had had far enough of alleyways already.

Before he could free himself, finally gathering his thoughts and overcoming the shock of being picked up like a puppy at the scruff, he was abruptly dumped back onto his feet and faced two men in high collars and black gloves. It was the kind of clothing one would wear in order to look intimidating, if one had only gathered what the word implied from novels.

The smaller of the two spoke up first. “We see you stole from our good friend’s shop back there. Care to tell us why you think you can get away with it?” He leant in, grinning from under a wide shadowy hat.

Giorno figured there was one easy way out of it. He stared blankly at them and threw up his hands. “Mi dispiace, ma non vi capisco.”

The larger of the two elbowed the other. “See,” he hissed, “I didn’t need to carry ‘im off like that. He’s not even from ‘round ‘ere.”

“He was talking to the fella back at the bar easy enough.” The shorter said and turned back to Giorno. “You’re not fooling us, kid. You came out that shop with more than you walked in with, no question about it.”

Giorno dropped his hands. “What do you want from me.” It was rare for him to be caught so he suspected the two had followed him since he had arrived in the village for whatever reason. He’d give them only a few more moments to explain themselves before leaving, fight or not.

“We fancy you’re mighty skilled in thievery there, kid. I almost missed your work, only caught onto you once you popped that sweetie.” The man said, grinning. “You’re real impressive.”

“Answer my question.”

“Oh ho!” The man clapped the larger one on his shoulder. “Look at him! He thinks he can get out of here by spooking me. Kid, listen, I only want to make a deal with you.”

The men looked expectant, like they were waiting for Giorno to jump at the idea. He leant back against the wall behind him and tried not to look too impatient.

“What do you mean by a deal.”

“See, how I see it is, we two could go on over to the village community and tell them just what you’ve done. We take this kind of thing very serious, understand, and I’d hate to put a kid like you in that position.” The shorter man said, gleefully rubbing his hands together.

Giorno didn’t respond, his face becoming gradually colder as the man went on.

“Now, in return for us not bringing you before the village authorities we were thinking you could do a thing for us.”

The larger man joined in. “There’s a place we’re gonna rob.”

The shorter man scowled. “Don’t just drop it like that outta nowhere! You’ve got to get him listening first or you’ll make fools of us.”

“It’s vacant and full’a really pricy stuff.” The taller man carried on, ignoring his friend. “If you help us get in ‘n out safe then you get a bit of tha’ earnin’s. We think you could help us out there.”

Giorno had heard enough. He really wanted to sleep in a real bed, with sheets and a pillow. He also wanted to be left alone for the first time all day.

“I’m not interested.”

“Hey! Do you understand what we’re telling y-!” The shorter man was interrupted by a crashing from behind them.

Both men spun around and saw a pile of dirt and pottery coming to settle on the cobbles of the alley floor. They looked up. A miniature balcony above them was overgrown – immensely so – by what looked like a massive grape plant and several potted plants sat within the tangled branches. The ones which had fallen appeared to have contained strawberries.

They turned back to Giorno to find that they were now alone in the alley.

Chapter Text

Mista clutched his head in his hands, rocking slowly back and forwards on his heels.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

It was eleven in the morning. He’d been looking since quarter to ten.

“Shit!” He got to his feet and checked with the Pistols again. Tre, Cinque and Sette were outside and still coming up empty. Due and Sei were elsewhere in the building; Due on the ground floor and making yet another sweep of the lower halls, Sei somewhere nearby Mista in a different room. Uno hovered by Mista’s ear and repeated the same story again.

Giorno had still been in the room when Mista fell asleep. Uno claimed the Boss had stayed awake until sometime around four a.m. when he suddenly vanished from the bedroom without a trace.

How? How the fuck would Uno have not seen him leave?

He’d held back from telling anyone but Trish, who had told him over the phone she was searching Giorno’s favourite spots in the city, and Fugo, who had made a face and vanished from the Palazzo with a cryptic excuse. Mista suspected Fugo had gone to find help in his search but didn’t worry about it, if anyone could find the guy it was him.

But why wouldn’t he tell me first?

It wouldn’t have been the first time the Boss had taken a surprise trip out of town without warning, Mista thought as he jogged down the stairs, and considering the state he had been in the last time they’d spoken it was a likely explanation. But each of those times he’d at least answered his bloody phone when Mista called. Giorno was damn good at disappearing, too good at it, so if he didn’t want to be found then he was not going to be.

Mista rounded a corner and shouldered the door to the library open. It was the one room he hadn’t checked yet in person.

Giorno wasn’t a bookworm, that was a role delegated to Fugo, but he did spend much of his time in the library which covered a considerable portion of one floor of the Palazzo. Mista often found him in there first thing in the morning, before he’d even done himself up for the day, reorganising the shelves as if anyone but him used the room. He’d be pulling huge tomes from lower shelves and unfolding the dogears one by one. Or finding slim novellas stuffed behind rows, like a diver discovering a gem buried under sand. Or simply sitting atop a chair-ladder with an old book of poetry in one hand and a pencil in the other.

When Mista had asked, calling up to where Giorno had been perched, what exactly he was doing, Giorno had answered,

“Reading of course. I like doing that sometimes, you know.”

It wasn’t a condescending tone; his voice had been light with spirit.

“Although, I do wish these things came with better translations.” He tossed the book down to Mista, who caught it in one hand.

The pages were yellowed at the edges, so it must have been an older copy. So many of the books in the library were of the old Boss’s personal collection, even though he had never spent any of his time in the building, and it had Mista wondering if it was the one thing Giorno was grateful Diavolo had left behind for him. The page Giorno had bookmarked with a bus ticket was covering in scribblings, up and down the sides of the short poem printed in neat little text down the centre. His handwriting was always flowery and looked as if it were dancing right off the page. He wrote his cheques like love letters. The notes were short and mostly punctuated with question marks, little arrows pointing to lines in the poem then to shorts lists of words he’d written down the side.

“You don’t happen to be familiar with Auden? He’d giving me some considerable trouble.” Giorno called down, still sitting above Mista and spinning his pencil between his fingers.

“What? You kidding me? You think I can read this shit?” Mista laughed and waved the book back at him. “I can’t even read poetry in Italian.”

“Oh. That’s a shame.” Giorno then slid down the ladder and landed neatly by Mista, taking the book back and smiling gently. “I quite like the challenge of it. It’s like being offered a painting, a truly beautiful painting, but it’s covered in sheets of coloured film. Each time I peel back one layer it’s the same painting but I’m seeing it differently with every read through. They’re truly spectacular riddles.”

Mista was lost. “Uh. You like riddles?”

Giorno laughed, a light and twinkling laugh. “Oh, I do. But if only one of those challenges was not that I simply couldn’t understand the language.”

A page was turned and Giorno held out the book. A stanza had been circled in the middle of the poem.

“Here, listen to this. I’ve already translated the poem, but this part makes me want you to hear it too.” He read the stanza out in English;

“But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.”

Mista peered at the poem. “So, what does it mean?” He had only picked out a few words that he understood.

Giorno closed the book and set it down. “That’s why I’m struggling. It’s all fine and good to turn each word to Italian and read it as so, but the poem as a living breathing thing…” His face shifted ever so slightly. “I’m afraid I’ll kill the soul of it.”

The library was silent and Mista’s heavy breathing echoed through the vacant stacks. An open window let in a cool breeze and fluttered the pages of an open book. Mista walked to the window and pulled it closed it with a grunt. The library suddenly got even quieter.

Below the window, the same as all the windows in the library, was a small cushioned alcove where most could fit in to read while still getting a view of the plaza below. It was a spot Giorno was fond of. A low table had been dragged over from a desk across the room to the window seat and held a notebook, two stubby pencils and an empty teacup. The cup looked like it had been there for a while, Mista made a mental note to have someone clean this place out at some point. There were also a couple of books, stacked under the teacup and bristling with page markers. Mista picked the first up, a translation of one of C.S. Lewis’ works. It looked new so could have been bought recently. The other was a book of poetry and, as Mista flicked through it, told him that Giorno had yet to give up on his personal projects.

He set the books down and sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. What was the stupidest thing the Boss could be doing right now? Nothing came to mind so Mista calmed a little. Giorno had never been one to come to a decision without absolute certainly that he had a way out of any danger it would bring him.

A tinny voice came from the other side of the window. “Boss! Fugo’s back!”

Mista leant over to peer out the window and, seeing that Fugo was indeed pacing the plaza below, told Tre to keep him waiting and he’d be down in a moment.  He trotted down the staircase and out the front doors, calling the rest of the pistols to meet him, anticipating some news at last.

When he came to a stop by Fugo he knew there was no good news.

“I came up empty.” Fugo said, his arms crossed. He looked good. At least, better than Mista probably looked. Fugo’s suit had been laundered and pressed for the night before and since the event had been cut short he figured there no need to let it go to waste and so wore it proudly. He hadn’t however put any product in his hair, having been contacted by Mista early in the morning, so his hair flopped down gracelessly over half his face. He pushed some away from his eyes and added, “I’m guessing he wasn’t hiding in the attic or anything?”

“Nah. There’s no trace of him inside.”

“What about the Speedwagon group? Weren’t you supposed to take them around the city or something?”

“Oh, right. I told them Giorno had some important business to take care of. We’ll still be touring them around in the afternoon though, just without the Boss.”

Fugo didn’t look convinced by this. “Aren’t they going to ask questions? I thought GioGio had promised he’d clear his day for them, and for Kujo specifically.”

“Yeah well, for all we know he could pop up later today to clear it up.” Mista said and added, pulling a face, “Why do you call him that? It’s creepy.”

Fugo looked affronted. “He said he liked the name. He told me to call him that himself.”

“I don’t like it. It sounds like a pet name or something.” Mista said, dropping the train of thought when he saw Sheila trotting up the road behind Fugo. She slowed down by their side and caught her breath before speaking.

“I’ve asked around all our connections to Roma, Florencia, Catania and Milano but no one has seen the Boss in the last week at least. I also reached out to some friends in the country but there haven’t even been sightings on major or minor roads out of the city. None of our ‘less friendly’ business partners have been confirmed to have entered the city limits either. Hey Fugo.” She said.

“Don’t just ‘hey’ me!”

“How much did you let them know?” Mista asked.

“Nothing at all. I called them to ask about personnel head-counts, under the pretence of an early census.”

“Good,” Mista patted Sheila’s shoulder, “I’m sorry to have called you at such short notice. Remind me to buy you some theatre tickets some time.”

Sheila stood to attention. “No need. I’m honoured to be someone you trusted with something this important.”

She was scarily formal about it, holding her arms stiffly by her sides and staring straight at Mista like she was expecting a militaristic order from him. Even if she had always been like this Mista felt the need to diffuse her weird little solder act.

“No, I’m taking you to the cinema at some point. You deserve it.” He smiled nervously at her and she looked confused, but a moment later returned the smile and relaxed. He didn’t blame her for being so agitated by the whole thing. He knew how much Giorno meant to her, and to the rest of them too. Even if Fugo was being careful not to let it show he was just as anxious as they were.

Mista called Trish and was greeted by a frantic voice asking him if there was any news, because she hadn’t found anything, Giorno wasn’t at the beach, he wasn’t in his favourite pasticceria, and she was really starting to wonder if he wanted them to find him at all and what if he had left the country? Mista finally got her to stop talking so he could get a word in, telling her what Fugo and Sheila had told him, and then told her to meet him in the centre of town in ten minutes. She sounded unhappy on the other end, wanting to keep searching in case Giorno had somehow slipped past her. But Mista simply told her to stop running around getting more and more upset and listen to him. This made her more upset, so Mista hung up.

“What’s your plan then?” Fugo asked.

“I think I know who to ask about this.” Mista said, pocketing his phone. “You two hold down the fort for me and tell the others I’m sending the SPW group off with Trish. I’ll be back by one.”

He nodded to them both and turned to leave but Fugo grabbed his arm, pulling him back and snarling, “That’s idiotic, and you know it. You’ll get yourself killed if you aren’t careful, or at least come back with broken bones.”

Mista tugged himself free. “Who do you think I am? You? I can handle it myself, and I’ll know when to run if it gets too bad. Don’t worry about it.”

Fugo didn’t look convinced. Sheila simply looked confused. Clearly, she hadn’t been rude enough to snoop through the Boss’s private letters like he and Fugo had.

Mista shrugged and backed out through the front gates into the street. “Besides, I’ll have Trish with me. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Chapter Text

Giorno woke early, as soon as dawn broke through the tiny window in his tiny room. He washed himself in the tiny washroom the visitor house provided and ate a tiny portion of oatmeal he’d bought in the Liverpool station the day before. Remaining in his room he began to prepare for the day ahead. Knowing that there was probably news spreading through the town of a boy matching his description having stolen from a local shop did not bother him much. He was not going to spend much more time here. Besides, he had been planning to create a disguise for himself before leaving for the Joestar estate anyway.

In theory it was simple; he’d cut his hair short enough to blend in with the local crowd, then pull the pigmentation back in using G.E.’s help to return it to its colour from his youth. In practice he was finding trouble.

There was a narrow mirror atop the utility table in the room, grotty and smudged from years of visitors. He hunched over it holding a handful of curls in one hand and a shaving blade in the other. It was no big deal, it would grow back in just a few days if left alone. There was no reason to become anxious over a brief change in appearance. He stared at his blurred reflection, nothing more than a pink-ish yellow-ish blob. He’d cut his hair before. He’d even cut it without a mirror before. Although he’d never cut it as short as this since 14.

With a scowl he dropped the razor and brought G. Experience to his side. If he couldn’t start, he’d get Gold to.

G.E.’s hands ran slowly through his hair and it soon muddied and darkened to a sooty brown colour, from the roots down to the tips. He thought he looked ridiculous like this. Like a washed-up rockstar. G.E. seemed to agree and itched to return it to the colour it much preferred, the one it had given him in the first place. Giorno then leaned back towards the mirror and rubbed his sleeve over it until his reflection was just a little bit clearer. It looked miserable and unfamiliar. He took up the blade again and got to work, sawing off larger chunks in broad strokes then more delicate clippings from the hair at the front, careful to bring the fringe back to a neat length above his brows, rather than where it had rested before around his jaw. Gold’s help was enlisted for the back and larger swathes fell behind him to the floor. Giorno did his best not to watch and occupied himself with turning each fallen black curl into little tortoiseshell butterflies.

The next time he looked into the mirror Giorno was almost relieved by the familiar face. It looked better than he expected.

“Good to see you again,” he said to the mirror, “welcome back, Haruno.”

Outside he was attracting less stares. People might have assumed he was younger too, with a jauntier step and a paper bag in one hand holding an apple for later. Giorno even felt younger. He kept having the urge to tug at his hair, to feel where the weight of his braid should be or to brush away his new fringe from his brow. It was taking some getting used to but soon Giorno was walking through the village as if he’d always lived there.

The village then faded away to farmland and flat countryside, the paved street turning to gravel and dried mud under his feet. The sky was clear, a brilliant blue as if the sun had burnt away any suggestion of clouds and stretched so far across the horizon it seemed to have doubled in size from what it had been like in the city. Along the side of the dirt path were sporadic trees, planted to give some shade to walkers and to accommodate the little songbirds which darted in and out of the branches above Giorno’s head. He unfolded the slip of paper Erina had left him and regarded the last few lines before pocketing it again. Apparently, the house was big enough for him not to miss it easily, so he carried on through the empty fields for a while longer until he became hungry. He stopped by a stile, taking the apple from its paper bag, and hopped up onto the high wooden plank. The view wasn’t spectacular, it looked the same as the rest of the journey on foot had, but he at least could find the birdsong and distant sound of cattle comforting. It was the most typical English landscape imaginable, straight out of a picture book complete with ponds, rivers crossed by little stone bridges, speckles of wildflowers and anything else you would expect. Giorno thought, tossing his apple-core over his shoulder, that it was quite dull compared to the mountains and lakes of Italy.

He stretched his arms out, then bent back to ease himself from hunching over on the stile. It can’t be much farther to the estate, from where the sun had moved Giorno speculated he had been walking for no longer than an hour. Something next to him caught his eye, just as he was about to push himself off the stile and back onto the path. The wood of the fence was old and darkened by rain and snow and sun, but a tiny chip had been made in the plank by Giorno’s elbow. He leant in and shielded his eyes from the sun overhead, curiosity getting the better of him.

A tiny star had been etched into the wood above where the top step of the stile sat. Five rough cuts intersecting at messy angles, one having been uneven enough to loosen a large chip from below it. Yet, the shape was distinct enough to send a shiver down Giorno’s spine. He ran his thumb over it. Either fate was teasing him, or he was closer than he had thought.

From further down the path he heard a voice, shouting something unclear in the other direction. Giorno turned to see where it had come from but saw nothing. He looked away in time for someone loud and very excited to leap over the fence to his left, vaulting past him to land in the dirt and send up a plume of dust under his feet. The boy didn’t stop to steady himself and immediately leapt forwards to vault over the opposite fence in the same manner. As soon as he had appeared, Giorno was then left alone on the fence once again. The dust settled and Giorno stared at where the loud boy had vanished into the tall grass across the path. He hadn’t caught what he’d been yelling. There was also a high likelihood the boy hadn’t even registered Giorno on the stile when he jumped over it, judging by how close he had been to knocking him straight to the ground in his hurry. Giorno thanked his luck and hopped down to the ground. Country folk might be more frightening than he first thought. He continued down the path for some time, bracing for another confrontation with a mad farmer or enraged shepherd. The peace was held for only a couple minutes longer before the same boy rushed out of the grass to Giorno’s left and leant over the fence, his chest heaving and face bright red.

“DID YOU SEE IT?” He gasped, staring wildly at Giorno. Giorno stared back. He only realised then that the boy’s sudden appearance had shocked him into shifting his posture into a semi-fighting stance. He adjusted himself and responded levelly.

“See what?”

“A frog, of course! I was so close to catching it again, but it just slipped out of my reach and-” Something caught the boy's attention behind Giorno and he once again vaulted over the fence with one arm like it wasn’t even there. “HEY.” He pounced onto a patch of dirt near the foot of a tree and rolled over, covering himself with dirt and leaves.  

Giorno took a step closer, careful not to look too concerned.

“See?” The boy said, holding something small and brown-green up in his hands from where he lay in the dirt. “It almost got away from me. Thought I wouldn’t catch it, the devilish thing.”

The frog clutched in his fists blinked back at Giorno.

“Um. Well done.” Giorno didn’t know what to make of the boy. He was dressed in plain clothing which could have been highly expensive, but it was hard to tell through the layers of dirt, vegetation and pond water caked over the fabric. The legs of his trousers were darkened from the knees down from where he had waded right in. He had a head of dark brown hair, neatly parted despite the rest of his appearance, and large watery blue eyes. Meeting his gaze, it was finally Giorno’s turn to feel a wave of déjà vu.

The boy laughed, round cheeks dimpling from a frequently use. “Gosh! I must look so strange!”

Giorno chose not to comment. He reached down to link an arm under the boy’s elbow and helped him to his feet. From here Giorno felt mildly offended by the sudden height difference between them. When the boy was sitting on the ground it wasn’t as clear to see but there were almost two heads between the two when standing upright. There was no reason for Giorno to care now of all times, so why did it matter? He remained puzzled by this as the boy dusted himself off.

“I’m so sorry for shocking you earlier,” he said, holding a large and muddy hand out between them, “My name is Jonathan Joestar, I live rather close to here. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around these parts before, are you a traveller? Or are you here to see my father, George?”

Giorno felt a nausea rising in him. Fate enjoyed the cruel jokes it played on him, over and over. But at some point, the joke was going to get old.

He took Jonathan’s hand. “I am, actually. I’m here to speak to him, your father.” He struggled to get his thoughts in line while still meeting Jonathan’s expectant gaze. Why is it suddenly so hard to speak? He had been expecting this encounter for days. It was entirely irrational to be nervous now. Giorno slipped into character as soon as he could, ignoring the tight feeling in his gut from looking up at Jonathan’s face.

“Oh, that’s a shame.” Jonathan said, running a finger over the frog still trapped between his left fingers.

Giorno frowned, had this boy been expecting a visitor himself? “Why is that?”

“My father is out of the country right now. He’ll be back in a week or so but for now it’s just me and my brother in the house.”

Giorno thought this over. He hadn’t anticipated that George would be away at the time of his arrival. However, with the right change of plan this could become a very fortunate turn of events for him.

“In that case let me introduce myself to you now,” Giorno bowed his head, “my name is Giorno Giovanna and I will be working under your household for a time. I was recommended to your father a few months ago but he has not contacted me. I hoped to meet him to speak with him this morning but now I must tell you– I have no other place to stay.”

Jonathan looked moved by this and by the time Giorno finished speaking had stuffed the frog into a pocket of his waistcoat and taken Giorno’s hand again.

“You have nowhere to stay?” He looked distraught.

“No. I had hoped your father would take me at least for a night if I could not find work.”

“Well, I don’t see why we can’t take you in for a short time. I’m sure my father wouldn’t mind that at all.” Jonathan did in fact suspect that this was the kind of behaviour which his father would dislike the most of his son. But, all things considered, even his father had a history of trusting strangers at a moment’s notice, so Jonathan at least felt justified in making the decision to listen to the polite young boy’s difficulties.

Giorno clasped Jonathan’s hand and smiled stiffly. “I am very grateful, sir. I will do my best to not be a problem for you and your brother.”

Jonathan patted Giorno’s shoulder - a gesture which almost knocked the air from his lungs - and nodded. “You’ll be welcome in our home, Giorno. By the way,” he kept his hand on Giorno’s shoulder as they started off walking down the path together, “Is that name Italian? I don’t wish to sound too nosy, but it is very rare for us to receive visitors from outside of England.”

“Yes, it is. I was born in Italy and have come to England for work.”

“What does it mean?”

Giorno was confused.

Jonathan flushed and rubbed his neck. “I meant, it sounded familiar. I could have sworn it meant something I’d recognise.”

“I suppose so.” Giorno said, baffled by the turn of the conversation. “It means morning. It is not a common name, so it would sound strange.”

Jonathan nodded. He was finding it hard to talk to this new kid. Where he usually got by with his bright outlook and unique flavour of charisma in conversations, Giorno seemed to not want to speak with the same level of energy or intimacy. Something was holding him away from Jonathan, not enough to seem rude or distant, but enough to leave Jonathan mildly unsettled. He decided; he was determined to cheer this kid up.

“Hey, how old are you?” He asked brightly.

“Sixteen.”

“Oh? I’m seventeen. We’re not even that far apart!” It was a poor choice of words, considering the distance between the two in height, width, and most other departments besides age. “It’s so very hard to meet others around here my age. The only other person who I got along with moved away a few years ago and the other kids living locally I find rather…. disagreeable.”

“Do you find it lonely?”

“Huh?”

“Do you not find it lonely not knowing anyone your age then?”

“Well, I do have my brother, Dio. He’s tricky to handle at times but recently he’s been rather friendly. We’ve been taking part in rugby training together in the last year and I think he’s a natural in the sport. He tells me I’m a fool for making assumptions so early, but I believe he and I could play in a team well together some day.”

“Rugby?” Giorno creased his brow.

“Oh. It’s a sport.” Jonathan made running gestures with his hands, then a tossing motion behind his back. “It involves a lot of tackling and physical contact. Our father thinks it a quite silly way for us to spend our free time and hates for us to come home with broken noses and bloody knees, but I find it so fun I think he can forgive me.” He said laughing.

Both his cheeks were dimpled when he laughed so broadly like this, and his whole face seemed to reflect the sunlight like a looking glass in that moment. Giorno touched a hand to his own cheek. He wondered if he had dimples when he smiled in the same way. He had no clue, he had never thought to check.

“Dio will be waiting in the house when we arrive,” Jonathan continued, “He got back from London yesterday and he’s a still a tad weary from the journey so he could be in a sour mood. I recommend not speaking to him for any extended period at a time. He can be rather aggressive.”

Giorno nodded at this. He wasn’t expecting open arms from Dio, he’d certainly regard him with far more distrust than Jonathan was and could potentially even recognise him if he was unlucky. Giorno considered creating yet another identity for the boy who had helped Dio in the alley, a brother, or a cousin perhaps. The ideas looked increasingly ridiculous to Giorno as he realised Dio was far more intelligent than he was giving him credit for. Whatever story he came up with, he’d have to think quickly and talk smoothly once they met.

A line of trees broke before them and the sight of the mansion finally emerged. In the present day it was not much more than a spot of land marked with a historical sign post – here is where you can find the place where once stood a grand mansion belonging to the Joestar family – with a nearby information house sponsored by the SPW Foundation. Apparently if you walked over the ground on that hill you could still feel the remnants of brickwork under a thin layer of soil and find a handful of blackened posts now used to hold up saplings. The mansion in its old glory was lavish; blue and grey stone sitting atop the low hill and facing down into the valley they had walked up like a lion over a kingdom. From below Giorno could see one of the servants through an upper window notice them and rush away from sight. A postman passed them and waved to Jonathan, who greeted the man by name.

“Here we are!” Jonathan exclaimed, throwing his arms out like he would embrace the building. “I’m sure we can find a spare room for you, there’s always so much empty space in here.”

Giorno regarded the mansion with studious focus, memorising each little detail on each balcony and practically counting the windows on each floor. He found the process comforting; knowing that this was where his father had spent almost half his mortal life and, in a way, where everything had begun. It was where the story always began. It may as well have been where Giorno began as well.

They reached the front doors in time for a servant to open them and lead them in. Jonathan introduced Giorno as a guest, telling the servant to prepare a spare room on the first floor and to find Dio from elsewhere in the house. He then led Giorno into a room on the ground floor where every curtain was pulled back, every window large enough to toss a table through, and which was filled with what could only be described as foreign curiosities. Jonathan explained it was where his father kept his collection of artefacts from abroad which couldn’t be hung on a wall or fit into a display case. This meant that, sitting down on a low sofa in the middle of the room, Giorno was watched by no less than twelve skulls, five human skulls, half a dozen marble busts, two taxidermized ferrets, and a tall wooden pillar with a pair of beady red eyes hailing from somewhere in the Northern American continent. Most of the occupants made Giorno immensely uncomfortable so he tried not to meet any of their gazes.

Jonathan offered Giorno a biscuit from a small platter on the table between them. He took one and wondered what exactly had possessed George to collect such frightening objects.

“Are you alright?” Jonathan asked. “You look pale all of a sudden.”

Giorno hadn’t realised it was showing. “Oh. I do not like being watched so much.” He did not know the English word for taxidermy.

“I know how you feel.” Jonathan said, turning to look at the rows of artefacts. “My father collected many relics when he and my mother were touring in Europe and western Asia before I was born but he never seemed to have much interest in the items themselves. I personally am much more intrigued by their history and what they meant to the people who made and owned them.”

He turned back to Giorno with a wide smile.

“That’s what I am planning to study. I want to know exactly what these things are, and if I can, put them where they belong.”

It was a noble thought, noble enough for a proud and kind man like Jonathan. But the knowledge that these relics would have been burnt to a dust in five years’ time ruined the moment a tad for Giorno.

“I do wish my father had investigated these artefacts before bringing them home,” Jonathan continued, looking thoughtful, “Some of them really spook me.”

The door opposite the one they had entered opened loudly, Dio striding in with a face like thunder.

“Who have you brought home now? The postman? A lost shepherd boy? The cat’s mother? This house isn’t somewhere for you to use as a home for strays, Jojo.” He stopped by Jonathan’s side, not sparing a glance at Giorno.

“Oh, well, this nice young man had applied for a place under our father but due to him not being in the country at this moment I thought-”

“Jojo you imbecile, will you believe every single thing you’re told? If you used your brain for something other than scouring through books about some nameless kingdom which fell millennia ago for once you’d know he’s probably only looking to rob us!” Dio said, leaning close enough to Jonathan’s face for their foreheads to almost touch. “Are you only muscle up there?”

Watching, Giorno silently compared them. Dio was almost as tall as Jonathan but less broad and looked less heavy overall. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t still terrifying from an atmospheric standpoint. While Jonathan’s size only likened him to a large but harmless dog, Dio was brimming with only-just restrained energy.

“I’m sure he’s not trying to rob us, Dio. He told me he has nowhere to stay and I believe him entirely. Ask him yourself if you’re unsure.”

“You’d invite a common criminal to your own wedding if he asked you’re such a terrible judge of character.” Dio snarled at Jonathan before finally looking over to where Giorno sat, still chewing on a biscuit. His face clouded over for a moment before recognition dawned. He strode around the coffee table.

“You.” He said.

Giorno remained silent.

Dio reached down and grabbed Giorno by the collar, earning a shocked yelp from Jonathan, and brought Giorno’s face closer to his own. “It’s you.” He frowned. “Wait. What happened to your hair?”

Jonathan pushed Dio away from Giorno and said, horrified, “What do you think you are doing? He’s our guest, Dio.”

“Jojo, I’ve met him before.”

“What are you talking about? When did you meet?”

“It was i-” Dio began. He swallowed his words when he remembered the exact circumstances. “London. He was in London three days ago.”

“Is that true?” Jonathan asked Giorno, concern staining his face.

“I have never met him before.”

“See? You must have thought him to be someone else. There’s no way you could have seen him in as big a place as London before now.”

Dio glared at Giorno, weighing him up like a boxing opponent, clenching and unclenching his fists. The boy was beginning to look more unlike the one in the alley as seconds passed. He was wearing clean clothes. His eyes were clearer. He held himself much steadier and with the confidence of a grown man. Dio struggled to imagine this new boy with long blonde hair but found it almost impossible, there was something holding the two images far apart in his mind.

“What’s your name then?” Dio asked.

“Giorno Giovanna.”

An Italian name. Dio’s suspicions rose again.

“Dio Brando. I apologise for my behaviour.” Dio put his hand out and shook Giorno’s, softening his face to his usual mask of civility. Despite this his voice was still strained. “I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

“I understand.”

“You’ll be staying in our manor for the time being?”

“Yes. I hope to not be in your way, Signor Brando.”

“And I look forward to knowing more about you, Master Giovanna.”

Jonathan looked on, baffled by the sudden polite exchange. If he had looked past their words and body language – which was leading him to believe they had in fact left the violent greeting behind them – he would have seen that the two wore the same expression. Their eyes were identical in the moment. Like the uncanniness of seeing yourself reflected in an imperfect surface, the sound of two blades scraping along each other, oil hitting water, two storms meeting, both felt the tilt of reality under them. Two sides of the same coin struggled to exist face to face.

The moment ended when Jonathan clapped Dio on the back.

“Wonderful! I’ll show him to his room so that he can be settled in for now. I think the green room on the first floor will do.” He said, jostling a disgruntled Dio. “If you have nothing else to say to our guest?”

Dio shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “No. Go ahead. I’ll be out back if you need me.”

Jonathan was content with this and slapped Dio’s shoulder one last time and then led Giorno from the room. Left behind with a sour attitude and an itch at the back of his mind, Dio left through the door through which he had entered and almost slammed it behind him. The exchange had left him feeling unsatisfied, like it had been cut short somehow. But he had no idea what else there was to say. Giorno was a stranger, even if they had perhaps met before, and from outwards appearances looked somewhat uninteresting. So why on earth did the kid’s presence feel like an immense and inexplicable thorn in his side? This was the kind of thorn which only dug deeper and further into him and away from his finger the more Dio tried to grasp for it.

He flung open the doors to the back lawns of the mansion and jumped down the steps to land in the grass. This was where he would start, he’d take some time to think it though and decide on the best way to get this kid to explain himself properly.

He’d figure Giorno out. He had to. Something told him it was a dangerous choice not to.

Chapter Text

The room Giorno had been brought to was huge by his standards. The ceiling was higher than it had any right to be and there was enough floor space to conduct a waltz. Apparently, it was one of the smaller bedrooms in the manor. Jonathan pointed to where the floor’s restroom was since his and Dio’s rooms both had en-suites and let Giorno know when dinner would be served. Giorno tried to tell him that all this this unnecessary since he was a guest and only looking for work in the household.

“Mh?” Jonathan looked confused by his words. “Why wouldn’t I give you a room then? All the household live in their own homes near the estate, so we don’t have servant quarters like some of the older manors in this county. I personally find that quite comforting; knowing that if another brawl were to break between me and Dio they’d be no one to be caught in the crossfire. Anyway, it’s only right for me to offer you the comfort we have to spare and the food our cook prepares is delicious. I’d love to share it with you.”

Giorno was rather entertained by this display of chivalry. He put a hand on his hip and nodded solemnly like the brazen gentlemanliness was getting through to him.

“Besides, I get the impression you’ve been exhausted by your journey.” Jonathan said.

“It is true,” Giorno said, shrugging off his blazer, folding it and laying it over the back of a nearby chair. “It was a longer travel than I expected. Over hill and under hill as you’d say.”

Jonathan frowned and glanced to the side, wondering what he’d missed, before Giorno caught himself. “Um. Like I had flown all the way from Neverland.” He corrected. It was a bother to remember what century he was standing in, and the era-appropriate reference did not ring quite as well as the first had.

However, Jonathan brightened at the replacement. “Oh! I loved that novel as a boy!”

Giorno laughed softly, hoping his slip-up would be forgotten quickly. He rubbed the back of his head as he silently revised exactly what did and didn’t exist in this world yet. Many of the most commonly used references to pop culture would now be lost on anyone he spoke with and some might even offend. Come to think of it, the views of this era might be quite offensive to those of the twenty-first century. This was an amusing thought to Giorno, yet he firmly hoped that issue wouldn’t arise. It would be quite an awkward situation.

“You have been fidgeting like that a lot, are you nervous?” Jonathan asked, gesturing to Giorno’s hand which was tangled in his hair. It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d been doing it frequently. Maybe it was the absence of his longer hair that was subconsciously distracting him.

“Oh, no. It’s just a habit,” Giorno said, “But I have been wondering what chores I could do while I stay here.”

“Hm. Well, many of our household went with my father so there are a few gaps in the force, mainly among the men and women who keep our rooms clean and drive our carriages. Though I assure you they would certainly refuse to let you help them. I once wanted to assist with changing the sheets but after becoming lost in one of the duvets I believe they no longer wish for any assistance.” Jonathan wrung his hands as he said it. It was a sensitive topic.

“Do you have anybody currently tending to your garden?”

“Our garden? No, I guess not. We bring in a man twice a year to keep it trim but since we have very few spots which aren’t taken up by our lawns it isn’t a regular thing. Why do you ask?”

“It’s a skill of mine.”

“Gardening?” Jonathan exclaimed, breaking into a wide smile.

“Yes. Although I do favour the species native to the Mediterranean, so it might look a bit odd in an English garden.”

Jonathan shook his head and dispelled Giorno’s worry. “Any plants are good!”

He loved plants and would’ve loved to have any remote knowledge on them if the study hadn’t been so dull compared to his love for history. Taking a stroll through a garden of flowers and exotic plants gave Jonathan a buzz of excitement, as if he were walking through a world foreign to England, maybe a land far away where he could find all sorts of new and fascinating people, where he’d learn the language, the traditions, write it down to keep it from fading from his memory. Flowers like gems, like the gems worn on bodies, blossoms like crystals, like crystals set in gold in pendants in the heavy gilded armour worn by kings and warriors and the people entombed in the earth waiting for him to find and show to the world for the first time in centuries or more. A tree so tall an entire warship would be carved from it – a trireme perhaps – with branches so heavy they’d be the spears and oars – held by the richest and the poorest shoulder to shoulder – with leaves so wide they’d be shade for a pharaoh – eventually bleached by the sun until it was skeletal and bone grey. He pictured the fruits which were eaten in myth, trapping gods and mortals alike. He pictured herbs used as poison, then as remedy a few centuries later. He pictured a jungle and a meadow. He wanted to be there.

Watching the stars dance though Jonathan eyes, Giorno nodded tentatively. “I won’t ask for any pay since I’m living in your home. My expertise is in growing however, not removing weeds and things.”

Jonathan had become very excited.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. We’ve never had any sort of garden since my father hasn’t the interest and believes our lawns are enough to show off our land and wealth. He might be a bit surprised by work being done while he was away, but I promise he will not be offended by an addition and any sort of garden would be a spectacle to me,” Jonathan said, almost bouncing on his heels, “So how do you think you’ll start?”

Giorno held his chin and revelled in the moment.

“I think,” He said, a smirk spreading across his face, “I’ll surprise you.”

Jonathan seemed more than pleased by this and moved on to point out the large wardrobe in the room, where some old clothing of his was being kept and told Giorno he was free to use whatever fit him. This was a relief, not having any other clothing besides what he wore then and there, so Giorno thanked him and followed Jonathan downstairs again to see the ground floor rooms.

The dining room was large but had small windows, meaning it was gloomy and cold with the curtains almost fully drawn and candles unlit. Jonathan explained this was so that the sun wouldn’t bleach the furniture and carpet during the day but Giorno found it quite stiffing. Leading further into the house was a smaller room than the one where George kept his collection; another receiving room but more welcoming to those not wishing to be met with an assortment of foreign curiosities. Through yet another door was a large study. The double door at the back, as Jonathan pointed out, lead back into the collection room. George most often used the study for his leisure as the larger windows and easy access to the back lawns made the room feel much less enclosed than the others on the floor. The walls were lined with shelves full of books about what Giorno could only assume was George’s trade. According to Jonathan, the library upstairs was much more interesting so Giorno made a mental note to visit later and see what the Joestars had been reading back then.

Whatever space on the walls wasn’t laden with bookshelves had the odd portrait or photograph framed and hung around eye-level. Giorno drifted over to one as Jonathan continued to chatter about his father’s work as a tradesman; a photo of a newly married couple standing under a stone arch dotted with what might have been roses - without colour it was hard to tell – holding a bible and large bundle of flowers between then. Jonathan came up behind him and pointed to the man.

“That’s my father. And right there, that was my mother, Mary. They were married in this beautiful house in Yorkshire and, if I’m being honest with you, it’s the kind of place I’d love to be married in some day.”

“Aren’t you busy enough with your studies to think about that?”

Jonathan blushed and hid a smile being one hand. “I might have thought about it at one time, although now I must admit my studies have been my focus. Dio says I’m a hopeless romantic like this, thinking about a girl I haven’t seen in years and may never see again.”

Giorno raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Her name was Erina,” Jonathan said, as if Giorno had asked. “She was a strong girl and very beautiful, though she and her father moved away three years back. I do wonder sometimes how she’s doing.”

“I’m quite sure she’s doing well.”

“I do hope so. Have you ever been in love?”

The question took Giorno by surprise. He ran the question through his mind one more time before forming an answer.

“No, I don’t think I have.”

“That’s a strange way of putting it.”

“My friends keep me busy.” Giorno said, stepping back from the photograph to properly face Jonathan. “I love them as much as I could anyone, isn’t that enough?”

Jonathan hesitated, then smiled. “I guess you’re right. Are those friends back in Europe?”

“Yes. A very long way from here. I’m sure if they knew what I was doing right now they would love me less.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It doesn’t matter. They shouldn’t notice I’m gone.”

Jonathan was confused by this but let the matter go. He exhaled through his nose and glanced around the study, looking to see if there was anything he’d forgotten.

“Well, come see me if there’s anything you need. I’ll be up in the library until dinner time.” He said, shoving his hands into his waistcoat’s pockets. He started, pulling one hand back out with a gasp. The frog blinked at Giorno once again as Jonathan ran a hand through his hair. “Damn, I forgot about this guy. I guess I’ll put him with the others first.” He put the frog down in an empty glass bowl nearby, where it sat, quite confused.

“The others?” Giorno became concerned suddenly.

“Oh. I’ve been making a small pond in the east corner of our estate for the last few months. My father doesn’t know about it yet, so I’ve been getting it together when he’s not around and lately it’s been complete enough to be a home for some frogs.”

The glee with which Jonathan said it was a slight shock. He’d only a few moments ago been directing Giorno around the manor like the epitome of a gentleman’s hospitality and was now delightedly describing exactly how he was planning to get native weeds to grow in his handmade pond. Apparently, by chucking them in and hoping for the best.

“Dio knows about it,” he continued, “but he doesn’t seem to care much. I suppose that’s a blessing since if he did give a damn he’d most likely try to sabotage me.”

“Sab-?” Giorno began before swallowing his words, deciding against it.

Jonathan however noticed.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s nothing.”

“If I’m speaking too fast for you I don’t mind slowing down.”

Giorno bit his lip. He hated being talked down to.

“Please don’t.”

Jonathan laced his fingers, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. I just didn’t know the meaning of one word.” Giorno said. He also hated the look Jonathan was giving him, thinking he’d made some misstep. His sympathy wasn’t sickening to him, it was closer to pitiful. Giorno wanted it to stop. He wanted Jonathan to start smiling again.

“Sabotage? Its like…” Jonathan twiddled his fingers as he spoke. “When someone purposefully ruins someone else’s plans. Interruption. Disruption. Taking pleasure in someone’s failure.”

“Sabotage.” Giorno rolled the word around his mouth like a sherbet. “You sound familiar with it.”

“I might be.”

“And Dio?”

“He’s quite fond of it.”

“I can imagine.”

“You can?”

Giorno took a moment to tilt his head at Jonathan, teasing a smile from him as he softened his gaze. “I’m a very good judge of character. I know a trickster when I see one.”

“If you were that good a judge I’m sure you would have turned tail by now, most people do once they know how Dio really is.”

“I’m no coward.”

“I don’t think you are. I’m only giving warning, he does seem to have a vendetta against you already.” Jonathan said and glanced at a clock above his head. “I should leave you now. As I said, find me if you need anything.”

“I will, thank you.”

Jonathan nodded and smiled again, taking the frog from its bowl and leaving Giorno alone in the study.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than it had with Jonathan in the room with him. Half past twelve. There was a lot of the day left.

Giorno took a look through the nearest window, the inside ledge littered with ashtrays and used envelopes, trying to get a good view of the back lawns. It was large and open and about twice the size of a football field. Trees lined the perimeter but became sparser as distance grew, eventually opening up so Giorno could just about see through to the farmland behind the estate at the other end. There was no one is clear sight.

He pushed the back door open and stepped out onto a white painted wooden deck, clearly intended to be used as a rest area for reading and tea and whatever else these people did for fun. Below the deck the grass dipped down at a slight angle before joining the vast spread of lawn. Giorno carefully shuffled down the slope, side-stepping in an attempt to avoid tripping, and pointed himself across the grass to where he thought Jonathan had pointed to a few minutes earlier, saying it was a fair place to begin. The air had cooled since the morning and a slight breeze ran across Giorno’s shoulders, his thin shirt much less insulating than the blazer he’d left upstairs. He thought to himself, any sane gardener would have changed into a more suitable getup before ploughing head-first into the mud, or maybe grab for themselves a few tools before getting to work. I suspect it’s the kind of occupation you’d need gloves and boots for.

Thank goodness I can get it done in nice clothes.

*

Dio sat in Jonathan’s favourite tree. It wasn’t as if Jojo had made it particularly clear that this was his favourite tree to sit in, Dio had only taken the liberty of reading the context clues and simple fact that it was this tree he would always sit in after stealing George’s pipe from his study or finding a particularly rotten penny dreadful to read from a visit to the village. He took a great deal of pleasure in knowing that he was sitting in it. Like a well-fed cat he stretched and lay back with his head against the trunk with a lazy smile across his face. He had to give Jojo some credit, from here he could see past the estate’s borders and to the dirt road coming towards the front of the manor while still just about catching a glimpse of the back of the manor in the other direction. If he had wanted a fight almost every other day, he’d sit here more often.

The book he held above his head was brand new, bought the other day from London and brought back covertly past Jonathan’s watch, and he was racing through it. He wasn’t yet sure about his taste for the novel - not having the money for full printed editions since only a few years ago – and so was allowing himself to raise his suspicion every few pages. For example, did this Mr Twain truly know how unlikely a child’s survival would be under these circumstances? Dio believed that he, Dio, would have no trouble dodging the danger in these adventures, but that was not important. What was more important was the joy in imagining the most unpleasant fate this Finn character would most likely suffer in the end.

As he neared the end of a chapter, snickering at a crude illustration, he heard someone approaching under him.

He swung an arm under his bough and dipped low enough to catch a glimpse of the intruder. Clean shoes. It wasn’t Jojo then. Dio hooked his book over a branch by his head to keep his place and caught his balance on another one. He leant down as Giorno approached and called out;

“Looking for me?”

“No.”

Dio scowled.

“Then leave me alone.”

“I’m here to work, Signor.”

“What do you mean?”

Giorno gestured to a patch of bare earth under the shelter of the trees, a few paces from Jonathan’s tree. “I’m gardening.”

Dio, for a reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, was unconvinced by this. He swung his legs over the bough and watched as Giorno paced around the lawn as if looking for something.

“You don’t come off as the gardening type.” Dio said, slowly swinging his legs back and forth above Giorno.

“It’s not my only talent.” Giorno crouched down by some bar earth and poked a finger into the dirt, like he was taking its temperature.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, seeing as you did a very good job lying to Jojo back there. And let’s not forget how close you came to convincing me with that disguise of yours.” Dio said. He leaned languidly against the trunk and kept his gaze resting on Giorno, who didn’t respond. “You might think you’re clever, making your slippery way into this house and convincing Jojo you’re just a poor little boy looking for honest work. But you’re not fooling me.”

Giorno didn’t look up. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and rested his arms on his knees, Dio apparently not waiting for a response anymore.

“I wouldn’t trust you for a moment. No matter who you are, if you followed me from London or not, I don’t care. I’m not giving you any opportunity to make a fool of me. Everything in that house is mine, I won’t lend you a hand even if you beg me.”

“Really?” Giorno finally looked up. His eyes glinted. “Then why did you carry me out of that alley?”

Dio was by his side in a flash, out of the tree and on the ground towering over him between blinks.

“Why are you here. Tell me.”

“Do you want me to tell you, or are you just doing your best to scare me?”

“Don’t play games with me, bastard.”

“You’re quite fond of that word aren’t you.”

Dio leant closer. The feeling of déjà vu was growing stronger again and it was setting him on edge.

“Get up.” He snarled.

Giorno did as he was told, drawing up to his full height and dusting his legs off as he did. He met Dio’s glower with his own cool gaze.

“Why are you here.” Dio repeated.

“You.”

“What?”

“You fascinate me.”

Dio prepared himself to throw a punch at the smug arsehole.

“Why did you take me to the hospital? You could have easily left me there to be beaten or killed.” Giorno didn’t look concerned by this possibility somehow and only looked curiously to Dio for an answer.

“Is that why you’re here? Because I didn’t leave a note explaining myself?”

“I was led to believe you were a ruthless and cruel man. Who I saw in that alley was neither of those things and I believe I can learn more about you up close like this. I’m going to wait until I’ve truly come to my own decision about you before leaving so feel free to try to chase me away, I promise you’ll find it very, very difficult.”

Déjà vu suddenly turned to something much more sinister for Dio. The look in this kid’s eyes were no longer what he, himself, had carefully cultivated to become an impenetrable wall between him and whatever weak-willed idiot was trying to face him down. This kid was now glowing with the bizarre strength he’d been honoured to see rolling off from Jonathan in waves those moments when he finally broke through the act of a gentleman. It was flame in his eyes, a halo around him like there was some mysterious and invisible light just behind him out of sight. A shiver ran up Dio’s spine. Things were making less and less sense to him.

“Then, will you chase me away?” Giorno asked, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“No,” Dio said, “I think I’d much rather figure you out first myself.”

Giorno looked satisfied by this and spread his arms out like he was introducing some grand performance. “Do then. It’s only fair. I think you’ll find we have more in common than you would think.”

“Yeah right.” Dio said. He backed off after this, storming away from Giorno before he could say anything else with that damn tone of self-importance. But he only took a few steps before he heard Giorno casually calling after him again.

“I look forward to our time together, Signor.”

Dio grit his teeth. Maybe there was something worse than Jojo’s never-ending optimism and heroics; bleeding confidence and what might have been a vein of sadism. It was enough for him, Dio, to relish in these things. But being on the receiving end was another beast entirely.

                                                                                             *                                   

That could have gone a lot worse, Giorno thought.

He thought little of the conversation as he got to work on the garden. The rest of the afternoon was spent dragging dead branches and rocks across the lawns to where Jonathan had pointed for the garden to be. Fallen tree branches quickly became fully blossoming rose bushes and rhododendrons. Odd rocks and pebbles sprouted flowers and fruits until the area below and around the tree was bursting with colour and the faint scent of spring, despite it being early autumn. Soon Giorno became bored and wandered away across the estate after he ran out of ideas. He found the pond Jonathan had described behind a more densely wooded area, tucked under a slight incline so Giorno had to hop over a fallen tree and almost fell into the water to get near it. Jonathan had hidden it well; if Giorno hasn’t been looking for the pond in the first place he suspected the terrain would have easily turned him off before finding it.

There were a few frogs sitting under the water, Giorno could feel their faint pulses echoing at the corner of his mind as they hid from him behind rocks and pondweeds. He recognised the one Jonathan must have dropped in earlier that day somewhere near the pond’s edge. He reached in with one hand and felt it brush past his fingertips, and happy with its new home it swam away into a deeper corner of the pond.

Good, Giorno thought, it’s settled in well. He had been concerned for the creature, being dropped into a strange place with no warning like that.

When he left the shelter of the woods he found the sun nearing the horizon and returned to the manor where Jonathan was waiting on the deck.

“Oh, hello! Are you done for the day?” Jonathan said, standing up from the deck chair he had been sitting in and setting down a thick book bound with aged leather.

“Yes,” Giorno heaved up the slope to the deck and brushed hair from his eyes. “And your brother?”

“Dio won’t be joining us for dinner. He says he’s far too busy, whatever that might mean.”

Giorno sighed. He’d been hoping to see the two brothers talk with one another over dinner for himself but wasn’t surprised that the foul mood Dio had left in earlier would affect this sort of thing. “Does he do this a lot?”

“Yes, unfortunately. But he’s free to do what he wants so I’ve never thought to ask him why he wouldn’t want to join me.” Jonathan lead Giorno into the house, closing the study door behind them. “Today he looked troubled by something though. Do you know why?”

Giorno shook his head. He only hoped Dio would be more compliant the next day.

The dinner went by quickly, Jonathan talking mostly about his studies, Giorno only occasionally asking about Jonathan and Dio’s history. What he learnt wasn’t very surprising, childhood stories were the ones so often lost in a family history so Giorno felt quite privileged to hear them himself, even if many of them were unpleasant to say the least. The food itself was also unfortunate; a roasted chicken and a selection of bowls filled with glazed vegetables. Jonathan didn’t say anything when Giorno filled his own plate with the potatoes and carrots while making an effort to avoid the meat on the table but did look a little concerned once the plates were cleared away.

“Are you sure you’ve eaten enough?” He asked.

Giorno nodded. “I’ve never liked meat. But I also do not eat much compared to you.”

Jonathan was taken aback. Maybe he did eat a lot in comparison; he’d cleaned off the chicken himself and would often be scolded by his father for his terrible table matters and appetite. Then the pudding was brought through and his anxieties were drowned by the sight of Giorno savouring the bowl of creamy sugary custard and fruit pieces like it was the last thing he’d eat for weeks. At least that was something they shared. He and Jonathan both glowed with delight when met with anything as sweet as this. Afterwards the two walked together to the second floor, Giorno expecting another handshake before the night ended, but Jonathan simply clapped Giorno’s shoulder again with the same energy as that morning. Soon Giorno was left on the landing alone, catching his breath.

The house had become very quiet at that point. The last of the household had cleaned up and left for their own homes outside the estate and both Dio and Jonathan’s rooms were on the floor above. Giorno returned to the room he’d been given and shuffled out of his shoes, setting them by the foot of the bed. He found what might have been nightwear in a lower drawer in the dresser and lit two candles at opposite ends of the room before he could trip over any stray footstools. The curtains had already been drawn but Giorno pulled the heavy fabric back by an inch to see the front of the estate washed in steel blue moonlight, a carriage parked to the left of the driveway only twenty paces from the stables, a clunky-looking automobile opposite. Across was the high iron gate, locked since the sun set and casting thorny shadows across the ground reaching towards Giorno like silvery grey talons.

Giorno dropped the curtain back into place and dropped onto the bed, snuffing one candle out as he went. He buried his face into the sheets and breathed in what he thought could have been lavender, or cinnamon. This was what someone else’s childhood smelt like.

There was the faint sound of a grandfather clock chugging away somewhere else on the landing outside, and every now and then he heard footsteps pacing around the floor above him. Dio took far longer than Giorno to fall asleep that night. To urge himself into drowsiness Giorno pulled a book towards him from where he’d dropped it on a table top when walking in earlier, he’d thought it a waste to leave a perfectly good novel hanging in the branches like that. He dusted some dirt from the cover and rolled onto his back to drop the bookmark by his head and catch the candlelight on its pages, picking up where someone else had left off. After half a dozen chapters the words began to swim and melt under his eyes so Giorno let it rest on the bed by him and snuffed out the last candle, dropping the room into complete darkness. He drifted away into sleep after a while.

And Giorno slept without interruption. The only thing which could have woken him was two men by the front gates at around 3:24 am, poking around the lock and then leaving ten minutes later. They were unsatisfied by their investigation, not that Giorno, Jonathan, or Dio knew. Unfortunately, it seemed they’d still have to find a third to join them in their task.

Chapter Text

Once Trish arrived outside the hotel she knew what Mista had called her out there for. She followed him up the looming flights of stairs with a smile he couldn’t see on her face.

“So, what? Did you ask me to come with you because you’re scared of him?”

“What? No. Of course not.” Mista said, not turning around.

“Then why me?”

“You know that Fugo would only start a fight. And I get the feeling he wouldn’t be a fan of Sheila either.”

Trish thought this over. It was a very valid point. Fugo’s temperament made him the perfect catalyst for a simple conversation to turn sour and quickly violent if not kept under control, even if he had got better at holding back his temper in recent months. Sheila on the other hand was more likely to be an eyesore to a man like Kujo; she was devoted to the gang and to the Boss in a way that man probably thought revolting. In all consideration, Trish was a fine substitute. But why Mista needed a companion at all was a question which left Trish to feel a hint of playful curiosity.

“I’m only going to ask him if he saw Giorno last night,” Mista continued, “It’s my last idea before we ask them for help.”

“You’re actually thinking of asking Kujo for help?”

“Sure, why not. They are family, right?” Mista scratched his chin. “If I had a long-lost nephew or whatever I’d want to help find him too.”

Trish thought Mista was simplifying the situation just a little bit but forgave him, knowing he was a man who saw the world in a simple way. It was an admirable way to walk through life, but it also made her nervous. Trish made sure to remind herself of how shaken Mista had been after meeting Kujo for only a few moments and prepared for the worst. They reached the floor Mista said Kujo and his companion had been booked into and he led her to the suite tagged 333, stopping to rummage around in his pockets.

“Do you have a copy of his room key?” Trish asked.

“No, Giorno insisted on leaving Kujo’s room with its privacy.”

“What are you fidgeting around for then? Let’s just get it over with.”

“Hang on, hang on.” Mista muttered then pulled a magazine of bullets from his trouser pockets. He held it out to Trish then tugged his hat off to do the same with the loose bullets hidden there. When Trish stared blankly at him he thrust the bullets into her hands. “Take them off me so Kujo doesn’t think I’m walking in there to start a fight or anything.”

“Mista…” Trish stared at the piles of bullets in her hands. “Mista you know you’ll be completely defenceless like this.”

“That’s the idea.”

“With this sort of handicap, the most you can to is tickle him.”

“Hey, I’m not that weak!”

“Do you think he can smell bullets or something?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Mista said, pulling his hat back over his ears. “That guy’s a real weirdo. I just thought it would be a bad idea to walk right into his room packing heat when he’s known as the strongest stand user bar only maybe Giorno, who isn’t even around right now.” He shrugged, but when he saw the look on Trish’s face he added, “Besides, like you’d let me get hurt.”

Trish sighed and dropped the bullets into a pocket somewhere within the folds of her vibrant pink skater skirt. Nothing she could say would stop him. Mista knocked on the door, shoving his other hand deep into his pockets to keep it from fidgeting. After a couple of moments, the door was opened by Koichi, who had changed from his formalwear of last night into a lightweight shirt and summer shorts, looking like a tourist ready for a trip around the city. He lit up when he recognised Trish and Mista but quickly lost the excitement when he saw the looks on their faces.

“Uh, good morning. How can I help you?”

Mista leant against the doorframe, towering over Koichi incidentally from the action. “We’re here to see Signor Kujo. Is he in his room?”

“Yes, he’s right next door to me. I’m sure he’s been awake for several hours now, so I wouldn’t worry about disturbing him. I’ve never heard of him sleeping after 7am.”

“Have you talked to him today already?”

“Oh, no. I’ve only been downstairs to have breakfast, but I think he ate before me.”

Mista rubbed his neck. “Do you think he’s left the hotel then, if you didn’t see him this morning?”

“I don’t think so. Look,” Koichi pointed to a row of hooks along the anteroom’s walls by the door, where hung a number of jackets including one snow-white coat long enough to brush the floor. “I expect he’s working right now.”

This made Mista sweat. Worse than the idea of hunting Kujo down in the city was the idea of interrupting him during work. The image of Giorno’s thunderous expression when Mista had once walked into his office before knocking swam into his mind, making him swallow. It was the kind of face which shaved years off his life and he had no doubt that Kujo had the same capability.

“We’ll make it as quick as possible in that case. Would you care to let us in?” Trish said.

“Of course.” Koichi opened the door fully and jammed it in place with his foot to let Trish and Mista into the anteroom. Koichi’s room was opposite and labelled as “room b” while Kujo’s was a few steps to the left and labelled as “room a”. Giorno had put him in the largest of the guest suites by request. It was a gesture which passed right over Kujo’s head and left only Koichi to thank them for the kindness afterwards. Kujo’s gratitude was lost on Mista, who suspected the man was anything but happy to be in Italy at all. The three shuffled around each other in the anteroom to let Koichi close the door to the corridor behind them then walk to Kujo’s room. He gently rapped at the door and put his ear to its surface.

“Mr Jotaro? Two of Giorno’s employees are here to see you.” He said in Japanese.

A couple of seconds passed, and Koichi appeared to hear something on the other side of the door to satisfy him. He turned the handle and pushed open the door to let Trish and Mista walk through. Unlike how Koichi and the other SPW workers had made their rooms, Jotaro hadn’t bothered to adjust the air conditioner machine and left the room to its naturally stuffy climate with only an open window to freshen the room overnight. The coffee table underneath the large TV, which had not been so much as turned on, was now pulled forwards to sit opposite the sofa in the centre of the room and no longer held the numerous decorations it had the day before, all of which had been dumped onto a spare chair across the room. On the table now was a medium sized tank holding several plastic rocks and a sleeping turtle. Out of the shell of the turtle the three could see the semi-transparent figure of a middle-aged man. Jotaro sat on the sofa and was deep in conversation with the ghost man, who had been gesticulating wildly to Jotaro while the three could not hear what was being said from where they stood. Jotaro was only responding with the occasional one-word comment. He was gently smiling.

“Um, Mister Jotaro?” Koichi looked unsure about bringing the two into the room after seeing the conversation they had been having. Jotaro looked up from the table and dropped the smile as soon as he saw Mista.

“What did they want?” He said.

Mista noted that his strange hat from the night before had been discarded on a table by the bed and the man’s hair was, without the hat’s cover, much wavier than it had appeared before, a scraggly curl now falling over his brow. He also seemed to be wearing the same clothing as the day before but without the white coat overtop - matching white trousers and a black turtleneck – a ballsy choice for late Italian summer. Without the coat Mista could now clearly see how heavily built the man was and began sweating harder. The more he looked at Kujo the more nervous he became, the kind of intimidating beauty Giorno had been growing into evidently ran in the family and Kujo’s sharp green eyes were boring holes right into Mista like some sort of otherworldly Grecian figure ready to blast Mista into rubble.

Trish saw Mista frozen by her side and spoke out first.

“We were wondering if Giorno had visited you last night.” She said.

“He didn’t.” Jotaro’s answer was curt and left Trish feeling slighted.

“Did he maybe suggest last night that he would want to speak to you again after you left?”

“No.”

“What about a phone call?”

“I did not give him a number.”

“Are you absolutely sure he didn’t at least knock at your door? Or pass through the hotel? Maybe-?”

“Trish.” Mista stopped her and nodded to Jotaro in apology. “We hoped you could give us some clue to where Giorno was last night. He vanished sometime after midnight.”

If this news bothered Jotaro at all it didn’t show on his face. He didn’t move an inch and only stared back at Mista with an unreadable expression. Polnareff, however, was making a commotion from the table top. Koichi hurried forwards to shift the turtle’s position so that Polnareff could more easily face Mista and Trish.

“What do you mean? Why didn’t you let me know first? Mista! Don’t you think this serious enough to tell me as soon as possible?” Polnareff was red in the face from shouting it all up to the two now very nervous teens.

“Well,” Mista tugged at his sleeves and didn’t meet Polnareff’s eyes. “I thought you’d be pissed at me.”

“I am!”

“And I knew you were catching up with Kujo. I didn’t want to bother you when you were talking to someone you hadn’t seen in years, I was gonna tell you after asking Kujo later in the day.”

“Well I know now so you might as well apologise for leaving me in the dark, you moron.”

“I’m sorry.” Mista said, hanging his head.

“Geez,” Polnareff rubbed the bridge of his nose. His tiny ghost form was awkwardly emerging from the key’s porthole not far from Jotaro’s knee. Mista considered offering to move the conversation inside the turtle’s room but Polnareff continued speaking again.

“You kids sure like putting me through all sorts of stress don’t you. If something happens to Giorno, I need to know it. That kid is my responsibility and you’re doing us both a disfavour by leaving me in the dark.”

Hearing this, Jotaro’s face darkened. Something Polnareff said had bothered him but Mista couldn’t decide what exactly it was.

“I’m sorry. Can I just tell you what we know so far?”

“Go ahead. Next time,” Polnareff pointed at Trish, “You need to tell me what’s going on before this idiot decides to be a hero.”

Trish nodded, smiling covertly.

Mista let it go and began, “Me and Giorno got back at quarter to one. I thought he fell asleep by me at about the same time that I had but Uno – my stand I mean – told me this morning that he stayed awake until around 4am.”

Trish frowned, confused, so Mista added, “I slept in his room.”

“Oh.” Trish said, hiding a grin behind her hand. Mista flushed but said nothing back to her.

“Anyway, Uno said it watched Giorno all night just in case something happened. Giorno got up from my side around 4 but didn’t leave the room, he just wandered around a bit for a few minutes. Then Uno said he just vanished where he stood. Like, pop, gone.” Mista made a ‘poof’ gesture with his hands before they were slapped down by Trish.

“We’ve looked all over town but have come up empty.” She said. “None of our contacts outside of Napoli are saying anything either. Our last resort was - I apologise - suspecting that he left the Palazzo this morning to hunt you, Signor Kujo, down for whatever reason. Our biggest fear was that he had, and we hoped we were wrong.”

“Well, you’re wrong.” Jotaro said, crossing his arms and leaning back into the sofa. He looked rather disinterested in the conversation.

“Mista,” Polnareff began, “What was Giorno like when you brought him home last night? Why do you think he’d have wanted to see Jotaro again?”

Mista twisted his lip. He wasn’t sure how much he was obligated to share with the room.

“How upset was he?” Polnareff asked again gently.

“He was…” Mista started to say before trailing off into silence again. Trish looked at him concerned, waiting for an answer. Polnareff waited with clear anxiety across his face. Jotaro didn’t seem to give a shit either way. The sight of Giorno’s wrecked bedroom passed through Mista’s memory, the look on Giorno’s face when he’d walked into his room, what sounded like the hiccups you get from holding back tears when he thought Mista had fallen asleep already. Mista made up his mind and said, “He was really upset. More upset than I think I’ve seen him before.”

This had Polnareff straightening up and turning back to Jotaro.

“What did you say to him?”                                                                                     

“What he wanted.” Jotaro said. “I started from the beginning with Jonathan like he asked and got all the way to Egypt before he-”

Trish held up a hand to pause Jotaro politely. “Um, should we hear this? I thought it was private information.”

Polnareff waved her off. “Don’t worry, Trish. It’s too late now to worry about that stuff. Now, Jotaro, you were saying? It sounded like Giorno interrupted you.”

“Kind of. I told him about Noriaki when he began to look ill. I thought he was angry or something, so I told him he shouldn’t be so surprised his dad was an asshole at that point and to just let me finish the damn story, but then he got up and swore at me. I’d had enough of him, so I left. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Mista said, incredulous. It was no surprise Kujo couldn’t have read Giorno at the time, but the extent to which the meeting had gone to shit was far more than he’d first thought. “No wonder he was so upset. You were treating him like a child!”

“He is a child.” Jotaro’s stare was ice cold.

“Well, he really hates that.” Mista knew it sounded weak, but it was the truth. “You probably insulted him just as he was trying to process all that new shit you were telling him.”

“It’s true Jotaro.” Polnareff said. “Giorno hasn’t been in a good place since he took the role of Boss. I think he hoped his father was someone a little more admirable than Dio, so the news must have hurt him more than it surprised him. I know I would be shocked by something like that.”

Jotaro scowled. He wished he still had his hat on, then he wouldn’t have to meet the eyes of the others in the room. Mista and Trish both looked pissed at him. Polnareff and Koichi were either concerned by him or sympathetic, he couldn’t he bothered to figure out which.

“What, do you want me to say sorry to the kid? For hurting his feelings?”

“Oh fuck y-” Mista was again stopped by Trish. She hissed something into his ear to shut him up, but he still glared across at Jotaro as she did.

Polnareff tried to get through again. “He’s just a kid, Jotaro. There was no reason to act like he had anything to do with his father’s evil, he didn’t even know about all that until last night. He told me himself that he only hoped his father was a better man than the one who married his mother. You could at least have behaved with some consideration since you’re the only relative he’s met so far.”

“I am not his family.” Jotaro said. There was no hesitation.

“Not like this, you’re not.”

“Since when did you care about a son of Dio?”

“At no moment since I’ve met Giorno was I reminded of Dio. He’s nothing like his father. If there was any humanity those two ever shared it’s the humanity which that monster rejected decades ago.”

“You know he looks like him.”

Polnareff didn’t respond to this so the room fell silent for a moment. Jotaro looked immensely uncomfortable.

No one wanted to speak first after that. The two men who had in fact seen Dio alive wished the conversation hadn’t gone quite as far as this. The other three stood awkwardly and struggled to imagine exactly who they were describing. None had ever considered Giorno to be someone who inspired disgust like this, fear and wonder sure, but certainly not the kind of expression Jotaro wore.

Trish straightened her back and swallowed. She began, “I only saw my father alive for a couple of days - last spring - but in that time I decided he was not the man I had wanted him to be. I saw him cause indescribable terror to innocent people. I watched my friends die by his hands. And he almost killed me. If there was even a remote resemblance between us…” she trailed off. Trish stared at her hands for a moment, fighting back both nausea and anger. “I couldn’t consider him my father. Not for a moment. Now I don’t know how much blood that man, Dio, spilt and I won't claim to understand your fury but if Mista and the others can still look me in the eye when they could just as easily be looking into the eyes of my father I’d sure appreciate it if you gave Giorno a chance too.”

Mista looked stunned. Funnily enough, she had brought something up he’d never even thought to consider, making him nervous that it might have been something that she’d been thinking of for a while. Trish, just like it had been when they first met, would turn a ripe shade of pink when riled up and so was positively glowing with what could be rage as she took a step closer to Kujo.

“He has never treated me as anything less than a friend, even if he’s not always so good at it, and wouldn’t bring himself to hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. You’d know that if you had let him speak for any more than ten seconds.”

“Young lady, this is much more complicated that you think it is.”

“I think it’s far simpler than you’re making it out to be, Signor. Do you know what his favourite book is? Do you know what he gave me for my birthday? How many times he’s visited that tiny pasticceria across town just because they give him yesterday’s leftovers free of charge? What food he picks out of his dinners and gives to Mista to eat instead? How long he spent looking for Narancia’s family afterwards? His fears? His hates? His loves? How could you claim to know him if you can’t even answer me? If this is the boy you think is anything like the kind of man who would hurt an innocent soul then you, Signor Kujo, have no right to make any comment on my judgment of the situation between you two.”

Trish finally fell silent. Her chest rose and fell as she unclenched her fists and struggled to find somewhere to look besides Kujo, who only sat equally silent with an unreadable expression. The room became increasingly unpleasant to be in. Koichi in particular was feeling a strong desire to back slowly out while Kujo was distracted. After what could have been any quantity of time he finally stood. It was an agonising motion to watch; him slowly pushing himself up from the sofa, keeping steady and cold eye-contact with Trish as he did, eventually coming to his full height towering over her and blocking the sunlight from the open window behind him in a huge and enigmatic eclipse.

Everyone braced for the worst. Polnareff considered speaking up before something or somebody broke. Koichi wondered if anyone would notice him slipping out the door. Mista silently swore when he remembered he had given Trish his ammunition.

Jotaro rested a hand on Trish’s shoulder. He lowered his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

In all the years of Kujo Jotaro’s life he remembered many apologies. Sometimes he’d wondered if it still wasn’t quite enough; if, by the end of his life, he had left far too much unsaid. The first biggest “sorry” he remembered was to the parents of a friend he should have had for longer, the next was to a wife he simply shouldn’t have had, the last was to his daughter crying in either shock or anger - he couldn’t quite tell - ten years from now. The many smaller “sorrys” between them fell between the cracks, and most felt ingenuine. The feeling of remorse was one of those things he got used to eventually. He assumed everyone else could tell by now, that he was sorry.

“That was insensitive of me.” Jotaro said. He wasn’t sure of what else to say, Trish looked close to tears and he didn’t want to be the one to console her. “Please understand I didn’t wish to insult you.”

Trish pushed his hand from her shoulder. “You didn’t. I’m not the one to apologise to.”

It left Jotaro puzzled, much to everyone’s dismay, and Trish returned to Mista’s side to rest her head on his shoulder. Mista sensed she was done, tired out by or tired of trying to speak to Kujo, so took her hand and let her push her face into the fabric of his sweater.

Hating being the one to bring it back up, Mista asked “Would anyone like to suggest how we find Giorno? I’m sure there’s at least a few of us in the room who actually care about him.”

Polnareff furrowed his brow. “You did say he was in his room when he vanished, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Was he poking around in one corner of the room, maybe crouching by a wall?”

“Uh, yeah I guess. I think Uno said he’d been crouching by a table a few minutes before he disappeared, but he was probably just looking at one of the mirrors he broke.”

“How did he break a mirror?”

“That’s not important. But what does this have to do with where he’s gone?”

“A few times Giorno’s come to me to talk, not just about work but also about what’s troubling him. It’s probably the kind of things you’ve been trying to get him to share with you. He might have thought I had more in common with him than you two.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“You might think so, but he has a tendency to think of himself as a sole survivor in some sense. It’s silly, I know, and I’ve tried to help him understand that but… Anyway, once the topic of the arrow was brought up a few months ago,” Polnareff said, watching the looks on everyone’s faces shift, “He wouldn’t tell me the details of his relationship to it but did tell me where he had hidden it.”

“You’re telling me he took the arrow out last night? Why would he- what the fuck would he need the arrow for?”

“I have no idea. No one knows exactly what it’s capable of, but my best guess is that Giorno took advantage of its power to satisfy some kind of desire he had at that time.”

Mista grit his teeth. Some desire of Giorno’s? The Giorno he remembered from last night was a cocktail of potential energy, he could have wanted a billion different things all at once for all Mista knew.

“Then where is he?”

“How should I know? Requiem behaves completely differently to each new demand, to each new user, there’s no use in trying to guess where it took him.”

Jotaro looked troubled suddenly. “You don’t think he went looking for his father, Polnareff, do you?”

Polnareff’s expression told the others he had considered it. “If he did there’s still nothing we can do to stop him,” he said, “What we saw of Gold Experience Requiem in action was unstoppable, crushingly powerful, and far beyond what even Giorno might think he understands of its abilities. My guess is, if he was indeed looking for a way to see his father in person, Requiem tore a hole through the fabric holding dimensions apart as it did when it disposed of Diavolo last spring. That would have allowed Giorno to interact with and exist in a version of the past without destroying the reality of the future he lives in; the future we’re living in now. I suspect true time travel would have caused this reality to cease existing as soon as Giorno landed.”

Mista’s head hurt. “Uh, alright. No, wait, that’s not all right. You’re telling me Giorno’s in the past?”

“Not exactly,” Polnareff suspected it wasn’t worth explaining again, the theories he’d given during their first encounter with Requiem had gone mostly over Mista's head, so he had little hope in getting him to understand now. “He’s just not in our version of the past.”

“I don’t really get it,” Trish began, finally unearthing her face from Mista’s collar, “But does this mean he’ll get home safe? He’ll be able to come back soon?”

Polnareff looked unsure. “That’s up to him. I don’t doubt that Requiem can bring him home safely, since that’s sort of its job, but there’s no way of knowing when Giorno will return.”

Mista and Trish both stood defeated, faces broken from the news. Neither wanted to hear it but were at least glad to know for sure. But it was beyond frustrating, that Giorno had made that choice without them. Mista was beginning to feel angry. He thought Giorno would have trusted him enough to let him know, to at the very least give him a heads-up before pissing off to god knows where and when like it was a jaunt round the block, like Mista had no place in knowing when something this big and bloody important was on his mind.

As he though it, Jotaro noticed the red creeping up Mista’s neck and picked up Polnareff from the table.

“Here,” he said as he held the turtle out to Trish. “We caught up last night. You should take him back in case there are any developments.”

Trish looked at the turtle, Polnareff’s face disappearing to a faint reflection on the surface of the key. “No, you should keep him here for now. We clearly were interrupting you two when we entered.”

Jotaro glowered and muttered something in Japanese under his breath. Leaving Polnareff with him was a highly unattractive outcome, likely leaving him to be endlessly scolded and pestered by the man he may have missed for some years but who was now reminding him of why they rarely got along. There was no surprise, the two of them were as incompatible as any pair imaginable even to onlookers and seemed to only get along for the most crucial of moments or over a pack of beer. Their conversation that night had run over into the morning; Polnareff gushing about the strange group of teens he’d become responsible for, how much they reminded him of the team he’d found himself part of over a decade ago, Jotaro listening intently with only a few intermittent comments and snide remarks. Polnareff had wanted to hear more about how Jolyne had been doing, he hadn’t seen her in so long she must have grown past hip-height by now, but Jotaro evaded the topic. He suspected Polnareff wouldn’t back down in his questioning once the Italian troupe left them.

“Koichi?”

Koichi took this opportunity to vanish behind Mista and slip out the room silently. Traitor.

“I can hear you, you know.” Polnareff’s voice was unmistakable and offended.

“Can’t you let me rest?”

“You’re being an ass.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“Geez, you only got more difficult to talk to with years.”

Jotaro didn’t talk back. He set the turtle down on the table and pinched the bridge of his nose. Once again, he muttered something neither Mista nor Trish could understand, yet the meaning was conveyed perfectly through his tone. Jotaro scowled and looked back to them.

“Leave then. You should get back to your…headquarters, I’m sure you’ll be busy with your boss gone.”

“Yeah. Good talk.” Mista said and seemed reluctant to leave but Trish took his arm and led him from the room.

Jotaro was left feeling bitter. Polnareff’s voice piped up from within the miniature room, asking for him to just get in the damn turtle already if he was done sulking. He did, after setting the turtle back into its tank on the coffee table and finally closing the windows. He prepared himself for an earful now that the noisy group of teens had gone; Polnareff must have noticed how little he’s talked about his own life in the past couple of years while listening to the tales of the aging crusader’s ongoing investigations into stands, arrows - and most recently - what lay beyond it all.

The following conversation within the key’s room was strange to say the least. Both men felt the weight of years that had passed quicker than either had noticed, leaving scratches and scars alike. They’d gotten older. They had less and less in common.

But it was nice.

Here, Jotaro could finally laugh.

*

In a quiet café near the coast of Napoli, close enough for the sound of gulls and ferry horns to seep in through the open door and a fine crust of sea salt to coat the borders of the windows, Mista spat his coffee out across the table.

“He said what?”

“I know right?” Trish had artfully dodged the spray and carried on, “So I was just holding this super classy dusk-pink dress suit in one hand and a beautiful suede stiletto in the other and-”

“Oh wait, don’t tell me.” Mista said, a grin spreading across his face. He mimed a swiping gesture with his hand and made a face imitating intense pain while shielding his crotch.

Trish clapped and laughed. “You should have seen it! There were so many people watching too, I think my clothing assistant choked on her lunch.”

“You’re a monster.”

“So I’ve been told.” Trish delicately sipped from her own coffee and smiled behind the rim of the cup. “So how was your weekend?”

“Mostly giving Kujo the rundown of our clean up job of the vestigial drug-smuggling squadras over the last few months. It’s not much fun.”

“What would you rather be doing then?” Trish asked.

It would have been boring, had Mista not been on edge for the past three days straight knowing that Passione was running along without a Boss at the top like a speeding train with no driver at the helm. There were still only a select few who knew Giorno was truly missing and it was taking all of Mista’s free moments to keep up the charade. He’d practically locked Sheila into the downstairs office of the Palazzo over the weekend, keeping any unwanted attention of lower-rung associates away from the Boss by having Voodoo Child’s mimicry take care of Giorno’s visitors. Sheila was beginning to get restless from it but agreed there was no easier way to convince the others Giorno was still around.

If word did get out, well, Mista didn’t like to think about what could potentially break loose. Fugo on the other hand very frequently thought about it and very frequently brought up his predictions to Mista whenever they met up throughout the day. It was getting on Mista’s nerves.

“Good point.” Mista leant back in his chair and sighed. “I guess I’m glad that’s the worst that I’ve had to do.”

“How’s Fugo holding up?”

“Pretty bad.”

“No kidding.”

“Last night he thought he heard someone moving around upstairs, we were right below Gio’s room in the archive halls, and he almost broke an arm running up there to see if it was him and he’d come back. By the time I caught up to him he’d realised it was just a cleaning guy.”

Trish rested her chin on her hand. “Do you think you should talk to him?”

“I think if I do he’ll bite me or something.”

“What, like a puppy?” Trish giggled.

“Nah,” Mista grinned. “Like a bear-trap. I’ll have to amputate.”

Trish finished off her coffee and pushed the little spoon around the cup, pursing her lips. “He sounds scary attached to Giorno though. How long had he been like that?”

“Uh. Since a couple months back. That was when he got dragged back into the gang by Giorno so around the same time you got back in touch with us. I heard Giorno had this serious intense meeting with him just after he joined again and Fugo’s been seeing him like some sort of god since then. And he also has a nickname for him now too.”

Trish looked weirded out.

“To be fair a lot of us were the same way with Buccellati. Especially Narancia.” Mista added.     

“What kind of a nickname?” Trish asked, expecting the worst. She’d spent far less time around Fugo during her time attending Passione events and visiting during her free time, trying to avoid pretty much everyone but Giorno and Mista for her own safety and personal comfort. And she’d never liked Fugo anyway.

“It’s…uhh. I think it was GioGio.” Mista said. He looked uncomfortable admitting it out loud.

Trish paused for a moment, testing the name out in her head. “Hm. Kinda catchy though, isn’t it?”

“Really? I think it’s cheesy.”

“Nah, it’s cute.”

“It’s a pet name. Why would the Boss of Passione have a pet name?”

“Why would the Boss of Passione have me run halfway across the city when he’s too busy to pick his gelato himself?”

“Okay that’s fair.”

“And Kujo?”

Mista scratched his chin. “Maybe he’s finally warming up to Italy. All I know is he hasn’t been shitting all over Giorno like he was the other day.

“Maybe Polnareff got to him.”

“Nah. Can’t be. That guy’s cold as ice. I don’t think he’s capable of feeling more than one emotion at once, like a human mood ring.”

“I heard he’s got a daughter though.”

Mista sat up straight in his chair, suddenly rapt. “You’re kidding me.”

“Heard from Koichi.” Trish said, “She’s like, nine or something.”

“When were you talking with Koichi? I though you were super busy this week.”

“I bumped into him on Saturday. Anyway, apparently, she’s been living with her mum in America for the last few years because her parents got a divorce. Kujo hasn’t even talked to them since then.”

“Geez.” Mista slumped. “None of us can have a happy family, can we?”

Trish smiled sadly. “Yeah I guess not.”

Mista’s phone rang. Trish almost made fun of his bubbly ringtone before he put his hand up to keep her quiet, he’d seen the number on the screen.

“Uh huh. No, not yet.”

Trish waited, watching Mista’s face darken.

“You’re fucking with me.”

Trish waved over a café worker to pay for their drinks.

“Can’t we-? Then just find the bastard who took them!”

Trish herded Mista, with the phone still glued to his ear, out of the café and into the street where he proceeded to up the volume.

“No! We’re not telling Kujo yet! Just stay in the Palazzo until I get there.” A lengthy pause. Then, “And don’t talk to anyone else you crazy asshole!”

He punched the hang-up button and tossed the phone over the railings and over the shoreline into the Mediterranean, where after an impressive airtime it fell through the surf with a distant ploop.

“Was that Fugo?” Trish asked. She was standing a safe distance away.

“Yeah.” Mista said. His shoulders were hunched like an alley cat ready to claw someone’s eyes out. “He was about to do some really stupid shit. That's all.”

“Was that really it?”

Mista looked at her. He wouldn’t be able to lie, she’d hit him for that.

“No. Someone broke into the Palazzo last night. Fugo thinks the archives were hit because one of the locks were blown right off.”

“How did he only find that now?”

“He was probably sulking around town all night or some shit, I don’t know.” Mista began storming off down the street, Trish close behind. “It can’t be a coincidence though. That this happened right when Giorno’s away.”

“It can’t be.” Trish said, skipping every few steps to keep up. “No one but us knows.”

Mista kept his eyes locked on the road ahead of him. He hated this. He hated that Giorno had left him to deal with shit he didn’t sign up for. He hated that Fugo was losing his damn mind on the other end of the phone. He hated that Kujo Jotaro was inevitably going to catch wind of this and the SPW would never let them hear the end of it. All sorts of confidential shit was held in the archives, about past Bosses, about Giorno, about smuggling rings all over the continent, about the arrow, about god-knows what else since he and Giorno had barely scratched the surface of uncovering the gang’s history. For all he knew, someone had stolen the right information to find that the last Boss had a daughter, that she lived in Napoli, that she was close friends with the current Boss. Mista’s stomach turned. That was the worse case scenario, he decided. It couldn’t be worse than that.

It won’t be.

Giorno wouldn’t ever let Mista off the hook if anyone got hurt under his watch.

“Then let’s find out.”

Chapter Text

The day had started slow: Giorno returning to the garden mid-morning to check in on his handiwork after a breakfast by himself. Both Dio and Jonathan had risen at least an hour before he had. Giorno was almost embarrassed. He’d entirely forgotten that he had no alarm clock by his bedside that night and so had slept until he was woken by someone passing by the bedroom door sometime after eight. Once outside Giorno tidied up the little garden he’d grown. A cat had pulled a couple of plants out from the soil near the back – he hadn’t considered which species would attract them while growing the garden yesterday afternoon – so replaced them with a healthy new blackcurrant bush.

Not being able to keep himself busy any longer, Jonathan paid him a visit around then. Hearing him approach, Giorno quickly wrapped up his work and hurried Gold Experience back into his shadow.

“Giorno! How are you doing?” Jonathan bounded up and when he caught sight of the garden, now around the size of the dining room’s floor space, broke into a gleeful smile. “This looks incredible!”

“Thank you.” Giorno replied. He hoped Jonathan wouldn’t notice his clothing was still perfectly clean from mud or stray vegetation. The outfit he’d taken from the bedroom’s wardrobe was even more luxurious than the one he’d bought for himself back in London. A crisp navy-blue waistcoat with gold trim and even deeper blue satin lining had immediately caught his eye, then was matched with a loose white blouse with sleeves ending just past his elbows. Thanks to its design the blouse lay partially open around his collarbone and upper chest, as if nothing had changed at all. Letting any dirt touch this clothing would have been a capital crime, Giorno was sure.

“How on Earth did you get all of this done in just one day? Some of those fruits look ripe already.” Jonathan said as he leant over the blackcurrant bush.

“I work fast.” Giorno crouched and reached into the foliage, pulling out a fistful of jewel-like currents, round and ripe in defiance of the season.

“Gosh. You must.” Jonathan took a couple from Giorno’s hands and popped them into his mouth. He didn’t think to question it any further, this wasn’t a gift horse he was planning to look in the mouth. Through the mouthful of berries, he asked “And how did you sleep?”

“Very well thank you. I don’t think I’ve ever slept in such a soft bed.”

“Really? That’s good to hear.”

“Have you seen Dio?”

“He’s up and about, but I don’t know where exactly. I did see him lurking near your bedroom door this morning though, so I worried if you had been disturbed by him.”

Giorno frowned. “No. He didn’t wake me.” The idea of Dio waiting for him to wake up, waiting in ambush, was worrying to say the least.

“That’s a relief. I don’t think he likes you.”

Giorno tossed the rest of the currents into his mouth. They were perfectly ripe, sweet with a hint of sourness. “I couldn’t tell.”

Jonathan perked up like he’d remembered something important.

“Oh, I have to head into town to collect some things since there are so few of our household around at the moment. Since you’ve spent such little time in England and all of it travelling I thought I could show you some of the neighbourhood while I’m at it.” Jonathan said. That day he looked much more like the gentleman he should have been the day before, trousers clean from pondwater, hair combed into place, he even had a tie on under his blazer. Despite this he still seemed to Giorno to be a child in is father’s clothing, not quite yet a man but doing his very best to give that impression.

“I’d love that.” Giorno had thought that he’d seen enough of the nearby village already but didn’t have the heart to turn Jonathan down. Besides, he had nothing better to do until Dio came out of his mood.

They took the road through the fields with a heavy purse of coins and a bundle of letters to post between them, Jonathan had slung a large satchel around himself to carry the food and odd things to take home afterwards while Giorno happily walked by his side listening to his rambles. He found it hard to look away, the passion in Jonathan’s voice was overwhelming and held Giorno’s attention like a moth to a bulb. Though after some time walking together Giorno realised he’d entirely lost track of what Jonathan was talking to him about.

“But you see, the assembly’s vote meant that every surviving general was executed once they had returned to Athens. Not only did this mean that the city was completely defenceless against any remaining Spartan forces, but the Persian army was quickly recovering too.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“And they still had the audacity to ask for Alcibiades to return after all that.”

Giorno nodded. He hadn’t agreed to join Jonathan for a history lesson.

“Did I tell you about the time Alcibiades was accused of-?”

Giorno quickly changed the topic.

“I had never been taught much world history. How long have you been interested in it?”

“Hm. It was only a few years ago when I didn’t have any idea what I wanted to do with myself in the future, but I think once I started reading what I could find I really fell in love with the idea of it. I mean, how it all falls together like one long story. Only a century ago we had no camera, no telephone, who knows where we’ll be in another century’s time!”

“I see.”

“I feel as if looking back is the closest I can get to looking forwards right now.” Jonathan said, shrugging but smiling. “I do wish I knew for sure how things will work out for me and Dio.”

Giorno paled.

“Sometimes I worry he’ll simply have enough of me one day and run off to some far away land to be king of or something.” Jonathan saw the look of Giorno’s face and quickly brightened up. “Hey, how about you? I don’t think I’ve asked about yourself yet.”

“Well, there isn’t much to hear,” Giorno replied. “I was raised by my mother in Napoli where I decided to find work in England after she passed away last year.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“It’s fine.”

The truth wasn’t far off. Giorno had received news shortly after becoming Boss that his mother had passed while hospitalised for a liver disease, the first he’d heard of her since leaving home for high school two years prior. The news was no shock, though Trish had insisted on him taking a couple of days off from work to let her keep him company for a while. She’d meant the best, though Giorno didn’t know what she had expected of him at the time.

“What are you interested in?” Jonathan asked.

“Nothing in particular.” The answer didn’t seem to satisfy Jonathan so Giorno added, “But I have been reading poetry in recent months to keep my mind occupied.”

“Oh, really?”

Giorno panicked, realising he’d already hit a dead-end. He hadn’t read from a single poet who had even been born yet. How could he possibly talk about that?

Thankfully Jonathan continued, “I’ve never been much of a reader myself, although I have seen Dio showing an interest lately.”

“Oh, you’re right. I caught him reading Twain yesterday afternoon in the back lawns.”

“Gosh. You interrupted him reading?”

“I suppose so.”

“And he didn’t kill you on the spot?” Jonathan grinned.

“I would never let him, I have far too much to live for.” Giorno said, puffing his chest out. “Like raspberry crème brûlée.”

“Oh, you’ve got that right.” Jonathan chuckled and threw an arm around Giorno’s shoulders, temporary knocking him off balance. “Though I am still quite interested in his insistence on removing himself from every room you enter.”

“Maybe he’s territorial.”

“He is that.”

Giorno lit up with an idea suddenly.

“Want to see something cool?”

“Like what exactly?”

Giorno reached up to his ear and fiddled around for a moment, Jonathan watching with morbid curiosity. Once the trick was done he exclaimed with delight, “Woah! It’s completely gone! Have you always been able to do that?”

“Long enough. It never fails to impress.”

“I’m sorry to say I have no trick to show you in return.”

Giorno smiled and waved him off. Again, he hadn’t lied exactly.

He’d been able to pull his ear trick since around the age of seven, or at least that was when he’d first figured it out. After all that time his step-father had spent taking out his drunk anger on Haruno it was no surprise that a few parts began to malfunction. A snap, a pop, a misjudged box to the ear on a Thursday night after the football match had aired. Maybe he was glad it was the only lasting reminder. In theory, there was nothing holding him back from figuring out a way to replace whatever tendon had been sheared yet Giorno had never taken the initiative. He sometimes wondered why.

Jonathan was busy waving to a couple of passing villagers, one who shouted something back about a recent incident involving Jonathan running through his field clutching pondlife and knocking over a scarecrow in his haste, the other only reminded him of something he should tell his father once he returned. They arrived at the village before Giorno had noticed. It looked a little livelier than the day before, Jonathan explained there was a fete being held that weekend and so stalls and bunting were being set up early elsewhere in the village. True to this, a portly woman hurried past them with arms full of flyers and ticket rolls. She came to a stop by what looked like a tombola barrel halfway to being constructed over two picnic tables. It was a pleasant atmosphere then, groups of young children had heard the news and were running between the groups of adults with giddiness like the fete was already here. Not knowing exactly what a Victorian street festival would have looked like, Giorno craned his head to see an old man on the second floor nailing up a string of brightly coloured bunting while briefly turning his back on Jonathan.

Something bumped into his legs from behind and he heard a small cry of surprise. Turning, he found the young girl who had collided with him in her rush to catch up with children further down the road sitting and staring up at him from the street floor. In one hand she held the little paper crown she’d dropped after falling. It was nothing more than a green ringlet with pale pink paper flowers pinned on; she’d been wearing it because she was playing the flower queen that day with her friends. But now it was crumpled. She was no older than six and had been taught by her parents not to offend strangers under any circumstances. Especially the wealthy ones. Now there was no chance of her getting away from a scolding for this, she’d run head-first into this guy. If she was lucky, the least he’d do would be to drag her by the ear to her parents and demand she be kept from the fete for her thoughtlessness. She bit back tears and clutched at her skirts.

Giorno bent down and offered a hand.

“Are you hurt?” He asked.

The girl shook her head and took his hand. One of her knees had been scraped on her way down so she stumbled a little, Giorno holding her elbow until she was steady and back on both feet.

“I’m sorry for not looking where I was going.”

The girl blinked back a tear. Shouldn’t she be the one to say that? She wasn’t entirely sure; she’d never made a blunder like this before, so she could have been wrong. It seemed wrong at least. This man – he was rather tall to a child her age and could easily have been as old as her parents – was dressed like the noble families who lived outside the village. She watched as Giorno glanced at her grazed leg.

“I apologise,” he said, “You should go and get that cleaned up.”

The girl nodded, confused, but overall relieved. She ran off towards her friends who had been watching the whole ordeal from a safe distance. They were fascinated by the encounter but even more so by her paper crown which, in the few moments between the collision and her running away, had sprung back into shape and mysteriously sprouted a constellation of tiny sweet-smelling pink buds all over. She had been sure that it was made from tissue paper. And paper didn’t grow flowers. But maybe she was only mistaken again. She put it back on her head, nestling it into her hair with a little smile. She was still the fairy queen at least.

Jonathan had come out of the post office to find that Giorno was not where he had left him. It can’t have been a long time that he was gone, so he thought he’d find Giorno standing nearby or distracted by one of the locals pulling around fair attractions. After a quick glance around the street he’d caught the last few moments of his strange interaction with the young girl and watched her run off, leaving Giorno to once again to be caught in the bustle of the village people. He jogged up to him.

“Sorry for leaving you like that.” Jonathan said.

“It’s fine. What else did you need to do?”

It turned out they were too late for buying most of the things on Jonathan’s shopping list. Both shops he had lead them to were completely out of at least two of the items the household had been running low on for the past week. Jonathan begrudgingly left his favoured stores and, with Giorno close behind, walked further into the village to find one of the smaller and less agreeable shops hidden in the backstreets. It had apparently been because of the fete activity starting up that the shops had been sold out and Jonathan apologised for the trouble to Giorno, but again he waved his apology off. There was nothing he could have done about it.

In the smaller streets they found what they were looking for although Jonathan complained about how much these stores were charging for the other basic foods, since the locals would also have to buy from here now that the fete had arrived. There was no reason for him to be upset, the storekeeper was arguing, since he was one of the richest men in the county. Jonathan shut up but remained unhappy while picking out his last few items.

As Jonathan finished paying for some bars of soap Giorno stood nearby, leaning against a patch of wall not covered by rows of strawberry plants and crates of apples. There was no one else in the street besides them for a change.

Until some movement caught his eye at the other end of the street. Two men were approaching, talking about something in hushed tones and not yet seeing Giorno in front of them. Jonathan dropped his soap and spare change into the satchel and joined Giorno.

“Ready to go? I’ve got all I needed now.” He said.

Giorno wasn’t listening. The two men were getting closer and closer and Giorno stood away from the wall and he took Jonathan’s arm.

“Let’s go.” Giorno said, under his breath but loud enough for Jonathan to hear.

Jonathan was confused but nodded. They left the shop behind them, walking briskly while Giorno angled his face away from the two men behind them, who had not stopped by the store. He swore under his breath and whispered to Jonathan;

“We need to walk faster.”

He would hate to have to confront the two men who’d cornered him two days earlier. There was a chance they wouldn’t recognise him after the haircut and drastic colour change, yet Giorno was not wanting to take any chances. He steered Jonathan away.

“Who’s following us?” Jonathan asked, not looking over his shoulder.

“Not following us. Just people I don’t want to meet again.”

Jonathan took this as a good enough answer and hurried forwards, taking Giorno through a narrow gap between two backyards, squeezing back out into the main street together and re-joining the crowds. After a quick glance behind him and not seeing the two criminals Giorno exhaled and was about to apologise to Jonathan when he took off again down the street. Giorno was only forced to follow before he could be left behind.

“Come this way,” Jonathan said over his shoulder, “I know where we can stay hidden for a bit.”

Giorno felt the need to explain that the men had likely not even noticed that there was anyone else in that street at the time, but Jonathan had already built up his steam and there was no stopping him. He had got it into his head that the only thing for it was to take Giorno as far away as possible from whatever had spooked him even if he didn’t understand it himself.

This was that selflessness that everyone just couldn’t get enough of. It was how the Joestars had remembered him; not by his clumsiness or his passion for history or his blatant rejection of his father’s expectations, but by his tolerance. It was what got him in trouble too, Giorno reminded himself. And it was the reason that he had died in the end. 

The place Jonathan had meant did indeed seem an unwelcoming spot at first glance - a tiny tavern on the edge of the village which could easily pass as a farmhouse on the small side. It was painted a dark red and was peeling from years of sorely needing a new paint-job, though the grassy patch around it – probably trying to pass as a front yard of sorts – was mysteriously well kept. A man leaning by the door nodded to Jonathan as he passed. Jonathan cheerfully greeted him as “Rick”.

It was all very strange.

Even indoors Giorno didn’t know what to make of it. An older woman with red cheeks and redder hair smiled as they entered, apparently also recognising Jonathan, from behind the bar as she wiped down a drinking glass the width of Giorno’s chest. The walls were decorated with photos, mostly, of people standing by cars and horses and framed awards for country shows. Spattered across one wall was a huge collection of clocks, all broken and frozen at different times in the day, nailed from floor to ceiling. The entire bar was lit by a single open window high in one wall where the midday sun spilt in as one wide beam across the whole room.

Jonathan found an empty table near the door and dropped into his chair.

“I love this place. Don’t you?”

It was a much different atmosphere from the pub Giorno had visited two days earlier. While that had been a cosy space like any old pub this one felt like one person’s eccentrics incarnate, as if that woman behind the bar had built it from the inside out for the sheer sake of it.

He’d seen something similar in how both Buccellati and Abbaccio had made up their own flats in Napoli. Bruno’s was spartan, nothing much in the apartment which might have indicated that it was inhabited by a living breathing human besides an old record player with a stack of even older blues records. It might have seemed an odd thing to hold onto when he’d refrained from even a single houseplant but Giorno hadn’t been surprised the first time he’d seen the apartment. Of course, that was what Bruno kept. Not a tv, not an instrument, not a wine cooler. The same was said for Leone’s. Although instead, that flat had been littered with whatever books hadn’t fitted into the tiny bookshelf in his room. And his walls were covered with movie posters, most of which he’d never actually seen according to Mista. By comparison Narancia’s was a monstrosity. Mista had explained that he’d rarely actually slept in that flat, that he more often slept over at Mista’s and won a free dinner off him instead. His flat was what Giorno had envisioned a normal teen’s room to look; band posters, empty pop cans, more band posters, a calendar still open at January, a bowl of old cat food left on the windowsill in case anyone visited him while he’d been away. It had hurt to clean that room out.

“It’s certainly unique.” Giorno said as he took the chair opposite Jonathan. “It reminds me of a friend of mine.”

“How so?” Jonathan asked. He’d been given two glasses of water by the red-haired woman as she passed their table.

Giorno sighed. “Chaotic. Colourful.” He said, waving his hand about him at the peculiar decoration. “But harmonic in a way.”

“Tell me about that friend. They sound like a laugh.” Jonathan was more interested in how someone as well-together as Giorno could know someone described as being the total opposite.

“Narancia. A very good friend of mine. He saw the world in a way I still have not learned to, like there’s always a joke to make of it. I actually think he was braver than me.”

The past tense fell heavy on Jonathan’s ears, but he kept himself from apologising again. He’d learnt enough by then that Giorno wouldn’t stand it. “How did you know him?”

“It’s a long story. I met him the same time as many of my other friends, so we still share some of those memories together when we can. Although many of them are about how much of a mess he was.” He laughed into his glass of water.

“Then tell me about those friends, they are still in Italy, yes?”

“Yes. Trish is doing very well following her love of fashion these days. When I first met her, she was hard to talk to because of the tough situation she was in at the time but now it’s good to see her so happy. Her and Mista have grown very close since then and I owe a lot to them both.”

“They sound lovely.”

“They are. I sometimes think they have far too much patience for me, I’m a terrible friend.”

“What do you mean?” Jonathan gasped.

“It’s hard to say. Even when I have the time for it never feels like I’m acting the way they’d deserve. They certainly know too, just the other week they tried to have me talk with them about…” Giorno trailed off, staring into the glass. What was it they’d wanted? It seemed like such a long time ago now that he had been sitting in that office with Trish and Mista listening to them begging him to…

“Are you okay?” Jonathan asked suddenly.

Giorno frowned then looked back to Jonathan. “I’m sorry?”

“I’ve been thinking something was troubling you,” he said, “It was bothering me since we first met yesterday but I didn’t want to bring it up if it would upset you. If there’s something I could help you with then-” Jonathan opened his hand, palm flat up, like he was offering some invisible gift.

“I don’t want to concern you with my troubles.”

But Jonathan did want to be troubled. There was that peculiar feeling, like he had some responsibility here, like he’d already been silently asked to help this boy. Was that weird? Giorno was practically a stranger. But yet he wasn’t. Jonathan knew he was out of line to pry. But he had to. A very small but very vocal part of himself knew what to do even if the rest of him thought it ridiculous. He’d never had this before. What kind of an instinct told him to comfort someone he’d only met yesterday?

“I’m not the most familiar with grief yet,” Jonathan said. “But I do know what it looks like.”

Giorno pressed his lips. Where was this going? Why was Jonathan acting like this?

“Do you expect me to talk to you about people I’ve lost now?” Giorno smiled grimly. “It’s a long and unpleasant story.”

“I don’t think that’s what you need. You seem like someone who’d take a while to come to terms with it, sometimes the best way isn’t to let it all out at once but to let it settle over a long time. If that maybe seems like a way for you to move forward, then…” He trailed off, losing his confidence to speak suddenly.

Giorno put a hand over his. He was clearly trying his best. “You want the best for people, don’t you?”

“I suppose so. Is that bad?”

“Not at all,” Giorno laughed. “It’s admirable. It’s for a similar reason that I have a habit of falling in love with the idea of a person. I’ll always want to see the best in them. My father, a man I’ve only recently met, I’d always imagined to be someone great and kind but when I found out he was far from that it was like losing a family member. And a man much like you, he was terribly empathetic and selfless, taught me much about myself in the short time that I knew him.”

“What was his name?”

“Bruno. I think he’s the closest I’ve come to having a brother.”

Jonathan was swimming. That was how it felt. Great swells of some strange emotion were pushing and pulling him as he listened to Giorno talking in a voice too old for his age. He’d been hurting, he was probably hurting right now. Jonathan struggled to understand why this was affecting him so.

“You’d have liked him. There was nothing he hated more than seeing the helpless hurting.” Giorno said.

He pinged a nail against the glass of his cup and watched Jonathan rub his temples. Something told him he was becoming distracted somehow. But it was true to an extent that Jonathan reminded him of Buccellati. Not in the way Erina was of the same soul as Trish, or how Dio was that warped reflection of himself he’d been expecting him to be. Jonathan simply was along the same vein. Maybe that was a character trope Giorno had a habit of following; the man who’d throw himself into the maw of danger for the people he loved. How tragic.

Giorno looked closer at Jonathan. There had been something else bugging him during their conversation and like something at the tip of his tongue it was beginning to make him restless. Maybe since they first met Giorno had been, like with anyone else when he first met them, reading him. In the same way he had since his early childhood he read Jonathan the best he could. It wasn’t hard, Jonathan was an open book and hadn’t hid a single thing from Giorno since he introduced himself with mud all over his clothing and a frog in his hands. Dio had also been easy to read. Not as easy as Jonathan or say, Mista who wore his heart on his sleeve, but Dio was a bold enough personality for Giorno to get the gist of whatever burning emotion was driving him at that time.

But it wasn’t Jonathan’s behaviour per se which was making Giorno so curious. That wasn’t the itch. It was that he couldn’t get a grasp on his life energy.

It was usually so easy to see, or feel, or hear, or however it was that he should describe it as. It buzzed around Mista like bright static. It ran through Trish like slow twangs on taut guitar strings. It had been a deep thrumming pulse from Kujo Jotaro, like distant whale-song. He remembered Buccellati’s as a nervous hum on the edges of becoming in tune with his own. It should be said that everyone Giorno saw had some, usually quite weak, reading of ‘life’ to them. But Jonathan’s aura was invisible to him. There was nothing to see.

It was for the same reason someone standing in Rome couldn’t see Italy.

Giorno shivered. The realisation of what he’d been sensing up until then sunk like a dagger. No wonder he’d been described by Kujo as such a powerful user of - what was it called? – that was used to defeat the vampires of the 19^th and early 20^th century. Even without the knowledge of how the art worked exactly Giorno took note of just how it made him feel; just dipping his metaphorical toe into the surface of Jonathan’s ‘life’. It sent a chill down his spine while somehow warming him like a bonfire from within at the same time.

“Hm?” Jonathan was still clouded over with his own thoughts, but his eyes had been drawn by something by his foot, sitting close to Giorno’s chair legs. “Did you drop something?”

Giorno leant over, confused by the question.

Jonathan bent down to pick it up.

Giorno’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to stop Jonathan but was too late.

Something very bright and hot exploded from under Giorno’s feet and sent both him and Jonathan flying away from each other. Nearby patrons of the tavern shouted in surprise and ran from the noise, thinking a gun had gone off. Giorno didn’t hesitate and as soon as the ringing in his ears ceased he scrambled forwards from where he’d landed to where he saw Jonathan laying.

Why did that have to happen, now of all times. The arrow hadn’t even shown itself for the past few days and now it had to drop out of nowhere. Giorno searched around by the now upturned table and found the arrowhead sitting innocently not far away. He shoved it into his waistcoat pocket and turned his attention to Jonathan, who must have felt the brunt of the rebound.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asked, dusting himself off. “I’m not sure how to explain that, I can only apologise-” Giorno cut off when he didn’t see Jonathan moving. At all.

His heart leapt up in fear and he put a hand to Jonathan’s neck. Giorno relaxed a fraction, he was still breathing and his heart beat regularly. Although from up close there was something very wrong with Jonathan. A subtle glow was rolling off him but also seemed to be coursing up and down his arm where he’d reached for the arrow. Giorno’s mind raced. The way the arrow had repelled those who weren’t currently in possession of it – or in its possession, however it worked – was to use their own stand against them in order to steer them away while its true owner took it back, or to simply kill them. Jonathan had no stand. How else was the arrow expected to defend itself? Of course, it had to. Of course, Jonathan’s body wouldn’t be able to withstand the sheer strength of his own life energy turned against him. It was uncanny. Giorno had heard about the fevers his relatives had been experiencing at the same time as Dio’s final reign while their bodies couldn’t fight back against their own spiritual strength. This might as well be the same thing. Even if no latent stand was involved the sheer shock on his body of - Hamon, that was what it had been called - was burning him up.

Giorno’s eyes darted from Jonathan to his own hands, to the barwoman who was rummaging around behind the bar for something Giorno wasn’t planning to stick around and watch. He had to fix this.

How does this work?

He put his hand to Jonathan’s arm, where the glow felt the brightest. It shouldn’t be any easier than the usual work he’d do when he placed ‘life’ within non-living things. There was even the time he’d put that energy directly into a living person. In theory, it shouldn’t be any more different than that. Maybe he could direct the ‘life’ out of Jonathan into something else.

“Get away from him!” the woman behind the bar shouted. She was pointing something at Giorno. He didn’t look to see what.

“Shut up.”

BANG.

The bullet ricocheted off something invisible to the barwoman and lodged itself in the wooden beam of a doorframe ten feet to the left. She hesitated for a moment longer before clutching the hunting gun to her chest and running from the room, leaving Giorno and Jonathan alone.

This should work, Giorno told himself as he reached down into that blinding golden haze. Just pull it out of his arm and into the chair over there, just move it away and he should be-

A wave of nausea washed over Giorno and he fell backwards.

Through watering eyes, he squinted at his fingertips. They were scorched.

What’s happening?

Nothing made sense and Giorno was seeing double. He wobbled to his feet and linked an arm under Jonathan’s. He’d just have to take him back to the manor. The house had a bed he could put Jonathan in at the very least. Jonathan could be comfortable. He could rest there.

Giorno stumbled.

Jonathan’s face was pained and flushed a deep red like he was suffering from the flu.

Damn. Damn it.

He might throw up.

Gold Experience offered a hand and hefted Jonathan’s weight off Giorno’s shoulders. They pulled him out the tavern together and out into the afternoon air. The sky had clouded over into a steely grey and the air was chilled like it was about to rain. The road out of town and back to the estate was in sight and empty. It stretched out into fields and hills and Giorno couldn’t see the end of it.

So he began walking.

Chapter Text

Giorno collapsed onto the doorstep. His hair stuck to his checks and rain dripped from his nose. He was freezing. The rain had only started about halfway back but had started off strong, soaking him through and chilling him completely despite how fair the weather had been only an hour earlier.

The front door was open, thank god. He pulled Jonathan over the threshold and out of the rain onto the soft red carpet of the entrance hall. Whether it had been the rain, the effort, or the rebound of the arrow, Giorno was exhausted. He hadn’t felt quite as tired as this for a long time, having usually left the most physically taxing tasks to Mista who was simply more heavily built than he was. His shoulders ached, his feet were numb, his teeth were chattering, and his head was pounding. Jonathan lay on his back next to him, brow furrowed, and eyes squeezed tight shut. It looked as if he were having a nightmare. Giorno put his hand to Jonathan’s forehead again to find he was still burning up. Maybe the trek back through the rain hadn’t helped his condition much. The Hamon raging through his veins was only getting stronger and wilder as the seconds passed, burning through bone and tissue alike. In reflection this could potentially be worse than a stand-induced fever.

Behind him, the front door was slammed shut. Dio stood over Giorno.

“Explain yourself.” He was wearing an unreadable expression.

Giorno was still out of breath. He panted, “He’s sick.”

“No,” Dio said, “He’s not. Look at him, he’s in pain.”

“I-I-” Giorno muttered as the ground under his hands began to buckle again. There was still a pulsing in his fingertips where he’d reached into Jonathan’s centre of energy. And little bright lights danced over his vison as he tried to focus on Dio. “I don’t know what happened. It was- I might have- there was a-”

Dio grabbed Giorno by the shoulders.

“What did you do to him.” His eyes burned.

“I’m sorry.” Giorno’s ears rung.

“You son of a bitch.” Dio said.

Something hit Giorno hard in the stomach. He doubled over, falling onto his side and clutching his stomach. Now he really felt like he could vomit.

“Stay there. Don’t you dare move.” Dio’s shoes moved around Giorno then disappeared. There was the sound of a lot of shuffling then a quiet grunt and then Giorno heard nothing for a while.

He lay very still, waiting for the room to stop pulsing. It didn’t stop so he screwed his eyes shut. The sensation of being on a boat, that was what it was like, he decided. Like that yacht Buccellati had taken them on before they’d met Trish. It had actually belonged to Buccellati, Giorno had discovered soon after taking his title as Boss, and it had then fallen into his possession afterwards by default. But he’d yet to take it anywhere. Seasickness had never bothered him before now though, so nothing was stopping him from taking that boat out into the sea, maybe alone maybe not, to watch a sunset over Napoli from a distance. It was so much easier to see around yourself at sea. You can feel the earth curving away over the horizon in a way you just can’t in a city. Buccellati must have understood that.

He felt like he was on a boat now. Queasy. Confused.

The sound of Dio approaching again from behind.

“If his father returns to find him like this I’m not the one taking that blame.” Dio said. He sounded calm. Unexpectedly so. “I, at least, have been smart enough to not take it this far.”

A hand hooked under Giorno’s collar, lifting him up. Dio stared back. His eyes were so cold. And the colour of deep amber he hadn’t inherited.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.” Giorno mumbled. He hadn’t. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. The simple thought that by his own carelessness Jonathan was practically being burned alive from the inside out was crushing Giorno. Why did this keep happening? How many times had he been responsible for someone’s grief, thanks to his own failure to protect them.

“What did you do?” Dio’s voice was low and hoarse, close to Giorno’s ear. “What’s wrong with him?”

Giorno gulped. “I can’t tell you.” He said. “I can’t.”

Dio’s eyes flashed and everything went dark.

*

Very dark.

And a little cold.

His head pounded like he’d hit it off a table’s edge. How did that happen? He couldn’t remember.

He opened his eyes, hoping to see some familiar surroundings.

It was still pitch black.

He blinked. Nothing.

Under his hands he felt rough wooden planks. Reaching for something, anything around him, he found only thin air and more of the grimy and splintered floor.

No. Where am I? Where is this?

The air became harder to breathe. Dusty and cold and stale and thick with darkness his eyes couldn’t pierce through like a heavy black curtain.

“Hello?” His voice didn’t echo. It sunk into whatever walls were surrounding him and the word vanished as soon as he said it. No one was hearing him.

A creak.

Haruno shot back, his head then hitting against something behind him. He ducked forwards, shuddering.

Nothing moved for a second.

He reached back very slowly. It felt like a doorknob. He’d hit his head on a doorknob. The door was behind him.

Haruno rolled onto his knees and grasped for it. He tugged and twisted. There was something holding it in place, so his hands only slid off the brass and he gasped and choked and tried again but it wouldn’t move. TURN. OPEN UP. It wouldn’t move. It was locked. LET ME OUT. His fingers stung from gripping the metal of the handle and the edge of a crooked nail cut into his palm.

He gasped for breath and pressed his back against the door.

Why am I here. Who put me here?

His memories fell away when he reached for them, the pulsing pain in his head getting worse as he did.

What did I do wrong?

He must have done something wrong.

Another creak.

Haruno clutched his head in his hands, hissing through his teeth. This was the worst thing. He hated it. He hated it more than anything. He’d been left in the dark because his mother was gone. It was dark because he was alone. He was alone because he’d done something wrong. It didn’t take much to figure that out, wherever he was, whatever he’d done, no one wanted to see him right now.

Don’t leave me here. Please.

Stupid. There wasn’t anyone here, it’s an empty room. No light, no one. Only you. And you’ve done something bad.

Please.

The dark pressed in further. It was too dark. He couldn’t even hear his own thoughts.

His breath hitched, it was getting bad. He’d normally just hide somewhere until someone came home, like under a bedsheet or behind the couch where he could put something anything between him and the blackness. Whenever he heard a noise he could just hold the blanket over his head. He’d just disappear like that. If he hid well enough there was no chance that the noises and bumps and creaks in his mother’s apartment would find him in the dark.

But Haruno was in the open here. He had to find something, or he’d start crying. And if he cried something would find him.

He slowly reached forwards and began pulling himself away from the door. Crawling steadily across the room, flinching every time a floorboard creaked, or his fingers found a chair leg or what felt like a fur coat on the ground. Haruno kept his eyes wide open. His breathing sounded so loud he was sure something would hear him, so he clamped one hand over his mouth as he moved forwards. Maybe there was a light switch on the wall. He’d be able to see stuff then.

Haruno’s shoulder bumped into a ledge of some sort. He reached an arm up and felt planks, like they’d been nailed over something. He stuck a finger between a gap in the wood and felt a shock of cold air. There was a window behind this.

He scrambled to his feet and patted both hands up and over the planks, looking for a way to pry them away from the wall. There were what felt like nails holding them together, but they were old and rusty and crumbling under his touch, so he might be able to pull them out if he really tried. He hooked his fingernails under a few and tugged them out successfully. The next couple were more securely embedded in the wood though, so they stuck. Haruno dug his nails in deeper. He didn’t care if that hurt, there was already a numb sensation at his fingertips like he’d burnt himself on the oven hob in his mother’s kitchen, so it was tough to tell how much he was wrecking his nails by pulling and scratching at the iron spikes. Haruno picked and plucked away, his breathing becoming shallower as the wood became looser and looser.

A plank came free, crashing down in his hands and falling to the ground. Not sparing a second to wait Haruno hooked his hands over the next plank and pulled hard.

The room exploded into colour as the barricade finally fell away. A round window about the size of a coffee table set into the wall threw pools of red and yellow across the floor around Haruno, the stained glass of an unfamiliar coat of arms shattering the afternoon sun into bars of candy-coloured light. Haruno weakly put a hand up in the daylight, his hand suddenly stained the colours of a butterfly’s wing. He fell to his knees and took a shaky breath. There was so much light around him now his eyes stung and watered a little bit, so he closed them.

He waited for his breathing to slow, and for the room around him to solidify once again. He was still shaking a little. The panic had made him light-headed. To stop the room from tipping around so much with his dizziness Haruno lay down, putting his face to the floor, and he waited.

A pair of golden hands above his head glimmered in the light of the stained glass. One rested over one of Haruno’s hands, cupping bleeding fingers, the other began to slowly stroke through his hair.

Haruno waited.

*

Not knowing the first thing about emergency treatment, Dio could only stare at Jonathan laying on his bed. He looked ill at a first glance, flushed and glazed with cold sweat, but the marks on his arm told Dio he’d been hurt. It looked like a burn; an angry red welt reaching from his finger-tips up to his bicep. Strangely, Dio could have sworn it had only been up to Jojo’s elbow when he first got back.

Ten minutes ago, a red-haired woman had knocked on the manor’s door and asked about Jonathan. Dio had learnt very little from the conversation and quickly tried to turn her away. She was unhappy to leave and sounded adamant when telling him that the young man with black hair had shot Jonathan in her tavern earlier. Dio told her he hadn’t been shot. The woman then slung a number of profanities at him, demanding that he find the boy who’d hurt him. Jojo was popular in the village, no surprise there. Dio was shocked he’d only received one concerned visitor from the village asking after the unendingly gracious and generous Jonathan. But there was nothing he could do to satisfy her since letting news get out that Jonathan was out for the count would be a bad move, George might have been persuaded to return early and crucify Dio along with the damn Italian mongrel. He had turned the tavern woman away kindly - and slammed the door behind her – then returned to Jonathan hoping for some good turn of events.

However, Jojo was still unresponsive when he got back. Dio had put him in his own bed, rather than the one in Jonathan’s room, since his bedroom was the only one with a latch nailed on the inside of the door. He’d added it to the door soon after arriving to the manor; a pitifully gutless move if he were to admit it but it had made him feel a little more in control during those first few months. That day it was pointless though, since Giorno was safely locked in the attic space upstairs and a heavy set of unused mahogany drawers were currently lodged against the door on the outside. There was no chance of him getting out for the time being but still Dio felt the need to close the latch behind him once he was back in his own room.

He pulled a chair up by Jonathan’s side. It was worrying. Dio hadn’t felt this concerned by anything for a long time. That was why he’d lashed out at Giorno, and maybe he regretted it now since there was likely a storm coming because of his rash behaviour, and it was why he felt the need to take a moment to assess Jonathan’s condition. He wasn’t a doctor and knew practically nothing about sickness and medicine outside of some obscure knowledge on poisons and natural antidotes, so the rough assessment went as follows;

Jojo’s temperature is very high. He also appears to have been given a nasty burn up his left arm. He doesn’t respond to any noises or physical disturbances like being dragged by the armpits up two flights of stairs. When I opened one of his eyelids his eye didn’t focus on my face at all. His breathing and his heartbeat sound regular. What else? Oh, yes, and an eyewitness says that she heard an explosion-like sound and saw a burst of light before he fell unconscious.

I wouldn’t trust her account, since she seems to think Jojo’s an honest man with no intentions to take advantage of her own naivet é, but the woman’s suggestion that Giorno is somehow responsible for this holds true. He did admit to it himself anyway.

But what exactly had caused it was still unknown. A gun would have left a wound. Some kind of flash bomb going off by his arm wouldn’t have given him a fever like this. A sudden sickness couldn’t leave a burn like that one.

Dio ran his hands through his hair and hunched over on the chair. He shouldn’t be so worked up over this, Jojo was a nuisance he was planning to get rid of some day, so why not now? He admitted it was an unfortunate time for him to kick the bucket since George was still very much in the picture and he had been in a way responsible for Jojo’s wellbeing during that time. That must have been it.

Wasn’t it?

He looked through his fingers at Jonathan. It wasn’t a pretty sight. His shirt was now stained through with sweat, his hair darkened and mussed by the sweat and rain, his brow creased in pain. Wasn’t this what he had wanted? Maybe not just yet, but at some time down the line. He’d have Jojo kneeling below him wearing that exact pained expression and finally giving him the reverence that he deserved. So why was seeing it making him feel so….

Sick.

That was the word, it made Dio feel sick. Jojo shouldn’t look like that. He was a stunningly strong man, a god among men, and even among men such as Dio. The sight of him hurting like this, helpless and weak like a child, was wrong. It was so very, very wrong. Jonathan should have been up and about, complaining and laughing and bugging Dio to the ends of the earth. He shouldn’t have been suffering from some unknown ailment. There was nothing Dio could do then. That made Dio useless.

He was useless. It was finally his turn to be.

Dio shouted something wordless and stood up and kicked the chair away.

He couldn’t be useless now. And he couldn’t possibly want to help Jojo, could he? He paced the room, chest heaving. He’d never wanted to before. So why now.

The face of the boy in the attic flashed through his mind. There had been so much in the past few days, one disaster after the other, Dio was convinced he’d been cursed somehow. This ‘Giorno’ turns up and suddenly everything goes wrong. He’d been humiliated, Jonathan’s out cold, and now he was genuinely concerned for the bastard whom he’d been planning the demise of for years.

He blamed Giorno, of course.

Downstairs, Dio ran a clean towel under the kitchen sink. He thought that was a good start. Once a shallow bowl was filled with cool water he took it and the towel back upstairs. The grandfather clock on the first floor struck as he passed it, exactly what hour Dio wasn’t sure of. It was some time in the afternoon. He placed the cold towel onto Jonathan’s forehead and closed the blinds, even though the sun was going to set in the next couple of hours anyway. He might as well look as if he were trying. Dio sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed at his eyes. Maybe there was some curse at work here; the same one he thought he’d escaped from when he finally disposed of his father and took his place in the Joestar family. Something might be trying to force him out now. Something wanted him away from Jonathan, away from this family. How bizarre.

“Who is that kid?” Dio asked. To Jojo, to the empty room, to some higher power, he wasn’t sure. “He won’t answer me, each time I demanded he tell me all I got was some cruel trickery or sheer lies.”

He glanced at Jojo’s sleeping face.

“Don’t you think he’s cruel? He’s cruel for lying to us, for trying to slip into this house like some rat, for trying to kill you out of my sight. Isn’t he cruel then? Of course not, you wouldn’t even call me that.” He lay back on the bed, his head resting on Jonathan’s knee. “You’d only call me ‘misguided’ or ‘troubled’ or if I’m really lucky ‘capricious’. You’d never have the stomach to hate someone with your whole heart, even if they broke yours. That’s your weakness, you know, you’re far too selfless for your own good and I’m sure that it’ll be the end of you some day. It’ll pull you down from that high horse once and for all and you’ll finally understand what I’ve been telling you for all these years. You’ll come crashing down.”

Dio lowered his eyes.

“I hope I’m not there to see it.”

There was the sound of a bump from the floor above, in the attic. Dio didn’t move from where he lay. He knew there was plenty of old furniture up there to be thrown around and make noise, but nothing was going to push the door open no matter how hard that little rat tried to do so.

He patted Jojo’s leg, saying “Don’t worry Mr. Hero, I’ll let him out eventually. As soon as I know you’ll make it through the night.”

Staring up at his ceiling he tried to imagine Giorno trapped above them. Weirdly, he felt a pang of guilt. Now that was an unfamiliar sensation. He cracked a smile. It had been a weird day, he could forgive himself for feeling a little out-of-character.

He heard another crash.

Oh, shut up.

A moment passed and Dio sat bolt upright. The crash had come from downstairs.

He got up and edged to the bedroom door, waiting for another noise. He didn’t hear anything so went out onto the landing then moved slowly towards the stairwell. From the top of the stairs he could see down the two floors and to the entrance hall like a theatre balcony and he just about could see the front doors, if he craned his neck, which had been left slightly ajar. He’d definitely closed the door earlier and he’d locked it tight shut he was sure of it. The hat-stand by the doors was laying on its side surrounded by an assortment of hats and unused coats as well as a little tray which had been hooked onto the stand to hold spare keys. That would explain the noise.

Dio quickly slipped down the stairs, careful not to make any sound on a single step as he went. The front hall was lit by only two candles opposite the doors, the sun had begun to set so the light filtering in through the windows was dusky and grey, on a long and low table between vases of fresh yellow roses. They were usually picked by Jonathan the day before, and he favoured smaller flowers like foxglove and forget-me-not, so he assumed these had instead been picked by Giorno yesterday. Dio stood by the flowers and watched the shadows cast by the candles shift and dance in the corner of the hall. He felt eyes on him and smiled grimly. Whoever had snuck into the manor was making a grave mistake and was surely about to realise it shortly. Even if it was a bad time to have to do it, Dio was resigned to teaching one idiotic burglar a lesson with a few swift kicks to the face and a couple of broken bones before leaving him face-down in a pond somewhere down the road back into the village.

He edged closer to one corner of the hall, spotting a foot poking out from behind a curtain. Easy. There was never anything to it if he was facing anyone but Jojo after all.

Something heavy and solid hit his head from behind.

Dio went down like a felled tree, halfway to the ground responding to the affront like a true gentleman with a choked;

“Gguh?”

Chapter Text

Mista took a second to level his breathing before crashing into the Palazzo’s entrance hall. “FUGO.” His voice rattled around the hall and down the corridors. “Get out here!”

Fugo skidded out of a doorway to the left and threw his hands up. “I didn’t do anything! Get off my back!”

Mista approached and glanced around the hall. There were a few other Passione members standing around, watching them out the corners of their eyes. “We’ll take this to Giorno first.” He said.

Fugo nodded. He’d seen Trish follow Mista in through the front doors and continue down one corridor before them. They joined her outside the main office, the gold plaque on frosted glass in the door reading ‘Giovanna’ in recently engraved letters. Trish lent against the wall waiting for Mista and Fugo to calm down. She stared coolly at Fugo, possibly daring him to send her away from Passione’s business. In all honesty, he’d been puzzled by her adamant dislike of him in recent months since he’d assumed that her frosty personality when they’d first met had only been an act. Understandably so, to keep herself at a distance from them (the strangers kidnapping her). Mista had told him she was nothing like that these days. So, he was puzzled. And he did hope she stopped glaring at him so much. It made him jumpy.

Mista rapped his knuckles against the door. “Boss?” He called in.

Giorno’s voice answered from within, “I’m occupied. Please come back another day.”

“It’s Mista.” He searched his memory for the code they’d decided on between them on Friday. “We… brought the gelato you asked for. Although they’d run outta chocolate.”

The door clicked, a latch on the other side coming undone. Mista, Trish and Fugo quickly slipped inside and Trish closed it behind them as soon as they were all past. Sheila sat on Giorno’s desk, a mug of coffee in her hands and three more empty mugs lined up beside her. She looked tired but saluted to Mista when he entered anyway.

“Reporting, Mista, sir. I’ve kept station as you asked.” She yawned.

“Have you slept?” Mista asked. He dumped his tiger print jacket on a chair where Trish had already slung hers, which was a pale pink mesh and looked significantly more expensive than his. “You look terrible.”

“I’m fine.” She said. Her hands shook as she took a solemn sip from her coffee.

Mista glanced at Fugo, who shrugged and took the mug from her hands. She glared at him and reached to get it back, but Fugo pushed her off the desk and said, “Get some rest. The sofa in the next room over is free and it’s not even that bad to sleep on. Take it from me, it’s more comfortable than you’d think.”

Sheila looked quizzically at Mista but when he only jerked his head to the office door she quickly bowed and walked out, whispering a thankyou as she passed.

“You’re way easier on her than I expected from you, Mista,” Fugo said as he cleared Sheila’s mugs away. “She’s tougher than you think she is.”

“Yeah I know.” Mista rubbed his eyes. “It’s just that we’re stressed enough as it is, and I don’t want her to be losing sleep too. Speaking of which, she doesn’t know does she?”

“No. It’s just me.”

Mista sighed. “Thank god. Just give me the rundown then.”

Fugo looked to Trish, then quickly away again seeing her expression when he did.

“What?” She said, her arms crossed.

“Uh, well. I thought you’d had enough of this already.”

“Of what?”

“This?” He signalled to the office around them.

Trish groaned. “You sound just like Giorno.”

“Okay, fine, I get it. But can you at least not be so hostile towards me?” He worried he sounded whiny.

Trish eyed him up, as cold as ever. Mista standing beside her seemed to be enjoying himself watching them.

“It’s not my fault you ran off, is it?” She said.

Fugo pursed his lips. No, it wasn’t. He’d spent enough time mulling it over the past six months and didn’t feel as if he deserved to spend any more time agonising over his mistakes. But he figured she did deserve an apology anyway.

“I’m sorry. I wish I had been there. I’m sorry, Trish. There’s nothing I can do to change that I was a coward and you have every right to be upset.” He held his arms out like he was inviting her to land the first hit. “You can hate me as much you want for now, but I’d appreciate it if we can just get down to business today.”

Mista stepped forwards and put a hand on Fugo’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, we get it you feel bad. So, tell me what happened.”

Fugo relaxed. “I checked the archives just over an hour ago and found one of GioGio’s traps had been triggered near the files at the very back, where the really old stuff is. The lock at the door was intact but I could tell it’d been blown off earlier and someone had done a rush job to get it looking like it hadn’t been.”

“Which trap?”

“The fire ants.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, this guy must have been in a hurry to get away, so I’m surprised he didn’t set off any other traps on his way out.”

“Did you know which files were stolen?”

“That’s the thing. Nothing was stolen from the area where the trap was triggered so I’m guessing he just made a copy of whatever file he was looking for. If he hadn’t set off Gio’s trap I might never have noticed anyone got in at all.”

“So, he’s no amateur.” Mista rubbed his chin. He ran through some early suspects in his mind.

“But which files were they?” Trish asked.

“I haven’t looked yet. You arrived just as I had it narrowed down to one shelf.”

“Alright. We’ll head down there now then, lets just hope it’s something Giorno can get back in time to deal with if it’s really that serious.” Mista hoped he wasn’t jinxing anything by saying that.

Fugo frowned. “Wait, do you two know how the word got out then? This guy has to have known that Giorno was away to be confident enough to break into the Palazzo.”

“No, not yet.” Trish said. “But I’d like to call someone to see if we can get any hints.” She glanced at Mista. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Who?” Mista didn’t look convinced.

“Koichi, of course. You don’t think he’d be a threat to us now do you?” She grinned and took out her mobile. It was a mystery how she kept so much on her, considering how sheer her outfit was that day.

“Alright. Just don’t give him any specifics.” Mista said. He led the three of them out the office as Trish punched in a number.

“Sure. Sure.” She put the phone to her ear and began to talk.

They got down to the archives just as she sounded like she was finishing off the vague explanation and request, so Mista pushed open the heavy double doors before them. The archive room was large and low-roofed, poorly lit and musty. Giorno had hated being down here so Mista had always accompanied him whenever he’d felt like digging through the old files of the gang. Not that Mista liked it anymore than Giorno did, the chore of picking through all those numbered boxes always put him on edge. Fugo pointed down one aisle of shelves lined with boxes and stacks of paper and led them almost to the very back of the room. They passed files labelled for activity back in the 70s – all in code of course, Giorno had taught Mista some of the basics of the Boss’s code for convenience’s sake despite usual practice in the gang – the 60s, activity in Northern Italy, in Austria, in the South of France, the 50s. They kept walking along the rows of labels, Mista glancing at them as they passed. Passione had become more and more influential in recent decades but even back in the day it had got around, for sure.

Fugo finally stopped by some of the very oldest files. A peek at a nearby shelf told Mista they were back in the thirties. Shit, this was old.

“It was one of these.” Fugo pointed to an open box at hip-height.

Mista quickly read the numbered label stuck to the front of the box: 113. He thanked his stars.

“Let’s see then,” Trish dropped to a crouch and pulled the box from the shelf. “None of this is even in code, it’s so old.”

Mista swore. “It isn’t? Then that guy was real lucky.” He kneeled next to Trish and joined her taking yellowed files from the box and laying it around them.

Fugo stood behind them and watched the aisles. “GioGio was on the right track then, translating all that ‘old junk’ into code.”

“Hey,” Mista paused reading something. “It’s not like I didn’t know it was important.”

“Yeah, didn’t stop you from complaining though.” Fugo said.

“Shut it, guys.” Trish said, not looking up from the file she held. It had a monochrome photo paperclipped to the front which Mista couldn’t make out, but it might have been of a person’s face, or a carving of one, he couldn’t tell. “I think this stuff is bad news.”

Mista picked up a sheet which had fallen out of Trish’s file. “What do you mean? What even is this junk?”

She held her file out to him and he scanned the page she pointed to. His brow furrowed. “Dude…what the fuck?”

Fugo’s attention was drawn to the two on the floor. “What is it? Did you find what he copied?” He asked.

Mista grabbed a couple of sheets from his feet and began rifling through them. The information which the gang had apparently recorded back in the day was sparse, messily organised and bits were missing here and there. But what Mista could see in the scrawled writing and blurry black and white photos was making him feel funny. How the fuck had Passione been involved in this?

Trish’s phone went off. She paused her frantic reading and put it to her ear, holding it in place with her shoulder while she continued to poke through another collection of notes. After a moment she said, “Okay, that makes some sense. I’m sorry that I had to ask you for that.”

Mista glanced up at her.

“Oh no, we’re fine. We’ll head over as soon as we can.”

Mista sat up, not having known that Trish was giving the orders now. He stared at the top of her bright fuchsia head, hoping that the intensity of his glare would somehow catch her attention.

“Yes,” she continued, moving the phone to her other shoulder, “We’ll bring over what files we can in that case.”

Fugo started picking up the spare files and notes from the floor before Mista could object. He just glared at Fugo, who shrugged and carried on following Trish’s orders.

“We’ll be right there. Thanks again, Koichi.” Trish hung up and put the folder she had been holding back into the box. “Let’s go then.” She said to the boys.

“What did he say? Does he know anything about how he knew Giorno was gone?” Mista asked, still kneeling opposite Trish.

“Yeah, he figured it out pretty quickly.” She put the last file into the box with Fugo’s help and stood up. “But we should go see him in person if you want to know anything else about that guy’s identity.”

Mista watched her curiously. What did that mean?

The box was carried by Fugo, who didn’t ask anymore questions about the whole deal, and he began walking out of the archive room. Mista stood and followed Trish.

“You haven’t told Polnareff yet.” Trish said.

“Yeah, I’ll tell him once we get back to the Palazzo.”

“And that went so well last time you kept something from him.” Trish gave Mista a look out the corner of her eyes.

Mista grimaced. “Fine. I’ll go get him on the way out. Just wait for me at the gate, okay?”

Trish nodded. It wasn’t hard keeping him in line, just a nuisance.

*

Jotaro was pacing his hotel room. He’d wanted to leave Italy two days ago but Polnareff insisted he stay at least until Monday, since Koichi had been having such a nice time in Italy doing something other than running errands for him. However, he suspected the real reason was that Polnareff was hoping Giorno would get back in that time. He hadn’t though. So Jotaro wanted to go home.

There was a knock at the hallway door and he went to open it. The door to his own room was propped open by a short stack of books so Trish and Mista walked right in past him with quiet ‘good days’ and polite nods. A pale boy with a shock of white hair and a hideous orange suit remained outside by the door. Jotaro peered at him and the boy nodded politely back. He appeared to be keeping watch. All of Giorno’s friends were odd, Jotaro decided as he shut the door between them, but he had no right to judge.

Back in the hotel room, Trish put down a black cardboard box onto the coffee table and Mista put the turtle down next to it.

Mista began, “These are the files that we think-” but Jotaro silently held up a hand and nodded to the turtle. Mista took a moment to catch his drift but Trish quickly understood and took the box in her arms again then stepped into the turtle’s room. Jotaro and Mista followed, after Jotaro took one last uneasy look around the room behind him.

Polnareff was waiting for them inside, already anxious after overhearing bits and pieces on his way over in Mista’s arms. “What is all this?” He sat in one of the sofas, Trish now next to him and unpacking the archive box. In the turtle he was much more tangible and Giorno had always found it much easier to talk with him like that, it felt a little insensitive in a strange way to talk to a tiny ghost version of the man instead. Jotaro felt the same, unknowingly. The Polnareff in the turtle looked old, and he looked tired from years of walking the ends of the earth then dying for it, but at least in this room he resembled the Polnareff that he was familiar with.

Jotaro reached into one of his coat pockets and pulled out something small and metallic. “This,” he said, lowering his hand so Polnareff could see, “is how he knew Giovanna was out of town.”

“What is it?” Polnareff squinted down at it. Even as a half-here-half-there ghost he was still missing sight in one eye and struggled to make out small details.

“It’s a wireless microphone.” Trish said, looking over Polnareff’s shoulder. “I get hooked up to one when I’m performing live sometimes. This one’s way smaller than those though.”

Mista was surprised. Trish had never struck him as one with any technological knowledge. She caught his eye and stuck her tongue out when she saw the look on his face. Mista grinned and dropped down into one of the armchairs opposite her.

“Yes, a microphone.” Jotaro put it back into his pocket. “Koichi found it hidden behind one of the tables in my hotel room after you called. If it wasn’t for his stand detecting the very slight radio frequency it had been sending out it would have stayed hidden too, so I’m very glad I let him accompany me to Italy. We think my room was bugged shortly after we arrived since I’ve been told Giovanna did a thorough search of our rooms last week before we got here.”

“So, it was one of the staff?” Mista offered. He was lounging in the chair with one leg propped over the armrest. “They’d have had easy access to your room while you were over at the Palazzo on Thursday night.”

“I find that unlikely. This bug is tiny, so it was likely someone with access to high tech like this.” Jotaro said.

Trish handed a document to Polnareff. “I think it was someone in the SPW Foundation.” She said.

Polnareff jumped in his seat, almost dropping the sheet she’d given him. “Come again?”

“Look at this.” She pointed out a circular logo in the top right of the sheet. “That’s the SPW crest, isn’t it?”

Uh.” Polnareff squinted. “It might be.”

“One of the Foundation workers would have been able to get into Signor Kujo’s room while we were at the Palazzo on Thursday with the master keys we gave them on their arrival. And I’m sure the Foundation has all sorts of impressive technology like that microphone bug.”

Jotaro strode around the back of the sofa and took the file out of Polnareff’s hands. “Tell me, why does Passione have official SPW documents?”

Mista spoke up then. “When the SPW started up back at the start of the 20^th century there was a time when they may have made some less-than-savoury dealings in order to gain its influence in Europe, since back then we had some…problems, let’s say. Don’t be surprised to find your precious Foundation has a murky past, Signor.”

Jotaro scowled at Mista across the room. “You couldn’t have told us about this earlier?”

“Tell you what? To come pick up your crusty old notebooks? We didn’t even know they were in our archives until today, buddy.”

“Hey. Hey!” Polnareff clapped his hands to get their attention. “Jotaro, just tell us what’s in the damn document.”

Jotaro turned his attention back to the sheet in his hand. Mista and Trish, not being very familiar with English, had only skim-read the few files which were in Italian earlier so the most important ones – the ones still written in the original English – were left for Kujo and Polnareff. He frowned as he read, then dropped it back to the table by the sofa and picked out another sheet with the same logo in the top right corner.

“Jotaro, what is it?” Polnareff asked.

“Hm.” He only grunted back, nose buried in another file.

“Hey, is he always like that?” Mista asked.

Polnareff shrugged. “Sometimes he’s worse.”

Eventually Jotaro paused and looked around the room. He held the documents in his hand up and asked, “None of you knew about this?”

“About what.” Mista was getting impatient. “Just assume we know nothing already and tell us what the creepy as shit files are about.” What he and Trish had made out in the files had felt like an urban legend. Something about an incident in Rome back in the 30s, apparently involving the Speedwagon Foundation. If what he had read in them was true he was only glad that some evidence of the incident survived in the gang’s archives to show that the SPW grunts hadn’t covered it up entirely.

Jotaro sat down in an armchair by Mista. He rubbed his temple and mumbled some familiar Japanese. “In late 1938 my grandfather and his close friend travelled to Rome in order to confront an incredibly strong and ancient power there. He told me a few years ago that what they found under the Colosseum was the origin of Dio’s vampirism and the creatures which first created that power. The Pillar Men - as my grandfather called them - were defeated by him and his allies soon afterwards using an equally old martial art which is now all but forgotten. It’s a strange story but the old man would tell it to me often, so it stuck in my memory.

Mista groaned. “Why is it always the Colosseum? Can’t it be Milano or Paris or somewhere else for once?”

Trish meanwhile was frowning as she listened. Was she the only one who had heard the word ‘vampirism’? Was no one going to follow up on that?

“These files are mostly useless,” Jotaro continued, “Recording the influx of profits into the Gang around that time thanks to the SPW’s bribes to control the spread of information about the incident. But this,” he tapped the last document he had been holding, “I’m assuming was the one he copied.”

It was a less assuming page than the others, with very little text and one large photograph clipped onto the top.

“Should we ask?” Mista said. The photo was heavily faded so the only way to guess what it might have been of was to read the messy notes on the sheet in English.

“This sheet describes the secret entrance into the cavern under the Colosseum where the Pillar Men were found. If I’m right, the wall they were sleeping in is still there, preserved and sealed by the SPW almost a century ago.”

“What’s so special about the wall then? If those pillar people are long dead, then why would he want to break in? And anyway, if he really is a member of the SPW then he should have just found this stuff out himself instead of stealing the info from us.” Mista said, scratching at his neck. He was reacting surprisingly well to the news that there had been ancient semi-immortal vampiric creatures hibernating under Rome until only a few decades ago.

“The security in the SPW Foundation’s archives are much higher than Passione’s cellar. No offense.”

Mista flipped him off, “None taken.”

“Only the highest-ranking members have full access to the Foundation’s archives. Even I don’t have the admin to read some of their most sensitive documents so, believe it or not, this was the easy option for him. And about the cavern, the wall they’d been sleeping in was said to be set with multiple stone masks at the time that the SPW discovered it. Those were the artefacts which turned normal humans into Vampires given the right conditions.”

“And they’re still there?”

“It would have been more dangerous to try to remove them.”

Mista mulled it over. “So, this guy wants a mask.”

“Or masks. It’s likely that he plans to sell them on the black market for an unimageable profit. Either way, I can’t let them get into anyone’s hands.”

Trish jumped up from the sofa. “Then why are we still here? Shouldn’t we be looking for this guy?”

“Yeah,” Mista got up too, not wanting to feel left out. “We should get this cleaned up before Giorno gets back. It’s kind of our fault that he got his hands on this info anyway.” Actually, Mista was thinking, it had been Fugo’s fault. But that was besides the matter.

It was Jotaro’s turn to stand. “No. I can handle this myself.”

“Jesus Christ, Jotaro,” Polnareff said, and got up from his seat. He was almost at tall as Kujo, Mista realised with a shock. It was incredibly rare to see him on his feet since it created a weird visual effect thanks to his missing legs. There was a faint idea of them being there below his knees, but the outline was faint so it just kind of looked like he was floating. “Let the kids come with you.”

Jotaro raised an eyebrow. “Am I a baby sitter now?”

“And we’re not kids.” Mista chipped in. He thought it worthwhile to note.

“You, shut up.” Jotaro said without turning. “Polnareff, I have no intention to let this gang have any more involvement in my family’s business.”

“How long is your time-stop at right now, might I know? How many seconds have you got?” Polnareff asked, looking smug.

Jotaro twisted his lip. “Two, if I’m focussed and warmed up.”

Polnareff crossed his arms and grinned. “You’ll want Trish with you. She’s offering the best defence you can hope for with Giorno still out of the picture and a potential vampire at your neck.”

Mista raised his hand. “I’d like to come too.”

Trish giggled. “Yeah, you can help me out while I offer the best defence anyone could hope for.” She said, poking Mista in the chest.

“I’m being serious.” Polnareff looked around. “Both Trish and Mista are highly skilled stand users and you’d be an idiot to refuse them, especially if you’re out of practice in a fight.”

“Polnareff…” Jotaro groaned and muttered under his breath again. Mista was beginning to suspect it was a habit he would hear a lot of. “Can’t you leave me be?”

“We wouldn’t be friends if I did.”                                                              

“You have a point, asshole.”

“Same to you.”

Jotaro started towards the ladder out the room. He looked back to Mista and Trish, who stood awkwardly side by side watching him. “So?” He said, “Are you coming?”

They looked to each other for a moment then hurried forwards together. Once back out in the hotel room Jotaro took the turtle into a small cat-sized pet cage he’d hidden in a corner and told them he’d be taking Polnareff with them for the simple reason that this way he wouldn’t complain. Mista and Trish nodded understandably.

“We also have a guy who can melt people’s flesh off with an incurable disease.” Mista offered as Jotaro filled a backpack with miscellaneous supplies. “Should he come?”

“Definitely not. We’re not killing anyone unless he must, and Vampires are invulnerable to mortal diseases anyway.”

“Oh, alright then.” Mista said.                                                

He supposed Fugo would be of more use back in the Palazzo continuing to hold down the fort anyway and someone had to keep Sheila company while they were gone. Maybe Koichi would forgive them for leaving him in Napoli too, since he’d been having such a pleasant time without the stress of the gang’s business interfering once again.

The train to Rome would be just over two hours long, but it would likely take another hour to get their tickets at the station on a Sunday afternoon. Kujo could even pull some strings with the Foundation’s help if they were lucky and might get them an even faster journey north. They would have to move fast if they wanted to get there in time to stop this guy before he got to the Colosseum. A small part of Mista’s brain lit up like a Christmas tree at the thought; it was familiar and exciting. He glanced over to Trish as they strode down the hotel hallway together shoulder-to-shoulder and she gave him a look telling Mista she felt the same way. Here we go again.

Mista grinned and rolled his shoulders. Trish laced her fingers and stretched her hands out front.

Like old times.

Chapter Text

Bloody hell, that hurt.

Dio faintly recognised the sound of voices through his pounding headache.

“You said this place was empty!” One voice hissed. It was deep and accented.

“Yes, I did. ‘Cause that’s what our intel said.” The other voice responded. This one sounded younger, and distinctly more anxious. “We were told that Joestar would be out of the country for a fortnight along with the majority of ‘is household. I thought that included his damn sons!”

“How do you not notice two teenagers for a whole fortnight?”

“How ‘bout you leave me be seein’ as you was the one who knocked over that hat stand!”

Dio lay very still, hyper aware of someone’s foot very close to his stomach. If he showed any sign of not being fully unconscious he’d surely be kicked in the stomach, or head, or somewhere even more unpleasant. The men around him kept bickering.

“I only agreed to help you break in for the money you promised me, not to hurt anyone.”

“Save it you oaf. You didn’t hesitate to give this kid a good knock.”

“Where’s your friend?”

“He’s looking for the Joestars’ vault. Get this clown locked in a cupboard or somethin’ before ‘e wakes up, I’ll see if anyone else is hidin’ upstairs.”

The accented man grumbled, but soon Dio felt large hands lift him up from under the arms and pull him back across the carpet. Through half-closed eyes he caught sight of the other man slinking away up the stairs, to where Dio could only assume he’d find Jonathan eventually if he wasn’t stopped. Dio bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from jumping out of the man’s grip. There was going to be a perfect moment, one where he could get free without giving the man an opportunity to land another blow. It was a good thing Dio had a thick skull; the pain in his head and the iron doorstop lying in the hall attested to how close he’d come to being as useless as Jonathan only a moment ago. Ironically, it was the same doorstop Dio had used earlier to successfully knock Giorno out. Maybe that could have been interpreted as a kind of karma, but Dio could have cared less.

He was dragged into George’s collection room next to the entrance hall, Dio could tell that was where he was from the smell of preservative and wood polish. He also knew there was a large cupboard set into the far wall where George kept his old tea boxes and empty display cases and it was the perfect size to hide someone inside if the situation called for it. Dio even fondly remembered locking Jojo inside one slow summer afternoon last year, hoping to get a moment of peace from him for just a few hours. Unfortunately, Jojo had broken the door down in a matter of minutes and chased Dio across the grounds in his anger. This meant that the door had been replaced soon afterwards, and with one which was even harder to splinter from the wall, so Dio had no plans to be locked inside this time.

The man stopped dragging Dio along for a moment to pull the cupboard door open and Dio seized the opportunity. He sprang up and laced his hands together into one secure fist then turned to slam it down into the back of the man’s neck.

He only stumbled forwards from the force and Dio leapt back before the man could swing his arm wildly behind him in an attempt to strike Dio in return.

This man had a thick red beard and moustache and was huge, even taller than he, Dio, was at the time. Dio considered himself large and usually towered over everyone he met which made much of his intimidation games rather easy. He even suspected that by the time his growth slowed over the next year he’d be equal in height with Jojo around 195cm, which was almost universally considered a remarkable size for any man. Yet, this man must have been pushing two metres.

“Impressive.” Dio said. He stood on the other side of a loveseat with both hands raised in a defensive stance, knees slightly bent in anticipation. “That should have knocked you out.”

The man’s eyes said nothing. “I should say the same to you, young man.”

“Call me stubborn.” Dio watched the man slowly move around the loveseat towards him and took another step backwards to mirror him. “Care to introduce yourself?”

“Andersson. You?”

Dio chuckled. “You break into my home and don’t even know my name?”

“I haven’t lived in England very long.”

“Hm. My name is Dio Brando and you, Mr Andersson, are trespassing.”

Andersson rushed forwards and swung a first at Dio, who ducked and hopped backwards to hide behind a marble bust for a split second to pat his pockets. Curses, he’d left his knife up in his room. The bust fell half an inch past Dio’s nose and shattered by his feet. Dio scrambled to the side as the bust’s pedestal toppled over where he’d been sitting a moment earlier, and ran over to one of the display tables, gasping for breath.

There was plenty of stuff on the tables in the collection room like fragments of clay friezes and dusty old headpieces that Dio didn’t recognise and didn’t care to identify. None of it looked sharp enough or heavy enough for him to use as a weapon against the man in the room. He turned in time for Andersson to rush forwards and pitch a heavy punch up into Dio’s jaw, throwing him backwards and through the glass of a tall display case behind him.

“Stay down,” Andersson said, stepping over a large feathery headdress Dio had knocked from the table, “and we’ll be gone soon. I will not need to hurt you any more than I already have.”

Dio laughed and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “You’ve got a good punch. You must really want that money.”

“That is none of your business.”

“You are robbing my house, mister.”

Andersson knelt by Dio. “But from what I have heard, young master Brando, I believe this manor is no more your home than mine.”

Dio plunged a shard of glass into Andersson’s shin, twisting it in place as he scurried out of the way. Andersson roared in pain and lunged for Dio’s ankles, but he’d escaped and hopped up onto the table in the middle of the room. If this Andersson fellow had size on his side, and Jojo had his sheer strength, and Giorno had that infuriating calm attitude, Dio could rely on his agility in a hand-to-hand fight and his lack of any hesitation to inflict great pain on another in the heat of the moment. Dio stood atop the table, panting slightly, and pointed to Andersson below him with his other hand flung out behind him.

“I earned my place here! It is mine! And everything in these walls belongs to me! I will not part with a single thing you see here around you. You’re weak and pathetic for even daring to challenge me, Dio, when I’ve set my sights on far greater horizons than you, a petty thief.” Dio caught his breath and bared his teeth with wild eyes. “Do you know what I want? What I desire more than anything else?”

Andersson growled and pulled the shard from his leg, throwing it to the side. He was bleeding less than Dio had hoped.

“Do you know?” Dio asked, his voice becoming shrill.

“What?” Andersson spat out.

“The world!” Dio declared, holding arms out wide and grinning. “I want nothing less than everything on this godforsaken earth. That is the difference between you and I.”

Andersson wobbled onto his feet again but regained his balance quickly and threw another punch at Dio’s head, but he jumped back off the table. His movements had become slower since Dio cut him but still not slow enough. Dio danced around the table as Andersson followed him on the other side. Both were empty handed so stood as if they were waiting to catch a baseball in their open hands. Neither wanted to make the first move; to dart around one side of the table and hit the other, to jump over the top and throw them to the ground with the momentum, or anything of the sort. Dio stood with the miscellaneous artefacts on the display tables and huge windows to his back, Andersson with the plush red sofa behind him. It would take too long to grab something from behind him from the tables, and there wasn’t even a guarantee that what he grabbed for would be useful as a weapon. And it would take too long to reach Andersson around or over the table, even with his superior agility. They were at a stalemate.

They both exhaled.

Andersson ducked down with lightning-fast speed and grabbed the edge of the table and pulled it up and tossed it forwards into Dio. It crashed through the windows and showered Dio with even more glass. The table had only just missed Dio, thanks to the split second that Andersson’s slowed movements had given him to dodge it on its way through the air. But the glass had cut into his shirt and the skin of his cheeks. A cold feeling running down the side of his neck told Dio a shard had sliced open his left ear.

Not sparing a single second Andersson rushed towards the dazed Dio and grabbed him by the collar and, with the other hand, his bleeding ear.

Dio hissed in pain and glared into Andersson’s face.

“With this family’s money I will see my own family for the first time in seven years. Do you know how that feels, not being with them?”

“Not at all. I have no family.” Dio said, then spat into his eye. He then kicked the tip of his shoe right into the patch of bloody fabric on Andersson’s leg.

Andersson’s grip on Dio loosened as he shouted in pain. In a moment Dio grabbed Andersson’s arms and pulled down, hefting himself an inch off the ground then pushing his feet down hard with a motion he’d practiced over and over on tree branches anticipating he’d need to use it someday on Jojo. Dio was lifted from the ground with his own momentum and up and around and in a moment, he’d wrapped one leg over Andersson’s neck and then a moment later he’d swung himself round so he was straddling his shoulders. Andersson flailed around to try to swat Dio off but Dio gripped onto Andersson’s thick red hair with both hands and squeezed his legs around his neck.

Both men huffed with the effort to keep standing and to keep a grip. Dio bit his lip as he felt the edge of a glass shard being dragged down the length of his leg, from his knee all the way to his ankle. Andersson’s face was turning redder and redder, his eyes slowly squeezing shut as Dio increased the pressure on his throat.

There was a moment of silence. The only sound was a quiet drip as blood from Dio’s leg hit the polished wood floor.

Andersson finally toppled like a great oak tree. The room practically shuddered as he hit the floor. Dio crawled out from underneath the unconscious man and pulled himself to his feet with the help of a nearby armchair. He spat on Andersson’s body.

“That’s for underestimating me, asshole.”

He kicked Andersson’s stomach then picked up a large fragment of the broken bust. It looked like most of a shoulder and weighed about as much as a small child. Dio dropped it onto Andersson’s head.

“That’s for breaking into my home.”

As he turned to leave finally, Dio paused then spat on the man once more.

“And that’s for making me bleed.”

*

A few minutes earlier, the man who had roped Andersson into breaking the manor’s locks for them reached the second floor of the building. The first floor had been empty, but he knew that there was one other son of Joestar living here. He could only be hiding somewhere on the upper floors.

He paused by one closed door, put his ear to it, waited, heard nothing, then kicked it open and jumped in. It was a library, and empty. He took a quick walk around to make sure there wasn’t anyone lurking behind the stacks then returned to the hallway and closed the door behind him again.

The next room looked more promising, he knelt by the frame and saw the shadow of a latch in the gap between the frame and the door. He pulled a small knife from his back pocket and slipped it into the gap and then slowly and gently pushed the latch up and away from the cradle nailed to the inside wall. He felt it fall away from the cradle and then with a smile on his face pushed the door open. He’d finally found the other brother, fast asleep in the bed with a towel on his forehead and a single candle lit beside him. The man gingerly stepped towards Jonathan and peered down. He appeared unlikely to present any kind of a threat like Dio had earlier.

He turned his attention then to the dressers across the room and began poking through the boxes of pocket watches and perfumes. It was an eclectic selection, but much of it was highly valuable so he couldn’t complain. As he stuffed a couple of gilded watches into his pockets he heard the sound of a metallic click from behind him.

Jonathan held a pistol in his hands. He’d found it under his pillow, strangely enough, though he had no memory of ever hiding one there.

“What are you doing in my home?” He asked. Though his voice was steady his hands shook. He’d never held a gun before.

“Hey, hey, buddy,” the man put his hands up and stepped away from the dresser. “No need to get ahead of ourselves.”

Jonathan tried to shift himself off the bed, but his legs wouldn’t move. They felt heavy like iron weights were tied to them. It was around this moment that he realised that he wasn’t in his own room.

“Now, you can jus’ put that gun down,” the man continued, “and we’ll sort this out like the proper gentlemen we are, alright?”

Jonathan looked back at the man and held the gun up with more determination than before. He pushed a little bolt on the top, faintly remembering a lesson his father had given him one day when he’d accompanied him out hunting. George had been rather enthusiastic about showing his son the sport of country hunting, complete with horses and spaniels, and dedicated an entire day to showing Jonathan the intricacies of the hunting gun. Jonathan had hated it but hadn’t told George that at the time. “You’re robbing me.” He said.

The man swallowed. “Now, just put the gun down…”

“Where’s Dio?”

“Your brother? No clue.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“That gun-”

“Tell me what you’ve done to Dio or I’ll shoot.”

The man watched Jonathan’s hands around the gun. His fingers were white with anger but the gun itself was trembling.

“Have ya’ shot a gun before, boy?”

Jonathan chewed his lip. “Yes.”

The man giggled. “Is that gun even yours? You shouldn’t play with things that ain’t your own.”

Jonathan huffed and tried again to move his legs. It felt like he was sitting in syrup, the bed clinging to his limbs and stopping him from getting out. If he could get up he’d be able to fight this intruder like a man should and then go find wherever Dio had got to. And no matter how much he needed to Jonathan would never be able to fire that accursed gun. He spared little thought to why Dio had been keeping it under his pillow, or why he had even woken up inside this room, he only wished he had a way to keep this man from his family.

Something crashed above them. Jonathan frowned, the only thing up there was the attic.

“What was that?” The man exclaimed, suddenly worked up. “Who else is in this house?”

The noise above them returned, now as steady thumping sounds. It became more rapid, soon becoming a thunderous pounding directly above them. It was alarming, something like a stampede.

“Hey!” The man yelled at Jonathan. “What’s up there?”

“I-uh-I have no idea.” Jonathan admitted. The noise ended abruptly, leaving Dio’s room uncomfortably quiet.

What was that? Jonathan had once found a stray cat in the attic space after running away from Dio during a particularly unpleasant conflict. The cat was small and underfed, so he’d brought it food from the kitchens for a few days while keeping it’s existence entirely under wraps from his father and from Dio. It had left before a week passed but every night he’d heard the sound of scratching and quiet mews from the floor above. Not that this thunder-like sound was anything like that. Jonathan strongly doubted it had been a stray cat making that noise.

“Is it just you two brothers? You sure you don’t ‘ave a third?” The man was sweating. The noise had been quite terrifying for him; it had sent a sharp chill down his spine when he heard it as if it were an omen directed specifically to him. He had no idea what it could have been, but he didn’t want to find out. He wanted to get away from this place now.

“Well,” Jonathan suddenly lit up. “Oh, yes. There is someone else staying with us at the moment. But I wonder where he could be right now.”

The man glanced between Jonathan and the bedroom door. The gun had been lowered for a moment. He made a break for it and burst out into the hallway. Behind him, Jonathan jolted and held the gun up again, but the man had already escaped from the bedroom.

He dropped the gun to the bedsheets and rubbed at his eyes. He’d have to go after him, of course.

Frowning, Jonathan took his hands away from his face and stared at his forearm. From his wrist to up past his bicep and under his sleeves a welt had been etched into his skin. He touched a finger to it. It felt like scar tissue, as if he’d been burned like this for years. It even looked that way, the skin was only slightly raised and was a pale pink. Weird.

Jonathan tested his legs again. They were beginning to come back to life. He rubbed his knees and tried to get his memories in order.

He remembered being in the tavern with Giorno, and he remembered seeing something gold and glittering by his feet, reaching for it, then a burst of pain and falling asleep. While asleep he remembered only an intense burning throughout his limbs and in his chest. Now, he felt nothing of the sort. Jonathan wondered if he’d only imagined all of that, in that case. Maybe he’d been overcome with some sort of delirium for a short time and Giorno had taken him back to the manor for Dio to nurse him back to health.

Jonathan almost smiled at that. The idea of Dio giving a single damn about him was a hysterical thought. It was just as likely that Giorno was some kind of otherworldly visitor with bizarre and mysterious intentions as Dio had said. As if he were a detached wander like Captain Nemo, here only to investigate and interfere.

Absolutely ridiculous.

*

The man bolted down the hallway. He’d get out as quick as he could, not even waiting for his friend to find the vault downstairs or that guy Andersson to follow him. He’d run out the front door and out the gate and into the evening where he wouldn’t be found. He’d get enough money from the watches he’d nicked to last him for at least a few months. There was no chance he’d waste another moment in that cursed manor. Something told him there was something in here was a great danger to him. He sped around the corner onto the landing and was immediately confronted by a shadowed figure. He jumped back before they collided and staggered into a low table, knocking a vase to the ground.

The figure stepped out of the shadows. The man opened his mouth and made a choking sound. “It’s-it’s you!” He pointed at Giorno and stumbled backwards. “You! From that time! How are you here?”

Giorno shifted his weight leisurely. He’d half expected to find Dio first, but this was an almost pleasant surprise instead.

“I’m glad I’m meeting you again, you were so rude to me the other day I might as well return the gesture.” Giorno said. It had taken a little while for his mind to clear up in the attic, like a thick layer of cotton being lifted off him it had felt like waking up after a long sleep. Exactly what had happened up until then in the attic was an unknown. If the little scars G.E. had left on the palms of his hands told him anything, Giorno didn’t want to know. He was also well aware that there was a mask of dried blood down along one side of his face from where something hard and heavy had been thrown against his head before he blacked out. G.E. had done its very best to patch him up but Giorno simply hadn’t the time to clean himself up too.

“Hey kid,” the man was visibly sweating, “Look, I don’t want to hav’ta hurt you. If you just-” he cut off as Giorno lunged forwards and ducked into a roundhouse kick to his chest.

It connected and knocked the man a couple steps back but wasn’t nearly as strong as Giorno hoped it to be. His head still swum a little bit, so he suspected anymore blows to the head would be bad news. Whatever Dio had done to knock him out was not letting itself be forgotten any time soon.

The man quickly regained his composure and grinned at Giorno. “Was that meant to ‘urt? Not in the best of shape, are ya’?” He said.

Giorno snarled and lashed out with Gold’s arm, bridging the distance between them. The man yelped as his collar bone shattered.

“AHHG! What the hell?” He clutched at his shoulder and glared at Giorno. “What did you just do to me?” He cried.

“Oh. Does that hurt?” asked Giorno. He edged around the man to stand between him and the stairway.

“Fuck you.”

The man brought something out from inside his jacket and lunged forwards. Giorno ducked, sluggish enough now for the slim blade of the man’s knife to whisper a slight breeze across his brow as it passed over his head. Once the swing had missed entirely, the man’s arm froze in mid-air, the blade was dropped, his wrist flicked, the blade was back in his hand but pointing the opposite direction and was jerked downwards with even greater speed directly into Giorno’s throat. It hit him below the ear, behind the tendon and into a sweet spot. If it was drawn out from the neck he’d bleed out in minutes. If it was pulled out at any angle other than the one it had entered from, he’d only last a few moments.

Or, that was where the man had envisioned its plot. About an inch from the flesh of his neck, the tip of the knife was frozen in its course, trembling with the anticipation of sinking in and drawing the blood it had been promised only a moment earlier. What exactly was holding it in place was invisible but unyielding. The man struggled to pull the knife free from the unseen grip with no reward, and it held fast. Giorno slowly reached up and curled his fingers around the blade. The edge dug into his palm, but no blood was being drawn somehow as he pulled it away from himself and locked eyes with the man. “I’m well enough not to be beaten by the likes of you.” said Giorno. The imperceptible film of golden shimmer around his hand which held the knife’s blade flickered with excitement. Gold was finally being let out to do as it did best after an unbearable time being left as only an afterthought in Giorno’s recent months. If it were a living thing, Giorno would describe it as restless, if it were a tool, rusty. Being as it was, Gold Experience was a welcome return.

Under Giorno’s grip the knife softened and bent and warped in the man’s hand. He looked down in horror as he felt it – strangely – begin to twist around his wrist. What had been knife a few seconds before was now a small and slender snake with vibrant red and yellow markings, twisting between his fingers and Giorno’s. He yelped and waved his hands about, trying to fling the snake off from himself but it bit down into the inside of his wrist and clung on tightly.

In his panic the man didn’t see Giorno edging forwards and rolling up his sleeve, then reeling back for a right hook. Giorno punched him in the jaw and then kneed him in the stomach. But the man had doubled over and quickly wrapped an arm under Giorno’s raised knee and held it above his waist. Giorno wobbled in place, taken aback by the man’s quick thinking considering that a snake was still plugged into his arm. Indeed, the snake bit down even harder after this, but the man appeared to be ignoring the pain entirely. Even his broken collarbone didn’t seem to bother him anymore.

Giorno hopped inelegantly in place as the man snickered. “Gotcha.” He said. Giorno spat in the man’s face and thrust the heel of his palm into his shoulder. The man didn’t stop him from doing so but hissed in pain when Giorno lodged his broken bone further into the muscles of his shoulder and grabbed Giorno’s wrist before he could pull back again.

Now with both his left leg and right hand trapped, the man twisted Giorno off balance and pushed him to the ground, pressing his face into the carpet.

“Maybe you’d be a little more fun for me to play with if ya weren’t weakened like this for whatever reason.” He said, leaning down by Giorno’s ear. “But I do hope we can meet once again, I’ll teach you a real lesson ‘bout giving me and my friends so much trouble, ya hear?”

Giorno grunted, “Sure.”

The man patted Giorno’s shoulder. “Good to hear.” Keeping his knee on Giorno’s back he looked at the snake around his wrist, still not knowing what to make of it. As he thought about attempting to remove its fangs from his wrist somehow, a shock went up his leg where he had been resting it on Giorno.

He leapt up only a moment before thinking, Oh, that must ‘ave been one of those static shocks. It was just a bit of electric charges, like those books talk ‘bout.” and laughing at his own fright. He looked back down at Giorno. Weird, he wasn’t getting up. He kicked Giorno. His foot passed right through him. What the fuck? He stepped backwards, wondering if this was some kind of a side-effect of the snakebite.

Giorno, taking his time picking himself up from the carpet and dusting himself off, looked to the man frozen in place with a horrified expression across his face. It had been a while since he’d used this particular attack against someone, mainly because it was so cruel. But it was an efficient way of scaring someone away so Giorno thought it a necessary evil at this time. The man must be hallucinating right now, Giorno thought as he took a step closer, something like seeing me frozen in place on the ground or moving ever so gradually towards him like everything but him is agonisingly slow. Giorno took a fistful of the man’s shirt and punched him flat in the face. That should break his nose, possibly a couple of his teeth. Not to mention the psychological toll of experiencing that pain for fifty times longer, and fifty times stronger.

The ex-knife-now-snake had dropped off from the man’s arm a moment earlier and now hid under a nearby table. Giorno walked over to it and offered a hand. It had been shaken up pretty bad by the man’s flailing. With a bit of coaxing it slunk out from under the table and onto Giorno’s hand, where it stilled then hardened and shifted back into the shape of a small blade.

Giorno heard groaning from behind him but didn’t turn to look. The man staggered to his feet, then promptly vomited onto the carpet.

“Get out.” said Giorno, still holding the knife in his hand. “Leave before I do worse.” He’d assumed that Jonathan wouldn’t appreciate him killing anyone in his home, even if it was a criminal. The man wiped his mouth and scrambled backwards, almost falling down the stairway in his hurry. Giorno heard his footsteps fade downstairs.

After a few moments to collect himself, Giorno also made his way down the last two flights of stairs to the entrance hall. It was a mess, unsurprisingly; everything that wasn’t nailed down had been upturned, broken into pieces, or stolen. Maybe the only thing to escape the robbers’ carnage were the paintings hung up high on the walls. Mary Joestar still peacefully gazed down at Giorno as he drifted towards the open door into George’s collection room.

He had taken a single step into the room when someone wrapped their fingers around his throat from behind the door.

Dio stepped out of the shadow and scowled. He let go of Giorno and shoved past him.

“You got out then, huh?” he said.

“It’s a good thing I did, someone was robbing you.”

Dio turned on his heel. “No shit?” He pointed back into the collection room. “There’s a beast of a man in there who almost locked me in a cupboard, then tried to kill me.”

Giorno slipped past him into the room and found Andersson’s body. “What did you do to him?” asked Giorno, nudging the man with his shoe.

“Doesn’t matter, he won’t be getting up again any time soon.” Said Dio. His clothing was bloodied and torn. “And I think the other two bastards got away anyway. We’ve made enough noise by now to scare them off.”

Giorno turned Andersson onto his back and raised his eyebrows. “Huh.”

“What?” Dio leant against the doorframe.

“I met this man soon after arriving into the village. He was very kind to me. I can’t imagine him being, as you say, a beast.”

“Well,” Dio leant down and scoffed. “That man’s name is Andersson, he’s a bastard, and he got what he had coming for him.”

Giorno got up. “Are you hurt?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“I’d like to know if you have been given any injuries.”

Dio looked defensive and shook his head. “Mind your own business, asshole.” He turned and walked out into the hall. As he did, Giorno caught sight of his bloody ear. He shot forwards and pulled Dio around to face him.

“Your ear.”

“What about it?”

“You’re missing half of it. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Not at all, now let go of me.”

Giorno reached up and pinched the raw flesh of Dio’s ear between his forefinger and thumb. He choked in pain and slapped Giorno away.

“What is wrong with you?” He shouted.

“Let me see it.” Giorno said. “I’ll do what I can to stop the bleeding.”

“So, what, you’re a doctor now?” Dio cupped his ear. It had begun to bleed furiously again. Maybe Andersson’s rough handling had torn a large chunk off earlier, he hadn’t really noticed.

“I can stop the bleeding.”

Dio didn’t miss that it wasn’t an answer to his question.

“I’m sure Jonathan wouldn’t leave you alone if he saw that. You’d never hear the end of it, not to mention how George could possibly react.” Giorno added, pointing to the growing pool of blood in Dio’s palm. It was true, Dio admitted, and he didn’t have enough skills himself to patch the ear up without serious scarring.

“Did you see him? Jojo, I mean.” Asked Dio. It had just occurred to him that he’d not checked his room when looking for the other two robbers.

“No. Where is he?”

“In my room. He should be fine if you didn’t bump into him, I left the door locked from the inside.”

Giorno was relieved but soon turned his attention back to Dio. “Please let me fix your ear, Dio.”

Dio scowled. He had no trust in this kid at all and was aware that he may have grown some kind of a grudge against him for his less-than-hospitable treatment earlier that afternoon. But it was also clear to Dio that leaving his injury as it was would be a stupid decision to make in these circumstances.

“Fine.” Dio dropped his hand, immediately spilling blood onto the shoulder of his shirt. “But if you pull any silly shit, I’m killing you.”

Giorno shrugged, brought something out of his trouser pocket, and took a step closer then reached both hands up beside Dio’s head. His fingers brushed over his ear and his eyes sharpened with concentration.

“Hold your breath.” He said.

“What?” Dio said, then shouted in pain. He jerked his head away. “FUCK THAT HURT.”

“It will. You should hold still.”

Dio touched a hand to his ear. The bleeding had slowed noticeably. “What are you doing? You don’t even have a needle.”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

Dio suspected that was true. He glowered and gestured to his ear, “Then get it over with.” he said.

Giorno nodded and put his hands back to Dio’s ear. “I would recommend holding your breath. It’ll sting.”

It took a minute or so but Dio felt it was never going to end. The wood splinter Giorno had picked up from the collection room’s floor was the perfect size to transplant into Dio’s torn ear and was taking well thanks to the practice Giorno had had over the last few months patching Mista up during and after his assignments. Still, it certainly hurt and Giorno would never discredit Dio’s discomfort. Even Mista, who wouldn’t flitch after a gunshot to the thigh, would always react to some degree when Giorno plugged up the wounds afterwards.

“That was torture.” growled Dio. He had been gritting his teeth.

 “Well, you locked me in the attic.”

“What? Do you have a grudge now?”

“Not anymore, I don’t.” Giorno wiped his hand off on his trousers.

“You’re worse than I first though, Giovanna.”

“And I’m what,” Giorno asked, “Cruel? Cold? On the ruthless side? You’re one to talk.”

“Shut up.” Dio rubbed at his ear. It felt tender along the seamline but overall was surprisingly in one piece. Exactly how Giorno had fixed him up when a large chunk had been ripped out, he wasn’t sure.

Giorno shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

He took another look around the hall. He did get the feeling that the man he’d fought upstairs and the other taller man who’d been with him the day they’d met in the village had fled the manor at around the same time once they’d realised the conscious occupants of the house were putting up a fight. The man named Andersson, whose hot fruit drink Giorno was still determined to remember fondly, was certainly going to remain unconscious for a long time based on the injury Dio had dealt to his skull. Giorno judged he’d sleep until the next morning so had no intention to disturb him just yet; they’d probably drag him out once he and Dio were sure Jonathan was alright.

Dio seemed to have a similar thought and began towards the stairwell. There was no doubt in his mind that his bedroom door was still locked shut and secure and Jonathan still fast asleep in his strange fever. He briefly considered telling Giorno about Jojo’s current condition but decided against it, worrying mainly that he’d try to treat him the same way he had Dio. He’d simply check in on Jojo and get some rest after sending Giorno away for the night. He’d report the robbery the next day, so that the village could prosecute Andersson and track down the two who’d gotten away from him. He’d send a letter addressed to George later tomorrow to explain what happened too. The letter won’t include any details about Jonathan’s sickness, but it will hint that he’s under the weather in a way. The letter certainly will include information about the boy named Giorno currently living under his roof and the transgressions he’s committed against him and Jonathan over the past 30-odd hours.

Dio chuckled as he imagined what fun he could have composing that letter.

He’d made it to the second step before a hand gripped the back of his shirt. He jerked backwards and almost choked on his collar.

“Hey!” He turned to ask Giorno what he was playing at and saw a look of – something terrible – on his face.

“What is it?” Dio asked, freeing his shirt from Giorno’s grip.

Giorno pointed across the hall. “There.” He said.

“Yes, what?” Dio didn’t see what he had been pointed to.

“Right there, on the wall.” Said Giorno. His voice was strangled.

“What?” Dio was getting impatient. “Nothing’s there.”

Giorno span around and pushed a hand into Dio’s chest, making him stumble back onto the next step up behind him.

“There’s nothing there.” Giorno echoed. “They stole it.”

Dio was still lost. “Stole what?”

Giorno glanced around and bit his lip. “When I first came here yesterday, there was a mask hung up on that wall there. It’s around this size, stone, and had fangs carved onto it.”

Dio clapped his hands. “Oh, yes! I remember now. It was one of George’s curiosities, though I’m not sure why it had to be that hideous thing that he specifically keeps nailed up in the main hall. Even Jojo seems to think it’s a creepy little thing.”

As he spoke Giorno was darting around the room, looking under a broken table and behind a low bookcase, then hurrying over to where it had been hung and running his hands along the sideboard.  

“What does it matter to you?” Dio asked. He watched Giorno push his hands though his hair. “What’s so important about a stone mask?”

Chapter Text

Trish slouched, in the exact fashion she knew her agent hated to see her do; with her head tilted over the back of the metal bench and legs spread to take up part of the two seats on either side. It didn’t matter too much since the train station was almost entirely vacant that afternoon. And she felt it was deserved when the temperature in Roma had spiked to 37 degrees upon their arrival. The turtle had fallen asleep a while back to escape the heat and was now tucked away in a carrier bag by Mista’s feet. He sat behind her in the bench which backed into hers in a mirror posture. He turned his head to face hers and hissed into her ear.

“Has he put the phone down yet?”

Trish slowly turned her head to spy Jotaro across the platform by the public phone booth. “No. He’s still talking.”

Mista groaned and rolled his sweater even further up his stomach. Apparently, there was much more explaining to do for the Foundation than Kujo had first expected, after all, he had up and left Napoli without so much as a goodbye note for the other SPW associates. His face was pained, Trish could see from where she sat, and he wanted to get going just as much as they did.

Trish was glad she was wearing one of her ankle-length skirts that day, she didn’t envy Mista and his thick woollen trousers at all. Even under the shade of the platform’s open roof the air was stagnant and smothering. At least the train ride had been airconditioned, she gave some credit to Kujo where it was due, otherwise her and Mista both would have been melted sweaty messes by now.

Cinque buzzed around Trish’s shoulder and tapped her on the nose. “Hey, little miss! Shouldn’t ya be a little more careful sitting like that ‘bout these parts? You’re a celebrity, right?” It piped.

Trish shrugged. “I doubt I’ll see any paparazzi until we get into town. No one knows I’ve left Napoli anyway.”

“But what if they get in our way!” Tres joined in.

“Kujo will probably scare them off.” Trish said. “And I’m more worried about them catching a photo of me hanging around with Mista than anything else.”

“What does that mean?” Mista twisted around so his chin was resting on the bench’s spine.

“Dogtooth and tigerprint? In these colours? With you by my side we’ll look like Dr Seuss’ acid trip.”

“If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, I’ll have you know I’m planning on dying in tiger print.”

“I don’t doubt that you will someday.”

“And you’re one to talk, fuckin’ hypocrite.”

“There’s a fine line between fashion and disaster and I’ve been gracefully walking it with great success my whole life, like a very expressive tightrope,” Trish drew her hand across the air before her as she traced the line of the train track. “I suspect you broke your balls on that line years ago.”

“You want a fight?” Mista grunted. In truth he was in no mood for a fight but thought it necessary to at least give an attempt to defend his ego.

“Heat makes me testy.”

“That makes two of us.” Mista said before hopping to his feet when he saw Jotaro approaching. “You done?” he asked.

Jotaro rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. We’ve been given the all clear. Since they don’t want to scare the thief into hiding, the Foundation will only be sending reinforcement at sundown. We’re on our own until then so we should get to the Colosseum before he does.”

“Great!” Trish got up and stretched. “Let’s get something cold to drink, I’m dying here.”

She started off down the platform before either man could say anything in response, so they simply followed her. Mista hefted the carrier bag over one shoulder and Jotaro pulled his cap down over his eyes. Both men fell silent rather quickly.

Mista had no intention to begin small talk with Kujo, though it didn’t stop him from feeling horribly uncomfortable when walking in silence beside him. Well, admittedly Giorno was also a little awkward to be around at times, he was sometimes far too literal in his phrasings and still had a bad habit of not knowing the meaning of personal space during a casual conversation. Mista couldn’t even count the times he felt as if he were missing out on some great joke while talking to him. But at least with Giorno it didn’t feel as if he were in danger of being given a broken bone if he asked the wrong question. He snuck a glance up at Kujo as they left the station. The glare from the afternoon sun shadowed his features entirely. It was unnerving, so Mista looked away quickly. Up ahead Trish had been stopped by a young couple who asked for an autograph so he and Kujo paused under the shade of a tree planted into the pavement while she was chatted up some ten feet away.

Mista almost jumped out of his skin when Kujo spoke.

“You’re close.” Jotaro hadn’t turned his head to face Mista so the only indication that it was him that he had spoken to was that no one else was in ear-shot.

Mista cleared his throat. “Of course, she’s a good friend. Trish even saved my life last we were in Rome together.”

“I meant you and Giovanna.”

“Oh.” Mista shifted awkwardly. “Well, what do you expect? I owe him my life at least a dozen times over. And almost everyone you talk to in Passione will say he’d done a number on the gang, changed it from the ground up and all that. He’s Prometheus to them. And I’ve got to say he’s done a stellar job at being their miracle child, the kid who’s practically untouchable to anyone but his closest and most trusted and he still knows exactly what his pawns and people need and want. And that’s me, yeah?” Mista peered curiously up at to Kujo, whose stony eyes reflected just the tiniest fragment of sunlight from under his cap. “I’m his closest and most trusted.”

“I’m led to believe you are his right hand.” He said.

Mista laughed. “Only in print, Signor, only in his paperwork. He doesn’t need me around and you know that as much as I do. He won’t say it of course. Probably thinks it’ll hurt my feelings. But it’s true. He could do without me, but he keeps me around anyways.”

Kujo didn’t respond immediately. His eyes eventually drifted away from Mista’s and off to something in the middle distance. “Isn’t that patronising?”

“No. Should it be?”

Kujo shrugged.                                               

“He’s a good kid. He’s weird, sure, but he means well.”

“Then you admit he’s odd.”

Mista scratched his chin. “Sometimes he sounds like he’s on a totally different planet from me, like he’s not just some scrawny kid three years younger than me with a bit of a god complex and a fear of the dark. He’s got a habit of acting like that, like he’s got everything under control. He acts all serious and mature but as soon as anything gets out of hand he doesn’t know how to cope with it. It’s probably why he had his freak-out last week.”

Kujo looked uncomfortable. Maybe he felt obligated to apologise for that.

“It’s not me you should be feeling bad for. Tell him you’re sorry when he gets back.” Mista said. It seemed as if Kujo wanted to say something more, to say he wasn’t planning to stick around until then, or even planning to apologise, or whatever, but he only pursed his lips and looked away again.

Trish finally bid goodbye to her fans down the street and trotted back over. She smirked impishly at Mista. “They wanted to know who the good-looking guy in the coat with me was.” She said, careful not to make eye contact with Kujo.

“Oh ho? You should have let me give them my number.”

Trish dropped her grin. She began with “Hey, no offence but I don’t think they meant y-” but Mista had already patted her shoulder and started off down the street with a fresh spring in his step. Trish rolled her eyes but smiled and followed him.

They carried on through the narrow and stifling streets of Roma, threading through swarms and parades of tourists looking for somewhere without a monumental queue out front where they could get something to cool them down before heading further into the city towards the Colosseum and Forum. The last time Trish and Mista had been in Roma was a touchy memory, raw at the edges when either tried to prod at it, to remember exactly how the city had been to them six months ago. Trish remembered less, having been hidden in the turtle for half of that portion of the journey. What she had seen was in the dead of night and early morning, a buzz of terror and excitement staining her memories and blurring the short few hours they’d spent in and around the Colosseum together. Mista remembered quite a bit more. He’d seen some of the city from rooftops and overpasses at midnight, a romantic setting in any other person’s mind, he was sure. In every single memory, Giorno was there. It was hard for him to remember that night without seeing Giorno, and Buccellati, and Narancia. Rome wasn’t a city to him, it was just where he’d seen them last.

It had him taken a while to stop having to remind himself that he didn’t lose Giorno that day. It was only the briefest moment in his memory when he’d seen him fall and crumble like marble at the foot of the Ponte Palatino with an arrow wedged between his ribs. He really hoped they didn’t have to visit that particular spot again.

If Jotaro’s directions were correct they’d be in the city centre in an hour, so it was quite a walk. He’d explained that public transport at this stage was too dangerous since the underground was so much more heavily populated than the cross-country trains, and it’d be too easy for the thief to stop the subway train and take them out one by one in the close quarters and complete darkness of the underground tunnel. The information that the SPW had given him over the phone had let them know the thief was likely a skilled stand user, judging by how he got past the gang’s security. Mista had had no issue with this new plan since he dealt better with long-range combat anyway. Trish had been a little upset since she was wearing heels and the streets of Roma were famously poorly paved.

The backstreets of Roma were cooler than the open air of the station, with towering walls on either side like they were walking along the bottom of a trench. Many of the windows had trays of plants creeping down the walls of the buildings like spilt tendrils of violet and golden yellow and dusk red. The sight nudged at Mista’s short term memory – something Giorno had said to him. He had wanted to put a window ledge planter in Mista’s apartment. They’d still not gotten around to it though, since Mista spent so much more time in the Palazzo than his own flat in Napoli.

As they passed one store with closed shutters the metal slats suddenly rattled up, making Trish jump a foot in the air. The shopkeeper glanced between the three of them. Here was someone selling cold drinks without a queue of tourists. Trish bought them each a bottle of ice cold water and handed them out as they walked away from the storefront. As soon as his entered Mista’s hand the Pistols took their chance and dived right through the neck of the bottle and down into the water.

“Hey!” Mista clutched the bottle with both hands and glared down the neck. “Geddout! I’m thirsty too!” He jiggled the bottle hoping they’d fly out, but the action only made him motion sick in return and he clutched at his head from the nausea.

Trish giggled as she took a good long gulp of her own water. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m a sweaty idiot.” He said, glaring daggers at each individual Pistol as they drained the bottle. Admittedly it was cooling him down, but he was no less parched than before.

Jotaro sighed and held out his untouched bottle. “Here.”

“Hey, really?” Mista was shocked. He hadn’t struck Mista as the generous type at first.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Jotaro appeared to be one of those few people who never felt the effects of the weather no matter how hot or cold. The trench coat and heavy black turtleneck attested to that. Mista nodded a thank you and took the bottle.

Trish was more eager than Mista to start a conversation with Kujo, since she rarely gave a shit about emotionally constipated men and how they reacted to her insolence.

“I heard you have a daughter.”

For the first time that day Jotaro showed a visible response to their questions. His upper lip twitched. It was a miniscule reaction that Mista would probably have missed in her place, but Trish caught it.

“Koichi told you.”

“He did. It’s not his fault though, I was asking him a lot of questions.” Trish swirled her half-empty bottle and watched the little whirlpool grow then shrink then dissolve into messy waves. “What’s her name?”

“Jolyne.” Jotaro said.

Trish scoffed. “Another ‘Jo’.”

“Is there a problem?”

Trish looked straight ahead. “It’s not my business. I never had a father since he’s always either been dead or trying to kill me. I don’t know what it’s like to have one, so I don’t know what a father-daughter relationship should look like. I also know very little about you, Signor Kujo.” She said, then looked up at him. “I do hope you know what that relationship looks like.”

Jotaro’s eyes darkened, his lips pressed together. It was an expression Trish saw too much of whenever she had payed a visit to Giorno. Goddammit, she thought, their whole family’s like this aren’t they?

“She deserves to be kept away from this.” Jotaro said. He didn’t need to say another word for Trish to know what he meant.

“Sure, I get it.” She finished her bottle and dropped it in a bin as they passed one. “But the threat of food poisoning doesn’t mean you swear off all meat - cooked or otherwise - out of that fear, does it?”

Jotaro furrowed his brow, puzzled. It was an odd choice of an analogy.

Meanwhile, Trish called behind her, “Hey, step up the pace Mista! I can’t even hear your whining anymore.”

She didn’t hear a reply so turned around and walked a couple steps backwards. “Hurry up, you loser. Wh-”

Trish made a choked noise and stopped walking suddenly, then stumbled forwards away from Jotaro back down the street.

“Mista!”

He was curled up on the pavement one block back, his head clutched in his hands and the Pistols flitting erratically around him.

Trish skidded to a stop by his side and tried to pry his hands from his face, but she couldn’t, he was frozen solid from what looked like sheer terror. The carrier bag was dropped next to him, still zipped, the turtle probably still asleep. She gasped for breath and caught one of the Pistols between her forefingers.

“Sei! What wrong with him?”

Jotaro materialised behind her and began scanning their surroundings. All the windows were boarded up, the street empty apart from one elderly lady at the other end unloading some groceries and a stray dog across the street licking its arse. But he felt eyes on him.

“Sei!” Trish repeated herself. The tiny stand in her hand was sobbing uncontrollably.

“B-b-boss! It’s b-boss! He’s not good!”

“What happened? Did someone attack him?”

“We don’t know!” One of the others called up from around Mista’s shoulders. Two were trying to pull at his fingers which covered his eyes tight. “He just collapsed!”

“Did nothing hit him?”

“We would have seen it, little miss!” Uno cried. “There wasn’t anything!”

Trish let Sei go and searched around Mista’s body. Immediately, something hit her knee. She looked down to see his almost empty bottle rolling away from her leg and spilling water across the cobbles. Trish picked it up and chewed at her lip.

“Signor Kujo?” Jotaro looked down. “This was yours, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you drink any of it before handing it over?”

“No. It was full.”

“Did it have a cap, do you remember?”

Jotaro seemed to have caught on by now and took the bottle from her hand. He held it up in the light and squinted. A second later and a great hulking shape faded into view behind him and peered over his shoulder. Trish almost jumped out her skin at the sight, just the outline of Kujo’s stand was enough to give her chills. It was huge, dwarfing even the giant Kujo in its shadow, and its bright violet eyes sent a primal fear into Trish’s heart. It was similar to the feeling she’d had when she’d first seen Giorno’s Requiem standing behind him. Although this was a far less existentially terrifying, it still made her shrink a little.

Star Platinum looked into the remaining water in the bottle as Trish peeled Mista’s hat off his head and cradled him on her lap. The stand’s eyes brightened as the details invisible to Jotaro became clear.

“There’s a stand in here.” Jotaro said, lowering the bottle.

“Shit.” Said Trish, softly and under her breath. Out of Giorno’s allies she was often the least likely to curse, but this was a special occasion. “What can you tell?”

“It’s tiny. Like a colony. This guy must have wanted me to ingest enough for it to affect me like it did Mista. I met a man a couple of years ago with a stand like this; a colony of usually invisible entities which exist only within food and affect those who eat it. Though it had a rather different effect from this.”

Trish held Mista tighter, who had begun to shudder in her arms. “Then where’s the user? He can’t be far if his stand is this powerful.”

“You’re right.” He said. The man who had run the store they’d bought the bottles from was almost undoubtedly the user, though he couldn’t still be back in that store when they’d already walked at least three blocks away by now. This was the kind of ability which required medium to close proximity to maintain an effect on the target.

As he spun around Jotaro’s eyes caught movement above them. A wooden shutter had shifted back into place just as his eyes landed on it. He, without sparing any unnecessary movements, pulled a small metal bearing from a coat pocket, pinched it between thumb and finger, then with a pinging noise let it fly up and through the shutter. Trish’s head jerked up at the sound. They were completely still for a couple heartbeats, Jotaro standing and staring up at the broken shutter, Trish kneeling in the street and keeping Mista’s head up off the ground. Both waited for something to happen.

When nothing did Jotaro grunted and looked back at Mista.

“Is he awake, or unconscious?”

“Uh,” Trish turned Mista over. “I think he’s awake. But he’s not responding to me or to the Pistols.”

“Then leave him.”

“What?” Trish gasped. “I’m not leaving him here! Not like this!”

“We have to find the user. The fact that he hasn’t attacked us yet means he’s not confident in his odds against me. I doubt he even cares about Mista, since the poison was intended for me, not for him.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s safe.” Trish clutched Mista closer.

“His stand can keep him safe.” Jotaro turned on his heel. “We need to move.”

Trish bit her lip and looked between the Pistols. “Can you do that? Can you keep him safe while I’m gone?”

Due drifted over to her hand and patted a finger reassuringly. “Don’t worry little miss! We can keep Boss safe! I’ll come with you and tell you if anything happens to him while you’re busy!”

“Alright. Let’s go.” Jotaro said. He’d already turned his back on Trish.

Trish took one last look at Mista, crumpled and shivering in her arms, and gently laid him down. She slid his hat under his head. The Pistols gave her a series of thumbs-up, and some sobs, as she backed away with Due clinging onto a lock of her hair behind her ear. She skipped to keep up with Jotaro’s pace as he crossed the road and kicked down a door below the window he had shattered. After they’d taken the first step into the building Trish asked quietly, “Is he in here?”

“Yes,” Jotaro answered, pulling a small electric torch from another coat pocket. “I saw them in the window but didn’t get a good look at their face. Someone’s in here, I felt the aura of a stand user.”

“Good. I’m gonna kick their ass.”

*

Mista had gotten halfway through the bottle when it had hit. Like the moment when you realise you’re coming down with a cold - when you feel that dry tickle at the back of your throat. Or when you know you’re about to vomit - that light feeling in your stomach and black dots dancing in front of your eyes. He saw it coming about two seconds before it hit. That was enough time to drop the bottle and open his mouth to shout out to Trish ahead of him, but he’d been too slow, and no sound came out. He only screwed his eyes shut and fell to his knees and grit his jawand felt the bite of iron in his mouth where his teeth had cut into his tongue.

Iron followed him down, then. It followed him down to the hard ground and down into the dark and filled his eyes and ears and nose. Everything smelt like iron, his clothes did, his hands did, everything he touched did. And it smelt like blood.

Everything smelt like blood. It smelt red.

Red.

Red.

RED.

Mista saw red in a hundred shades folding in on each other behind his eyes as he screwed them tighter shut and pushed the pads of his fingers into his eye sockets to blot out that colour. It only smeared the colour into worse and different shapes. It bent and swirled like olive oil over dishwater. It was sickening. He couldn’t look at it.

Why did it have to be red. Why was it red? What was so wrong with red all of a sudden?

He felt hands on his shoulders and back and at his hands, trying to pull them away from his face. But he couldn’t let them. If his eyes were open he’d only feel crippling pain and fear greater than anything else he’d ever felt before, somehow. If his hands left his face then the light passing through his eyelids would only turn that shade into a lighter, brighter shade of red than the darkened colour of oxidised blood he could see now. The hands pulled him up and over something warm and soft. The smell of his own blood finally subsided, and he smelt delicate vanilla and blossom. That was Trish’s perfume. Then in that case he definitely couldn’t open his eyes. The last thing he remembered before slamming his eyes shut was the back of Trish’s skirt, a dusty red colour with gold details of swallows taking flight up from the hem. If he opened his eyes it’d be the first thing he sees.

He also heard voices around him; low and anxious, and high and panicked. Though he couldn’t make them out over the sound of blood roaring in his ears and his thundering heartbeat. He wondered if some of those voices were the Pistols. Even if they could speak straight into his mind he wouldn’t hear them over the screaming pure unbridled terror. He hadn’t been this scared since childhood. Nights spent holding a torch’s light trained on his bedroom door for hours until he finally passed out just in case anything crept in when he wasn’t looking. Taking a running start from his light switch and leaping into his bed so nothing under the bed could grab his ankles. That was the feeling he had. He didn’t want to look, he didn’t want to hear, he didn’t want anything.

Soon, too soon he thought, he was slid off from Trish’s lap and back onto the cold hard ground. The scent of her perfume faded away into the smell of dust and dirt from the pavement under his nose. Mista spared little thought to where they’d gone. At any other time, he’d have called that selfish, but as soon as the sensation of Trish’s hand on his head left him it was if she had never been there.

Mista did not know how much time passed between then and the following event, for similar reasons. Everything, colours, scents, sounds, voices, bled together and folded into nothing but sheer bloody terror and the conviction that the world was red, and he might as well be dead if he saw it again.

But, after that unknown period of time he heard a voice above him, very clear and very smug.

“Scared?”

It was the voice of a young man.

“Though I was aiming for that Kujo fellow, I suppose this will keep me entertained while Rosanna takes care of those other two.” The voice sighed and there was the sound of rustling as he crouched down by Mista’s side. “I wonder what it was you saw? A colour, I suppose. That’s what it usually is.”

Mista would have punched this voice, if he could. It was that kind of voice.

“Maybe blue. Or yellow. Or brown. There’s a lot of brown around here.”

Mista grit his teeth harder. His jaw had begun to ache.

“Hmm.” The voice smiled. Mista could hear it. “Or maybe it was red.”

Mista curled tighter in on himself.

“Haha! Called it.”

A boot hit Mista in his lower back.

“Be grateful, pissboy. You could’ve been killed but my stand only causes intense agony. So, you’re welcome.”

Mista’s toes curled in his shoes. He couldn’t stand listening to this asshole talk like he had nothing coming to him.

“Oh, I should probably introduce myself. Name’s Harley. My stand’s Hungry Heart, a beautiful little thing if I say so myself. Anyone who ingests a liquid saturated with its body becomes under my influence. And you, lucky guy, managed to chug a whole half litre before slowing down. Anyway, the first thing you see after it activates becomes your very wort fear. And I’m talking shit-your-pants-bad. Usually my targets become hallucinatory messes real fast or just pass out from the terror so you’re an impressive one for holding out this long. Must had closed your eyes fast.”

With this brand new and very handy information, Mista felt a fresh surge of anger rise briefly above his fear. His mouth twitched open just enough for him to say through his teeth, “That’s a shitty ability.”

What did you say?” Harley snarled. “You little shit?”

“It’s pathetic. You’re just a coward.” Mista felt his jaw lock up again.

Harley kicked him again. Then again. He was supposed to have taken out Kujo first so that Rosanna wouldn’t have to deal with his time-stop ability on her own, so he was probably in for an earful after she got back from that fight. This wasn’t meant to have happened. He was supposed to be the crux of the operation so that when they eventually caught up with the chief in the Colosseum there’d be no one to stop them from finishing their plans. It was only a minor set-back, but he was getting a bad feeling because of it.

Under his boot, Mista felt Hungry Heart’s influence slip a little as Harley became more agitated. Maybe he could get back on his feet if he was careful. He might even be able to open his eyes again now that he knew how his power worked, all he had to do was stay away from the colour red. From memory he didn’t think there was that much red stuff around them in the street, what had triggered the fear in the first place was Trish’s skirt and she’d left to chase the other user a moment ago. Maybe he could…

Harley spoke again. “What we’re doing is none of your business, it shouldn’t have concerned Passione in the first place. Our chief is doing for us what the Foundation will always fail to do; treat us like we ought to be. We’re strong, and we’ve been nothing but worker ants to them for years, sucking up to a century-old ideology when the world has moved on. We need to move on.  We deserve to be a part of that new world.”

There was a crashing sound from down the street. Harley turned to look but there was no one there.

“Hey. Hey!” He stomped on Mista’s leg. “Have you got another friend with you? That Fugo guy? Or the little girl, what was her name? You need to tell me if I missed someone.”

Mista didn’t answer. Something else crashed. Harley turned in time to see a bicycle fall from its place leaning against a wall. He glanced between it and Mista, then slowly edged towards the bike. The chain securing it to an iron fence had been shattered, recently. The broken links rattled across the cobblestones as he neared it.

Once he was a few steps away Mista rolled over onto his front and pushed up onto his knees. After a couple of deep breaths, he opened his eyes. Not so bad, all he saw was a stack of newspapers on someone’s front step. With that moment of confidence, he got to his feet a little unsteadily and put a hand to the wall to keep himself upright. His heart pounded at the thought of his eyes actually being open, actually putting himself in the position to trigger that complete panic again. If his fear was of anything and everything the colour red, then it’s gonna be real fucking hard to take this guy down on his own. Mista watched Harley crouch by the bike that the Pistols had toppled and pulled his gun out from under his belt. He levelled the barrel to the man’s shoulder, just in case they could get any more information out of him about the third member of their party later, and slowly exhaled.

The Pistols had been rattled by his panic attack so were hard to organise around the bullets and load the gun, but Tres finally got the job done just as Harley turned around. He saw the gun. His eyes widened. He began reaching for something inside his own coat pocket.

Mista pulled the trigger.                                                           

And he saw red.

Chapter Text

Where was it?

It must still be in the manor.

If it isn’t in the manor then-

Giorno’s mind raced. He hadn’t anticipated this. He didn’t know what to do. How could that even happen?

Across the hall, Giorno’s panic was rubbing off on Dio.

“What is it?” he asked. “Why are you so worked up over a dusty old mask?”

Giorno strode over and almost swung a fist at Dio before restraining himself at the last moment. “It has never been more important than now that you listen to me, Dio. You have to listen to me and you have to believe me. That mask is dangerous. I was a fool for even dismissing the notion that it would be stolen from his house and now I must ask you to trust me.”

Dio crossed his arms. “Have you lost your mind? I wouldn’t let you out of this house if you begged me and no lies you come up with now will make me forget the crimes you’ve already committed against us.”

“Dio. This is a matter of life and death.” Giorno raised his voice by a fraction.

“This family is not so poor that a single stolen artefact will bring us crumbling down, even if it holds some morbid importance to George. There’s no reason to be agitated about it.”

Giorno prickled and grabbed Dio by the front of his shirt, an impressive feat considering their difference in height. “Don’t you dare talk down to me.”

“Let go of me.”

“If you ignore me I promise you this day will become so much worse for you, Dio. Whether that be me breaking your jaw for not listening to me, or the repercussions of this mistake. You’ll have blood on your hands before the sun rises. I would take care of this myself if you hadn’t given me a concussion earlier today, so I must insist you help me fix this.”

Dio stared coolly back into Giorno’s eyes. “I have no reason to listen to your madness.”

Giorno stood still for a moment, then let go of Dio’s shirt and stepped back. “Then what must I do to have you listen to me?”

“I suspect you must start over. Turn back the clock, begin again without that ridiculous charade and refrain from causing so much chaos in the short tine we’ve known each other. I suspect ‘Giorno’ isn’t even your real name, your falsity runs so deep. You’re far enough below me to not mean shit in my eyes so I have no reason to lend you a second more of my time, so if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my idiot brother who you were so gracious as to render comatose.” said Dio as he turned to leave Giorno once again, but Giorno gripped his wrist and pulled Dio back to face him.

“Listen to me,” Giorno said, slow and level, “I can’t stand here knowing innocent people’s lives are at risk, I never have, and I won’t begin today.”

Dio opened his mouth to object again but Giorno twisted his wrist to shut him up and reached up with his other hand to pull back his own shirt collar away from his neck.

“Look here. Would you believe me if I told you I’m acting entirely selflessly? That I’m not lying to you for once? Could you drop your pride for one moment and consider the safety of someone other than yourself?”

Dio stared down at the five-pointed mark on Giorno’s left shoulder, a darker shade than the surrounding skin and slightly raised. If he was surprised Giorno wasn’t looking close enough.

“I wouldn’t hurt Jonathan,” Giorno continued. “I would never want to, and I have no intention to let either of you come to any harm. And this is the kind of threat which will surely come back to harm you two. Please trust me, Dio, if it’s the only thing you do for me.”

It was around this moment that on the stairway landing above them, one floor up, Jonathan stumbled into view. He caught sight of Dio and Giorno in the hall below him and called down, “You two are okay? Thank goodness!”

Giorno pulled his shirt back into place and hurried towards the staircase.

“Jonathan! I thought you were unconscious. When did you recover?” He called up.

Jonathan rubbed his temple. “Maybe…five minutes ago? There was a man trying to steal Dio’s jewellery.” Giorno rushed up the stairs and slung one of Jonathan’s arms over his shoulders, easing him down the first few steps. Down below, Dio was still silent, and kept his eyes on Giorno. “Did you see the man, the one who was stealing from us?” Jonathan continued. “I wasn’t able to stop him because of my condition.”

“He got away,” said Giorno. “And we think he had two accomplices, one of which also ran off.”

They got to the bottom of the steps, Giorno helping Jonathan over to a banister he could rest against. “Was anyone hurt?” asked Jonathan. He spied a makeshift bandage made from a cushion cover tied around one of Dio’s shins.

“No.” Dio’s voice was clipped. “We’re fine.”

“Thank goodness.” Jonathan relaxed against the banister but then looked concerned to Giorno beside him. “Are you all right? You look worried.”

Giorno clenched his jaw. “Would you believe me if I told you something very dangerous had been stolen from your home and could already be, as we speak, being used to hurt innocent people.”

The strange and melodramatic phrasing got on Dio’s nerves, even though he was still reeling from the earlier bombshell. He doubted Jojo would fall for nonsense like this, despite his incessant naïveté and optimism. There was only so much good you can see in people especially after being rendered unconscious and on the brink of death, he was sure.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t lie about things like this, Giorno. Please tell me what I need to know.”

Dio spluttered. “Jojo! You imbecile! You’ve only just woken up after a fever and now you’re asking to be lead on some wild goose chase?”

“Dio, you know as well as I that he was not responsible for my sickness. The last thing I remember before falling under was him trying to stop me from touching that thing that burnt me. He carried me back to you and there’s not a bone in my body which tells me he’s untrustworthy. Call me a fool but I can’t bring myself to hate him.”

“Do you think I hate him?”

“I think you’re being unreasonable.”

Dio’s gaze flicked momentarily over Giorno. “Are you following him, then?” He asked Jonathan.

“Of course,” Jonathan perked up. “Why would I allow the village to be endangered when I’ve already been warned of it?”

“I’m sorry to remind you, Jojo,” Dio folded his arms and glowered, “But you’re in a terrible shape to go running off on a heroic mission tonight.”

Jonathan pushed away from the bannister and tested his weight on his legs, Giorno hovering nervously by his side. “Not at all!” He did a couple little jumps in place. “I’m back to my normal self, see?” One of Jonathan’s knees buckled, and he jerked to the side. Giorno caught his elbow with a sharp intake of breath.

“Maybe you should stay.” Giorno said.

“Giorno, I appreciate your concern,” said Jonathan, “but you’ll have to lock me in the attic to stop me from following you.” Both Dio and Giorno bristled with discomfort. It was an analogy in quite poor taste for today.

Dio sighed and rubbed his face, then ran his hands through his hair and glared at the carpet between his feet. Stubborn, reckless, naïve and over-eager to be the martyr. It was simply too much. Dio could practically feel the grey hairs growing with each of his attempts to slow Jojo down.

“Nothing I say will stop you.”

“Correct.”

Dio wilted, resigned. “Then I’ll join you.”

Jonathan was shocked. Giorno didn’t react, but his grip on Jonathan’s elbow relaxed a little.

“You will?” Jonathan didn’t seem convinced.

“Someone’s got to stop you from breaking yourself any further.”

Jonathan beamed. “So where do we start? Do you know where this weapon is?” He asked Giorno.

Giorno made a peculiar expression, and half-shrugged. “I’m going to find out,” He said, then pulled something small and white from his breast pocket.

Jonathan gaped at it. “A tooth?” Giorno nodded. “Whose is it?”

“The man who I met upstairs.”

“Why do you have his tooth?” Dio was on edge but couldn’t yet put his finger on why.

“I punched him,” Giorno answered.

That’s not what I meant, was what Dio had opened his mouth to say, but he was quickly silenced by the bloody molar sprouting wings and gently taking off from Giorno’s palm. A tiny pieris rapae drifted about above their heads and towards the closed front doors of the manor.

“Uh.” Dio pointed weakly up at the butterfly. “What’s that?”

“I have no time to explain.” Giorno strode past him and paused by the doors. “You should follow me.”

Jonathan spared only a fleeting glance to Dio before joining Giorno and opening the front door. Dio watched the tooth-turned-butterfly slip out into the evening air as soon as he did. Why on earth did Jojo not show a shred of rationality? He had just watched the bastard turn a tooth into a goddamned living insect, for Christ’s sake. Dio fumed. And a blood relation was no excuse. People don’t just feel that family connection without an inherent knowledge of it, right?

Standing by the open door, Giorno watched Dio. “Are you coming?” He asked, one brow delicately raised. He knew this play was working, the little prick. Giorno knew he had him wrapped around his finger. And he had to be real fucking proud of himself, too.

Dio joined them by the door and said, venom dripping from his words, “Let’s get this over with then.”

*

Along the country road Dio took his time studying the strange boy by his side. He hadn’t given himself the chance to since that day in the alleyway back in London. At that time, he’d been overcome with a feeling of Deja-vu, a flicker of something terribly familiar in Giorno’s wide eyes staring back at him from across the street, the look on his face perhaps, or the curve of his jaw. The details slipped away as Dio tried to pin them down. It had been such a fleeting moment he now wondered if he’d only imagined it. He had been kicked in the head a few times that day after all. Now, Giorno was a little different. Not just the sudden change in appearance; his hair, his clothes, his bearing, but the ghost of double vision Dio had seen was different too. Though it wasn’t gone. It was certainly still there, when he watched him out the corner of his eyes for a moment too long and the feeling of familiarity kicks in again. But it wasn’t the same as before.

Dio studied Giorno furiously, hating that he still couldn’t put his finger on it.

A small frame, short for his age but not weedy. Narrow shoulders but he held them firm like a princeling. He had elfish features, a small nose, angled eyebrows much like his own, a sharp gaze like there was always something ahead of him worth investigating. Everything about Giorno was sharp, polished to a singing point and strikingly beautiful in a Hellenistic way, but he still had the rounded cheeks of youth and a spattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose which Dio didn’t miss in his observation. Dio then noted that his ears were pierced with little golden studs; something he’d failed to notice before then due to Giorno’s shaggy black hair hiding it until the night air had shifted it back from his face. There was nothing remarkable about that face, Dio told himself. It didn’t even resemble Jojo’s, who was a mountain of a man and had the face of a kind but detached professor-type. Jojo would have a dazed expression and be gazing off into the distance like a daydreaming schoolgirl if he wasn’t burying his nose in a book. And Giorno didn’t seem like the type, so the family resemblance wasn’t there in that sense.

Giorno had noticed Dio’s attention on him and shot him a glance. Dio looked away with a sneer. But a couple of moments later some small puzzle piece fell into place in Dio’s mind; in that tiny moment he’d recognised the exact shade of blue in Giorno’s eyes as the one he’d had to stare into countless times with varying levels of fury before now.

So, he had Jojo’s eyes, what of it. That didn’t explain the first instance of double-vision he’d experienced, when he hadn’t been close enough to recognise eye colour. Could there have been someone else Giorno’s been reminding him of? Dio’s head hurt, so he fell back a couple steps to walk beside Jonathan instead.

Jonathan was occupied by the scar running down his arm, tracing it with his fingers like that would somehow solve the mystery.

“What was it that you picked up?” asked Dio, keeping his eyes locked on the back of Giorno’s head.

“Pardon?”

“You said you were reaching for something before you blacked out.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose it looked golden and metallic, but I couldn’t say exactly what it resembled. I only remember it being rather attractive to me at the time.”

Dio looked suspiciously at Jonathan, who gazed innocently back. This was going nowhere. “How are you feeling then.” Dio voice was clipped, like it pained him to ask.

“Good as new.” Jonathan pulled his sleeve back down and swung his arms back and forth. “I might even say better, it’s as if a great weight has been lifted off me.”

Dio grunted. There might have been something like a healthy glow about Jojo now that he was back on his feet. Whenever Dio looked slightly away, when not looking directly at Jonathan, he could have sworn that glow was much more literal. Dio put it down to the beating he’d taken earlier that evening causing some minor hallucinations.

“Why do you hate Giorno so much?” Jonathan asked.

“What’s it to you?”

“I think it’s quite uncalled for.”

Dio scowled. There was that horrifyingly obstinate empathy. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Is it because he’s so much like you?”

Dio startled. What did that mean? “What does that mean?” He choked out.

“He also rose to where he is now after living in quite foul poverty. You both have made your life with your own hands, it’s admirable.” Jonathan said, his eyes wide with sincerity.

“He must have lied about that too.”

“I must correct you there.” Giorno said, not turning to face them. “I never lied about my childhood.”

“Are you sure?” Dio spat back. “You seem far too pampered to me, like the kind of child who grew up eating out the hands of his parents. You must think being ignored by your family is comparable to the rest of us who made our ‘admirable journey’ through shedding our own blood and tears.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and Dio heard Giorno make a sharp intake of breath. “Everything I’ve achieved,” he began, “I did either though the great sacrifice of my closest friends, or my own lifelong dedication and pain tolerance. I never knew my birth father. My mother rarely spent her nights at home, let alone fed me. My step-father beat me when she wasn’t watching and terrified me when she was. It’s true I wasn’t born with this name, but it’s the one I chose so I didn’t have to be called by the same as that man. I spend every moment living in the life I’ve built for myself knowing that if it weren’t for the generosity of strangers and friends I would most likely have rotted away in a gutter somewhere in the backstreets of Napoli. I neither envy nor pity anyone else because I’ve earned, and I’ve deserved, everything that’s come to me.” Giorno looked over his shoulder. “Please don’t make me repeat myself here, I hate repeating useless things, and I hate more than anything to talk about this particular part of my life.”

Dio almost stopped in his tracks. That sounded horribly familiar. It made him feel twisted up in his gut, he didn’t know why, and he felt terribly guilty for no reason. Why did that make him feel so horrible. Why was it like a punch to the stomach. The events from earlier that day surfaced in his mind like foul scum in drain water, turning him pale.

“I didn’t know that.” Dio said after a moment. His voice was unusually soft.

“Hm.” Giorno turned away again.

A minute later Dio felt Jonathan’s hand on his shoulder. “Would you believe me if I told you he’d been reminding me of you since we first met the other day?” He said, low and quiet.

Dio scoffed and patted Jonathan’s hand. “Funny, I would have said the same thing but about you.”

*

The miracle butterfly led them to a low hill about a mile from the village. To follow it there the three of them had to trek through a couple of fields, thankfully free from livestock but muddied from the rain earlier that day. Much of the grass had become a bog so Giorno found himself slipping over his own feet at times. Once, he fell forwards while climbing up a slight incline, one of his feet sliding out from under him and catching his balance only when Jonathan put his arm out to stop him from wiping out. And that was how they made their journey up the hill, Jonathan hovering near behind Giorno, Dio stomping his way after them a little way back.

From a short distance away, they could see the glow of a gas light among the ruins of a monastery at the peak though they heard no voices. Giorno signalled that they should follow him around the walls to the other side of the monastery to where a small copse of trees hid them from sight of anyone within the ruins of the main building. Most of the monastery was only low walls and what was left of some living quarters across the far end of the field, but a central building still had high walls and a portion of an arched ceiling. After half a dozen centuries the stone of most of the site had become rubble, the wooden structures were completely gone, and the cloisters were overgrown with ivy and strawberry plants. By where they hid themselves a wall had collapsed in on itself and opened into one of these tiny quadrangles, where maybe in the 13^th century a garden had been kept by someone without a name.

It was a quiet atmosphere in that area as if the ancient custom of silence in the abbey was still being upheld in their subconscious. Dio was getting restless, he didn’t like that feeling at all.

“Do you know if they have used the weapon yet?” Jonathan asked. He was crouched behind a comically small shrub.

“I would know.” Giorno pressed his back against the wall, his eyes narrowed. “I’ve been told the mask makes a great amount of light and noise when it’s activated,” He looked to Jonathan. “Much like the arrowhead you touched this morning. And I’ll most likely feel it when it happens.”

Dio huffed. He was sitting on a mound of rubble and a twig had become caught in his hair. He swatted it out and said, “What do you mean, you’ll ‘feel it’?”

“In the same way I know there are two men approximately a hundred feet from us in that direction,” he pointed through the cloister, “who are both very much alive, so the mask has yet to be used. I suspect they haven’t realised exactly what they’ve stolen from you just yet.”

“Giorno,” Jonathan raised a hand. “Would you mind telling us now what this fifth sense of yours is?”

Giorno grimaced. He’d been dreading this. The ability to track life energy was a skill he’d been cultivating since he had first joined the gang and it was now at the point where, if he was relaxed and fully focussed, he could sense exactly where any living thing was in a radius of about 200 feet. Thinking of which, there was a family of rabbits further into the copse and a fox creeping through the ruins to their right. Like in this situation, it was a useful skill during infiltration and any gang-related job requiring stealth. But even this would be hard to explain to these two, let alone the rest of his abilities.

“It’s…” he began.

Dio cut in, “You know what, don’t tell us.” Giorno’s head jerked up, surprised. “You’ll only give us another lie. Just tell us what you can do to help us get that mask thing back.”

Giorno leant forwards, resting his arms over his knees. “The mask itself isn’t the danger. It’s a weapon which makes monsters of regular men and women, it turns them into unstoppable creatures who only crave destruction and more power. Once that creature is created I doubt I’ll have any effect on it since my skills concentrate around the creation and control of living things as you saw earlier, and the mask creature is no longer one of the living. It’s highly likely that my efforts to stop it will only make it more powerful.”

Giorno had been thinking about this for most of their journey over from the manor, about how his ‘life’ may be like the mysterious Hamon but couldn’t possibly be the exact same. His was the lifeblood of flora and fauna and he suspected that it could easily be drunk up by a vampire as the very thing keeping its prey alive. If he wasn’t careful, a single hit from G.E. – imbued with ‘life’ or not – could allow the creature to become infinitely stronger. For once, he wished he had a stand as simple as Kujo’s.

Dio swore. “Then why the hell are you even trying if this thing’s unstoppable?”

“Dio! Please stay calm.” Jonathan said.

“I’ve been told the only way people in the past could defeat the creature was through a skill similar but different to mine which burnt them up from the inside.” As Giorno said it, Jonathan shifted. He must have recognised that mental image.

“Can you use that?” Dio asked.

“No. But we have someone who can.” Giorno turned to Jonathan. “I apologise for the unpleasant way of introducing it to you, but you’ve had that ability since I accidentally activated it in the tavern today.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened. “That was-?”

Dio interrupted again. “Hey, how do you know that’s what it is? It may have been a simple fever. From how I heard it you’ve never even seen this thing before. How would you know?” He leant closer to Giorno, like seeing the whites of his eyes would somehow make it easier to understand what he was telling them.

“I’ll prove it.” Giorno plucked a lump of rock from the ground by where he sat and promptly, and impatiently, turned it into a handful of shrubbery. It was all tangled twines and leaves, no sign of flowers to identify the plant. He held it out to Jonathan and dropped it into his hands.

Dio and Jonathan both stared back at him, waiting. Giorno held his hands up defensively and nodded to Jonathan’s. They looked back over to see the nondescript vegetation slowly sprout bud after bud and eventually blossom into a bundle of vibrant yellow flowers. “I’m not doing that.” Giorno said, still holding his palms up. “That’s all you.”

“Are you sure?” Jonathan peered down at the flowers. “I don’t think I’m doing anything particularly special to it.”

Dio reached over and gently touched the flowers. “And this is meant to be a weapon against monsters?” He said, sceptical.

“The creature is immortal, as I said, but has a mortal weakness to sunlight. This ability of yours, Jonathan, is based on the energy the sun emits and destroys them the same way the sun would. It’s a benevolent strength which is harmless to living things like humans and the plant you’re holding, but it is lethal to a vampire.”

“A vampi-?” Dio shut his mouth soon after beginning his horrified cry. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’d heard today.

“Wait, Giorno,” Jonathan gently put his bundle of flowers down by his side and turned to Giorno with a serious expression. “You say it’s harmless to people unchanged by the mask?”

“Yes.”

“Though, I remember your fingers being scorched by the burst of Hamon in the tavern. I saw the scars earlier.”

Giorno froze, his hands clenching into fists as Dio turned a curious eye to him. There was the rub. He’d been trying to forget that for the last few hours since regaining his mind from the attic incident. He didn’t want to think about it too hard. It was bizarre. It didn’t make any sense. But in a morbid way, it kind of did. If he had previously thought that he hadn’t inherited enough from one of his two biological fathers, he didn’t think it now.

“I’m a special case.” He said carefully. “If I was a vampire it would have killed me, believe me.”

Jonathan looked thoughtful. “Okay.”

Dio made a double take then hissed to Jonathan, “You’re accepting that?”

“I told you Dio, I know he’s an ally.”

It was hard to accept, but Dio knew it too. He felt it in his bones, that Giorno was something more than a stranger. There was an inherent trust he’d felt growing over the past week as much as he hated it. It was getting harder and harder to hate Giorno. He sighed gutturally and rubbed at his face, then his hair. He knew Giorno was watching him, waiting for some word of acceptance, a sign of trust, something. He hated that. He thought that he hated that. He was sure that it was pissing him off. He was trying very very hard to hate Giorno.

“What’s the plan then,” Dio said, his face buried in his hands. “If I’m going to die tonight I want to do it with at least a semblance of dignity.”

Chapter Text

As soon as the bullet hit Harley’s shoulder Mista knew he’d fucked up. If Trish had been there to see it she’d have called him an idiot for not thinking that part through. The spray of blood from Harley’s gun wound was great enough to speckle the cobbles between him and Harley with fresh bright spots of red.

Red.

Red.

Mista’s heart stopped beating. His entire body cramped in a dozen different places and he took a sharp breath in and kept taking it in and he couldn’t move. Everything screamed for him to close his eyes again and curl away where it couldn’t touch him, but he couldn’t do that, he was positive if he did he would be killed by this guy. He’d be defenceless. There’d be no one to stop Harley from following Kujo and Trish. He had to stay on his feet whatever it took. He had to stop this guy. He had to keep the bile down.

The ground tipped dangerously.

“You asshole.” Harley growled, dropping to his knees on the pavement, and held a hand to the wound in his shoulder. “Why can’t you just stay down and shit yourself.”

Mista blinked as his vision wobbled like an old film, spots of black and white popping all over his vision. His heartrate was going nuts. His knees were threatening to buckle. Watching this tremor Harley snarled and pulled his hand away from his shoulder, proudly presenting his bloody palm out to Mista.

He choked, clasping a hand over his mouth as he felt bile rise and his eyes began to water.

“Get back here!” Harley screeched, but Mista had spun around and crashed through the door behind him off the street and out of sight. He ran up the building’s stairs, stopping only once he came to the first landing and caught his breath. Cinque rushed up to his face.

“Boss! You need to shoot him again! Shoot him dead!” It cried. The other Pistols flew closer and nodded furiously.

“I…. I can’t.” Mista gasped, hands on his knees. Just the thought of raising his gun again brought the image of that bloody shoulder and bloody hand and bloody cobblestone back into his mind and his head went light. No matter how much he grit his teeth he could only be terrified of shooting another bullet. This was the worst fucking time by a long shot for him to suddenly become a haemophobe.

Mista wiped his brow and looked around him. He had to hide before Harley caught up. The landing he stood on had two apartments leading off it, and one door stood right before him. Perfect.

Shit.

Shit.

That one’s red.

Feeling his heart leap into his throat, Mista immediately span around, tearing his eyes away from the first one and kicked down the second door which was painted a dark blue behind him. This apartment was unfortunately inhabited when he entered, so Mista shouted something – he quickly forgot what exactly – at the family sitting around the living space to get them out the flat. He quickly paced into the kitchen with a grim face. Mista put his hands on his hips and took some deep breaths, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them wide and focusing hard on the pale beige linoleum floor of the kitchen. He counted to ten – skipping just one number, of course – and pushed as much fear from his mind as possible, then started from one again. There was plenty in here he could use to defend himself. All he needed to do was avoid drawing blood, or seeing anything red, or thinking too much about the colour red.

He found it hard to breathe again. One of the Pistols hovered near the closed door of the flat to watch the stairwell though a peep-hole but the other four remaining were floating nearby Mista and watching worriedly, none of them wanting to say anything to him yet.

Mista looked between them, panting slightly, and frowned. “Why are there only five of you?” he asked, his hands still gripping his hips. “Where’s Due?”

“He’s with the little miss!” Sei answered. “He’ll tell us if anything happens to her!”

“Oh, okay.” Mista said. His head drooped in relief. Now that he’d gotten back on his feet he’d been able to turn some thought towards Trish and Kujo wherever they’d got off to, though so long as they were safe from Harley he had no doubt they would be fine. The ‘Rosanna’ person he’d mentioned earlier couldn’t be quite so bad in comparison. All Mista had to do was keep Harley busy until then or with any luck kill him.

A nagging thought crept into Mista’s mind. He raised his head to Uno, by the front door.

“Hey Uno,” He began, his voice shaking a little bit. “What apartment are we in right now? What number is it?”

“Uh,” Uno didn’t say anything else. The other Pistols shivered as the implication set in. Of course, it had to be. It was that kind of day.

Mista sank to his knees.

“Fuck.”

There was no going back now, Harley had to be searching the ground floor’s apartment for him, meaning there was only three flats between him and the fight resuming. Even if that guy had been shot in the shoulder it can’t have slowed him down that much. There was no hope in running out and up to the upper floors without getting caught immediately. Now that Mista thought about it, Harley probably wasn’t even concerned about being in a hurry to catch him. He knew he was scared shitless, he knew the slightest thing could set him off, he knew he didn’t need to waste any energy rushing through the building to find him. He would find him. That wasn’t a question in either of their minds.

So, everything was going to shit. Everything. There was nothing he could do.

What kind of a man gets totalled by a bottle of water and a three-letter word? Mista bit back a whimper. He couldn’t even muster the strength to be sorry for himself. Everything scared him. And Harley was right, this was agony.

As his chest began to seize up, Mista felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun round, falling flat on his back and pointing his pistol up at –

“What the fuck?” Mista blinked and rubbed his eyes. He had to be going crazy now.

Standing above him, and offering out a hand, Giorno said, “Yes, you are going crazy.” And after Mista didn’t respond immediately added with some impatience, “But you must get up. Now, Mista.”

Mista didn’t wait for the not-Giorno to speak again and got to his feet. The person beside him looked an awful lot like Giorno, actually. He wore the outfit he’d worn the first time they’d met – although his ladybug badges had turned an enigmatic grey shade - and even stood with the same air of natural elegance Giorno practically bled by the second.

“I must tell you now, I’m not really here. I’m only in your head.” The not-Giorno said.

“No shit.” Mista was still looking this person up and down, trying to find some discrepancy from the true Giorno.

“Good. I didn’t want you to get your hopes up.” The not-Giorno began walking out the kitchen. “Now, you must hide from that man Harley before he catches you again.”

Mista nodded blearily and followed. There were two bedrooms coming off from the living room, so he took the first, which turned out to be the larger one belonging to the adults he had recently chased out. At the sound of rattling outside the apartment Mista hurried into the room and began opening cupboards looking for somewhere to hide. The Pistols squawked at his ear that Harley was at the front door. Mista took a moment to look around the room behind him, puzzled by the sudden disappearance of the not-Giorno, then quickly jumped into a mostly empty wardrobe in the corner of the bedroom.

Once the door was closed it was pitch black inside the wardrobe, and unpleasantly musty. But there was no way he could possibly stumble across anything red like this so Mista was finally at ease. As soon as he’d settled down between a hanging sundress and a stack of shoeboxes he heard the front door of the apartment be kicked in. Through a slit in the thin wooden door a bar of sunlight fell on Mista’s shoulder, he tilted his head forwards and saw a tiny image of the bedroom through it.

Mista ran his hand down his face. There was no doubt Harley would know he was in this apartment, it was only a matter of time until he worked out exactly where he was hiding.

“Do you have a plan?” A second crack in the door spilt light onto his hallucination now sitting opposite Mista in the wardrobe.

“No, of course not.” Mista hissed back. “I can barely stop myself from passing out at the thought of that guy coming up to me still covered in blo-” he stopped and covered his mouth, riding out the wave of nausea.

Giorno leant closer, the ray of sunlight igniting his hair. “I know you can do this.”

“Yeah, you would think that.”

“It’s what you want to hear right now, Mista. It’s what you want me to tell you.” Giorno said softly. “Because you remember me telling you the same thing before.”

Yeah, like that time when they’d first arrived in Rome, and a dozen others, when his pride finally gave out and the only reason he hadn’t given up was Giorno’s voice in his ear. How many times has that had to happen between them? Tough fucking luck getting any help this time though. Mista pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remind himself that he was really still alone in that wardrobe. When he opened his eyes Giorno was still there and he looked somewhat offended.

“Do you want me gone?”                                              

“You’re kinda distracting.”

“You shouldn’t speak, he’ll hear you,” whispered Giorno. Mista snapped his mouth shut. “You’ve calmed down since I’ve appeared, haven’t you?” Mista nodded. “Then stop thinking too hard about it and focus on not panicking again. Evidently there’s still a part of you which isn’t under Hungry Heart’s influence, which is me. I’m what’s left of your survival instincts. So, I’m meant to be distracting. I’m trying to keep you alive Mista.”

Apparently, it's the same part which is currently still hung up on Giorno’s absence, Mista thought to himself. Being berated by his subconscious was not the way he had seen his day going.

He put a hand up to the crown of his head, suddenly aware of the absence of his hat. It must have been left on the street outside when he ran off earlier. Without it his hair stuck up in sweaty tufts at absurd angles after hours of being trapped under the hat in 37 degrees heat all day long. He hadn’t even noticed it was gone until now. It was usually so important to him. Once, Giorno had asked him about it after one messy encounter with a rival gang operative during which the hat had become dangerously close to being incinerated. He’d replied with the explanation he gave everyone, that it was good luck. And that it looked damn good in it. Which wasn’t a lie. He’d simply chosen not to mention that he always cut his coarse and wildly curly hair this close to his scalp so that he wouldn’t have to tame it daily or put any product in it like the ungodly quantity he would watch Giorno burn through each morning. The hat was there simply to hide that laziness.

Just as Mista had run the train of thought through, turning his attention back to the crack in the door, something slammed against the wardrobe. The space went dark, a boot had been placed over the crack in the wood by Mista’s head.

“Found you.” Harley hissed against the door. He’d pressed his nose up to the wardrobe surface, grinning between the doors and flexing both his fists.

Mista gasped in shock and cowered and pressed up against the back wall. The doors were pulled open and there stood Harley, his face flecked with his own blood and eyes wild with rage. Immediately Giorno had grabbed Mista by the shoulders and stared him in the face and hurriedly whispered into his ears, “This is something you can overcome. Mista, you’re not weak, you’re not cursed or unlucky or tragic, and you’re not going to die here. Mista listen to me-”

And Mista was dragged from the wardrobe and thrown to the floor, covering his face with both arms and waiting for the first blow to land.

Harley watched with raw bleeding satisfaction for a sweet moment. He rather liked waiting for the fear to turn his targets into whimpering lumps to make finishing them off easier, it was how he had most often taken out the men and women the SPW had occasionally deemed too dangerous to wield stands out and about in the world. Though, most of those targets had been much more exciting to fight than this guy. It was another reason why he’d hoped Kujo would have been the one to crumble under Hungry Heart instead.

This would take no time at all.

He crouched down by Mista and giggled. “Have you pissed yourself yet? Or has the adrenaline driven you totally insane already. You probably can’t even understand what I’m saying to you right now, poor bastard.”

Mista peeked between his forearms to see Giorno standing behind Harley, giving him an intense look. His hand was over his heart. Meanwhile, Harley pulled Mista up and threw him back against the doors of the wardrobe.

“I was gonna keep you alive so that we’d have some leverage against the Foundation later, but I’ve decided that I’ll kill you instead. So, my question for you is, how do you want to go out? You seem like the kind of guy who’s looking forwards to a flashy death of some kind.” Harley said. He only had an army knife on him at the time but there had to be all sorts of fun things hidden around this apartment for him to use instead if given the chance. Several appliances in the kitchen had looked rather promising.

He looked down to Mista, who was staring fixedly at something behind him. He turned around, but nothing was there. “What are you looking at? Look at me.” Mista wasn’t listening. “Hey! I was asking you a question.”

Mista blinked and looked to Harley, flinching when he saw the blood again.

“Are you ready to die, asshole?”

Mista smiled grimly. He really wasn’t. Harley’s eyes flashed in anger.

In that exact moment Mista lunged forwards, driving the top of his head directly into Harley’s crotch then jumping to the side out of the way as Harley shouted in shock and pain. Mista shot across the bedroom, deftly jumping over the red woollen rug, and reaching for a strange-looking metal statuette by the bedside. He held it out between him and Harley, pointing the – top? Maybe, it was hard to tell – at where he stood across the room from him.

Harley was still hunched over, growling in pain. No one should have been moving so fast like that after being affected so severely by Hungry heart. He should still be crying on the floor like a little bitch. Harley bit into his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Back off,” Mista said. “Deactivate your stand and I’ll let you go without killing you. You’re keeping me from my colleagues and I’m in a hurry.”

“You think I’ll let you go run off and help those other two?” Harley grinned and took a couple steps closer. “Don’t even bother. They’re probably already dead. Rosanna wouldn’t have let them defeat her so easy, I’m putting money on them being nothing more than dust and bones.” He stood as close to Mista as he could get without being in swinging distance of his bronze figure.

“Dude, you’re real annoying, you know that?” Mista said. One of the Pistols had taken a large bite into Harley’s ear upon Mista’s punctuation. Harley yelped and tried to pluck Uno off but it only bit down harder and two more Pistols began chewing on his other ear. Mista crept closer and held the statue up above his head, hoping for a clean and heavy blow to Harley’s skull with no blood spilt to set him off again. It might not kill him but there was a good chance of it knocking him out and temporarily disabling his stand, giving Mista the chance to finish him off with a bullet and catching up with Kujo and Trish wherever they’d gone.

A moment before he could drop the statue Harley looked up, saw the figure, locked gaze with Mista and, with five Pistols furiously gnawing on his ears and neck, spat a stream of blood directly into Mista’s eyes.

Mista reeled back and lost his grip on the statue, it fell to the ground behind him. His vision went entirely red. He stopped thinking.

Harley quickly pulled the gun from Mista’s belt as he went down, after tripping on the statue he’d dropped and falling on his back flat on the ground. Now, with the gun in his hands, Harley took a step away. The Pistols had screamed in surprise and were flitting about in front of him to distract his focus away from Mista on the ground before him. But he barely saw or heard them.

Harley levelled the gun to Mista’s chest.

Despite not carrying a gun himself, he was a good shot.

*

Finding where the stand user was hiding was easy enough; they simply followed the trail of human remains up the stairwell to a flat on the fourth floor. To be precise, they didn’t know that it was human remains exactly up until when Jotaro had been curious enough to poke through a pile of dust on the floor of the first landing with one foot. Once they found a left hand and part of someone’s torso in the dust they had picked up the pace and thereafter made a point of avoiding the other piles on their way up.

Exactly what the nature of this second user’s ability was, they couldn’t guess. Trish hoped it was one she could easily bypass so her and Kujo could quickly move on and find the guy who had targeted Mista beforehand. Jotaro only hoped the user wouldn’t be too annoying, he had a headache coming on.

The flat they were led to had its door hanging on one hinge, partly smashed and swinging gently as they approached. Jotaro gingerly pushed it inwards and stepped into the flat first. It was a large space, the floor open like a studio with only two doors in the far wall assumedly leading to a bathroom and storage space. Much of the decoration was tacky; bright pink and yellow prints of baby animals and collections of photographs from around the city, most of which featured a young man and woman clinging onto each other for dear life and grinning like crazy people. Where these two people were now was a mystery - Trish decided, not wanting to make a connection between their absence and the heaps of dust outside the flat.

There was a bed in one corner of the room and a kitchen-like area in another. There was very little space for someone to hide. Jotaro walked to the shattered window to their left and looked down into the street as Trish watched the rest of the room suspiciously.

“Do you think they ran off?” Trish asked. “They might have seen you enter the building and made a break for it if their plan really was to take you out first.”

Jotaro frowned and turned away from the window. “No. They don’t seem like the kind of people to give up that easily.”

Unfortunately, Trish had to agree. She had the horrible feeling that they hadn’t gotten out of it that easily. The hairs on the back of her neck rose and not a moment later, the outline of Spice Girl solidified beside her with a brief shimmer of opalescent pink. With little practical experience since her time with Buccellati and co. six months ago Trish’s control over Spice Girl hadn’t become much better, the stand still made its appearance whenever it pleased or felt the slightest threat towards her. Trish had made this complaint to Giorno some months ago, after a particularly heated argument with one paparazzi with little to no understanding of personal space and boundaries had resulted in a broken bone and a camera lens-cap lodged in a place the doctors couldn’t quite wrap their heads around. Even disregarding the trouble that it had taken to cover that incident up afterwards, her temper was becoming a concern for her when a particularly powerful stand was going to make itself involved like this.

The advice Giorno had given her at the time was cryptic, something about coming to terms with her own power, or learning to control it, or something of the sort. It hadn’t been convincing to Trish in the slightest. She had returned the next day with the same complaint - there hadn’t been a second incident, but she felt as if there was still more to say.

She’d found him in the back grounds of the palazzo, a sprawling maze of courtyards and walled gardens dotted with low fountains and tall marble statues. Since Mista had been nowhere to be seen that day in the Palazzo she wasn’t given entry by the other members of Passione, so took the initiative to quietly jump the garden wall at the back. She’d then landed quite inelegantly in a shallow pond so went the rest of her exploration barefoot with her sodden boots under an arm. It had felt like the garden wasn’t ever going to end; all the lawns and courtyards looked so similar and she still couldn’t see the main Palazzo building despite being positive that she was walking in the right direction. A stone archway opened into a square courtyard framed by orange trees where an empty fountain sat squat in the centre. Trish slowly approached, admiring a glossy mosaic pattern on the outside depicting a large boat filled with men rejoicing. She circled the fountain to watch the men be tangled in vines, then grapes, then transformed into a pod of dolphins. These dolphins danced along the stone surface until they returned to the first image where they swam under the boat they had first been thrown from. It was a story which tickled Trish’s memory, but her curiosity was extinguished when she heard a soft noise from inside the fountain.

She looked in. The bowl of the fountain was empty of water, that she had already observed, but the shallow and wide bottom of the bowl appeared to have been dry for so long that a bed of leaves and fallen twigs had built up at the bottom. Lying on this layer of soft foliage, curled against the trunk of the fountain and fast asleep, was Giorno.

Trish blinked, and looked around. She put her boots down by the fountain and leant over the lip.

“Hey. Giorno.” She hissed. He didn’t stir. His breathing was steady and slightly muffled by one arm wrapped around his head. It was a strange sight, even disregarding where she’d found him.

Trish dithered for a moment then carefully clambered into the fountain to slide towards the trunk and sit cross-legged beside him. The fact that she was literally sitting in dirt was no longer a thought in her mind since she had already been splashed all over in pond water and the loose black trousers she was wearing weren’t even her favourite. Looking over to Giorno, she saw he was wearing clothing possibly even more expensive than her own; a violent lime green roll neck sweater with intricate beading and white tailored trousers she recognised from a recent fashion showcase she had attended as a celebrity guest a fortnight ago. Among the foliage she saw a glimmer of gold. A heavy-looking pendant with a scarab design which would have hung from his neck were he not horizontal.

Still sitting rather awkwardly with her back to the fountain’s spout, she idly picked a twig from Giorno’s hair and flicked it to the courtyard’s floor. She then removed a dry leaf and a fluffy white feather. After the third twig a voice finally joined her in the silent fountain basin.

“Trish? What are you doing here?” Giorno asked, groggy. He pushed up onto an elbow and rubbed his eyes. “Did you want something?”

Trish remembered the sour note she’d left on the previous day. Seeing the lengths he’d had to go to in order to find any rest in the Palazzo she decided it was best not to tempt another stressful conversation. “No. It’s fine.” She said.

Giorno was puzzled. “Then why are you here?” He pushed hair from his face, finding another twig caught behind one ear and brushing it away.

“I should ask you the same question.” She gestured to where they were sitting. “It’s not a luxury gang-issued suite, that’s for sure.”

“You’d be surprised, it was rather comfortable.” Giorno said with a tired smile.

Trish looked away, pulling a leaf apart in her fingers. “You shouldn’t have to hide in the gardens to sleep, Giorno. I know you’re busy and all, but this is kinda scary.”

“It’s not your concern, Trish.”

“But it is concerning me. You can’t stop me from worrying.”               

“I was just taking a rest. Can’t I do that?” Giorno laughed.

“Not in the bloody fountain.” Trish said, her voice raising slightly. Her eyes met Giorno’s again and she bit her lip. She didn’t want to lose her temper so quickly. “If Mista knew about this…”

“Please don’t tell Mista.”

“I won’t. As long as you promise to sleep in an actual bed tonight.”

“I can’t promise that.” Giorno brushed some leaves from his sweater and rolled the sleeves further down his arms. The weather had become unexpectantly cold that week forcing him into uncharacteristically modest clothing. Trish was shocked he’d even been warm enough to fall happily asleep outside on a day like this.

Trish wrapped her arms about her legs and rested her chin on her knees. She didn’t know what to say so the air became awkward.

“Hm.” Giorno shifted to mirror Trish’s posture. “So why did you come here? Are you still worried by your strength?”

“No. Not really. Sort of.”

“Trish?”

She put her head to the side, so her ear was pressed to her knee and some of her hair fell over one eye. “I’ve been thinking about you and Mista. Like, how you and Fugo and the others still have to fight off bad guys and I don’t even know about it. And I’m not talking about gang related business, I’m talking about people who you have to fight because they’re stand users. I know that’s a thing that happens - Polnareff told me so - that we’re drawn to each other like superpowered magnets.”

Giorno nodded.

“And you guys basically do that all the time. You have to think about that all the time,” Trish continued, “And I haven’t even used Spice Girl once since Rome for anything besides reaching the top shelf and scaring off grabby paparazzi. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to live like that all the time, always waiting for a fight.”

“Is that so,” Giorno tipped his head, echoing Trish again.

“What?”

“Are you sure that’s how it is, though? I think you’d much rather be in our shoes than worry for us from how I see it.”

“Excuse me?”                                   

“You know I’m right.” Giorno said. He sounded very confident.

Trish chewed her lip and stared furiously back at him. He just didn’t stop. He never stopped doing that. He’d previously explained that it was second nature, reading people like open books, but it still got on her nerves.

“I think you miss it.” Giorno now looked rather proud of himself.

“So, what if I do?” Trish said, indignant.

“It’d be a problem for both of us, I’m sure you know that.”

“Yeah, I know.” There was no way she could spend much more time around the gang than she already did without attracting unfortunate attention towards both herself and Passione, the few visits she did make were always carefully chosen and even more carefully executed and she’d never asked more questions about gang business than what was needed. Most gang business revolted her anyway.

“I thought you hated the gang stuff anyway.” Giorno said.

“I do. It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” She said, matter of fact.

Giorno watched her carefully. Right there, he was doing it again. “What is it then? Why do you still feel like you owe us help?”

Trish buried her face between her knees and sighed. “Can you leave it be?”

“No. This is important to me.”

Trish still felt his eyes on her while she stared at the dried leaves and twigs between her bare feet. The dirt had stained her toes already. She heard rustling beside her as Giorno shifted. When he spoke next his voice was quieter, softer.

“Is it Buccellati.”

Trish stiffened. She wasn’t going to raise her head now, she knew exactly what his face looked like.

“Trish, it had nothing to do with y-”

“It had everything to do with me. I’m not pulling the blame of anything onto myself or anything, that’s your favourite thing to do, I know that. But I must correct you, if it weren’t for me no one would have died and it’s as simple as that.”

“Trish please don’t say that.”

“I’m not here to talk about dead people, I hate to talk about it just as much as you do. But at least one of them died so that I can be sitting here next to you right now. Isn’t that one reason why I should be using at least some of the strength I owe to them?” She said, raising her head. Giorno’s expression was grim.

“Is that really what you think?”

Trish hesitated. “Maybe. Who knows. What do your great powers of intuition say, oh Capo?”

“It’s a silly thing to think. No one ever died so that you had to feel indebted to their memory. You owe nothing to the dead, nothing to their memory but respect. I think it’s far more likely that it’d be a disrespect to Buccellati’s memory to believe that he’d want you to put yourself in danger in his name.” Giorno said. He was wringing his wrists as he spoke, like he’d been thinking about this for a while.

Trish watched him for a moment, waiting to be sure he had nothing else to say. She blew out a breath and slid down to lie flat on the fountain’s basin, her bare and grubby feet dangling over the lip. “You’re right.”

Giorno carefully looked at her out the corner of his eyes, pretending to be occupied by cleaning the grime off his pendant. He was never good at comforting people, he knew that, he was far too blunt and to-the-point to be considered a good companion in any emotional state. He’d previously been called invasive. Or insensitive. He thought the second one there was taking it a little far, since he was certainly a considerate person and he’d go to great lengths to understand what exactly was hurting the person he’d tasked himself with comforting. The problem for him was the actual comforting part. From his experience Mista was far better at it than him.

He furrowed his brow and dredged up something he’d been thinking about for the last few weeks.

“Trish,” he got her attention, Trish’s head jerked up from among the piles of dead flora. “There’s a deed to a property outside Napoli which was under Buccellati’s name until he- until I took charge of Passione. It’s under the same collection of property as his boat and his apartment in town but because I’ve been so busy I haven’t yet been there in person. According to Mista it belonged to his family though he would rarely visit it throughout the year.”

Exactly where this was going, Trish couldn’t be sure of. Giorno looked thoughtful, like he was finally getting around to something he’d been distracted from for a while now.

“He wrote no will, but it’s now my job to distribute what’s left over.” He added.

“What do you want to do with it then?” Trish asked.

“I don’t know.” Giorno stretched his legs out, polished black shoes next to Trish’s bare toes. “I don’t think I want it.”

“The property?”

“No, well,” he rubbed his forehead. “I certainly don’t want to lose the property, it was his family’s after all. But I don’t believe he would have wanted me to have it.”

“I thought he was all about you taking Passione over. He seemed to trust you more than any of us, anyway. From what I saw and overheard in the first few days it was you two planning that whole thing right from the beginning.”

“But he didn’t plan on dying.”

Trish fell silent.

It was strange, she’d known Narancia and Buccellati and Abbaccio for only a day less than Giorno had, she’d probably even spoken to Narancia more than he had in that time. But it still felt like there was something so much more important between him and Bruno the time they’d spend together that had affected Giorno on a different scale. She was confident she knew for sure what it had been, since she too had no father to speak of.

“You should have it.”

“Pardon?” Trish had lost track of the conversation’s direction momentarily.

“You should have the property, Trish. Neither me nor Mista would have the time or skill to keep that place from falling into rubble.”

“You want me to be a housekeeper?”

“No,” Giorno laughed, quiet and genuine. “I just think you should busy yourself with something other than breaking into Passione’s grounds and worrying about our wellbeing. Plus, it would get you out of the city for once.”

Trish thought about it. “It must be lonely.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s an empty house. It’s no different from the empty flat he left over, isn’t it? Its still an empty house.”

“It wouldn’t be if you were in it.”

Actually, Trish thought, he made a good point there.

Trish sat up, shuffled backwards through the leaves to kneel by Giorno, and looked serious for a moment.

“I’ll take it then.”

“You’ll take the property?” Giorno brightened. He had been worrying what would become of the house if he never took the time to uphold it. Like anything else, it would eventually crumble.

“Yeah, I’ll take it,” Trish said, holding up an index finger, “As long as you promise to visit me there when I’m off school. You’re a real pain in the ass whenever you’re in the Palazzo so you might even enjoy yourself for once around me. Imagine that; you, having fun.”

Giorno laughed then. It was brighter laughter than any Trish had seen for a while; clutching his ribs, pulling his knees in, eyes shut, and cheeks dimpled. Even if his laugh was still as quiet and refined as she would have expected of him, this must be what it looked like, what he always did his very best not to show around people. For a moment, he looked her age.

Giorno covered his mouth with one hand as he swallowed some giggles. “Sure. I’ll come over when I can. And you can finally show me some of this school work I’ve been missing out on.”

“You sure? It’s pretty miserable stuff.” Trish grinned.

Of course, that was a silent agreement. Giorno was still deadly interested in what Trish must have been learning in the months while he’d been living in an entirely different world. There was only so much a library could tell him and a part of him missed it, a very small and shameful part of him missed spending days and weeks around people his own age even if they had nothing in common besides that.

Trish brushed herself off as best as she could and stood up. “I should head off then. You’re probably busy, right?”

Giorno nodded and stood up next to her. She was still picking leaves and twigs from her stained blouse and her trouser legs, then trying to shake the grot from her hair. “Hold on,” he said. “Hold still for a second.”

Trish braced herself for him to pluck some half-rotted stick from her hair or the sort. But a second later her vision exploded into colour and the sensation of cool flower petals fluttering and brushing against her ankles. She yelped and jumped away from the swarm of butterflies, her hands finding the fabric of Giorno’s sweater through the cloud of multicoloured wings. It cleared after only a few more seconds, but when it did Giorno was staring back into a pair of thunderous steel-blue eyes.

“Don’t ever do that again. You scared the crap out of me.” She said, punching him in the shoulder.

Giorno almost pointed out that the twigs and leaves were now gone from her hair and clothing, but she hopped out of the fountain’s basin before he could speak and span around and pointed one finger back at him.

“Don’t think this means I’m leaving you alone, Giovanna. You haven’t gotten rid of me yet.” She said.

Giorno smiled and waved back, the sunlight bouncing off the newly clean mosaic tiles of the basin’s floor by his feet and lighting him up like his skin had turned to stained glass before her eyes. “I should hope not.”

That scene stood out to Trish during the following weeks, not only because she now had Buccellati’s property on her mind, but also due to how Giorno showed little more of that behaviour she’d seen in the garden afterwards. The opportunity to meet his long-lost family had distanced him, for sure, but she also suspected that she’d been incredibly lucky to share that brief moment with him. It was like seeing the sun for the shortest of seconds through the clouds before it darkened again. She took it as a gift, but not for granted. She was determined to win that laugh from him again sometime.

And then, less than a month later, he had vanished. And she hadn’t even visited Buccellati’s house yet.

It hurt, certainly. She couldn’t even remember the last thing he’d said to her. It must have been over a week ago now, the last time they’d spoken. Wherever he was right now she hoped he felt bad about leaving her like that. He was the only friend she had her own age anyway.

Trish watched Spice Girl turn a suspicious eye around the apartment they stood in.

“Are you ready for a fight, Trish?” Spice Girl asked, resting one pale and pearlescent hand on her shoulder. It had taken Trish only a short while since Sardinia to overcome the uncanniness of hearing her stand talk, since it spoke not in the voice of a stranger but in the even and familiar voice she heard her own thoughts in every day in her head.

“Yes,” Trish whispered back. She was out of practice, but not out of fresh anger.

Upon hearing this, Due perked up. It had been clinging to her blouse collar silently up until then but began to hum excitedly. The Pistols had always seemed almost as attached to Trish as they were to their own user, probably because of the brief time when she had been their user in a way. Mista claimed they were only sentimental. Trish thought it quite cute. She reached up to her shoulder and gently tapped its head.

“How’s Mista?” She asked.

“Hm,” Due looked troubled. “Boss is in bad shape so it’s tricky to get through to him! But the others say he’s still alive!”

Trish sighed. “That’s good enough for now I suppose.”

With her back turned to Kujo at that moment she had no idea of what was happening behind her, so cried out in shock when something heavy hit her from behind and knocked her forwards across the room. She rolled over to see Kujo lying between her and the kitchen area he had been standing in, now some twenty feet away. Kujo was staring at her and clutching his shoulder. She couldn’t tell why.

“Be careful.” He said, almost hissing through his teeth. “They’re attacking now.”

Trish looked back to the kitchen area when something caught her eye. Now that she looked closely there was a faint blue-green haze coming from where the cabinets and fridge stood, something like fog but fainter and it slid heavy along the floor like oil over water.

“I didn’t notice it,” Kujo said, pulling himself even further away from the fog. “Where it touched my leg, it turned cold and immovable,” he pulled part of his right trouser leg up to show Trish what looked to be rough grey stone, “and the effect seems to be spreading over time, it’s already reached my knee. We can’t touch that fog under any circumstances.”

“Did it hit your shoulder? Did you see someone hit you?” Trish asked. She was sending worried looks over to the kitchen, still not seeing a user.

“No. That was where the fog touched me when I pushed you out of the way.”

Trish shut her mouth. Oh.

“Sorry.”

“Why are you apologising?” Kujo pulled his jacket off, clearly having trouble moving his right arm to do so.

Trish shook her head and got to her feet. “Hey!” She called out to the room. “Wherever you’re hiding, get out here! It doesn’t take a genius to tell our fog can’t reach us over here, your range isn’t long enough.”

“Show yourself!” Due added, flitting nervously around above Trish.

After a short and quiet few seconds, the door to the fridge slowly opened, a lanky woman in her late twenties unfolding herself from within and stepping out with a lop-sided smile. The shelves of the fridge had been removed beforehand to make space, but Trish hadn’t noticed where they had ended up. If they had been less well hidden she suspected they would have found this woman faster.

The woman straightened and slammed the fridge door behind her.

“Jotaro Kujo, I presume?” Her voice was low-pitched and warm, motherly if it wasn’t so laden down with threat. The sound reminded Trish of thick treacle, smooth and beautiful, but ultimately a trap.

Kujo grunted from where he sat, back propped against a low coffee table, right leg stretched out at a painful-looking angle.

“Yeah, and I’m here too and I’m in a real bad mood.” Trish said, a hand on her hip. “You and whoever’s hurting Mista have a lot to answer for.”

The woman gave a scalding look at Trish, head to foot to head again, like she was watching a flea-ridden stray dog bark at her from the gutter.

“Trish,” Jotaro said from the ground, “She doesn’t know you.”

Due shouted an agreement, “You have no formal connection with either the SPW or Passione, so she doesn’t know your name or that you even have a stand! She doesn’t know who you are!”

“Oh,” Trish raised her brows. This meant a few things. One, this woman had only been prepared to fight Kujo and Mista so must be on edge right now. Two, Trish had the element of surprise on her side and could likely take advantage of her lack of understanding of Trish’s own strengths. And three, Trish had been handed the ripe opportunity to introduce herself.

She held herself up a little straighter, puffing her chest out and began, “My name is Trish Una. I’m a good friend of Mista’s, and of his Boss, Giovanna. Though I have no real connection to this guy Kujo here.” She waved dismissively at Jotaro who only grunted back. “I’m sixteen, an up and coming pop singer and part-time fashion model, so you may have heard of me. I’m known for my style, voice, and very short temper. You have hurt my friend, lady, and I’m going to make you very familiar with that temper.”

The woman sneered. “My name is Rosanna, if you’re so keen on introductions. My stand is called Graceland and you are already aware of its power. Touching or inhaling its fog will result in instant and increasing petrification until it reaches your heart and kills you.” Jotaro grit his teeth. Rosanna continued, “My colleague Harley is most likely finishing off your friend downstairs as we speak, Miss Una, so I’d appreciate it if you went quickly. We have a busy night ahead of us.” As she spoke a short figure shifted into view by her feet, Graceland; a dumpy-looking greyish shape covered in vents and warped exhausts belching the bluish mist which was edging closer to the two opposite Rosanna.  “Your time-stop as I understand it, Mr Kujo, is useless when you can’t get close enough to your enemy. It also doesn’t help, I’d imagine, when your legs can’t hold you up.” Rosanna dragged long fingers through her knotted hair, staring down at Jotaro. “Even in stopped time you can’t move through my fog safely.”

A flicker of a sick smile danced over her mouth. Even if the original plan had been to take Kujo out cleanly and quickly with Hungry Heart, this was far more satisfying than Rosanna could have imagined. The Kujo Jotaro, helpless and immobile. Waiting for her to finish him off. Sweating from the pain in his leg and shoulder. Searching his mind for a way out. It was just too much fun for her to watch. She wanted to bottle this up, the sight of the man she’d been told was the strongest stand user known to the Foundation, crumpled under her strength.

Revelling in this, Rosanna almost missed Trish taking a minute step between her and Kujo. Her head snapped back towards the irritating pink-haired girl who looked like she had something to say.

“Something to say?” Rosanna asked.                                    

Trish shrugged, “I’m done listening to you. I want to get this over with.”

Rosanna scoffed. She felt the same way.

The outline of Graceland became darker and more solid, the grey shape turned fully materialised stand suddenly lumbering towards Trish much faster than its size and shape would have first suggested and lunged out with a hazy blue blur of a punch. Trish ducked down and there was a flash of pale pink and dirty blue and Graceland’s fists hit something soft.

Rosanna grunted in satisfaction, knowing a direct hit would instantly petrify somebody.

Trish, on the other hand, was perfectly calm and had pulled Jotaro to her side safely without being so much as grazed by Graceland’s attack. Her makeshift armour, a wide shield bent over her head made from the coffee table on hand, stretched and distorted under the arrhythmic punches from Rosanna’s stand. She figured the cloud between them must be obscuring Rosanna’s view a tad, for her not to have noticed by now that she wasn’t striking a human being.

And then, as if hearing this thought, Rosanna called off Graceland and squinted through to the foggy space where Trish and Kujo had been only a moment before. She clicked her tongue. Of course, that brat had a trick up her sleeve.

Trish looked down to Kujo. He was already looked around them for something to use against Rosanna.

The cloud had begun to creep around the edges of the table-shield, so Trish and Spice Girl pulled it even further around the two of them until it was a full semi-sphere. It was making a worrying sound though, like tree boughs cracking under a storm. Jotaro shot Trish a glance but she only grit her teeth and pulled harder. Rosanna’s voice rose above the noise.

“YOU CAN’T WIN AGAINST ME. DON’T WASTE MY TIME.”

Trish shouted in effort and finally released the barrier, stretched taut and now snapping into itself with a wooden thwoing sound to bounce out towards Rosanna in only a split second, just before the grey cloud reached an inch from the skin of Trish’s ankles. The table, still under Spice Girl’s effect, wrapped around Rosanna like cling film and tackled her to the ground. The fog splayed out confusedly, suddenly reaching for targets its user couldn’t see. Rosanna twisted around in the rubbery layer of what looked like wood but what felt like slick chewing gum.

Behind her Trish was aware of Jotaro shuffling towards the nearest wall of the apartment but she kept her eyes locked on Rosanna and the scattered remains of Graceland. She couldn’t get any closer to Rosanna anymore since her surrounding space was still filled with the churning cloud of greyish blue stone fog, but also knew that the softening effect would only last another few moments. It was Kujo’s turn to fight back.

On cue, a deep voice shouted behind Trish and something exploded. Her entire body went ice cold. She gasped and turned around only to get a face full of high pressure water. Jotaro, crouching below the spray from the pipe now cracked wide open, watched as the cloud was steadily washed down by the water. As he suspected, what they had thought was a fog-like attack was only a cloud of fine powder, much like the powder Graceland had turned its victims outside the apartment into. Once the dust met water it was too heavy to move as a mist and sank down into the wooden floor at their feet. Watered-down dust can’t float, it can’t move to touch any part of you, and it certainly can’t be inhaled. It could only dissolve and disappear.

The table finally sprang back into shape and clattered to the ground, Rosanna stumbling to her feet. Her eyes swept over what had become of her attack.

“You,” she hissed, her balance still thrown off by Trish’s earlier attack. “You filthy, mindless, backwards, spineless-”

Spice Girl loomed over Trish’s shoulder. Leaning as close to Rosanna as it could get within its range. “Shut your shit eating mouth before I rip your tongue right out. You’re no better than a smear of dog shit on the sole of some old scum’s shoe. Go the fuck to hell, you heartless bitch.”

Jotaro winced at Trish’s feet. “Your stand has quite the mouth, Trish.” Trish shrugged. The novelty had worn off some time ago. “No wonder you and Koichi have been getting along so well.”

“What’s that mean?” Trish asked.

Jotaro said nothing more. He pulled his hat brim down over his eyes and almost smiled.

Meanwhile, Rosanna was fuming. Trish pointed at her with one steady finger and said, “Don’t you think of making another move. Undo the petrification on Kujo now, or I’ll throw another table at you.” Rosanna scowled, her face contorting and her fist curling by her sides. She looked like a cornered feral cat, looking for the best angle to rip Trish’s face open. “Do it. Now.”

Due joined in and repeated Trish’s demands.        

With a huff Trish lowered herself to where Jotaro sat. He was still clutching one of his knees and his shoulder still looked horribly awkward, frozen at an odd angle and trembling slightly. She imagined that it would hurt, being only partially petrified. Bones suddenly twice or three times as heavy as before. Muscles meeting unmoving slabs of stone. Skin trying to flex over something cold and lifeless. This Kujo guy had a startling high tolerance for pain, but it was a sad thing to imagine that one would be used to it by now.

Trish looked back to Rosanna. “Hey! Why aren’t you doing anything?” She stepped forwards as she spoke. “Do as I say and fix him! Don’t you understand that you’ve lost?”

Rosanna turned a cold look to Trish. Their eyes met for a second, an arm’s length between them, then Rosanna burst into movement.

Trish reflexively jerked backwards. She threw her arms up - Spice Girl’s own already blurring into an afterimage over them - holding her breath and tensing her shoulders up to brace for a hit. Instead, Rosanna raised one leg then stomped her foot down hard to the floor between her and Trish. A spray of something cold and wet and thick like sludge splattered over Trish’s arms and face and stomach, making her instinctively close her eyes but still slow enough for a speck of the stuff to get into her right one.

Jotaro shouted something. Trish stumbled backwards. Jotaro shouted something louder, this time it was not in Italian and he was almost certainly swearing. He had pulled himself up with the support of the wall behind him steady enough to catch Trish with Star Platinum’s reach, then carry her back away from Rosanna. She was hissing through her teeth, rubbing at her face like there was sand in her eyes.

“Trish,” Jotaro shook her shoulder gently, “Can you look at me?”

“Little miss!”

“Trish?”

Still a distance away, Rosanna laughed enthusiastically. She bent back with joy. The water had almost made this even easier. She could move a liquid with far more stealth than a mist, it could seep through fabric, the dust could be carried on a droplet much farther than she could ever move it herself with Graceland. Thank you, Kujo Jotaro, thank you for that.

When Trish did open her eyes she quickly figured out what had happened. She stared back at Jotaro with one watery blue eye and one blank and slate-grey. He glared at her frozen eye for a moment and looked like he was close to losing his temper before Trish grabbed his arm. “I’m fine,” she insisted. What she couldn’t see was a speckling of stone patches over one half on her face and along her forearms, as well as flecks of the slush clinging to the fabric of her snow-white blouse. She wasn’t paying any attention to that, she was now only glaring with laser sharp fury at Rosanna in front of them. Jotaro held his words; he was wise enough not to ask her if she was okay or if she could see well enough with one stone eye to continue fighting. She wasn’t going to give up, he could tell.

They both stood, backs to a broken wall, breathing heavy as Rosanna approached. She had covered her hands and forearms with the sludge on the ground and was grinning madly. This would be too easy.

One was almost immobile. One was half blind. Neither could hope to get close enough to finish her off before being entirely turned into a statue.

Jotaro held his breath. He stopped time.

Two seconds passed, and nothing moved. Rosanna blinked and there was now a gaping hole in the wall opposite her. When she rushed forwards to look down she watched the street below dip and sink like a trampoline, Trish and Kujo bouncing out and rolling onto the ground with ease. As they got to their feet, for a tiny moment, Trish turned her face up to the apartment they had escaped from and her one good eye spoke back up to the woman foaming at the mouth from rage.

She said, is that the best you can do?

Chapter Text

The plan had apparently entailed the blind hope that neither of those two idiots in the ruins knew how to use the mask and they’d just be able to take it off them as peacefully as possible. What Giorno then intended to do with the mask once they’d got it back was a mystery. Dio had pointed out that George would certainly notice it missing if it was taken somewhere safe, and Giorno had largely ignored him and vanished into the shadows of the monastery.

What a twat.

Not that Dio had said that to his face. His aggression was quite half-hearted and sunk just as soon as it rose in him.

Dio seized Jonathan’s elbow and took the more sheltered path through the cloisters and hallways towards the glow of oil-lamps. While Dio was silent Jonathan couldn’t help but mutter about the dark and Giorno going off on his own, rubbing his hands together like he was cold although both men were warmed by their excitement and fear. After almost no time at all they could hear men talking to their left. Dio hushed Jonathan and pressed his back to a rough stone wall. The voices were low, but he could just about make out their words.

“-whenever you choose to give me a good reason not to. I’ve got a real bad feeling about this stuff.” One voice said, belonging to a man neither Dio nor Jonathan had met until then. Unknown to them, his name was Winwood and he was thoroughly considering leaving their stolen loot in the nooks of the monastery and running back to Liverpool with empty pockets. Though he couldn’t put his finger on why, the loot was making him nervous. “This shit is bad news, Linnell, I know it.”

The other man said, “Huh? Why?” This voice they knew. Dio recognised it as the voice belonging to the man who had talked to Andersson about the burglary in the manor hall. Jonathan knew him as the man who had briefly threatened him in Dio’s bedroom. His name was Linnell and his common sense unfortunately vastly outweighed his awareness of any supernatural danger. “We can make enough money from this stuff for the rest of our lives, Winwood. Don’t think of duckin’ out now when we’ve only just got our ‘ands on this fortune.”

“Hah! As if we aren’t already cursed for life from just touchin’ it. I promise you it’s already at least twenty years bad luck for us. We’ve got a mark on our souls.”

Dio dug the toe of his boot into the crumbling wall and pulled himself up to look over the top, careful to keep his face out of the light thrown by their lamps.

Linnell shook his head and went over to where they’d stashed their stolen goods, mostly silverware and odd small paintings, over a spread blanket on the ground. He crouched and rummaged around before pulling out a dull grey object to wave at Winwood. “Are you scared of this old thing? Is this what’s scarin’ you? Just ‘cause it’s got fangs doesn’t mean it’s anythin’ more than an ugly old collection piece. Unless you actually believe it’s cursed.” Linnell’s voice grew a cruel edge. “Bet it’s goin’ ta send some devil after you if you don’t show it some respect soon.”

“Shush.”

“What.”

“You shouldn’t talk ‘bout stuff like that when we’ve ‘ad so much bad luck already. We barely escaped from that ‘ouse.”

“Ha. It turned out fine in the end, those dandies won’t come after us tonight I’m sure of it. Spoilt brats like ‘em will give us plenty time to vanish from the county just while they’re waitin’ for Mister Joestar to return. By the time they’ve whinged off ‘bout how terribly frightful it was ta come face-to-face with real common criminals in their own home we’ll ‘ave our hands free of this dusty clutter and our pockets full of banknotes. Enough ta buy our own mansions!”

Winwood shuffled awkwardly. He was the only of the three robbers who hadn’t met any of the inhabitants of the mansion that night, enjoying a solitary exploration through the plush halls and helping himself to whatever wasn’t nailed down, then leaving without a single interruption. It was only once Linnell had met him in the fields afterwards that he had learnt how horribly pear-shaped their plan had gone after all. He rubbed his huge thumbs together and looked uneasily over at Linnell, who was still tossing the mask between his hands without a worry.

“Linnell?”

“Yeah what.”

“Wasn’t it another one back there? You said there was the kid from the other day in the manor too. Wouldn’t ‘e be able to identify us better than the two Joestar boys?”

“Nah. I get the feelin’ he’s not too trusted by the household anyways.”

“What d’you mean?”

“He’s like us. That boy doesn’t ‘ave a home.”

Behind the wall, Dio felt something cold grip his spine. It was a thought he might have entertained himself with a few times over the past few days without much so much as a twinge of sympathy. Yet from someone else’s mouth it made him feel awful. The cold sensation tightened, and he fancied it was becoming truly physically uncomfortable for him. He looked behind to find Jojo’s eyes locked on the scene below with some similar passion. His hand was pressed to Dio’s back – that would explain it – and had curled into a fist around Dio’s shirt from his anxiety.

Dio leant back to speak hushed into his ear.

“Keep yourself under control, Jojo. There’s no need to be upset by gossip.”

Jonathan didn’t respond but he did loosen his grip. His hand remained on Dio’s shoulder blade though, like an anchor.

A noise caught Dio’s attention, so he turned back to see Linnell shout a curse back at Winwood, who was tugging at his sleeve. It seemed as if Winwood was questioning Linnell’s injuries – the ones he’d been given during his fight with Giorno. Linnell’s shoulder was apparently gravely damaged, possibly broken. He also had a mysterious bite-like mark on his arm that he was refusing to explain to the other. After a bit more increasingly sardonic back-and-forth Linnell excused himself with some impatience and slipped away behind a wall and out of the light. Winwood remained and sat with a bottle of something golden and foul smelling in his hand, sending the occasional uncomfortable glance towards where Linnell had recently disappeared.

Dio dropped down and pulled Jojo with him to sit at the foot of the wall.

“Are you ready for a fight?” Dio asked.

“What?”

“We can’t let this chance here go. They’re separated now, and we have no idea when Linnell will be back and if they’ll even split again.”

“Dio..” Jonathan was unsure. He currently held nothing against this man sitting on the other side of the wall with nothing about him but an air of paranoia. After all, that man had even made it clear he wanted nothing to do with the mask. Maybe they could just leave him be? The other guy, Linnell, seemed like a far greater threat. They should just let Giorno handle it in the end.

“Oi.” Dio snapped at Jonathan. “You’re getting all wimpy, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. For this whole thing to work out as we planned it to, we need to take them both down before they figure out what the mask can do. That means both of those men.”

“But that man…”

“He stole the mask. More importantly, he’s Linnell’s ally. If we fight Linnell then he won’t be far behind with vengeance on his tongue. You should know yourself, Jojo, a man’s honour is a fragile thing.”

“What’s that meant to mean?”

“Don’t think too hard about it.” Dio searched his pockets. He had his knife, he pulled it out and tested the blade by running a finger tip down it. He then caught Jojo’s eye. “What. Having déjà vu?” Jonathan stuck his lip out, like he knew Dio was only teasing him, but still wanted to complain. He’d had that same knife pointed his way more than a few times. He hated that knife. “You’ll need to defend yourself too.” Dio said, slipping the knife away into the folds of a sleeve cuff. “Have you brought a weapon of your own, by any chance?”

He said it jokingly, half expecting Jojo to be horribly offended by the idea, but then without any hesitation Jonathan pulled a pistol out from inside his waistcoat and presented it to Dio with a blank face.

Dio jumped out his skin. He’d barely stopped himself from yelping, remembering the need for quiet, and quickly slammed his hand down on the barrel to point it down at the grass rather than in his bloody face.

“Where did you find that?” Dio hissed, his hushed voice turned almost shrill.

“Under your pillow.” Jonathan was matter-of-fact. He didn’t think it would have been a surprise.

“That-” Dio paused. “That’s my gun?”

“Yes.”

“Then give it back.” He took it from Jojo’s hand, no resistance there, and shoved it into his belt – with some difficulty, it was fastened far too tight for a pistol to easily fit between it and his hip – and glared at Jonathan from under his fringe. “There’s nothing more disorientating than seeing you with an actual gun in your hand, Jojo, I hope you know. It’s like seeing a spaniel holding a pipe. Or a canary with a steaming iron.”

“Thanks,” Jonathan said, frowning. “I think.”

Dio wasn’t listening anymore and was hunting around at their feet, picking up and tossing away rocks and chunks of marble. Jonathan watched patiently. Eventually Dio picked out one about the size of his own fist and tossed it experimentally in one hand. He then glanced up at the wall, sidled a little further down, away from Jonathan, paused. The wall here was a bit lower so he stayed crouching. The sound of Winwood pulling the cork from his bottle was muffled but clear enough for Dio to take the cue to move.

He quickly leapt to his feet and tossed the rock with all his strength, almost spinning on the spot from the momentum. As soon as the rock left his hand he dropped down behind the wall again.

Winwood’s head snapped around when he heard the thump. It came from behind him, to his left. He got up, setting the bottle down on the mound he had been sitting on, and went to investigate.

“Hey!” He called, his wide shoulders tensing with tightly coiled anxiety. “Who’s there? Linnell?”

Not waiting for a verbal signal, Jonathan vaulted over the wall and landed heavily behind Winwood. A punch to the back of his head instantly felled the man. He dropped forward at Jonathan’s feet with a grunt.

Dio hopped over the wall to join him. “Shite. You’re a brute.”

Jonathan turned to offer some rebuttal but was met with Dio’s eyes widening.

“Watch ou-!”

A fist buried itself in Jonathan’s side, knocking the breath from his chest. He stumbled back in time to dodge the next swing Winwood made at him. He’d gotten back on his feet very fast, Jonathan thought weakly as he tried to suck air back into his lungs, he’d only looked away for a couple seconds at the most. And now Winwood was throwing punches slow but heavy, all of them missing but always coming close. The fight was tight enough to cut Dio entirely out of it. He only stood to the side and kept his eyes trained closely on the exchange. Jojo was faster, that was clear enough to see. He was easily dodging the swings and had gained some composure since the first punch to his ribs. Though, from the look of his stance, Winwood had experience on his side. The shorter, though heavier-looking, man had a steely sheen to his eyes that Dio had a funny feeling about. There was something familiar in that man’s movements.

Dio sidled around the fight and suddenly it hit him. This was the exact style he’d learnt himself the better part of a decade ago, when still held within the rotten streets of inner London. This was how he’s always fought. How he fought pressed back-to-wall in a stinking alley like a rat biting out at packs of dogs.

“Jojo!” Dio caught Jonathan’s attention through the flurry, just as he’d ducked under a right hook. “He’s only testing your movements! He’ll strike soon, and it won’t be pretty.” He made a stabbing motion into his eye with one thumb in a quick mime to punctuate. It seemed to get the message across to Jojo, who broke their eye contact and finally shifted to throw a punch.

It landed square into Winwood’s stomach. And he didn’t budge an inch. The man was a boulder. Jojo may have been a great storm of a man but he couldn’t weather this man down. Jonathan recovered from the shock quickly and drew his other fist back to go for Winwood’s jaw.

But there was a flash of movement and then something moved between the two men and then Jonathan was blind. Or, everything went white. He was puzzled by this, for sure.

Dio, on the other hand, was furious. He couldn’t move fast enough to stop it so could only watch with gritted teeth as Winwood punched hard and fast right into Jojo’s face, through the handkerchief he had thrown in his eyes, drawn from his sleeve like a shitty magician at a dinner party.

Jojo went down with a great thump onto the grass.

Winwood turned before he hit the ground. And came face to face with the snout of a pistol.

“That’s cheating.”

“Could say the same to you. Didn’t know you ‘ad a gun.”

“Now you do.” Dio glanced at Jojo. He was out cold, his nose possible broken. The damn idiot would never think to cheat in a fist fight, even after his own experience of humiliating defeat all those years ago. He was too far above that. The stupid stupid-

“You goin’ to kill me?” Winwood was weirdly calm.

“Maybe.” Dio said. “All we want is the stone mask.”

Winwood frowned. “Nothin’ else? Just that weird mask?”

“That’s right.” Dio took a step closer so he could see the pile of loot across the open-air room. “Give it to us and we’ll be gone.” His finger on the pistol’s trigger flexed. He hadn’t fired this gun since his years in London, he hoped it wasn’t in too bad shape.

“Linnell’s got it.”

“Huh?”

“He took it with ‘im.”

“Why?”                                                                               

“’ow should I know?”                                                     

Dio still had his eyes on the pile. He could recognise some odds and ends from the dining room, like George’s old brass toaster press and a collection of delicately painted ceramic animals. The most expensive things were always small and shiny, and there was a lot of that visible in the pile. But then exactly why Winwood had taken the mask along with all the silverware and glittery things, Dio was curious. “Why did you even steal it? It’s worthless.” Dio asked. “The other stuff you nicked can buy you two anything you could ever dream of down in London. No one in their right mind would be interested in a grubby lump of stone like that. You said it yourself, it’s weird looking and makes you feel odd.”

Winwood shrugged. “Wanted to. Wanted to hold it. Didn’t realise it was in my bag ‘til I emptied it out here. You can ‘ave it back if you want. It’s spooky.”

“Huh.” Dio kinda got that, he’d occasionally found his eyes on the mask without really thinking about it. It was magnetic. Linnell must have felt it too, not noticing it was still in his hands when he went for a piss.

The moment of quiet was suddenly broken by a gunshot.

Winwood’s head snapped around to where the noise came from, behind them. It sounded deceptively close, like a gun was fired only from the other side of a wall. Maybe it had. Dio scowled – Giorno hadn’t told them he had a gun too, he didn’t even seem like the type to carry one. Though, Dio could have been wrong, he’d misread that kid too many times already.

The two men looked back to each other. Apparently Winwood was just as surprised.

Then, only a few moments later, there was some sort of a shriek from across the monastery.

Where it came from or what was making the noise was unclear, but it sent a cold shock down Dio’s spine. It filtered through the air like a stain, humming through his very bones. He froze on the spot, like a small animal under the sharp eyes of a predator. It was an instinctual fear. A raw and unfiltered fear. Everything inside him turned to ice. His legs went weak, but his knees locked in place.

What in the world was that.

Winwood also reacted. He, opposed to Dio, exploded into panicked action and reached behind him and grabbed the bottle of booze. It came down fast towards Dio’s head. He jolted to bring his arms up to shield his face from the glass. The bottle smashed and whatever was inside washed over Dio’s face. It went in his eyes. His eyes burned.

He was then probably punched quite hard in the stomach, Dio thought as his diaphragm folded very suddenly and very painfully. When he tried to open his eyes up again, they stung like all hell and what he could see through the pain was blurred and reddish - Winwood was holding his pistol in his hands. He was checking if it was loaded. Jojo, at his feet but not currently the focus of his attention, was now coming to.

Winwood flipped the pistol over, then settled it into his hand, content with his new defence against whatever hellish thing was hiding in the monastery. He was sweating bullets. His eyes were wide with the same paranoia from his reaction to Linnell’s taunts but doubled and tripled. It could easily be assumed that his escalated panic was due to Dio and Jonathan’s assault on his being in such an already compromised state. Whatever the reason, his mind was racing with all sorts of imagined creatures that could be stalking the monastery that night. Visions of the mask blended seamlessly with his terror, creating the worst of living curses now out for blood. His blood. His life. It was going to kill him, he was certain.

He then noticed Jonathan. Jonathan, still dazed and lying flat out of the grassy ground, was rubbing at his face and moaning slightly.

There was another screech through the air.

Winwood gasped and grit his teeth and pointed the pistol at Jonathan.

A loaded gun trained on his head, Jonathan heard and saw nothing of it. He only shifted his arm slightly as if to prepare himself to get up onto an elbow. Winwood was reeling with fright. A finger twitched on the metal.

The gun was on Jojo.

A terrified man holding a loaded and unfortunately fully functioning gun pulled the trigger as his eyes and mind ran wild with visions of gothic spectres.

Jojo would have been shot.

Jojo was not shot. He was shot at - to be perfectly clear. He was not shot however.

The distinction is made when something made itself a barrier in the bullet’s journey from the barrel into Jonathan’s awaiting skull. The bullet, so rudely interrupted, then found its new home and destination roughly an inch below Dio’s left kidney.

This precise location of the bullet was only determined at a later date. At the time all the involved party could make of the situation was as follows;

FUCK. WHY THE FUCK DID I DO THAT.

Chapter Text

Harley checked that, yes, the bullet had hit Mista in the left breast as he’d aimed. He wasn’t moving anymore, and those irritating little bullet-like stands had finally vanished, so here was his chance to get the hell out and find Rosanna.

A look inside the pistol’s chamber sunk his heart however; he’d fired the final shot into Mista’s chest.  Whatever, Rosanna probably had spare bullets on her. Harley stuck the pistol into his back pocket and gripped his shoulder. It was still bleeding furiously, he’d have to find something to bind it in before meeting up with Rosanna again or she’d try to leave him behind. In the kitchen, he took two tea towels from above the microwave and began binding them under his arm. The first was quickly soaked through with blood but once the second towel, larger and heavier and made from some thicker material, was tightened around the wound his shoulder felt lighter immediately. He flexed his arm around a little, twisting his shoulder left and right. It felt snug. But at the very least he didn’t have any more bleeding now.

Taking a further look around the kitchen he flung drawers open to find nothing sharper than a butter knife inside. All he wanted was a proper defence for once. In his hurry he almost missed the knifeboard sitting on an opposite countertop. From there he took the largest he could find and tested its weight in his hand. Good, he slipped it into his belt. It was joined by one longer, thinner knife and a pair of scissors. Anything was going to help him at this rate. His stand was useless head-on, he’d lost an infuriating amount of blood already and he didn’t even have a working gun anymore.

Shit. Harley stood in the middle of the kitchen for a moment more, fists planted firmly on his hips. He stared at the toes of his shoes.

He’d have to get creative.

‘Getting creative’ means different things to different people. To some it’s making a viral antidote on the spot, or turning your torso into a mobius strip, or swallowing the shredded-up scraps of a rubber glove. It usually was some sort of a heat of the moment burst of ingenuity, at the very least.

To others it meant charging at your assailant with a baby-blue sheer scarf wrapped over your face, tackling him down flat onto the lino and screaming bloody murder.

Mista swatted Harley’s flailing arms away from his face and chest and pressed his thumbs into Harley’s throat. Harley spent a few seconds staring baffled up at Mista above him – he’d truly come out from nowhere - before finally coming to his senses and trying to throw him off. There was a brief struggle, no words, only Mista huffing with the effort of keeping his hands wrapped around Harley’s neck and pressing him down and counting up to whenever he’d finally pass out, Harley throwing desperate fists up into shoulders and hips and stomach and everywhere he could reach and choking for air. Just as his vision began to cloud over with little pops of black and white Harley’s fingers curled weakly around one of the knives in his belt and slipped the tip of it into a soft spot on the inside of Mista’s lower left thigh.

It didn’t even sink in very far but Mista flinched and his hands loosened for a moment, and Harley threw him off and scrambled backwards. The knife clattered to the floor and spun like a compass needle. The tip pointed towards Mista, spotted with blood.

Harley grinned. Mista, kneeling still, glanced between it and Harley coolly.

Harley dropped the smile.

“I think the colour suits me,” Mista said, patting the silky blue lady’s scarf around his head, “Don’t you?”

It was sheer enough for Mista to see through with perfect clarity, but from where he sat Harley could only see the expression on Mista’s mouth – a tired grin. Through a blue film Mista watched the man point a wobbly finger at him across the kitchen floor.

“You sneaky son of a bitch, how are you not dead? I shot you in the chest!” He choked out. He was rubbing at his throat.

“Oh. I wonder.” Mista tightened the scarf around his eyes and stood. “Though now that I look at you I don’t think blue is your colour.”

He jumped forwards and swung a boot at Harley’s face. It felt good, dammit. Mista’s eyes were soon drawn to drops of violet across the kitchen sink’s basin. There was more of the same shade dripping from Harley’s lips. The whole scene was washed in odd shades of blue and purple and it reminded Mista of old crime films, somehow. Everything was foggy, and that kinda made it seem classically melancholic, in a way. Or it would have been if Harley wasn’t sobbing and choking like a child.

Mista kicked him again. The purple splashed across the lino.

“Fuck you! You think a criminal like you has any right to beat the crap out of me?” Harley said, his lips just brushing the violet puddle under him.  “I know what we’re doing is right. I know you do too, even if you don’t have the brain to understand what I’ve been telling you.”

“What? That crap about the SPW? I couldn’t give a shit about what the Foundation gets up to or what their sleazy operatives think of the status quo. They could be paying you with peanuts for all I care, keep us out of it.”

“You damn hypocrite! You were one of the insurgents who dismantled your gang and dethroned the old boss with brute force this year, weren’t you? What makes this movement any less legit that yours? If I’d stolen that information from any other archive in Italy, then you wouldn’t give a crap about us. Some copied files you didn’t even have catalogued means nothing to you let alone our goals.” Harley cried up at him, his voice breaking a little.

Mista ground his teeth and crouched down by Harley. “No one steals from us. If you’d tried that stunt with the Boss in town you wouldn’t have been able to take more than two breaths before being dropkicked into oblivion, you know that. Not only is that a disrespect to me and him and everyone else who works under him but,” Mista pulled Harley’s face closer. “Do you know? Do you know what else?”

Harley pulled his bruised lips apart to bare his stained teeth. Most of his face was splashed with purple. “Tell me. What is it then, asshole.”

“I really really don’t want to have to report it to that kid when he gets back. To tell him that the asshole who stole shit from him got away from me. He really fucking hates people taking advantage of him.” Mista’s mouth spread into a grin. “You should be glad it’s me who’s taking you out, not Giorno.”

Harley took a sharp intake of breath. The arm which held him up off the floor was slipping around in the puddle. Mista dropped the grin. He also dropped his grip on Harley, letting him wilt back on the stained lino.

Mista took his gun back from Harley’s belt without a word and without resistance. It took him only two seconds to fish a fresh bullet from the inside of one of his socks, and then Mista loaded the pistol.

“Goodbye Harley. If you meet a kid named Narancia over there, tell him I said hey.”

Harley closed his eyes.

The last burst of dark violet painted the cabinets. With it, a heavy weight lifted from Mista’s shoulders. Like forgetting a dream after waking up he found it hard to remember exactly what the sensation had been, but now it was gone. He pulled the scarf from his eyes and dropped it to the kitchen floor. As soon as it fluttered to a rest its blue sheer fabric bloomed and darkened to a wet indigo colour. Mista exhaled deeply. Everything was right again, for a short and beautiful moment. Then his nostrils filled with the taste of iron. He dropped his pistol back into his own belt and turned away from the kitchen and walked out to the living space outside.

It was quiet. He felt the Pistols itching to leave the damn apartment at long last, but he paused for a minute longer.

From inside his sweater he pulled out a small leather pouch - it had been pressed flat to his chest all day since it was too large to fit comfortably inside his trouser pockets. The front was scorched in a circular shape identical to the one burned into his sweater. He gingerly unfolded the leather sleeve and ran his fingers over what he’d put inside. The book had the same circle punched through the front, but it stopped a few pages in. Oh thank god.

For a horrible moment he had worried that some of the poems with page markers towards the front of the book had been ripped apart by the bullet. He flicked through quickly to check that, yes, everything was untouched. Mista sighed in relief, Giorno would have killed him in a creatively painful way if the bullet had reached any of his favourite poems. He folded the sleeve up again and put it back in his sweater where it had been, as close to his heart as it could possibly be.

With a half-laugh Mista turned on his heel to leave the apartment. The vision of Giorno he’d seen while under Harley’s power had been quite insistent that Mista wouldn’t die in there. He’d known Mista could make it out alive. He’d been told with clear certainty that he wasn’t unlucky. It was that good luck that saved him. Even in the form of delirious hallucinations Giorno was a charm of good fortune in some mythical way.

That, funnily enough, was what Mista could call poetic.

*

Two blocks away, Trish finally ignored Jotaro’s refusals to accept her help and hauled him up off the ground. With Spice Girl holding him over its shoulders he no longer dragged behind at such a slow pace. He grudgingly appreciated this help; the petrification had spread up past his hip and was beginning to work on his lower stomach and afforded him little to no movement and even less comfort. In fact, he was in a considerable amount of pain simply from the effort of staying upright, but it wasn’t shown at all on his face. Trish’s support allowed him to move, it helped him no more than that.

Beside him, and walking with a brisker pace, Trish swung her head around the streets they passed through with undiminishing fervour. Due to the spread of her own petrification – slower than Kujo’s, though just as incumbering – she’d lost all vision in her right eye some minutes ago and the surrounding skin now felt odd and numb to her. She held back from touching it with a finger or even brushing a hand over the stone skin. It would only make her angrier.

Just a fleeting reflection in a window turned her stomach and pushed a long and sharp and screaming hot needle of madness into her brain. That face wasn’t hers. It had been only an hour earlier, but it wasn’t anymore. And no one took something like that from her, not ever.

This was the face she’d only just reclaimed from her father. It was a face she’d compared to his for hours on their journey back from Sardinia, staring down the death mask Abbaccio had left them as if its eyes would eventually begin to follow hers like a mirror. It was only once Trish had seen him in the flesh in Rome that it became clear to her what she saw.

I’m not my father.

She told that to almost everyone who brought the topic up these days. But what she had begun telling herself only recently - whenever the dreams got bad again - was that she had never been her father. She had never been his daughter, she had never been his victim, never his only foil, his thorn, his last loose thread. What she had always been was Trish. And now she was even better. She was stronger. And she didn’t have him to thank for that, she could thank the men who pulled her away from death and halfway across the country before she finally found her voice - the one she’d kept quiet up until then. It was thanks to those strangers that she learnt another thing she had over that man; that she was far better at helping people than him.

Trish turned her head one way and then the other, tilting it at an odd angle to the far right in order to see anything at all, and let Kujo rest against a bike rack.

“She’ll be coming after us.” Trish said, keeping eye on the streets behind them. “Do you have a plan?”

Kujo inhaled shakily, pushing a hand into his side where the stone was pressing against his ribs. “Whatever I come up with, it won’t involve me much. Sorry to say but I’m in pretty bad shape.”

“No, I know. I’ll do anything you need. Tell me.”

Jotaro looked up at this girl from under the brim of his cap. The petrification effect had stiffened only a portion of her face, leaving her current expression lopsided and odd, even harder than normal for him to understand. She stood with one hand resting around her other elbow. A familiar posture. He knew that one; it was how Jolyne stood when she had apologised for breaking a mug on the kitchen hardtop. She was ashamed somehow.

“Don’t feel bad about it. I’m not injured because of you.” He thought he’d made this clear to her already and it was tedious to say it again.

“I’m not-” Trish snapped her mouth shut upon hearing how whiny her voice became. Though technically, he had been hit by Graceland’s dust in the action of pushing her out of the way. She didn’t understand exactly how that didn’t factor as her being responsible.

“You couldn’t have done anything differently,” Jotaro said, “You were facing in the wrong direction at the time. Anyone would have been frozen instantly in your place if they weren’t pulled away. So, it’s my fault. I should have pushed you away faster.”

Trish dropped her hand from her elbow down to hang by her side. That was a roundabout way of thinking of a very simple situation. So, there it was - both Giorno and this Kujo guy got their kicks out of bending over backwards to blame themselves for every cut and bruise taken by those around them. Although, while Giorno was far more aware of this habit, Kujo struck her as someone who’d only grown into it after many long and hard years. She didn’t think he’d always been like that. Exactly what had happened to him, she didn’t want to know right now.

He then gave her the plan in quick and simple terms. It sounded good. Something like what Giorno would suggest, if with a little less of Giorno’s signature flair for the dramatic.

And as if on cue, Rosanna’s voice filtered into the street they stood in.

“-and you, the girl, Trish wasn’t it? How do you know Giovanna?” She sounded as if she’d been talking to herself for a while. She may not even know that they were close by her, Trish thought as she pressed herself against a cart, Jotaro still supporting himself on the bike rack behind her. Rosanna continued, “You have nothing in common. We found no information, physical or digital, linking him to anyone with your name. What do you even know of him?”

Spice Girl manifested by Trish’s side, crouching by the cart’s wheels. Rosanna’s voice was becoming clearer and closer, but her tone remained level, almost bored. “You and that tiger-print man stuck your noses into this mess even without him in the country, yet you can’t know more about him than what you’ve seen in the last few months, am I wrong? He’s an enigmatic figure, we’ve learnt that. He gives nothing away. Not on his face, not in his voice. Not in his paperwork. He’s a ghost. What I saw of him last Thursday evening told me as much.” Rosanna’s voice lowered. “I doubt you even know his birthname.”

Trish turned to Kujo, questioning. Her face was twisted, perhaps because the stone had reached her jawline. Jotaro only looked back, silent.

“Do you?” Rosanna continued, now within a few meters of them, “What do you know about him? If he hasn’t told you this, what has he? That he’d never vanish without letting you know in advance? That he has no family? That he’d trust you and your other friends enough to tell you anything, since you’ve been through so much together?”

Jotaro’s eyes darted between where Rosanna’s voice came from, only a few steps out of sight, and Trish. Due, now lying on the roof of his cap, shivered but kept its tiny mouth shut. Trish was breathing rapidly, her fists trembling at her sides.

Jotaro suspected that Rosanna aimed to confuse Trish, to weaken her and drive her away from the fight, leaving him more or less defenceless. He also suspected that the mind games were having a very different effect from what was intended. Not that it was a good thing; an angry and thoughtless outburst of violence would only out them at an even worse disadvantage right now. Whatever was going through her head, Jotaro wasn’t liking the look of it one bit. Something was going to snap. They couldn’t follow a plan if one of them lost their temper entirely. This was why it was always such a pain in the ass to work together with teens.

“Ask yourself; why would you lay your life down for someone like that?”

Trish prickled violently all over, her chested heaving up and what was left of her face turning a shade of crimson. Her eyes bore past Jotaro unseeingly. Jotaro watched her twitch, a momentary tell she was about to do something violent and loud. This was it.

“Why would you think of him as an ally? When he doesn’t even see you as a friend.”

Everything happened at once, or it seemed to.

He shouted Trish’s name.

Two steps away from them, Rosanna spun to where Kujo’s voice had come. She’d found them.

Trish’s head jerked towards Kujo, her one good eye suddenly focussing on him. Within a heartbeat Spice Girl shot into action and the cart behind her rocketed backwards into Rosanna. With a deafening smash the wood was splintered and twisted with the force of Spice Girl’s punches and the whole weight of it came crashing down on Rosanna.

Trish hopped back, planting herself firmly between where she’d thrown the cart and where Jotaro leant.

Before the fast and frankly heart stopping moment had ended, in that dilated space of time opened up from milliseconds to impossibly longer by sheer adrenaline, the tables turned with a flash. In physical terms Graceland wasn’t remarkably strong, and its main body couldn’t move more than a few meters away from its user but what it lacked it made up for in speed and precision within that medium range. The dumpy dull-coloured stand made a wheezing noise as it knocked huge wreckages of the cart away from Rosanna – who was crouching behind it with arms wrapped around her head – and flipped the smaller fragments right back towards Trish.

Most of those fragments were aimed well enough to reach her, splinters and planks and an entire wooden shutter came hurtling at her face and torso. Without flinching or even giving a glance at the missiles Trish stood stock still as they bounced merrily off and fell to the ground around her.

“I’ve had enough of people badmouthing Giorno,” Trish said, “It’s making me sick.”

Rosanna spat at Trish from where she still crouched. Graceland threw more debris from the cart; larger bits this time.

Careful to keep Jotaro behind her yet still allowing him to see their enemy, Spice Girl knocked each projectile away with a shout – to the left, to the right, anywhere away from them – and gradually began to clear the air again.

Then something strange barrelled towards Trish. Round, dark, and kinda shiny.

Spice Girl’s fist was already heading straight for it.

Jotaro’s eye’s widened as whatever it was made contact with the punch. It flexed, and stretched, and then it burst.

Time stopped.

The low rumble signalling the successful activation of his ability spread from his chest out to freeze the scene around him, washing it in what Jotaro had always assumed was the odd and dulled shades the world looked like once he’d stuck the photons in place.

The world around them hummed low and unsteady, reality itself unhappy to be unnaturally halted like this. The stress of it always tired Jotaro out, though the sight of this washed-out and silent tableau gave him a burst of adrenaline- it never got old and it always scared the hell out of him. A flock of birds were plastered to the sky above them, not unlike splatters of ink loosed from a pen after a flick of the wrist. Further down the road a dog sat with its eyes locked on a one-eared cat sitting two floors above it - eagerly watching the dog from the windowsill. The dog was paused between barks in that second. Pan to the right, a window box held a cluster of pansies and one flower had one petal hanging low and heavy from the weight of one single round droplet of water pulled towards the street below but not quite breaking from the tip of the petal. 

And the thick and sludgy liquid he’d inadvertently gifted to Rosanna as an easy upgrade was splashing across Spice Girl’s fist out from what looked to be a small water balloon. Drops were on their way towards Trish in a wide and inescapable area of effect, hanging like dark pearls an inch from her face.

Jotaro cursed under his breath. Once he was moving he’d have less than two seconds. He could barely move as it was. Feeling his chest tighten as the strain on his heart and lungs increased, Jotaro finally moved within frozen time. He pushed away from the bike rack and grabbed Trish’s shoulders with both hands, pulling her down and away from the splash zone.

Well, he would have used those words to describe it. The action was more of a painfully executed lunge and topple thanks to his now useless left leg and the agonizing pain in his stomach and chest. It was a good thing no one was there to see it.

Time commenced.

The dog barked. A droplet of water began its fall to the street floor.

Trish’s head hit the pavement hard with a crack. Something wet-sounding splattered to the ground past her. She pushed to her knees quickly but hesitated when her hand found something cold and sharp under one palm. She lifted her hand and looked curiously at the shard of greyish stone lying on the dark cobbles beneath her.  With a shock she slapped a hand to her face and gasped.

Her fingers explored the odd little chasm where her right eye used to be, a sharp edge grazing her fingertips as they passed over it. Some of her upper cheek and temple had come away too. It was all now in fragments under their feet.

“Shit,” She said, incredulous more than she was genuinely upset by it. It didn’t feel real.

Beside her, Jotaro huffed and muttered something far more colourful. There was no chance of another time stop now. He didn’t even notice the state Trish had been left in until she turned to him quickly and asked, “How much is left?”

He blinked, “Oh..” he began but winced in pain before he could reply, half-curling around himself on the ground. Trish jumped at the sudden reaction. “It’s reached my heart.” Jotaro said, his voice muffled by his turtleneck.

“What?” Trish frantically crawled over, as if she could have heard it wrong. Didn’t that mean it would stop? A frozen heart pumped no blood. Just like how a partially frozen face was struggling to move as was required to form words around the mouth. “How long do you have?”

“Maybe…” Jotaro flinched. “Two minutes.”

“Shit.” Trish swore. She also heard Spice Girls’ own colourful additions in her head but none of it was worth noting, particularly not for those weak of disposition.

Still sitting on top of his cap, Due, who having been silent for so long was practically bursting to speak, squeaked a couple words of encouragement to Jotaro. He didn’t respond but made a sound something like a sigh. Due feebly patted the roof of the cap and looked back at Trish.

“Boss is still okay! The others say he’s not giving up yet! He wants you to win, little miss!” It said.

Trish met Kujo’s eyes for a short moment and the plan he’d given her came back together through her shock. After all, he’d made the plan accommodating for his own uselessness in the situation. Whatever happened from now on she’d be carrying both his and her weight.

Rosanna broke the moment with a sickening taunt. “Oh, am I becoming an inconvenience? I’m so sorry, Miss Una, I know now you’re a busy young lady. I’m deeply regretful to see that you and Mr Kujo are feeling so under the weather.”

Trish unsteadily turned and stood again. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Oh?” Rosanna shifted her weight with far too much confidence, as Trish saw it. “Care to get it over with then?”

“Please shut the fuck up.”

Rosanna scowled and thrust a hand out towards Trish. “See this? You’re not going to be so cool and collected in front of me now, little girl.” Her fingers around the tiny fragment of stone curled back but Trish couldn’t see what was in Rosanna’s hand. Her vision was blurred and shaky, like watching a shitty mobile phone video. After a certain amount of squinting the thing in question finally came into focus.

Oh, fuck you.

“Come take it back.” Rosanna said. She waved the lump of stone which had previously been part of Trish’s face above her head like a schoolground bully. “Come get your precious eye back, Miss Una.”

Spice Girl moved first, a flurry of fists rushing towards Rosanna before Graceland could raise any sludge or dust to throw back. Two hits landed before the other’s stand moved between them and punched back at Spice Girl. Of course, she dodged in time, and Rosanna was already bent over with two broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. Graceland’s agility increased again, like a steam train building up speed, and lunged heavily towards Spice Girl not to leave another opening for her to strike Rosanna directly again.

With a sloppy sound Graceland had created a handful of the petrifying sludge and reeled back to throw it, Trish’s eyes sharpened as the horribly short arc it followed through the air lead directly to Spice Girl - square in the chest at practically point-blank range.

NOW.

Spice Girl vanished. Behind where it had stood Trish dropped to one knee, the edge of her skirt trapped under her foot, and gripped the fabric. A pinkish sheen coated both hands as her fists knotted in the fabric pulled it up and over her chest and head further than it should have according to any realistic understanding of space and mass. The newly formed shield bounced the pellets off easily - though the force through the skirt gave Trish some nasty bruises up her side – and sent them right back towards Rosanna with increased solidity and speed.

Not sparing a moment Trish dropped her skirt and got up and ran to see the sludge pellets speed past a stunned Graceland and towards Rosanna. Whether or not her dust was effective on her own body, Trish did not know. She was eager to find out.

Rosanna blinked and flicked her wrist. The pellets vanished, leaving nothing but a spray of water to land over her.

Damn.

However, that attack had bought enough time for Trish to close the distance between them and now she was holding Rosanna by her cheap suit collar and had both her own and Spice Girl’s right fists raised above Rosanna’s smug face.

“Disable your stand now. I won’t ask you a third time. I can guarantee Mr Kujo has more diplomatic plans for dealing with you than I do, Rosanna.”

Rosanna sneered. “Over my rotting body. There’s only one person whose words I follow these days and I’m sure they’ve already reached the centre of this stinking city by now.”

Spice Girl’s fists flew forwards – but past Rosanna’s head. The road below Rosanna broke with a hollow crash and gaped open, the rubble falling into pitch blackness. The sound of the stone hitting the floor of the underground was conspicuously distant.

“Did you know it was Augustus who built the greatest aqueducts in this city,” Trish said, “After taking control of the crumbling Republic? It was one of the first ways he reformed Rome from the outside in and won over the public’s favour.”

Trish pushed Rosanna backwards. Her grip on her collar tightened until Rosanna’s shoes dangled over the chasm.

“He was a fascinating man,” Trish continued to uproot her history class memories. “He both lived in the shadow of his hated ‘father’ and somehow reformed the image of that man to strengthen himself. He even didn’t stop short of deifying him. Being the child of an immortal figure, hated or not, gives one the power to do anything. And he did it better than most. Don’t you think?”

Rosanna choked. Trish’s grip was tight.

“Though, I doubt that back then they had expected anyone to fall into one of the underground sewers like this. Good luck finding a way out.”

Rosanna took a deep breath –

And bit down onto Trish’s fingers.

“OW.” Trish flinched backward reflexively, but then her grip loosened too, and something slammed into her legs from behind and then the sky was suddenly under her feet. The twinge on the back of her hand hurt, it really fucking did, and she was pissed that Graceland had gotten a hit on her, but another part of Trish’s mind cared to point out that she was currently plummeting down into the depths of the underground aqueduct.

With a start, Trish shot an arm out to the retreating lip of the pavement above her. Too late to reach it. She then reached further, and Spice Girl’s hand caught on the solid ground above her and Trish pulled herself up further with the steady strength of both Spice Girl’s hands.

The road came back into view, and then Rosanna’s shoe flew right into Trish’s face. She reeled back, loosing her grip, one hand only finding its hold around a nearby broken wooden pole, and slid back down into the darkness with a squeal of shock and pain. Trish vanished from sight.

“Little Miss!” Due shrieked in horror.

Jotaro said nothing. He sat motionless and watched Rosanna walk - with a little difficulty considering her broken ribs and how winded she’d become - over to him with a triumphant grin. Some of her hair had become caught between her teeth.

“Mr Kujo. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure to greet you properly yet.”

Jotaro remained silent.

“I’m a big fan,” she said, “The whole reason that I, and the idiot Harley, began working for the SPW in the first place was for hearing through our family in the Foundation the stories of your family. I used to wonder what kind of man, only a few years older than me, could have made such a name for himself as a stand user. You must have been a hero. A hero greater and realer than the ones I read about in books. You were real, and you saved the whole world. That’s what your family is right? The great and mighty lineage.”

She leant down, hunched from her injuries, to press her forehead into the rim of his cap. She looked quite delirious.

“I’ve broken Heracles. What a fall it was too, all I had to do was put that little girl in the smallest bit of danger and off you go. Throwing yourself to the wolves. You’ve become soft, Kujo, as much as you’d hate to admit it. A family does that to you.”

A shadow passed over Jotaro’s face. Above him, hovering a safe distance away, Due chewed its fingers. There was a horrible and menacing air between these two now.

“So? What will you do now? Soon you’ll be nothing more than cold stone. You’ll be as much of a piece of history as your grandfathers. And you’re far more fascinating here in the flesh and blood, I must say Mr Kujo. A statue just wouldn’t do justice to how damn pathetic you are right now. Not a hero for us, not a mentor for that poor orphan boy, not a father to-”

His hand was already around her throat before another word was heard.

“You shut your fucking mouth.” His voice was low. Not in the heavy and hypnotizing way Giorno’s dropped when he needed it to. Not in the tone Jonathan had delivered his last few whispered lines to his brother. Not even like his own daughter would, in some years, how her temper would peak and burst and break her voice into the deep and furious echo of her father’s and his grandfathers’.

This was a voice that no longer cared that his heart had stopped beating. That his body was shutting down. That only one last breath was trapped inside the stone lungs in his chest.

That last breath was sure as all fucking hell going to make sure he wouldn’t hear this bitch speak a single filthy word about his daughter.

“You’ve said enough.”

Rosanna would have been inclined to say more, of course. This dying man wasn’t going to slow her down. She was having so much fun after all. But a certain obstacle had prevented her from making another noise.

She frowned. No matter how she opened and closed her mouth nothing would come out.

A warm sensation was spreading through her chest and stomach.

Jotaro finally let go and slumped back with a sigh. He closed his eyes.

Due shrieked.

Rosanna also screamed. Or, she would have, if she hadn’t died a short moment after realising what had happened. A wooden pole protruded out from her chest and straight through the cobbles under her, holding her body frozen in a hunch on that spot for the last few seconds of her life and it kept her there afterwards. Where the pole had been thrust up through the ground a web of cracks spread out in all directions. It had been thrown with quite some power and had even curved and warped from the force. From a distance it might have looked something like an odd modern art piece.

The art piece bled.

A few feet away Trish flew up out of the gaping hole in the ground as if she’d jumped off from a giant trampoline in the aqueduct below. In fact, she might have. Landing on the road’s surface she rolled over gracefully but came to a rest with a stumble.

“Ah, fuck.” She clutched at one side of her face. Quite a considerable amount of blood was streaming down from her right eye.

She’d forgotten to get that back from Rosanna before killing the bitch. Damn.

After ripping a strip off the hem of her skirt and tying it around one half of her face like an odd little bandana she dropped to Kujo’s side and patted his shoulder cheerfully. He sat with his back to the bike rack perfectly still, his cap keeping his eyes in shadow. Due hovered nervous nearby.

“Hey,” she said, “It’s over. You’re good to move now I think.”

Jotaro grunted.

“Suit yourself.” Trish straightened and stretched her back out. The fall had been lessened by the area she’d softened under the hole she’d made but when she then bounced off and landed on her behind on hard granite something had gone crack. She might have an ache there for a while afterwards.

Due buzzed over to Trish. “Are you all right Little Miss!? Is Mister Kujo okay?!”

“Yeah, he’s fine,” Trish replied, bending over to reach for her toes. As she did a drop of blood slipped through her bandage and landed on the cobbles between her feet. She ignored it. “He’s just resting. I think his heart must have stopped beating for a couple seconds since I took so long to finish the bitch off. He might take a little while to recover.”

“I’m fine.” Due shouted in surprise as Kujo’s voice boomed from behind them. He stood with the same composure he usually had, as if he hadn’t been a breath away from death only a moment ago. “Believe it or not I’m quite used to surviving a few seconds without a heartbeat.”

Trish raised her brow and passed him. Weirdo.

She stopped by Rosanna’s body - or the bloody kebab she’d been left as at least. Trish was a little taken aback by how gruesome it looked to her now. She didn’t expect there to be quite as much blood. Or for the plank from the cart to have become so disfigured. This wasn’t how she’d expected the remains to look, this was more like how Giorno or the others would usually leave their opponents. She had always thought she was the more civilised and clean one in a fight.

“Are you okay?” Again, Kujo’s voice caught her off-guard.

“Huh? Uh, yeah. I’m fine.” Trish said, conscious of the gaping hole under the bandage where her right eye should be. “Your plan worked out.”

“Hm.”

She hoped he wasn’t going to send her away from the fight because of the injury. It wasn’t going to weaken her. She was still well enough to fight. Don’t you dare try to send me away.

“The things she said to you earlier…” Jotaro sounded genuinely concerned.

Trish turned to face him. “About Giorno?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“No. Do you think it should?”

Jotaro didn’t respond.

“She was a lying bitch. You know it as much as me, I heard the vile shit she was spewing before I ki-before she finally shut up. She was only saying that stuff to psych us out. If we had actually believed any of it then we probably wouldn’t have survived.”

“What she said to me,” Jotaro said, “It wasn’t lies. She knew me and my family well enough from the info they got through the SPW to manipulate me with that truth.”

Trish watched him carefully. Nothing in his voice gave away what part of Rosanna’s bile he was referring to.

He continued, “If she was telling me the truth I’d expect her attacks on you to be founded on some truth too. Trish, are you sure you’re okay?”

Trish laughed. Jotaro was taken aback, of course. Why was she laughing?

Trish looked back at Rosanna’s body with a grim smile. “What she told me was only the truth from one point of view. Too many people think of Giorno like that. For a time, I did too. He’s a ghost, he doesn’t trust anyone, he can’t even tell us about his past. What kind of an ally is that?”

She then smiled up at Kujo.

“When my father had finally been defeated, me and him and Mista were separated from Buccellati. We’d left his body on the Colosseum floor. The last we’d heard from him was his one last action against the old boss – giving Giorno the arrow. And then he vanished. That was where,” Trish held a finger up, the smile on her lips turning faint, “his soul left us. For all intents and purposes his soul should have returned to his body the same way ours had in that moment.”

Her pause allowed Jotaro to unfold his arms across his chest. His face was sombre. When she continued her voice was wobbly, but no weaker.

“Giorno said nothing. He never does say anything to us, Rosanna was right about that. He was the only one, him and Polnareff too I suppose, who knew Buccellati had left us at that moment. Me and Mista returned to the Colosseum thinking we’d find him there waiting for us. Do you think that was cruel of him? It’s probably cruel, inconsiderate, or cold for him to let us find out for ourselves. I thought that way when we found his body. So did Mista. We were so horrible to him. We didn’t understand why he’d done that to us. But he even then didn’t answer us when we asked why he didn’t tell us earlier. He wouldn’t say a word as we broke down by Buccellati’s side.

“But what I think I understand now is why. Rosanna said he can’t think of us as friends, we can’t be if he doesn’t trust us enough to tell us the truth. But he didn’t tell us for one reason. Only one reason. The last few minutes before we reached the Colosseum floor, when we were walking together. He was watching us that whole time. He only wanted to see us like that that a little bit longer, to see us laughing and talking. He was stretching that out as long as he could, before we found Bruno’s body. He only wanted that moment to last as long as possible.”

Trish shuddered, her bare shoulders shivering like she was holding back a sob, but her eyes were dry.

“As for the other things he’s kept to himself, I guess he’s just not ready to tell us about it yet.”

Jotaro opened his mouth, then closed it again. A lot was going through his mind.

“Signor Kujo?” she looked up at him, “Have you ever chosen to keep information from your loved ones?”

Jotaro’s eyes shifted away. “Well, uh-”

“Giorno is a strange boy,” Trish continued before he could say more, she didn’t need to hear the answer. “I won’t deny it. He never meant to hurt us, but he just keeps finding ways to without any intent. I think this absence is only another example of that. He’d never want us to think he’d actually abandoned us. And I don’t think that he has. He wouldn’t. He’s a terrible friend but by god if he isn’t mine. He’s my friend. Mine. And I don’t easily let go of things that’re mine.”

At that moment, Jotaro frozen under Trish’s steel gaze, Mista came speeding around a corner into the street. The Pistols buzzed around him like a swarm of hornets, ready to fly right back into a fight.

“OOOAAAAHH-oh hey Trish.” Mista immediately cut off his frenzied shout and dropped to a walking pace when he found the two standing in the middle of the road. He looked shocked to see they were both upright. “You found the other user then?”

“Yeah,” Trish waved absently to Rosanna’s body, “She was a bitch.”

“Oh. Christ,” Mista covered his mouth once he saw the corpse. “I can see that.”

Jotaro tugged his cap down and stepped back. He felt this moment coming was a moment he didn’t belong in.

“Hey Mista?” Trish began.

“Yeah?” Mista still had his eyes on Rosanna. “Wh-”

His voice was cut off once Trish wrapped her arms around his neck and almost toppled him. They performed a sort of pirouette for a moment as Mista found his balance again. He was suddenly painfully aware of how much blood and sweat he was covered in. And his hat was still missing. He must have been a mess.

He shifted the turtle under his arm so that he could properly support her without crushing the poor creature.

“Woah, you alright?”

“Mmyeafff.” Trish said into his sweater.

“You sure?” He laughed.

Trish looked up. “Yeah, dumbass. I’m always fine. You know I’m way tougher than you. I was just glad to see you hadn’t gotten yourself killed while I was gone.”

“Well! If that’s it, good news! I’m one hundred percent alive. Look,” Mista gestured to himself head to toe, “The same sweaty piece of shit as before. Just a little bruised, that’s all.”

Trish smiled, her eye almost closed. “Good. I would hate to return you to Giorno as spoiled goods.”

“He’s seen me in worse shape.”

“Yeah but I’m the one who’ll be in trouble for not keeping an eye on you.”

“Since when were you my babysitter?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m an awful babysitter anyway. I was kicking ass when I should have been watching yours.”

“Hey,” something finally dawned on Mista. He was quite slow, after all. “What happened to your face?”

“Long story.” Trish said, untangling herself from Mista’s arms. “It’s nothing Giorno can’t fix when he gets back.”

“How bad is it?” Mista was suddenly serious.

“It’s fine.”

“Trish.”

“Mista, don’t worry about me. You’d do better to think about the last insurgent, Rosanna said they could be at the Colosseum by now. We need to hurry.”

Mista wanted to say more but then Jotaro chipped in. “She’s right,” He said. “Those two might have slowed us down for long enough to buy their leader the time to find the hidden entrance. We can make it to the centre of Rome in five minutes if we leave now.”

There was little he could say in response to that, so Mista nodded. He called Due back over from where it sat on Kujo’s cap and turned to lead the march. He was soon joined by Trish, who linked her arm through his and sniffed.

“How much are you thinking about him?” She asked.

“Huh?”

“About Giorno. How often do you think about him, where he is right now, what he’s doing?”

“Oh,” Mista kept his eyes on the streets before them, but they lit up with a special kind of vigour at the mention of that name. “All the fucking time. I don’t think I’m ever not worrying about that damn kid. I miss him. I’m getting heart pains I’m so damn worried about him. He’s giving me grey hairs. I’ve got nightmares now for the first time since I was like nine. If you had a monitor hooked up to me recording how often I’m thinking about him it’d be a god damn rave.”

Trish laughed under her breath. “Thank god,” she said. “I thought it was just me.”

Chapter Text

 A few minutes ago.

Less than twenty meters from the other two, as the crow flies, Giorno had successfully found one of the burglars. The burglar, Linnell, was relieving himself against the dais of a ruined Madonna – her head clean missing and the rest of her consumed by lichen – and was whistling some ditty quietly to himself. The moonlight lit the scene well enough to see and Giorno had waited a suitable length of time to let his eyes adjust to the sudden lack of lamplight. He’d followed Linnell from the shadows once he had left his friend behind and snuck after him through the dark halls of the monastery. Linnell probably thought he was sly; walking with light feet and sticking to the darkest parts of the ruins. Unfortunately for him, Giorno somehow always found darker corners than he to hide in.

This was his fourth time seeing this man. The first two had been quite troublesome encounters. The third had been a real pain. This time however was the worst, despite the calm with which Linnell was standing. While that man was entirely as ease Giorno was almost chewing through his lip. He could see the mask tucked under Linnell’s arm.

Certainly, a chill ran through him when he looked directly at it. It was a creepy mask and the stories he’d heard about it didn’t do it any more favours. But what scared Giorno the most was the small but vocal part of him which yearned for it rather than ran from it. The mask sang to him about all kinds of things. It was pure concentrated power. It bled dominion. It has turned great men to nothing but dust and footnotes. It held a century of generations fast to the consequences of one moment of one night and of one cornered man.

It sang to him of blood. The blood it spilt, the blood that it drank, the blood it had then cursed for so many decades.

It wanted to be held. It wanted him.

And he wanted it.

Giorno shook himself. Pinched his cheek. He hissed through his teeth, screwing his eyes shut like that would shut the mask out somehow. There was a good reason why Kujo had gone out of his way to make sure Giorno hadn’t been the one to retrieve the mask back in Syracuse. He’d understood that, and it was common sense for him not to deny the first request a distant relative ever made for him. But he’d also thought it to be a slight over-reaction at the time.

Though Kujo had been in the right mind apparently. This was far worse than expected.

He had, some moments ago, attempted to manifest Requiem. The attempt was a success only in part. A slight glimmer of the stand had appeared before vanishing with a decidedly unhelpful look of distain. Apparently, Requiem was too busy keeping Giorno in the here-and-now to be useful in other ways such as being a failsafe in the fight against a potential monster. And so Giorno was on his own.

Then, Linnell fastened his fly.

Giorno took this as a cue to get moving before he could lose his nerve. He stepped out from behind the bush he’d been using as cover and coughed politely.

Linnell turned.

“Did I ever introduce himself? I forgot.” Giorno said. It was far easier to speak calm and collected than it was to think it.                                  

Linnell scowled. “No, do you really feel the need to?”

“I think I should, before humiliating you for the third time in forty-eight hours.”

“Bastard.”

“Close. My name is Giorno Giovanna.”

Linnell stepped into the middle of the room – if that was what this space had been before the monastery fell into ruin, it was hard to tell now that most of its ceilings were missing – and said, “Linnell. John Linnell. You met my associate Benny Andersson?”

“He’s the large Swiss man?”          

“Yeah. Is he still alive?”

“Yes. A friend of mine did knock him about a little though.”

“Ah,” Linnell laughed under his breath. “Come ‘ere to finish the job then?”

“Only if you don’t hand that over,” Giorno said, pointing at the mask tucked neatly between Linnell’s arm and his chest.

“Why do you want it?” A shadow passed over Linnell’s face, and a glint of something hungry flashed in his eyes.

“It is very important that this mask does not fall into the wrong hands.”

“And whose ‘ands are the right ones then?”

“Neither of ours.”

Linnell tipped his head back and considered Giorno. “That’s not a compellin’ reason to ‘and it over to you.”

“I won’t give you the choice.”

Linnell shrugged. “Right then.” He said, then span on his heel and took off at a sprint.

Giorno was fast, it was one of those things he’d become very good at after a childhood of being chased by all manner of people – classmates, strangers, the occasional poliziotto – and being of such small stature his speed was the one thing he could use in a tight situation before having the convenience of a stand. That aside, the point is that he had no problem catching up with Linnell after only a minute of following him further into the monastery through doorways and over low stone walls.

Once they’d made it out into the field behind the priory’s walls Giorno tackled the man to the grass. Linnell deftly rolled away from Giorno’s grasp.

“You’re not taking it!” He screamed. “I need it!”

No, it needs you, Giorno thought. This man was far gone.

Linnell clutched the mask, now slightly muddied, to his chest and backed away from Giorno. Giorno knelt on one knee watching Linnell through his hair. His dark fringe was sticking to his face now that he was moving about, mussed by the wind and the tackle and horribly messy. And very hard to see clearly through. He really missed being able to curl it out of his eyes.

Giorno calmly pushed some of his hair away and got to his feet. He approached Linnell, who took even more steps back, and reached out with Gold’s arm to pull the mask from his hands. With a jolt of panic Linnell felt the first tug from G.E. and only clutched it tighter to his chest, staring bewildered at the mask which was seemingly trying to escape his grasp. He struggled a little more, and then Giorno punched him in the jaw.

Linnell flailed and fell back. Gold Experience faded back into Giorno. The mask flew up into the air.

It was unfortunate, that Linnell’s grip had been tight enough to fling it right up between the two of them like a rugby ball thrown at the first whistle of the game. Both them watched it soar up. Linnell scrambled to position himself below to catch it. Giorno tugged one of his shoes off.

With one quick movement from Giorno the shoe was now hurtling after the mask and as it did it shifted and swelled and grew a pair of wings and then all of a sudden, a dove was chasing the mask through the air. As the mask reached the crest of its arc the dove caught it in its feet and continued up away from Linnell. Giorno smiled a very small smile in triumph as he watched his dove carry the mask further and further up from them.

Linnell cursed and pulled a gun from inside his jacket.

The glisten of gunmetal caught Giorno’s eye and his heart leapt for a moment before he realised what was about to happen. Poor son of a bitch. G.E. will only send the damage right back to you, you fool. Giorno’s bird may not have always been a bird, it had been an inanimate and unthinking object a second earlier, but he still felt a little sorry for the creature. He would always feel that little pang of guilt when one of his creations ‘died’, like losing a pet. It was useless sentimentality, but he couldn’t help it.

But the dove served its purpose. Giorno thanked it for that.

Linnell punched Giorno in the face and shot the dove. He hadn’t even spared a thought to how strange it was to see a shoe transform into a bird, he simply wanted the mask back. All he knew for sure was that he wanted that damn mask back. So, he shot the bird. Twice in fact. He was a damn good shot despite not really planning on using his gun that night since it always left a foul oily smell on his fingers. And then a bullet wound appeared in his left arm. And a second one burst from his right arm. The bird cried above out them, both wings now torn to bloody shreds.

As for Giorno, he was furious at himself for letting himself be distracted for even a moment, and long enough for Linnell to punch him. And now he watched through his fingers – clutching at his pounding temple – as a tattered leather shoe fell from the sky and a bloodied mask fell into Linnell’s hands.

“Yes! It’s mine! Hahahaha!” Linnell shrieked in glee. He practically danced around Giorno as he held the mask above his head tightly in both hands. “I’m not letting you ‘ave it! It’s mine!”

Giorno knew what was going to happen next. He was seeing it happen before his eyes. He watched the glee in Linnell’s eyes turn to pride, then to determination. Something was speaking to him right there, telling him what to do. Giorno could hear it too, not even having touched the mask before in his life. The mask was begging in their minds now.

Everything was very quiet. Or rather, Giorno stopped hearing everything in that meadow besides his own breathing and Linnell’s shallow panting. The long grass under Giorno’s feet stopped rustling. No birds cried. No cow bells tolled. Nothing breathed.

Linnell lifted the mask up to his face. His eyes glazed over, and he turned it around, so he held it in his palm.

Giorno turned and ran.

For the first time in his life, Giorno ran from the fight in earnest. As much as that cursed mask wanted him - as much as his own blood sang for that mask - there was now a stronger, primal, urge pulling him away. Self-preservation ran Giorno from Linnell in that moment with the madness of a man running from death itself. Something he knew he couldn’t fight. Bright and blazing terror ran through him. Death itself. What killed Jonathan. What killed Kujo’s allies. What turned his father from the boy who followed him into the jaws of danger this night into a heartless beast. What wouldn’t be stopped by his hand. What couldn’t be killed. Mortal terror. Beyond despair, because it reached back past his own mortality, back past his birth to grip the fate of his family.

Terror. Like facing your death. Like glimpsing the underworld. Like watching a city fall. Troy on fire. Athens closing its city walls. Rome bloating and bursting. Himself, but cold and still. Still like death.

A great unearthly shriek followed Giorno as he fled back into the monastery. He did not turn back to look.

                                                                                             *

Someone had been smart enough to extinguish the oil lamps around Linnell and Winwood’s camp since he was gone. The entire monastery was pitch dark, the air heavy now that midnight had crept in. But the sky wasn’t black, it never truly was, it was only a darkened blue. And spotted with many stars.

But Giorno had no time to admire the night sky, for he was skidding around corners and leaping over low bushes, occasionally slipping in the mud and picking himself up without a pause, frantically searching for the spot he was sure the lamplight had been coming from before it was put out. He felt a great phantom pressure on his back, like something was watching him, or was already pressing down on him from behind. It took everything in him to stop from looking behind to see if something was indeed following him. He simply didn’t have the time to slow down for a second. He had to find them.

He passed the Madonna. The camp had to be close now. But nothing was jogging his memory, everything looked the same to him. He dimly considered that his panicked state was keeping him from recognising the halls he’d passed through to follow Linnell. Fucking hell if that was the case.

“Giorno!” That was Jonathan’s voice.

Giorno came to a screeching halt, digging his heels into the mud with enough force to drive two shallow grooves into the dirt, and hopped backwards to look through an arch he had passed a second earlier.

“Giorno! Is that you?” Jonathan was kneeling in the grass. He held a gun in his hands, which he quickly tossed to the side once Giorno came fully into view.

“It is me,” Giorno said, his voice quite hoarse, “What happened here?”

“Well,” Jonathan sounded even worse somehow. His face was bloodied, and he looked to be on the verge of tears. “I’m fine. But Dio...”

Giorno dropped to Jonathan’s side and found what Jonathan had been kneeling by – Dio’s body. He was breathing but his chest was shuddering like a faulty engine, shaky on the inhale and jittery on the exhale. If Giorno had known anything about actual medicine, then he would probably have something smart to say about Dio’s condition.

“What happened to him?” He asked.

“I think he was shot,” Jonathan pointed to a second body a few feet away, “By him.”

“And what happened to that man?”

“I hit him on the head with a large flagstone until he stopped moving.”

“Oh. Okay. Are you hurt at all?"

“No. I was only unconscious for a few moments because that man punched me, that is why my face is bloody you see, but it was only Dio who was hurt when I came to again.”

Giorno turned his attention back to Dio. “Can you carry him out of here?”

“What? Why would I?” Jonathan said. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea of retreating. He had a strong feeling the danger was not yet defeated.

“I failed to take back the mask,” Giorno said, “and there is now a monster not far from us. I do not know if he will come for us first or begin by killing every man and woman in the village nearby. I ran from him in a moment of weakness. The most I can do with my power is to slow him down and limit the deaths until the sun rises and he is destroyed by the daylight. I want you to take Dio back to the manor until then.”

Jonathan listened to Giorno’s words with some patience, but not with any intention to obey. “I will not.”

Giorno sighed. “I thought I should at least try to convince you.”

“It wasn’t going to work. I know that I can stop this monster, because you told me so earlier, from killing innocent people with that strange power you described-”

“Hamon.”

“-yes, that. If I can stop it, then I will.”

Giorno was defeated. That was that then.

Just then, Dio stirred.

“Don’t think you’ll carry me back to the manor either, Giovanna.” He grumbled.

Jonathan hid a snicker behind his hand. He thought to himself; And you’re far too heavy anyway, Dio, you’ll crush the poor boy.

“I cannot leave you here when you are injured.” Giorno said.

“Then heal me.”

Giorno looked curiously at Dio. “What do you mean?”

“I mean like you did my ear.” Dio said, then looked to Jonathan, “Don’t ask.”

“It will hurt a great amount.” Giorno warned.

Dio twisted his lip. “I’m not a child. I can keep my mouth shut no matter how painful it is. Just get me back on my feet you son of a bitch.”

“Alright,” Giorno found the bullet wound in Dio’s upper stomach. It was bleeding quite a bit and he was impressed Dio was even still conscious to insult him. He was a man of many talents.

He put a little pressure on the wound and investigated with G.E., finding the tiny lead ball lodged above his left kidney. Not a second later it was softening and swelling to fill the gash it had opened and the bleeding in Dio’s abdomen slowed. Giorno felt Dio tense under his hands, but he didn’t make a noise. Impressive. The new flesh was already beginning to fuse with the torn muscle and skin, not a sensation to be taken lightly, but all that gave this away was a slight crease between Dio’s brows.

A soft green-yellow glow began to light up around them. Dio almost jumped with surprise. “What is this?”

Giorno didn’t look away from the wound. “It is very dark, so I could not see very well. This will help me heal you fully.” A firefly danced behind Giorno head. Where they had come from, Dio couldn’t tell. Also, he’d never seen fireflies in person before, so the sight rather distracted him from the last few moments of his operation. They looked like fallen stars up close. As if he were in the sky itself.

Giorno cleared his throat and motioned for Dio to sit upright. He did so, and Giorno took one more look at where the wound had been and said, “There. You are not injured anymore.” Dio looked to see and, yes, the bullet wound was gone. There was only a patch of skin a little paler than the surrounding skin where the hole had been. He tried to get to his feet and promptly fell back to the ground, his head spinning. “But you did lose a lot of blood,” Giorno continued, “and I cannot give you more with the time we have right now. You must rest.”

“Son of a…” Dio covered his eyes as the fireflies’ light swirled into a nauseating whirlpool in his eyes. His entire body felt light, like his skin was barely holding him in place lest he simply float away like cigar smoke. “When I can stand again I’m going to hit you very hard.”

“That’s no way to speak to me when I just saved you from death by blood loss.”

“You said that I’d be good to go.”

“I said that I would heal you. I never said you would be able to stand, let alone re-join the fight.”

Dio growled. There it was again. He had given an empty threat to this kid ad yet not even felt a shred of animosity as he did. On any other day he should be angered by the kind of trickery Giorno pulled. But he let it go.

“Will you stay here while I find the monster?” Giorno asked, wiping blood off his hands onto his trouser leg.

“I don’t have another choice, do I?”

“I suppose not. Do you have some defence? A weapon?”

Dio saw Giorno’s eyes flick over the pistol lying nearby. “It’s empty.” Dio answered the silent question. “The last bullet was in me.” He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or not that he had only loaded the gun with so many, any more bullets and he might not have survived long enough for Giorno to find him, although more might have proven useful to the others. His ego decided it was a good thing. He’d much rather live to see the end of the fight, defeat or not, than miss it entirely.

“Oh.”

“Don’t fret,” Dio said, pulling his narrow but wickedly sharp knife from inside his sleeve, “I still have this.”

“Good. Keep it close. I can’t promise your safety any longer tonight.”

“Hm,” Dio carefully eyed Giorno. If this was another opportunity to pull information out from him, he was going to take it. “How much do you know about this mask?” He asked. “Where did you learn of it?”

“Family ties. It’s a very long story which I assure you, you would not find interesting.”

“What more can you tell us then? If you won’t tell me about your connection to it, you can at least enlighten us to its nature or origin.”

 “I believe they belonged to an ancient civilisation who would incorporate its vampirism into ritualistic sacrifice. Though I do not know exactly how it works.”

“Hang on a second,” Dio said, his eyes narrowing. “You just said “they”. Are you telling me there’s more than one mask?”

“There are…” Giorno stared at the wall behind Dio for a second. “Many more. I do not know how many. Mexico, Italy, there are certain sites where…” He trailed off again when he saw the look on Dio’s face.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dio started as if to get closer to Giorno and speak his mind but a flash of pain crossed his face and he dropped down again. “Urgh.” He moaned. Giorno idly patted Dio’s shoulder in condolence.

“You shouldn’t worry yourself with it. Those other masks will not be a danger right now.”

Dio shot a confused scowl at Giorno but let it go. “George told me his mask was found in some ruins in Mexico. Do you know if there are even more masks to be found in that location?”

“Dio,” Giorno began, “Why are you asking me this?” His face had turned cold all of a sudden, his eyes two sharp little beads of blue staring into Dio. This was clearly dangerous territory to be treading in.

“No reason.” Dio said. “And you’ll be going now,” he looked over Giorno’s shoulder, “quite soon, I should think.”

Giorno frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Dio said, sighing. “It seems to me Jojo has taken it upon himself to make a head start for the undead beast without you.”

Giorno spun around. Jonathan was gone.

“Mannaggia.”

“Good luck,” Dio said, half-heartedly saluting Giorno as he disappeared through the stone archway muttering more colourful Italian phrases under his breath. “Do try to keep him from dying if you can.”

Chapter Text

Jonathan didn’t know what to do.

He’d spent a large portion of his life not quite nothing what to do, but that had never stopped him. He would simply do his best and things would usually turn out okay in the end. He chalked it up to his natural enthusiasm.

And leaving Dio’s side wasn’t what he had wanted to do but it was certainly what he needed to do. Hearing from Giorno that the other man, Linnell, was making a beeline for the village with a thirst for blood was all he needed to know - he couldn’t waste another second sitting around doing nothing knowing that. He needed to go. He needed to find that creature. And he needed to assume that Giorno could catch up to him later.

He probably should have considered a plan of action beyond finding the monster, but hey ho, here he was.

The creature was bizarre. It didn’t look all that threatening from a distance - Jonathan had ducked behind a hedge after spotting Linnell, or what used to be the man named Linnell, stalking across the meadow - and it still had the frame of a normal man. He’d almost expected it to be taller, more menacing somehow. It looked human to him.

However, every instinct known to him was screaming to turn and run the other way. As a living creature with mortal fears, Jonathan wanted to flee. But as a gentleman-

And then the creature stopped moving and turned to where Jonathan hid. Jonathan froze, held his breath.

The creature was breathing heavily and raking the surroundings with its wide egg-yellow eyes, hunched in a desperate kind of way in the gloom where it stood. It was hungry. Almost weak from it. It didn’t take a genius to tell that it was looking for food.

Jonathan thought, quite foolishly, that perhaps him being the monster’s distraction for a short while would buy them the time to save the village. He could draw it away like that. The villagers could escape until sunrise. He could run from the creature, like a carrot held above a mule. Albeit, a mule with the strength to shatter all the bones in his body with one fell swoop.

As Jonathan considered this plan with diminishing confidence the creature suddenly made some movement towards him, lumbering and wheezing. Jonathan flinched and readied himself. But the creature was focussed on something beyond Jonathan. It’s gaping expressionless face stared, fixated and so so very hungry, on an approaching figure across from the priory walls. Jonathan couldn’t make this person out, but they looked large, larger even than him.

A voice called out, “Linnell? Is that you, you bastard?” It was male and accented. “You cannot run from me!”

This voice came closer and Jonathan could now make the newcomer out quite clearly. The approaching man was huge and bearded and very angry. He was faintly familiar to Jonathan. The thing which had been called Linnell showed no such recognition.

“Do not ignore me you dirty liar,” The man, who was called Andersson and had recently awoken in the Joestar manor with a pounding headache and a taste for vengeance, was now approaching the creature, “You told me that the job would be easy. You said, very clearly, that there are only two children in that house. Now look at me!” He waved frantically at his torso, which was spotted with blood. “One of those ‘children’ almost killed me!”

Jonathan stifled a smile. It sounded like Dio’s handiwork and it took a great deal of constraint for him to keep from feeling proud of his brother in that moment.

The moment then ended very quickly when the creature moved closer to Andersson and grabbed him by the throat.

Jonathan saw very little of the following due to both his position at the time and a certain amount of horror which drove him to look away after a point. This is understandable, despite Andersson being one of the criminals who broke into his childhood home and threatened his family, Jonathan always found it hard to hold much of a grudge against anyone unless proven transparently guilty. He would never wish what then happened to Andersson on anyone. Besides, Jonathan did recognise the man in his last few moments as the kind fellow who worked in the village pub and made a wonderful hot sweet tea. Jonathan knew very little about him beyond this. He assumed that there was much more to learn. The man made nice tea, he never made fun of Jonathan’s height, he once mentioned family in Europe. And he surely had good reason for breaking into the manor.

Andersson’s body dropped into the grass with a heavy thump. A few seconds later his head landed beside it.

With a shaky breath Jonathan uncovered his eyes. The creature hadn’t moved. It must be waiting for the meal to settle, Jonathan realised with a jolt of sickness in his chest. It was enjoying this.

A hand came down on Jonathan’s shoulder. He turned to see Giorno frantically press a finger to his lips.

Shush.

Jonathan relaxed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Giorno hissed.

“Sorry. I was afraid it was going to escape us,” Jonathan answered, his voice barely loud enough to hear. “It killed someone.”

“What?” Giorno flinched. “It’s eaten?”

“Yes. Is that bad?”

“It is very bad.” Giorno said, “A vampire is much weaker when it is hungry, even more so before it has eaten before. If we had fought it in the minutes after awakening, we would have an invaluable advantage.”

Jonathan looked at Giorno, with a look of almost pity on his face. Giorno read his expression quickly and responded, “I’m sorry. I ran at that time because I was afraid.”

“No, no,” Jonathan took Giorno’s shoulder, “Don’t apologise. I understand.”        

Giorno met Jonathan’s gaze. There was something sad in that child’s eyes, deep and echoing like an ocean. He was trying to say something, and he wanted to, Jonathan could tell. He so wished that he would tell him what it was. What was it? What aren’t you telling us? What’s hurting you? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.

“I shouldn’t have run. I have never run before now, and it has already cost someone’s life.”

“That’s not your fault.”                                                  

“But it is. I ran because I was afraid, but I also ran because I was afraid for you. Nothing scared me more than thinking you or Dio would be hurt,” Giorno hugged his shoulders, as if he were cold. “I would not forgive myself if I couldn’t protect you. It would kill me.”

It was then that Jonathan realised that the shade of Giorno’s eyes was the exact same as his.

“I do not want you to die.” Giorno said.

Is this what it was?

“I have only known you for a day. I do not want to see you die.”

Is this what’s hurting him?

“Please. Don’t make me watch you die.”

Giorno’s voice was turning pleading, a child begging for an answer of some sort. Jonathan didn’t understand how he was meant to answer.

“I’ve only known you for a day.”

His voice went so soft then, thinning out to a whine. His eyes closed.

Jonathan pulled him into his arms. Without a second thought. There was no question in it, it was what needed to be done. This child needed nothing else. And that was that.

Held in those arms, and gasping for breath, Giorno struggled to make sense of it. Warmth. And the sound of breathing. And a faint smell of freshly cut grass and tobacco. Pressure on his shoulders and back. A warmth. Sleepy warmth. It felt like falling asleep.

This was what it felt like, then.

Giorno closed his eyes and stretched the seconds into minutes. He then stretched those minutes out into years in his mind. Years grew, and he grew, held in those arms. He grew from those first few years, the ones you forget, held like the most precious thing on earth. He grew into a skittering shrieking child, held by the scruff from hurting himself. He then grew to hold those hands back, putting one tiny hand in his, walking across a road safely, watching the ducks eat. He grew and grew and the years got shorter and his words got longer and his voice less shrill until he was tall enough to wrap his arms around his father. He would wrap his arms around him like the vine grips the tree. He wouldn’t let go.

This is how it should have always felt, then. 

It felt like love.

Jonathan’s eyes prickled. The wave of – an emotion so alien to him at his age he couldn’t hope to name – left him feeling… He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure whether to cry or laugh or worry about the bloodthirsty creature less than a hundred feet from them or simply to pull Giorno tighter into his arms. Everything felt brighter and sharper. The pressure of Giorno’s breathing every few seconds might have been the most real sensation he’d ever felt.

His heart was aching. Like he’d lost something so precious to him all of a sudden. Or he’d just found it, it was so hard to tell. Everything was confusing and painful and wonderful, and he was finding it hard to hold back tears for some reason.

But the worst part was that he didn’t want to let go.             

One of Giorno’s hands crept up to gently tap Jonathan’s elbow. Jonathan loosened his arms. Giorno was smiling. He had a dimple on both cheeks. Jonathan knew he had the same on his own cheeks.

Still holding one of Jonathan’s arms over him, Giorno said, very quietly, “Thank you.”

Jonathan didn’t know what to say. They were sitting under a hedge on the ground, hiding from a vampire in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. Neither had any clue how to fight the monster. And neither knew quite how to react to each other now.

“You looked like you needed it,” Jonathan said cheaply. He was at least glad that Giorno looked as if some of his strength had returned.

But Giorno looked like he wanted to say something more. Several seconds passed and he chewed his lip. There was definitely something he wanted to say.

Jonathan never heard it, whatever it was, because between one blink and the next Giorno had vanished from sight. Jonathan’s eyes followed the blur of movement before his mind had the time to process what had happened and he watched something fly off into the darkness above him.

That ‘something’ was too far off now for him to recognise it as Giorno, who had been grabbed by the scruff and flung upwards at a break-neck speed.

Below; Jonathan leapt to his feet and barely escaped the creature’s claw which buried itself in the turf where he had sat.

Above; Giorno struggled to find a sense of up and down as he tumbled through the air. He was still flying somehow, so it must have been a really strong throw. He was going to land somewhere very far from Jonathan and the creature. It must have reckoned that he posed a bigger threat than Jonathan, and so got him out the way while it dealt with the other weaker human.

The ground spun around him, and the air whistled too loud in his ears to hear what was happening below.

Jonathan was beating off a few of the creature’s attacks, avoiding its claws by hairbreadths, and he soon found himself backed into a corner. Two walls on either side, both too high to climb and too well preserved to easily knock through. The creature edged closer and took a swipe at Jonathan, missing his neck but taking a small chunk of flesh from his shoulder. Jonathan gasped and pressed his hand to the wound as the creature sucked the gore from its fingers with slow and horrific satisfaction.

Its eyes were all Jonathan could see in that light. The moon was directly behind it so all he could make out from its hunched silhouette was a pair of wolf-like eyes staring right back at him. It smelt like blood, he could smell it from here and it stunk of blood. He smelt like blood too now. Jonathan held his fists up before his face.

Giorno finally began falling and straightened his arms and legs out, righting himself in the air, and zeroed in on the creature. He pulled his second shoe off and hurled it straight at its head.

This shoe didn’t grow feathers, but it stretched and darkened and twisted in the air until it landed on the creature’s back as a slim furred animal which darted up to nip whatever bare skin it could find. The creature grunted and grabbed for the pine marten, but it darted away again, slippery and small, and then disappeared into the grass.

Giorno landed, barefoot, and immediately toppled and fell on his back. One of his ankles had twisted upon landing. Gritting his teeth and ignoring the ache he got up and began moving as fast as he could across the meadow.

He watched as the monster became increasingly angry at the tiny brown animal he’d created which was repeatedly running up its leg and biting its lower back or shoulder and then dashing away again before the monster had a chance to grab it. Jonathan was still standing with his back against the wall and his fists clenched, not letting his eyes leave the creature in front of him for even a second. The pine marten was giving Giorno the time to close the distance, but it wouldn’t last long. He had to get between the monster and Jonathan. Although, he still did not know how he could fight the damn thing. His plan ended right there.

The monster finally caught the pine marten in one of its claws. The animal squirmed and thrashed, and then the monster ripped it in two like a sock puppet.

Jonathan clapped a hand over his mouth and gagged.

A huge gash opened in the creature’s chest, like a mouth opening, and a spray of blood leapt out to cover Jonathan head to foot. The creature screeched in surprise and clawed at its own flesh for a moment before turning and coming face to face with Giorno. Jonathan didn’t see what happened, he simply couldn’t from where he stood, but he saw that the creature then reeled back as if something heavy had hit it in the chest. This occurred a few more times and the creature stumbled backwards and swatted out at the invisible force.

“Jonathan!” Giorno shouted, standing with his arms tense and feet slightly apart in a strange stance– Jonathan noticed his bare heels digging into the mud more with each invisible hit – and not taking his eye off the creature. “Can you use that ability I was telling you about?”

“Uh,” Jonathan clenched and unclenched his fists. So far it had only manifested by sheer accident or without him noticing at all. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Jonathan, this is the only thing that can help us now,” Giorno said, “I don’t know how long I can –”

The creature hissed and thrust its arms out and grabbed something in the air between them. Giorno yelped and lurched suddenly. Whatever was in the creature’s hands was struggling - as its empty claws tightened Jonathan watched it then jerk to the side and back again. The creature wasn’t deterred by this, it’s gleaming eyes narrowed in morbid interest and the invisible struggle only became more violent. The gash across its chest had all but entirely healed now.

“Jonathan!” Giorno’s voice was strangled. Both his arms were held in a painful looking position by his side.

Jonathan was panicking. He didn’t understand what was happening.

The creature performed a strange motion with its empty hands and Giorno buckled, the creature then lowered its arms and mimed something like a stomp into the air.

Giorno shouted in pain. He spat blood onto the grass.

Another sharp and strong kick into thin air and Giorno folded over to the ground and quietly whined through his teeth. He judged his pelvis had been broken in at least two places. The blood in his throat pointed to a rib puncturing his lung. One of his arms was lying at a very unnatural angle. The force of the creature holding fast onto his stand still pressed him steady into the ground. He’d expected a vampire to be strong, he’d heard from Kujo how strong Dio had been when he’d first turned but he’d have been lying if he said he didn’t feel a bit of shame to be defeated by the beast so fast.

He lay with his broken arm curled around his head and his face half turned into the mud. He couldn’t move.

Suddenly, he felt Gold Experience fall from the creature’s grasp and the pressure on his limbs faded. He looked up hazily.

Jonathan was clinging desperately to the creature’s back, being tossed around and scratched at by glistening claws as it tried to get at him with a fresh fury. It surely hated being toyed with like this. It wouldn’t be long before Jonathan was hit again.

“Careful!” Giorno shouted.

Jonathan cried out suddenly, and his hands lit up for a moment - looking just as surprised as Giorno was by it - and he then tightened his hands around the creature’s throat, not really knowing anything else to do with them. The creature howled and reached up and dug its claws into Jonathan’s shoulder, into his open wound, and pulled him off and over and down to the ground by Giorno.

The creature staggered backwards, dancing its hands over its throat where a huge glowing orange welt was now spreading down from the spot where Jonathan had grabbed it. Jonathan looked up at this and then back down at his hands in wonder.

“Jonathan,” Giorno said as he tugged on Jonathan’s sleeve from where he sat behind him. Jonathan’s right arm hung limp at his side and was soaked in blood. “Please tell me you did that on purpose.”

“Um. I, uh, well. Maybe.” Jonathan stammered and blinked a few times. He was still staring at his hands, turning them over like they were brand new to him somehow.

Just then, something caught the attention of the creature to their right. It took a step away from the two on the ground back towards the priory some sixty feet away. It then took another step, and another.

Giorno then finally followed the creature’s gaze and caught his breath. By the archway he had come through to find Jonathan, Dio now stood leaning against the stone, his face pale and his eyes wide and locked on the approaching creature.

Giorno screamed his name at the exact same time as Jonathan did.

Dio saw Giorno and his face shifted back from terror to his usual mask of calm determination and he drew his tiny knife from his sleeve, half-leaning on the arch behind him. He still looked weak, he was still recovering from the bullet and his impromptu surgery. His legs shook a little as he squared to face the creature slowly stalking closer across the meadow to him. Weirdly heroic, in a way.

“Dio!” Giorno shouted, “Throw me the knife!”

Dio look back at him again, confused.

“Trust me! Dio, you need to trust me! Throw the knife!”

As Dio creased his brow Giorno turned to Jonathan and took one of his hands.

“You will have to trust me too,” He said. “Do exactly as I need you to. And do it fast.”

Jonathan paused for a moment then nodded soberly. Somehow, he fully understood Giorno’s plan without the need for any more words. Though he didn’t like it. He didn’t like at all in fact. If he were less concerned about their safety he may have been more concerned about the lack of need for any explanation. Or perhaps not. After all, he’d by now become completely accustomed to this mysterious mutual understanding.

Giorno got to his feet, stumbled, and was quickly supported by Jonathan holding his shoulders behind him.

A flash of metal – Giorno caught Dio’s knife in his hand, holding the tip of the blade a mere inch from Jonathan’s nose.

The creature was closing in on Dio, maybe only twenty feet now. Dio stood still. He stared past the monster and didn’t take his eyes away from Giorno and Jonathan even for a moment as the next few seconds elapsed.

Jonathan grimaced and tightened his grip on Giorno’s shoulders. Some tiny orange sparks flew off into the grass and his hands began to crackle and glow. The glow grew and spread to run down Giorno’s arms. Golden arcs of light peeled off them both.

Giorno gasped and almost collapsed, his vision blurring for a second as the Hamon bit into his veins.

Jonathan held him up straighter. His hands tightened on his shoulders.

Giorno squinted up at the figure of the creature and pulled his arm back, the one holding the knife, and G.E.’s arm glittered around his own, and he threw it with all the speed and strength he could muster with his fading consciousness.

The knife flew true, luckily, and grew much larger in the few seconds that it took to reach the creature. It grew and distorted quite like a bolt of lightning and by the time that it buried itself in the vampire’s back it had become a large green bushel ending with a stake-like point which vanished into the creature’s flesh. The green leafy end was dotted with bright red buds and the whole thing crackled with orange and yellow energy.

The creature stopped a single step away from Dio, who hadn’t budged an inch, and froze in place. It trembled like a great electric shock was passing through it and then, with no warning, fell forwards onto Dio.

Jonathan shouted and dropped Giorno in his shock. He ran, stumbling every other step, across the meadow until he finally reached where the creature had fallen.

It lay on its front, the bushel of blossoms and latent Hamon energy sticking out its back and facing up at the night sky above it. The leaves dripped with blood, dew and the reflected moonlight. Jonathan still saw odd crackles of light dancing between the tiny buds. The creature was not moving. And Dio was nowhere to be seen.

“Dio?” Jonathan called out, looking desperately around the wall and stone archway.

Where is he? Is he hurt? Oh, god, if he’s-

Then, he heard a sound like sand running through fingers. He looked down. The body of the vampire was blackening and crumbling into nothing before his eyes, the burnt and lifeless dust was blown off by the wind and vanished into the long grass at Jonathan’s feet like the creature had never been there at all. Giorno’s bushel crumbled along with it and mixed its own sweet floral scent with the smell of burnt flesh. What was left finally dropped away to reveal a second body lying flat underneath it.

Dio lay, covered in black foul-smelling dust from head to toe and still bleary from blood loss, glaring up at the stars.

“That was fairly disgusting.” He said.

Jonathan began laughing.

Dio held back his laughter, because as soon as he cracked a smile the creature’s remains fell into his mouth. It tasted like shit.

But he grinned anyway.

They'd won.

Chapter Text

Giorno sat in the grass.

He would much rather stay there on the ground than try to move just yet. Even thinking about standing hurt.

Sixty feet away, Jonathan pulled Dio’s limp body into his arms and doubled over it.

That was how it looked from the distance at which Giorno sat. He could just about hear Jonathan saying something, Dio responding in a dry tone, and Jonathan laughing loudly. He watched them slowly get to their feet, the process slowed significantly by Dio almost passing out the first time round.  On their second attempt Jonathan yelped in pain when he attempted to lift Dio with the arm which was still bleeding out at a steady pace. But they laughed through it all.

The two of them were happy, Giorno thought.

What a relief.

He clenched his teeth as the pain in his chest burst for a few seconds; the stitching Gold Experience was doing to fix his injuries had to be quick and dirty for now and it was never a bed of roses even when he had the time to take it slow. The ribs he had broken fused back together using some nearby shredded ligament to connect them, the same to his collarbone, and he did his best with the fractured pelvis. Not to even to mention the swirling nausea he still felt from the dose of Hamon he’d been given. The glow and sparks around him had vanished for now but a residual crackling sensation still sat in his bones and danced through his veins. He ignored it as much as he could, hoping it would somehow subside in favour of the physical pain he felt.

When he got to his feet it didn’t feel good at all - he simply wasn’t in the shape to move yet - but he had to get up anyhow.

Giorno looked around until he found what he was looking for.

Only ten steps away, away from the priory site but still shockingly close, it sat oh-so-innocently in the grass as if it had the right to be there. He limped over to where the stone mask lay. Giorno looked down at it for a couple seconds before swallowing a flicker of fear and picking it up.

In his hand it was somehow less threatening than he would have thought. It was heavy and rough to the touch and there was a portion of text in an unfamiliar script carved into the inside. It was damp from lying in the ground and cold from the night air. It grinned up at him.

This was what had ruined everything. It always ruined everything.

Though, Giorno reflected, if he hadn’t been here, if he hadn’t dropped in to say hello, this wouldn’t have happened. In the version of the story Kujo had told him in 2001 he’d never mentioned an incident like this. He could only assume before he – the invader – had travelled back this night had played out quite ordinarily; the two boys left alone by George in the manor had beaten off the three burglars without a hitch. But because he’d interfered he’d caused the night to become a true nightmare. It was his fault that Jonathan had been ill that evening, that Dio had been so distracted, that the mask had been stolen.

If he hadn’t been here this wouldn’t have happened.

The mask in his hands smiled up at him as if it knew, like it agreed. He shouldn’t have come here. He’d wanted to know them, to prove to himself that there was a version of Dio at some point in the past who wouldn’t turn his stomach, that the man named Jonathan wasn’t just some fantastical story passed down through the generations. He’d only wanted that, and he’d managed to screw it up in the worst way possible.

The damn mask found a way to hurt their family even in this version of the story.

His fingers curled around the rough stone edges.

This thing was going to hurt them again. And it would kill them.

He could stop that. He could stop it from happening again in one very simple way. If he was here he may as well do something about it. Make the journey worthwhile.

Yes, he thought, it would mean I may cease to exist given that I technically have the mask to thank for my own birth. But on the other hand, it would save a great many more lives than just one. All I have to do is destroy the mask. It would break the chain, keep it out of anyone’s hands, end the curse before it even began, and save my fathers from respective lifetimes of horror and failure.

If Giorno had been in any right mind he may have thought it through a little more than this. He might have realised the flaws in this theory. He might have thought about the people he would never meet in the future if he was indeed risking erasing his own birth. But he wasn’t in his right mind – he was racked with pain and a large dosage of Hamon was racing through his veins and slowly melting the linings of his blood vessels. He stood in that meadow, swaying slightly and holding the mask before him, thinking of only one thing.

He thought about Jonathan and Dio and how it sounded to hear them laughing behind him.

And with that thought in his mind he broke the mask in half over his knee and dropped the fragments into the grass by his feet.

A second passed and he expected something to happen. He’d seen a film once - an American one, where a boy travels back through time to meet his parents when they were teenagers – he remembered very little outside of a scene where the main character begins to fade away from reality once his plan had failed and a paradox was created. But he checked his hands and they were as corporeal as ever.

His mind raced, or it did what it could to think fast when he was already close to fainting, and he began to panic.

I’m still here. I’m still here?

This means… I’m not impacting the future. Or at least, I’m not impacting the future I came back from. So, this isn’t the past. I never truly stepped into the past.

The past I’m standing in is only the past of a timeline outside of my own.

This concept wasn’t as alien as it could have been, thanks to the suspension of disbelief already established by his vague understanding of Requiem’s abilities. It was Requiem who had brought him here after all.

And this meant he hadn’t done anything at all to help his fathers by breaking the mask, at least in the way he had intended to at first. The versions of Jonathan and Dio who had existed in his universe were still long dead in the same ways as before. He’d failed to help them.

But, he thought as he looked over his shoulder at his fathers, there was one version of those two who would be able to live without this curse hanging over their fates. If I’m right, these versions are safe. Thanks to this disastrous intervention.

He hadn’t failed entirely.

Giorno’s vision finally clouded over and the grassy floor tipped and something cold and hard hit his head from the side.

This was soon identified as the ground.

He tried to open his eyes, but everything was blurry and painful. Some voices from far off were shouting his name.

But then another voice, closer and clearer, spoke directly into his ear. The voice was familiar because it sounded somewhat like his own, but as if dozens of hundreds of his voice were speaking at once over one another at him. It was echoey but crystal clear. It hummed low in his bones and it whined high through his teeth. It was awful, and it was beautiful.

This was what Requiem sounded like.

It said;

YOU’VE BEEN HERE TOO LONG. THE POISON YOUR FATHER PUT IN YOUR BODY IS ONLY WEAKENING YOU MORE AND I WON’T HOLD YOU TO THIS UNIVERSE MUCH LONGER.

Giorno almost smiled. His theory was right then.

IF YOU DO NOT RETURN TO YOUR OWN UNIVERSE YOU WILL CONTINUE TO LOSE CONCIOUSNESS UNTIL YOU DROP THROUGH THE BARRIERS BETWEEN UNIVERSES WITHOUT MY GUIDANCE. IF THAT HAPPENS I CANNOT GUARANTEE YOUR RETURN WILL BE SAFE. YOU MAY LOSE SOME MEMORIES IN THE JOURNEY, OR SOME LIMBS.

Giorno felt arms lift him from the ground but his eyelids were far too heavy to open and see who was carrying him. There were still frantic voices, but Requiem’s was deafening to him in comparison.

WHEN YOU FIRST LANDED IN THIS UNIVERSE THE SHOCK CAUSED YOU TO SLEEP FOR TWO DAYS. I WARN YOU, MASTER, THE SAME MAY OCCUR NOW. YOU MAY SLEEP FOR MUCH LONGER THAN BEFORE.

The body Giorno lay on, being bumped around in the motion vaguely familiar to him as the sensation of being carried on someone’s back, smelt like freshly cut grass and tobacco. Such a homely collection of smells.

WHEN YOU DO WAKE UP, WHENEVER IT MAY BE, YOU MUST RETURN IMMEDIATELY.

Giorno took one deep breath as he dropped down into deep treacle-thick sleep. He had thought it would be nice to fall asleep while wrapped in this smell. He had always wanted to fall asleep while being held by that man.

YOU MUST RETURN HOME.

He’d always wanted to fall asleep held by his father.

And so Giorno fell asleep with a smile, his cheek pressed firmly to the back of Jonathan’s neck. The very last thing he thought was that he didn’t want to wake up.

*

Once they had arrived into the village Dio insisted that Jonathan pass Giorno over to him. Jonathan objected of course, but Dio quickly explained that he would be far more useful using his strength to run to the other end of the village to find a doctor. Dio then told him he was feeling much better now anyway, he could carry Giorno for a short time while Jonathan found them a doctor who could help. Jonathan had then reluctantly handed the unconscious Giorno over and quickly vanished into the night after a couple of nervous looks over his shoulder.

And then Dio was left alone. He was standing in the empty main street of the village in the middle of the night with a presumably comatose child on his back. And he had lied to an extent. He wasn’t feeling perfectly fine. There was still a great deal of pain in his abdomen and every time he took a step his vision went black for a split moment.

Bloody fantastic.

But this didn’t stop him from slowly making his way up the street and occasionally shouting out for help. He shouted for help, for a doctor, for anyone who knew anything about caring for someone with internal injuries. Apparently, the village wasn’t feeling particularly generous that night. No one joined them outside and no one opened their doors. No one even opened a window to see what the fuss was.

They probably assumed he was drunk. Dio was man enough to admit it wasn’t an unfair assumption for the community to make in his particular case.

Dio cursed and hefted Giorno further up his back - he had been slipping down as he walked - and then came to the end of the street. The main street lead down directly from the station, it being at the top of the hill, and the gaslights from the single platform were blinding in comparison to the darkness of the night around them.

Dio squinted and looked away, his gaze landing on a bench sitting opposite the station. He lay Giorno down across it and took a few deep breaths. He’d have to carry Giorno back down the hill if he wanted to meet Jonathan again and he suspected Jonathan wasn’t having any more luck finding a doctor than he was. It was taking an awful lot of his remaining dignity to keep from showing his worry. The evening had gone badly enough already and was getting progressively worse with no indication of giving him a damn break.

But at least this was a moment to gather his thoughts.

He looked down at Giorno. He looked peaceful, like he was simply asleep. But pangs in his gut told him it was something different. The same feeling crept in as the one he’d felt when he’d first found him lying in the London alleyway, unconscious and covered in gutter filth and rainwater. It was the same feeling, like fear. He was afraid for this kid. He didn’t know why. Or maybe he did.

But he didn’t care about that uncertainty anymore. He only gave a crap about making sure that no one was going to die on his watch tonight.

Especially not Gior-

“Dio?” A voice came from behind him. “Is that you?”

Dio turned to see a silhouette, backlit by the station’s light. He couldn’t make it out, but he faintly recognised the voice.

“Who is that? Who’s there?” he asked. Just as he said it the memory clicked into place in his mind and he instantly regretted speaking at all. He knew who this was.

Shit. This is either the greatest or the worst thing that could happen to me tonight.

*

The person standing at the bottom of the steps leading up to the station felt the same way. Once she’d recognised Dio in the lamplight it became clear that it would be a very long night ahead. But then again, she should have seen this coming. Fate worked like that.

She saw the figure lying on the bench. She saw Dio watching her with intense trepidation. She recalled the feeling of dread and necessity which had drawn her back here in the first place.

Erina swallowed her pride and approached with a stony face.

After all, this was what she was trained for.

Chapter Text

Giorno woke up with a foul taste in his mouth. The room around him was dark, but not quite pitch-black, so he could make out the outline of rafters above him and the faint glow of sunlight coming from a drawn window to his right. He couldn’t hear anything though.

When he tried to sit up something heavy held him down. He soon found it to be a series of blankets which had been laid across his legs. He was lying on a small bed. To his left was a table with an unlit candle set on it, a dusty candle stub, two notebooks, an empty bottle and a glass of water. He drank the glass of water quickly. On his left a second table held an assortment of what he recognised as doctor’s tools, all perfectly clean and neatly arranged across a white towel. Behind the tools a few dirty pieces of cloth had been folded and placed apart from them, most of them visibly bloodied. A low stool had been placed by his bedside though no one sat in it now. Below the window a set of stairs led downwards but he couldn’t see down beyond than the first few steps.

He was alone.

Giorno pulled all the blankets off from him, dropping each to the floor by the bed. Once he had unearthed himself he could see what, if anything, had been done to his body while he was asleep.

The only remaining damage he could feel was a small slash in his right forearm - which had not been there before. All his other wounds were fully healed, and the broken bones were no longer broken; he could only assume this by the lack of pain when he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed. Whoever had left the water and tools in the room had wrapped his arm with the same cloth as was left on the table and secured it in the neatest pin Giorno had ever seen. In all the time he’d spent patching people up himself he’d never had the time to be so meticulous about the job as this person had been. They must be a professional.

As Giorno began to pick at the fastening on his arm, intending use G.E. to fully heal the cut underneath, he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Giorno quickly dropped his hand from the bandage.

Erina entered carrying a handful of fresh bandages and a small bottle of what looked like a spirit. When she saw Giorno was awake she almost dropped what she was holding.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, pressing a hand to her heart, “I didn’t think you would be awake.”

“Signora,” Giorno said, “I am sorry to surprise you, but must I must ask you immediately how long I was asleep for.”

“Oh. Um, ten days.” She replied, coming closer to put her cloths and bottle onto the table.

“Ten…” Giorno rubbed his temple. That didn’t sound right. That was far too long. Even though Requiem had warned him of a long recovery time it angered him to hear. What had he missed in this time? What had happened to Jonathan and Dio?

“But,” Erina added, “You almost woke up a few times, enough for me to have you eat a little. You looked very ill to me, so we gave you enough time to recover fully.”

Giorno couldn’t remember anything like that happening. He must have been fully out of it. “We?”

Erina looked uncomfortable. “Dio brought you to me. He told me very little about why you were so ill but insisted that I help you anyway.”

“And you did as he asked?”

“I didn’t do it for him.” She said, sitting on the stool by Giorno and smoothing her skirts. “I did it because there is never a good reason for me to turn away someone in need.”

“Thank you,” Giorno bowed his head slightly. “But why are you here, not in London? I did not think you would ever return to this place.”

“I didn’t think so either. But something in me,” Erina’s voice softened, and he touched a spot above her heart, “Something in me told me to return. I cannot explain the feeling, but it felt as if I needed to be here. It began very suddenly in the afternoon that day and only became stronger as the hours went on. It never waned until I began travelling north to where I knew Jojo would be. You’ll think I’m silly to feel so but…” she trailed off.

Giorno met her gaze and smiled encouragingly. “I do not.”

She continued, “I had a horrible feeling Jojo was in danger somehow.”

“It is not silly.” Giorno said. “You are very fortunate to be sensitive to these things. In my experience that feeling is only so common between parent and child, or close relatives. I am not surprised when you must be so close to Jonathan.”

Erina blushed furiously. “Oh, well…”

Giorno then pointed to his wrist. “Can you tell me what this is?” The bandage was still on tight.

Erina looked at his arm and chewed her lip. “For the first few days you seemed to me to have been poisoned. It’s why I think you were so ill. So, I tried as many antidotes as I could find in and around the village that I knew about, but you were not recovering whatever I did. I turned to trying any cure I could think of, I was so afraid. It was only once I tried blood-letting that you began to regain some strength.”

“Blo-” Giorno balked. “Isn’t that a little archaic?”

“Of course! But your condition was so strange, and I was running out of ideas and you seemed so terribly ill that-!”

Giorno laughed it off. “Do not worry. I am flattered by your courage.”

Although it was indeed a horribly dated and profoundly unhelpful treatment, Giorno had to admit that the bloodletting may have done the trick. It was the Hamon which had weakened him the most, more than his injuries. And since it was literally in the bloodstream it only made sense that the poisonous energy would only be removed from his body in that fashion. Though this still disgusted him to an extent. He much preferred medical treatments which you wouldn’t find mentioned in a book titled; History’s Weirdest Cures.

“Would you like me to change your bandage for you?”

“No,” Giorno ran his hand over the cloth. “I’ll hold onto it for a little longer.” He decided that he’d rather wait for the cut to heal before coming face-to-face with the physical evidence of that episode.

Erina fidgeted on her stool, like she wanted to do something, anything, now that he was finally awake.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. I’m perfectly fine. But, may I ask you some questions now?”

“Of course.”

Erina suddenly turned serious. “Who are you?”

Giorno’s smile faded but didn’t disappear. “I am not Dio’s cousin, if that is what you want to know.”

“Will you not tell me anything more?”

“I do not think I can. You wouldn’t believe me, or you would think I am insane.”

“I’ve heard stranger things from Jojo and Dio over the past week.”

“I think I might have them beat.”

“They still refuse to tell me the whole truth of what happened, won’t you?”

“It is not my place to.”

“And their injuries…”

“You were treating them too?”

“They were in far better shape than you were that night. I gave them some treatment for their wounds but they both insisted that I dedicate the best of the medicine I took with me from London to you.”

“Oh.” Giorno looked down at his hands. It was no surprise to him.

“Another question, Giorno.”

“Yes?”

“I barely recognised you when Dio found me in the village that night. You were quite bloody and dirty, yes, but also…”

“Yes?” Giorno repeated himself.

“It might be rude of me.”

“Go on.”

Erina pointed at Giorno. In particular, she pointed at his head.

“It surely wasn’t that shade when I found you that night. It did take me a moment or two to recognise you.”

Giorno touched his hair, it had grown in the time had been asleep and now reached his shoulders. The curls he had between his fingers were a glossy gold colour. He sighed. It had been almost two weeks since he’d cut and changed his hair and he’d spent the large majority of that time unconscious, so it was no surprise that this would have happened. Gold Experience had evidently taken its chance to turn it back to the favoured shade.

“Don’t worry, I did expect this.” Giorno assured Erina, who was still a little mystified. She slowly nodded and moved her attention to the bedside.

Over the next few minutes Erina handed him some clean clothes and a small bowl of soup she had been planning on eating herself, insisting that Giorno be the one to have it. She explained that the building they were in was the barn-like pub Jonathan had shown him all those days ago; Jonathan was on good enough terms with the family who ran it for them to give them the entire attic space for two weeks. They would have moved him back into the manor had George not returned the previous week. The soup had been made by the red-cheeked and red-haired woman who had shot at Giorno that afternoon when Jonathan had reached for the arrow. Once Giorno was ready Erina handed him a new pair of shoes, telling him that he’d been delivered to her without wearing any. He refrained from explaining that strange detail to her.

She then led him down the steep and rickety stairs - it was closer to resembling a ladder in some places - down to a small musty room with no windows and many boxes stacked against the walls. Giorno almost tripped over a crate by his feet filled with oranges and knocked his shoulder into Erina’s in his confusion. She quietly laughed and pulled open a door he could not see in the shadows and the room was then suddenly flooded with warm light.

The pub beyond the storeroom they were hiding in was much livelier than the last time Giorno had seen it. Some familiar faces he recognised; the red-haired bartender, the children he’d quite literally bumped into during his visit to the village, the man Jonathan had greeted as “Rick”. The bartender turned her nose up at Giorno as he passed with her hands firmly planted on a beer tap, she hadn’t lost her distrust of him despite Jonathan’s insistence of his innocence. Rick lifted his bottle in salute, a strange gesture given that they’d never actually spoken – clearly Jonathan was a popular individual. A few others who Giorno certainly didn’t recognise smiled at him when he walked between their stools and tables to get to the front door and a couple even slapped his shoulder enthusiastically. Giorno felt like he was walking out of a football match or something equally uncomfortable.

Erina steered him forwards a little brisker and whispered into his ears, “We told them you were recovering from a case of tuberculosis. I think this is a sort of celebration of your false recovery from the false infection.”

Giorno started. “You what? Tuberc- You told them I was-!”

“I had to say something!” Erina hissed, bright red in the face. “It was the only way to stop them from asking questions.  Everyone could see me moving in and around this building over the last two weeks, I had to lie somehow.” She said as she and Giorno left the pub behind them and walked out into the lush front yard space. “I’m sorry.” She added, bowing her head slightly.

Giorno shook his head. “That is fine. I am sorry for making you lie.”

It almost seemed suitable that his stay in this world ended with a suitably ridiculous situation. Things tended to work out that way for him.

Beyond the barn building the meadows spread out further than seemed possible. The sky was blue, so blue Giorno’s felt his eyes sting a little as he squinted up at it. It was blue enough for him to believe for a moment that he was still in Italy. The illusion fell away once the heavy smell of England filled his nose.

He was met with the smell of potent river mud, cigar smoke drifting out the barn-door, warm grass and meadow flowers. There was a sharper smell under that though and he struggled to place it. It’s identity only hit him once a vision of his mother’s cooking resurfaced in his memory. It was the smell of wild garlic and it mixed with the distant smell of the river to create something wholly unfamiliar to him but still almost melodic.

Beside him, Erina took a deep unwavering breath in. The wind picked up and rustled her red plaid skirt around her, her hands hung loose at her side, and for a moment her face was framed in pale blonde hair before it settled back into the neat bundle behind her head.

“I did miss it,” she said, “this place, I mean.”

Her eyes were on the landscape, but they seemed to focus on something much further away.

She pointed at a cluster of trees about a small pond a quarter of a mile off. “You’ll find them there.”

“And you?” Giorno asked.

She smiled. “When I first arrived at the village a part of me still thought I would not meet Jonathan, that he’d never want to see me again, that that he’d even forgotten about me after all these years. That part of me…I’ve been miserably listening to it for almost three years now. It was dawn once he found us with you in the attic that day and that was the moment when I finally stopped listening. I think he knows it too, I think he understands what I’m feeling. If I’m wrong and in fact he doesn’t know, then I’ll just wait until he does understand. I’ll wait for him to figure me out. I’m very patient and I have plenty faith in him.

So, I’ll be here for a while longer. I will return to London in two days but Jojo… I do not wish to leave him for as long a time as I did ever again. Maybe in just another year, or two, I will find him here, or wherever else I may find him, and as two adults on truly equal ground and we will have much to talk about.” She looked to him. “Although I don’t feel as if I’ll ever see you again, Giorno.” Giorno said nothing in return. “That’s alright, I also have a good feeling that you belong somewhere else. I feel as if you have important people who you belong to as well. It’s a very special thing, Giorno, to belong to people and have somewhere to return to. If that is where you must be, then the only piece of advice I can give you is to go there now, and I speak from experience. And I do hope you felt welcome while you were with us.”

“I did.”

“Giorno?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask you one last question?”

Giorno saw something in her eyes then, something sad, and a little afraid. She hurriedly took his hand and pressed it between her own.

“Tell me…what happens to us? What will happen to Jojo?”

Giorno blinked.

This young woman was far more intelligent than most around her were willing to admit, or even realise. She saw through Dio, she saw through him, and she wanted to see more. She’d lived through her whole life with the least autonomy imaginable and now when finally given the chance to grasp a future-

“I do not know.” Giorno admitted, his eyes still quite wide. “I can’t… There is a problem with- Because of me. I can’t possibly predict-.” He was losing the words the speak. He so wished he could help her but there was no easy way to explain what she wanted to hear.

“And Jojo?” Her voice was so soft, so afraid. “What about him? What will happen to him in our future? Tell me if he is safe, please.”

Giorno’s mind tumbled through a series of lies, then guesses, and he finally settled on a real answer.

“Whatever happens, however his and your lives run through, he is a great man. Not just to me. He will be remembered as a great and kind man by so many people, Erina. It is hard to forget someone like him. And Erina, you’ll both be remembered.”

Her lips parted as she listened. Her eyes flicked to the side, to where she had said Jonathan could be at that moment.

“Erina,” Giorno said, pulling her gaze back to him. He squeezed her hands gently. “You change the world. You changed the future. It is thanks to you and your medicines that I am alive now. And you are why what’s left of my family even exist. Everything I ever heard of you was from the mouth of someone who respects you immensely. He described you like a hero. I think you are one too.”

He smiled at her. And she smiled back, then laughed, dropped his hands, and then rubbed at her eyes.

“Thank you!”

*

Dio sat in a tree reading. He had found his brand-new copy of Huckleberry Finn in the room Giorno had been sleeping in some days ago but had made little more progress since retrieving it. Every time he took the effort to read it he found himself drifting away in distracted thoughts and quickly realising he had read a page without truly seeing a single word. It was frustrating, but it was also somewhat unavoidable. There was not much else he could do to burn his time during these seemingly endless days waiting for news from Erina. If he let himself be idle he would quickly turn to more violent outlets for his anxiety, and he had promised Jojo not to cause anymore chaos (they had only recently fully cleaned up the mess left by the burglary under George’s nose).

He was reading in this curiously frustrated manner while slumped across the lowest branch of an oak tree hanging over the surface of the pond. The sunlight falling through the trees and bouncing back off the water caught his eyes, inevitably reminding him that he was not alone in the copse that morning. Sitting with his back against Dio’s oak tree and sucking vacantly on a pipe, his brow heavily furrowed and his eyes fixed on something far off in the distance, Jonathan entirely ignored Dio in return.

Neither were speaking because they’d done quite a fair amount of talking over the last two weeks already. They’d almost become sick of each other. And now they were waiting.

George had begun to suspect the two of them to be up to something; suddenly spending every day together without any protest and always returning to the manor as late as they could side by side. He had yet to ask them what they were doing all day since they always seemed to be so dedicated to the ritual, and it had brought the household a period of uncharacteristic peace. This strange behaviour was unsurprisingly welcomed by the other occupants of the Joestar manor.

Jonathan lowered his father’s pipe from his mouth as a bird passed through a tree across the pond from him and landed in perfect sight. He watched it peer back at him with tiny beady eyes for a moment and then fly off again.

Suddenly something heavy hit the top of his head.

He ducked down as a large and heavily bound book fell to a rest by his side. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, it read across the front.

Dio landed with a thump beside it, his head turned away from Jonathan and his hands clenched at his sides.

“Jojo,” he said, nodding his head at a meadow beyond the copse around the pond.

Jonathan followed his gaze then jumped to his feet and immediately shot off running. A short handful of moments later he met Giorno at the edge of the trees and lifted him right off the ground in his arms.

Over Jonathan’s shoulder and through watering eyes Giorno saw Dio lean casually against a tree and nod respectfully at him, tight-lipped and strangely impassive. It was only some seconds after this that Giorno realised he had stopped breathing.

“Oh!” Jonathan suddenly dropped Giorno back to the ground and apologised, “Did I hurt you?”

Giorno shook his head. “No. I’m just winded. You are very strong.”

“Ha ha! Yes, I’m sorry. I seem to do that very often. Something came over me there, I don’t know what to say for myself.”

“Don’t,” Giorno said, “I’m happy to see you are both healthy.”

Dio and Jonathan shared a look, Dio glancing away first and frowning down into the undergrowth by his feet. Jonathan fidgeted and looked back to Giorno.

“Is it true?” He asked. “Are you leaving us now?”

Giorno’s face went blank. “What makes you ask this?”

“We’ve been visiting Erina and you over the past two weeks to see if anything had changed; if you’d woken up for an example. A few times when I was by your side you almost awoke and had spoken to me.”

“I did?” Giorno’s stomach dropped. He rather prided himself on self-censorship, it was kind of his thing. No harm could come to people if they didn’t know of things which could potentially hurt them; as went his unofficial motto. So, he kept these things to himself when he could. Though evidently, he did not have that capability while he was unconscious. Damn.

“Well,” Jonathan frowned. “You might have. It was very hard to tell because I know no Italian and you spoke very softly. What I could hear sounded very much like an answer to a question I couldn’t hear, you were answering with words like ‘not yet’ and ‘how?’ and ‘only if I must’. You sounded an awful lot as if you were talking to yourself in your sleep. Although a lot of what you said was not in English, so I couldn’t pick it up. I’m sorry to say.”

Giorno thought this over. It sounded as if it had been simply a subconscious squabble with Requiem. Tracks. Out of the many things he could have let slip in his sleep, it was not the worst by far.

But there was still a lot else which had been incidentally revealed to Dio and Jonathan in the heat of the moment.

He tried to meet Dio’s gaze, to steal some non-verbal answer out of him over Jonathan’s shoulder, but he was still looking away from the two of them. Giorno doubted Dio had told Jonathan about that moment in the manor when he’d seen his birthmark, because if he had then Jonathan was being weirdly polite about it. This was a loose thread Giorno did not like to leave hanging. He stared a little more intently at the top of Dio’s head as Jonathan began to speak again.

“If you are leaving us then I want to know about it for certain. I want to hear from you in person, Giorno.”

He pulled Giorno’s attention back. “Will it sadden you?” He asked.

“That’s a strange thing to ask me.”

“I need to know. When I do leave, and it is true that I must, I will never be able to see you again. I cannot tell you why I have to leave, and I cannot tell you where I am going. If I do I may ruin your life as you know it.”

Jonathan thought his words over carefully. Cryptic, almost nonsensical. But he cared very little about how it sounded to him since he trusted Giorno with an unbeatable passion.

“Yes.”

Giorno tilted his head, confused for a moment.

“Yes, I will miss you,” Jonathan corrected himself, “I can’t begin to think of why; I’ve only known you for a few short days and the only time we’ve had together was…” He trailed off, his eyes drifting over the bandages on Giorno’s arm. “Unpleasant. You brought some pretty terrible luck upon us, Giorno.”

Giorno’s eyes dimmed. He lowered his head, hearing exactly what he’d been thinking ever since he’d dragged Jonathan’s body through the rain after almost killing him with his sheer carelessness. If this was in fact the truth, then he was resigned to accept it. He shouldn’t have come here. It wasn’t natural, it hadn’t been easy, his own stand was warning him against it, he’d caused so much danger to the men he’d wished to see with the naivety of a lonely and heartbroken child. To hear it from the mouth of his father stung after waiting so long to even meet him but-

Jonathan lifted Giorno’s chin. His eyes stared back into Giorno’s with a resolve that almost shocked him.

“Giorno,” he said, “I’m very glad to have met you.”

Giorno didn’t know how to respond. Surely, this was what he’d wanted to hear right from the beginning. It was. Yet it still came as a surprise.

Jonathan watched Giorno blink mist from his eyes and twitch his mouth in shock.

“I don’t like goodbyes,” Jonathan said. “So, I won’t say goodbye to you. And I believe you wouldn’t wish to hear it from me either. So instead I will tell you this; when I first met you, I could tell that you were lying to me. I could also see that you’re horribly lonely in some way I am not equipped to understand. I am not angered by your lies, and I am not frightened by your strangeness, and I’ve only ever wished to help you unburden yourself from that loneliness. For me to say these things with complete honesty to an individual I’ve known for only a handful of days, I think that tells me all I need to know about you. You’ve stuck by me and Dio no matter what happened, and you’ve saved both of our lives and risked your own without a question. You’re braver than you are lonely. And you’re even kinder than brave. Giorno,” he smiled wide, “You don’t need to tell me who you are. I know, and I’m so proud of you.”

That was enough for Giorno. He pulled a hand over his mouth and quickly ducked his head away, hiding his face from Jonathan. This was bad; if he heard much more of this, he may not want to leave at all.

Shortly after saying this, Jonathan motioned to Dio and passed something into his hand. Dio looked at this object with some distaste but obliged and silently tucked it into his jacket. He then scowled and, after a moment, stepped swiftly back into the shadows of the trees and was lost from sight.

Jonathan turned back to Giorno and placed a hand on his head. His fingers gently combed through those golden curls until they came to a rest by his jaw, cupping his face. Then he smiled and almost laughed. It’s blond! Gosh! He hadn’t even noticed Giorno’s hair had changed until now. This appeared so natural on him it may as well have been how he’d always looked.

“Jonathan?” Giorno’s voice came weakly from behind his hands.

“Yes?”

“I think I will miss you too.”

*

Jonathan’s figure shrunk away across the meadows, back towards the village where Giorno knew Erina was waiting. They’d said nothing more to each other, both feeling there wasn’t anything left to say, and so Jonathan left.

For a few minutes Giorno watched him go. He’d half-expected a phantom pain in his chest to erupt at the sight of Jonathan leaving him for good, but there was nothing of the sort. He only felt a lingering warmth.

Dio moved to stand by him, arm’s length away and facing the same direction though his eyes were locked on Giorno.

“He’s a fool.”

“He is.” Giorno agreed. “But has that ever made him weak?”

Dio sighed. “Unfortunately, no. He’ll live a long and full life if I have nothing to do with it. He may even outlive me.”

Giorno looked at Dio, a brow raised. “Are you still thinking like that? After all of this?”

“What, that Jojo’s nothing more than a piece in my life-long chess game? Perhaps. Two weeks of strange events will not change a man to his core.”

“Though you do seem changed to me.”

Dio cast a sharp glare at Giorno. “Speak wisely, brat.”

“Speak some truth to yourself if you will not to me; you took a bullet for Jonathan. Do not forget that.”

Dio’s face turned a deep red. He rounded on Giorno and looked about to reach for his collar but stopped himself. He pulled an outstretched hand back and planted it on his hip instead.

“That never happened, it was an accident and it is fortunate we both survived. You speak lies to anger me just like you’ve been doing from the very beginning. You infuriate me, you humiliate me, you endanger me, and now you slander me. I will not allow you to act as if your time here has granted you the right to speak down on me like this. I am no weaker for my actions that night.”

“Dio,” Giorno said very calmly, “This is not how I wish to spend my last few minutes with you.”

Dio’s face shifted through a number of emotions, most of them a variant on ‘pissed off’ but settled on an expression of tired interest. “What do you want from me?” He asked. “I won’t embrace you if that’s what you want. I, unlike Jojo, have some shred of self-respect.”

“I don’t want anything like that.” Giorno said. “I would like for you to listen to me.”

Dio said nothing and crossed his arms. After a moment he nodded.

“There was a moment in the monastery, when the creature was so close to killing one of us, when I asked for you to throw your knife to me,” Giorno began, and Dio’s face instantly shifted to mortification. “If you hadn’t given me that knife all three of us would have certainly been slaughtered - I was so badly injured already and Jonathan had no way to focus his efforts to kill the creature – so in doing so you saved us. And I could not help but think for a moment in that monastery that you were not going to give it to me. Dio, if I had lied to you, or if I had failed to hit the creature before it reached you, then you would have died. You know that as well as I do.”

Dio watched him with blank eyes, not giving anything away. His shoulders however were stiff and one of his hands had curled tight around his elbow. Giorno continued;

“You could have just as easily ignored me and tried to kill the creature yourself with that blade. The way we treated each other up to that moment convinced me you had every right to ignore me and do just that. I gave you no reason to trust me like you did.”

“Hm,” Dio grunted. “That’s true.”

“Would you care to tell me where that trust came from, Dio?”

“Not on your life.” Dio said. He was perfectly composed. Clearly, he’d been troubled by this thought for the past ten days and had made his own inferences since then. “Just be glad you’re still alive.”

Giorno leant forward. “I am. And I am very relieved to see you are healthy too.”

Dio glared, looked away, then back again and grit his teeth. “Jojo has come to a decision about you. A ridiculous decision, about your identity. I would be lying if I said I didn’t see it in you myself but… It’s sheer nonsense. I’d never believe anything that I can’t see proven before my own two eyes. It’s only logical for me to think his ideas are borne only from fantasy and boredom and that damn immaturity of his. He’d rather think that he could save the world from all weakness with his own hands than accept that nothing in this world won’t eventually rot and wither. He’s a fool, and I’m not surprised that he’d actually think that you’re his…” he looked as if he’d bitten his tongue and winced. “People lie, and nothing is what you want it to be. I’d never believe what’s not there in front of me to prove that it’s real.”

“Dio,” Giorno barely held back a smirk. “I’m right here.”

Both of them stood facing each other for a few long seconds, perfect reflections of each other. The trees at Dio’s back rustled under the wind. Sounds of chatter and commotion from the village drifted over on a breeze to fill the silence. Dio took it upon himself to break the subject.

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What ever could you mean?”

“Don’t play with me now, you have the same birthmark as Jojo. You have his eyes. You both have that foolish habit of throwing yourself into the maw of danger for the sake of a stranger, though you do strike me as one to actually think a plan of action through first. Even Jojo, the slow brute he is, can see how alike you two are.”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t take a genius to know that you two share blood.”

“Yes.”

“Then will you tell me why you also look so much like me?”

“I will not.”

Dio folded his fingers behind his neck. His eyes raked over Giorno and he said, “It’s like drawing blood from a stone, speaking with you. You’re as bad as I am. It’s no wonder nobody can stand me.”

Giorno smiled.

“You’re a lot like me.”

“I am.”

“Yet it doesn’t scare me as much as it should,” Dio said. “I apologise for my…reactions back then. Back when we first met, and in the manor. I do not want you to think that it’s how I wish I had treated you. It weighs on my conscience like nothing ever has, and I can’t stand it. If I were to ever have a son…” he uneasily looked Giorno over, carefully avoiding eye contact. “I imagine he would be an awful lot like you. And I must admit I’m relieved by this.”

Dio reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He bounced it in his fingers for a few seconds before holding it out for Giorno.

“Here.” Giorno took it. “Don’t read it until you’re home.”

“Why not?” Giorno asked, turning it over and looking for a clue to what was inside. It was held together with a thin blue ribbon.

“Because you shouldn’t want to spoil the ending for yourself. The end is always the best part if you ask me. Dramatic, tragic, romantic, whatever. And particularly if it’s a victorious ending you should savour it.” Dio said. “Besides, I think Jonathan wanted something for you to remember him by. He’s a bloody sentimental like that.”

Giorno ran a hand over the slip before tucking it into his own waistcoat, above his heart. “Thank you.” He said.

“And one last thing,” Dio held up a hand, looking sheepish. “About the attic – That’s one regret of mine.”

Giorno rubbed his head, the ache from where he’d been hit that afternoon had gone entirely. Only a few flashes of memory of that incident were left. All of them were confused and scared, like a child. “If we met under better circumstances we wouldn’t have as much to regret.” Giorno said, shaking away the memory of the attic. “As much as I wish that I had met my father like I always hoped I would, this is the way that it is. And as it stands, Dio, I am so happy to be talking to you like this. I don’t regret the circumstances, I don’t wish for you to apologise, I wouldn’t change anything, not again. I have what I have always wanted, even if it is not how I expected it to unfold. This is how it happened, and I am happy.”

For a second the cogs in Dio mind turned, what Giorno just said prompting him to ask yet more questions. But he quickly pushed it away. He knew all he needed to know now.

What a strange way to meet your son.

“Giorno,” Dio put a light hand on his shoulder. “If that’s what you think then-” he paused, then quickly pulled Giorno in, pressing on his upper back and resting his chin on Giorno’s crown. Not an embrace, but close enough. “If that’s what you think, I’ll be satisfied with fate for now. I’d say you deserve this ending.”

And with that, Dio stepped away.

That was his goodbye.

The very last he saw of Giorno was him smiling, finally ready to leave, what might have been tears or sunlight in his eyes sparkling back at him, and his bright hair dancing like spun gold over his shoulders.

Something powerful and hot like an explosion washed over Dio’s face, forcing him to close his eyes. It sounded like metal scraping against metal, and he tasted it in his mouth like iron. Hot wind rushed past him and he thought he heard whispers at the edge of his perception. A sharp pain crossed his mind as he tried to guess what could be happening.

When Dio finally opened his eyes, the small circle of grass where Giorno had stood was flattened to the ground in a neat glassy disc. In the sunlight it glimmered like polished gold.

And he was alone again.

*

After some time, standing staring at that very spot in the grass, Dio finally turned to leave. He began his slow walk back towards the manor, to his home.

Jonathan must be waiting for me, he thought. But I’ll be there soon. There’s a lot of future ahead of us, it seems. One I’ll take great pleasure in shaping to my desires. A future you’ll surely take advantage of too in some impressively foolish ways. One that kid gave to us.

And I think I’m finally ready to spend it by your side.

*

You, who are on the road must have a code that you can live by.
And so become yourself because the past is just a goodbye.
Teach your children well, their father's hell did slowly go by,
And feed them on your dreams, the one they pick's the one you'll know by.
Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you would cry,
So just look at them and sigh and know they love you.

Chapter Text

Everything rushed past, much faster than it had the first time. Time, space, and the bright but intangible matter of reality. All of it sped around him and away under his feet like a brilliant and blistering highway.

Giorno was snapped back into his own timeline with enough force to tempt another bout of unconsciousness. He fought to keep his mind in order, wilfully ignoring the remnants of the sublime around his self as Requiem found a suitable landing spot for him.

He’d asked to be returned home. Back to his own timeline, present day. In the confused and painful whirl of the return journey he’d turned his thoughts to his friends - of course. That was where he wanted to return to - naturally. He wanted to go home, but at this point that meant something very particular to him. He wanted to go home to them.

Requiem had heard this wish and adjusted course.

WHAM.

Giorno fell and landed and gasped from the physical shock. Once again, he’d been dropped on cold hard stone and it hurt. Why exactly Requiem couldn’t be a little more tender with its delivery, Giorno would have loved to ask it. There had to be a more comfortable way for it to-

Giorno suddenly dropped his mental string of complaints to notice his surroundings.

He was sitting on rough pavement. It was night. He was facing a broken wall and over it he could see even more ruins washed in moonlight. What he had first thought were broken pillars to his left and right became clearer to him as a row of pale statues of young women swathed in cloths, all greyish and crumbled by age. When he turned he saw a metal fence and behind it a pathway leading further into the ruins.

For a moment he thought he was back in the monastery. At least, before the heat hit him.

He knew he was back in Italy, somewhere.

This became even more obvious once his nose was filled with the smell of roses. In the centre of the courtyard he was sat in was a shallow pond, topped with a floating layer of brown-orange leaves, and a rectangle of clipped grass around it. This little garden held a few small rose bushes, all empty of flowers. Over and along the walls of the garden, however, were blankets of blooming yellow and red climbing roses. The place didn’t look familiar, but then again, he’d yet to see much of Italy outside of his own city. He’d been around Milano a couple of months back for official business and had visited Firenze only once when he was much younger, and then there was his brief but memorable visit to Roma that spring. Wherever he was now it was a place he’d never been in before.

Something loud happened to his right, maybe a hundred feet away. Like gunshots followed by a small explosion.

Giorno got up, ready to follow the noise. But something grabbed him from behind and pulled him backwards before he could take more than one step. He jerked away, twisting out of its grip and raising G.E.’s arm, ready to strike.

He froze. His eyes locked with Kujo’s.           

Giorno flinched away a second time, this time not from instinct, but from a sudden rush of memory. He’d almost forgotten how badly their first conversation had ended. It was quite embarrassing to look back on; he’d acted like a child, blindly piloted by his own wounded sentimentality and pride.

For a brief moment, before his mind could rationalise Kujo being here in front of him, Giorno assumed he was there simply to reignite that argument.

“Where am I?” Giorno asked, his voice hushed.

Kujo looked terrible. His long white coat was gone. There was a shallow cut across his cheek and part of his sweater sleeve had been ripped away. A small bruise was blooming under one eye. When he recognised Giorno in the dark he barely reacted, but a small crease formed between his brows.

“You’re in the Forum, Rome.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Kujo echoed. “How should I know. You’ve been missing for days. If this is where you’ve been hiding all this time, then wh-”

“No, I wasn’t, I was…” Giorno began, then gave up. He started again. “Why are you here?”

“It’s a long story.” Kujo said. He let go of Giorno’s arm and looked around, craning his neck. “Your friends are around here somewhere too. We’re being attacked by a very powerful stand user who aims to steal and use the stone masks under the Colosseum to s-” This time he stopped himself, because he saw the look on Giorno’s face. “What is it?”

Giorno had his face in his hands. It felt as if he’d only just dealt with the previous mask-related escapade. “It’s nothing,” he said. “How are they giving you trouble? I was under the impression you’re very capable fighter, Signor.”

“I am.” Kujo was stone-faced.

“Could it be that you’re out of practice then?”

“Don’t push me, kid.” Kujo snarled and jabbed his thumb in a vague direction behind him. “This ringleader, Florence, has a stand which gathers the abilities of all her fallen allies. It’s more powerful than we anticipated, and we were split up across the Forum before we realised it. Mista is being heavily targeted, the last I saw of Trish she was pretty badly injured as well. They’re both in danger, and soon we will be too.”

“How many abilities does she have now?”

“Don’t know. Too many.”

“How would she have so many? She can’t have had that many allies.”

Kujo’s eye twitched. “We might have killed two of her underlings this afternoon.”

“Oh, well done then,” Giorno got up and brushed himself off. “Since you’ve been doing such a great job of this so far, I’ll be kind enough to ask your permission to jump in before lending a hand. If that’s alright with you?”

He waited for Kujo to respond, watching the still-cold expression from under his hat’s brim. There was no change in his face, he didn’t turn suddenly bitter. But then again, he never did give hints in his expression like that. No matter how hard Giorno tried to read this man he never got through. It was yet another reason he was convinced that they’d never get along.

Do it, Giorno thought, tell me I’m not welcome here.

Kujo sighed and pulled his hat down, got to his feet too. “I don’t see why not. I’m getting tired of that bitch. She’s got stand abilities under her belt strong enough to render me next-to-useless. And if you’re planning on making some grand entrance after three days of radio silence, then here’s your chance.” Kujo waved lazily over his shoulder. “Knock yourself out.”

He looked tired. Really tired. But Giorno smiled at the man in front of him nonetheless. The tension was gone. There was nothing more to be said about that because both of them could feel whatever confusion had sprung up between than that evening at Passione’s reception was slipping away.

But exactly what it was which had changed about Kujo was something Giorno made a mental note to investigate later. Maybe his friends had gotten through to him somehow. A lot must have happened in the time since they’d spoken last.

Perhaps they’d both changed.

“Wouldn’t your Foundation have an issue with me doing that? I was under the impression that you have a responsibility to uphold your reputation and maintain some degree of control over any stand-related situation. I’m a dangerous asset in their eyes and you are their representative, Signor Kujo.”

“I am. And I give you full permission to tear that bitch apart.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Although,” Kujo held a finger up. “You should be careful. Florence may be in the position to gravely hurt your friends if you give her enough time to. If you don’t get in close fast enough she may even kill one of them. Get her away from those two or at least be careful about it before taking her on yourself. Work something out.”

Giorno tilted his head and said, with a sharp glint in his eyes, “I’d never let her touch them.”

This satisfied Kujo, who held back a smile under the shadow of his cap. After a heartbeat Giorno smiled back.

He then looked around. From where they sat; by the feet of one unnamed Vestal Virgin, he could see no more than the walls remaining of the old palace of the Vestali around them. He dusted his knees off and thought to himself, it’s was almost time to go home, to see them again.

“So, point me in their direction, Signor Kujo. Let’s get this over with.”

*

Florence stood atop what would have been the wall of a large temple a couple thousand years ago. It allowed her a fantastic view of the plazas and ruined streets below her. Wherever those two kids had hidden themselves, she’d find them quickly.

She bent one knee and peered into the darkness, dusting some pale dirt from her neatly tailored trouser leg. The garish yellow material the one-piece was made from shone like a beacon under the moonlight among the Forum’s muted shades of grey and beige. But she liked that. She liked to be seen. It was something that had set her apart from and above Rosanna during their time together. Come to think of it, Harley hadn’t been one for grand appearances either. Very few of her compatriots had been quite as precocious in their self-presentation as Florence had. She had just as much flair as she had ambition.

Not to say that she thought any less of them for that. Not at all. Each and every one of them were precious to her. They had been precious friends when they were by her side and at her back, and they still were even now.

Even now, she could hear them. She heard their voices humming from within her stand, The Machine, crouching by her side in a stance identical to hers. In her stand’s chest was embedded an ovular glass casket, always swirling with multi-coloured flashes of light and sound. The lights danced to and fro like fish in a tank. Every now and then one would press itself to the glass and cry out to Florence. Her friends cried for her to win. They cried for their plan to be carried out, for Florence to take the masks, to take the Foundation, to take as much as she could. They were gone now, but it only made them more eager to change this rotten world. Florence could do it. She could shape this world into one she and her friends might have lived so so happily together in.

And two particular voices from within The Machine cried out louder than the rest.

Rosanna and Harley’s voices screamed for blood. They were distraught. They had been so close to standing by Florence’s side in this fight, so close to being part of this last crucial stage in their plan. All their other allies had fallen in such disgraceful ways; in back alleys, in deals-turned-sour, in fateful mistakes. Why was it that they had to leave their friend so close to their goal?

It made their spirits glow even brighter than the others inside The Machine’s tank. Florence placed a hand gently to its surface as she softened her gaze on the Forum below. Her thumb rubbed slowly over the glass.

“Not long now,” she said, “If this goes well, if they don’t keep me much longer, I can let you guys go. It won’t be long. I promise.”

*

Kneeling behind a large rock, and cradling her pounding head, Trish kept an eager eye on Florence’s motionless silhouette above her.

Seven feet to her right, Mista was frantically signalling to her.

*FUCK. HER. UP.* Was what he got across to Trish with a series of crude hand gestures.

Trish shook her head and tapped her wrist. *WAIT.*

Mista looked incredulous and shuffled on his heels. He sat under an arch, his back to a collapsed passageway. He was in better shape than her overall. Despite this he was enthusiastically motioning for both her and him to get back into the fight as soon as possible.

She wondered if he’d already forgotten exactly how powerful Florence had proven herself to be.

This woman’s sheer existence was against all the rules she knew of; for one person to have more than one stand. But there always seemed to be an exception to every rule anyways.

And Kujo had tried to explain her rule-breaking away earlier, too. He’d said that since she was actually only in possession of her fallen friends’ souls, which in turn still had a spectral link to their own stands, she was not breaking that aforementioned rule. Her stand appeared to be simply goading the spirits into using their abilities as Florence needs them to. Like a puppeteer.

Trish thought it was bullshit. What kind of a stand lets you puppet your friends’ ghosts, anyway. Bullshit.

Another thing that was really setting her nerves on edge was Florence’s calm way of carrying out her plans. She had seemed almost pleased to see that they were going to try to stop her. It probably made her revenge easier.

Trish wiped some blood from her chin. It had been intermittently dripping down her jaw for the last half-hour, the wound not quite deciding whether it wanted to clot up yet or not. Of course, she still only had vision in one eye. That also made things difficult. To make up for this upon their arrival in the centre of Roma Mista had covertly (read: very conspicuously) stationed both Due and Tres by her side to watch Trish’s blind spot once they had the huge white columns of the Museo in sight. The pain in her skull had throbbed back into her consciousness almost as soon as she had stepped foot into the Forum - helpfully cleared out from any lingering tourists and security earlier that afternoon by the Foundation - and it was now providing a sickening background hum to all her thoughts.

She had pegged it as the only possible reason why Florence had already been able to take a number of the masks from inside the Colosseum by the time they’d arrived. If it wasn’t for her head pain, it would have gone smoother.

Because Florence been able to snag one back upon first contact, purely thanks to an element of surprise.

Kujo had stepped in quickly then and knocked the stolen masks out of Florence’s hands. His stand had destroyed most of them within moments (which wasn’t what the SPW had truly advised him to do in this situation, but it struck Trish as what Kujo had always intended on doing) and now all that remained was one last stone mask. This mask sat slap-bang out in the open between where Trish and Mista were hiding. It was lying, almost tauntingly, on top of an uneven flagstone in the middle of a dirt path through the Forum, smiling coldly up at the night sky. They both kept their eyes on it, not brave enough to grab it themselves, but smart enough to not leave it entirely unsupervised.

Through her blurry vision and pounding headache, Trish caught movement in the corner of her eye. She turned to frown at a dark corner by her feet, where one wall met another. There was a glimmer, like light being refracted through a crystal, dancing across the stone.

Trish cocked her head. She looked behind her to see what could have been casting the light but saw nothing.

And when she looked back-

“Made you look.” Florence’s face grinned back from the eye-shaped portal which had opened in the wall by Trish’s knee.

Trish leapt back, reached out to pull a fallen tree branch from the ground nearby and held it out at Florence, who was pulling the eye further open and stepping out before her.

What next?, Trish thought, What’s she gonna do next?

It was impossible to tell. The handful of stand abilities Florence had already demonstrated were nothing alike, all so eclectic and varying in strengths Trish struggled to believe that one person could possibly make use of them all.

Florence jerked her hands out towards Trish; who jumped in fright. Florence laughed. Then she spat at the ground by Trish’s feet.

Suddenly, and very quickly, Trish felt herself sinking into the ground. It had turned into a kind of quicksand, swallowing up Trish’s legs in a matter of moments. She flipped the branch around; laying it flat across the patch of quicksand and heaving her chest onto it to keep herself from sinking any deeper in.

Mista shouted something from across the path and began running over to them. He raised his pistol.

Florence thrust out her empty hand at him and a shimmering humanoid figure briefly flashed into view behind her shoulder. Then a wall appeared in front of Mista. But not one he could bust right through as usual with the Pistols. It was like a mirror, or as if the air between him and the girls had fractured, and he was staring at a broken facet. His reflection grimaced back at him.

A few of the Pistols threw themselves at the polished barrier but they simply bounced off with a series of small yelps and curses.

On the other side of the mirror Florence crouched by Trish and pointed a long finger at her face.

“You’re sweet. I think you care a lot about your friends.” She said. A sharp and silvery blade was emerging from her fingertip, a smaller fragment of the same sheet she’d thrown towards Mista a moment ago.

“Really?” Trish huffed. She was struggling to hold onto the branch as her legs were sucked deeper into the sand pit below. She kept her eyes low and voice steady.

“You’re sort of like how I was when I was younger. So much anger and energy, and love. Full of it, even. I just had to use it all up for the sake of my friends.”

“Are you going to tell me it’s pointless? That I shouldn’t care so much?”

“Oh no,” Florence laughed, the blade coming dangerously close to Trish’s throat. “Not at all. I wouldn’t have it any other way. My allies were everything to me, they deserved all that I had to give to them.”

Trish braced herself as Florence leant in closer.

“So,” she hissed into Trish’s ear, “I think it’s only fair that I get you back for killing them.”

“Oh, you’re such a hero.”

“I’m their friend. I don’t give a shit either way if you refuse to acknowledge this, but I’m a good friend. None of them ever would have followed me this far if I wasn’t. And that’s the truth. The Foundation never understood that, we were never treated with the respect I could give my “friends” because in their eyes we were only disposable assets. Unsightly, cheap, barely even people. Do you know what my job was? Do you?”

Trish grunted. Florence ignored her.

“I was charged with reconnaissance. Long story short, they sent me out to find and eliminate dangerous new stand users around the world, since the Foundation never was all that good at collecting the arrows in time to prevent it from happening. There was always someone out there abusing their power, hurting people, forcing innocent people to follow under them, only to gain even more and more power. I bet they thought it was poetic, sending me, with my stand ability, to take these kinds of people out. But they didn’t get it. I do now. Only those who truly understand what it means to lead should hold the power in this world. People like me, who love and value anyone under my influence. I do, really. I loved them all. That’s why I keep them with me. Even now.”

The Machine faded into view, and Trish’s stomach turned. It was horrible, seeing the souls churning around inside the tank in its chest. Even if they were indiscernible from smoke to the naked eye it just seemed so wrong. She hated it.

“I carry my friends with me, Trish Una. The ones I’ve lost. Don’t you too, in a way?”

Trish’s eyes flashed.

“Oh, don’t get worked up over it! They’re all right with me carrying them around until I’m done. Once I’ve got what I need here I can let them all go. They’ll float off to wherever their precious little souls are deemed fit to rest,” Florence said, wafting her hand over her head. “And I’ll finally be able to fix this world. With the mask I’ll overcome my mortal weaknesses and overturn the Foundation, those sick bastards, and then…” she paused, and a smile spread over her face, her bright orange painted lips pulling back to reveal a row of perfect white teeth. “I bet you don’t know.”

Trish glowered, quite tired of answering Florence’s taunts.

“You don’t do you?” Florence squealed in delight and got to her feet. She flung her arms out and laughed into the cold Roman night. “You don’t know what the Speedwagon Foundation has, what they’ve had for decades, what they’ve refused to even think about using despite a century of disasters and suffering throughout the whole goddamn world! A sleeping living weapon! Unkillable! They’ve had it all along! All I need to do is take it from them, make it my own, and dismantle all the rotten power structures this world is built upon.”

As this woman let out another hysteric giggle the sound of broken gunfire echoed out of the fragmented mirror-prison behind them. She didn’t even seem to notice.

“Trish Una, my dear girl,” Florence lent down low again and took Trish’s face in her hand, squeezing her cheeks together painfully. “They have a god in their basement.”

At that moment a huge noise erupted from behind them. Florence’s head jerked up and her face turned sour. Trish twisted her neck around to see a man crouching by the wall, facing Mista’s prison, and a huge shimmering stand pounding against the mirror’s surface.

Kujo was back and he was breaking Mista free.

Florence huffed, as if this was only a minor inconvenience, and moved away to stop him.

Trish shouted to warn him but was only kicked in the side of her head by Florence as she passed. Something small and shiny shot out from under Trish’s collar and towards Florence. This streak of orange hit Florence square in the back of the neck, then her eye, and darted back to take another pot-shot at her throat.

Florence recovered from her daze after being attacked by (what she had assumed to be) a wasp. Her eyes focussed on this “wasp” and she sneered.

Due screeched through the air towards Florence’s throat, preparing to bite down hard enough to draw blood. But it was stopped suddenly in mid-flight. A net of light wound itself around Due and then a stand, which looked nothing like the one Due had previously thought Florence was in possession of, was standing in front of her. The stand reached out and plucked Due from within the cage.

“Gotcha.” Florence glared down at the tiny figure held between the fingers of the stand of one of her many fallen friends. Seeing this particular stand brought back some warm memories, but she quickly pushed them aside, not having the time to reminisce. She could still hear Kujo gradually breaking though her mirror-wall after all.

Between one heartbeat and the next the light-cage stand transformed into yet another one, this one shorter and weedier, coloured in dull greys and browns. In place of a mouth it had what appeared to be an aerosol nozzle. This stand quickly reared back and threw Due down towards the ground with a loud shout. As soon as it hit the cobblestone Trish could have sworn Mista’s tiny stand had vanished. But she then quickly realised what had happened.

On the spot where Due had hit the surface of the ground was a true to-scale image of the stand, painted onto the stone in fresh black ink like a panel from a comic. This new stand had stuck and trapped Due to the pavement in the form of graffiti – an artsy ability if nothing else.

Florence didn’t spare Due’s tiny mural a second glance and moved quickly onward towards Kujo.

At the same time Trish held her breath and let go of the tree branch keeping her head above the surface of the quicksand. Not a fraction of a second later Spice Girl gripped her forearms as tightly as it could. A strong stand, even among those of other more experienced stand users, it quickly pulled her from the pit and dropped her back onto her feet with ease.

Trish picked up the tree branch, rearing back as if she was about to throw a javelin, and flicked her wrist forwards in one smooth and well-practiced motion.

Spice Girl’s softening worked quickly, quicker than it had in those first few days on the run. The stand had become stronger, faster and far more competent whether it was following Trish’s orders or not. She wasn’t out of practice, even if she’d technically not been in a fight for months. Because hell if she was going to let herself get out of practice. It was times like this when her friends needed her help.

The branch (now with the consistency of tough chewing gum) lashed out and wrapped around Florence’s waist like a whip. Florence stumbled, and behind her the mirror walls holding Mista finally shattered under Star Platinum’s attacks.

“Gotcha,” Trish grimaced and pulled the whip back, tugging Florence closer to her and to Spice Girl’s awaiting hands.

Mista stumbled forwards clutching his head and pointing his revolver at Florence. Jotaro stood some distance behind them glancing around the Forum, as if he were waiting for something in particular to happen.

Florence opened her mouth and Trish remembered her quicksand-spit attack earlier, but Mista had already clapped his hand over her mouth from behind, stopping her from spitting again.

“God you’re annoying,” he said. His head was spinning from the absence of one sixth of his stand, but he wasn’t going down just yet. “At some point you’ve gotta run out of ideas, right?”

Mista felt Florence’s mouth shift under his palm. She was smiling.

A second later the ground dropped out from under him. He was thrown backwards by a force he couldn’t catch with his own eyes. Trish, however, did see the cage of light expand from between him and Florence, forcing Mista away into a copse of trees at high speed.

She tightened her grip on the tether but then something else happened.

The same glimmer of light that she’d seen when hiding from Florence danced across where Mista had landed a few metres to their left. When Trish looked back to Florence the woman was falling through the floor. A large eye-shaped portal had opened underneath her and soon she’d dropped entirely through the ground and out of sight.

Trish dug her heels in, pulling the tether taut. The other end of the stretched branch along with Florence vanished through the portal, which was beginning to close.

Trish glanced back over at Mista. An identical eye portal was opening by his side, Florence pulling herself through and grinning at Trish.

With this dangerous, and increasingly complicated, situation unfolding Jotaro had taken it upon himself to retrieve the damn mask. He’d crossed the little patch of cobbles the youngsters had been fighting around and over to where the stone mask was laying. Holding it in his hands, he was glad he’d let those two come with him. They certainly knew how to draw a bastard’s attention.

At the same time, Mista grabbed Florence’s ankle.

Florence disinterestedly flicked a hand in his direction, sending a small dark cloud into his face. He instinctively swatted it away and then cried out in shock. His forearm had been petrified.

Trish saw this. “Oh, you bitch,” she almost lost her grip on the tether in her horror. “I really hate that ability.”

The portal snapped shut.

Trish fell backwards, the stretched branch - now cut cleanly in half - flying out her hands away from where Florence’s eye portal had closed on it.

Florence ran toward Jotaro.

And he stopped time.

Trish knew he had done this because a shiver ran across her skin, all her hair stood on end for a moment and when she lifted her head from the ground to see what had happened Florence now had her arms crossed over her chest like she was defending herself from something. And Kujo looked to be out of breath.

Florence lowered her arms. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Kujo shuddered, but he had no time to retaliate because Florence then flung out an arm, the mask was surrounded by the light cage and it flew out his hands towards her.

Kujo started forwards but the mirror wall sprang up again. He was trapped in a narrow silvery box like a coffin made from glass.

Trish and Mista, from where they each lay, swore in unison.

Holding the mask in her hand and hopping up onto a low wall, Florence backed away from her enemies. She was smiling.

“You did better than I thought you would,” she said, “I almost wish I had you two under my wing as well. We could have been great friends, in another life.”

“If you want to be friends so bad you could start by giving us that mask back,” Mista offered, weakly. He had crawled forwards far enough to be kneeling by Trish.

“Hm.” Florence skipped even further back, now halfway down the Forum road away from Trish and Mista though neither made a move to follow her. “But I really need this,” she lifted the stone mask. “I need it really badly. Because it’ll be what sets me free to do as I need to. I’ll be the true leader of this world. Not kings, nor presidents, nor prime ministers, nor warlords. Because I’ll be unkillable. And kind. And generous. And I’ll have a god at my side. Because I’ll have Santana.”

Both Trish and Mista looked a bit lost by that last bit, but Florence continued nonetheless.

“I’ll have Santana and my own immortality, and I’ll kill every last leader in this world. They’re all rotten anyway. I’ll kill them all.” Florence glanced to her side, where the road opened up to an intersection with a smaller pathway hidden from Trish and Mista’s sight. Her eyes lit up. She pointed down the junction into the shadows, grinning. “And I’ll start with you.”

They couldn’t see who she was pointing at, but this person answered with a level tone.

“Are you Florence?”

The voice was familiar. Mista sat bolt upright. Trish clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Yes, I am.” Florence held the mask ever closer to her face. “But you need no introduction.”

“No. I don’t.”

“You hold more social, political, and supernatural power than most other men alive today. This means I’ll at least have to try and kill you, I’m sorry to say. I hope this doesn’t sour our budding friendship at all.”

The newcomer didn’t answer. Florence was busy tracing a delicate finger over the surface of her mask.

“I was quite convinced you wouldn’t show,” Florence carried on, “It’s only thanks to your absence that I could even find this thing,” she tapped the mask, then quickly drew a nail over the back of her hand, raising beads of blood to the skin. “I’m beginning to think you’re rather negligent in your duties, Capo.”

“Hold your words.”

“Tyrant.”

“If I had known a madwoman like you was planning to commit such violence in my country I never would have left.”

The blood on Florence’s hand dropped across the face of the mask. It rattled in satisfaction, and she grinned down at it. “No matter, you’re too late to stop me. You were slow. A dramatic late entrance does nothing if I’ve already got what I want.”

“I was only getting ready,” the voice said, “I needed to do one last thing before taking you down. It’s rather crucial to my whole…method of despatching you. It’s unpleasant and mortally painful so I chose to get it over with quickly.”

Florence was looking this unseen voice over, head to toe, assumedly. She didn’t know what this “thing” he was talking about was and didn’t truly care either way. Trish and Mista, on the other hand, had a very good idea of what this “thing” was. They, having this piece of information, chose to remain sitting firmly where they were at that moment rather than to rush forwards to see this unseen individual (whose identity had also become clear to them a while ago) for the sake of their own safety.

They remained a safe distance away. They knew what was coming - if the arrow had indeed already been used - and did not want to be caught up in the crossfire. But this was the sole reason why they hadn’t already rushed in to meet this person. Mista was practically trembling where he sat. Trish held back a sob and gripped his sleeve as they patiently waited.

Florence shrugged and finally fitted the stone mask to her face.

“In that case, come at me,” she said.

Then a bright light exploded from down the road. Like the sun rising in the middle of the Forum, it lit up everything in a flash of gold and it blinded Mista and Trish until they turned their eyes away. Something like a scream filled the air at the same time, not quite human but close enough to set their teeth on edge. Even the air boiled for a few horrible seconds. Because they knew what to expect they weren’t as frightened as they had been the first time some months ago, but they were still shaken to the bone.

Reality bent around the spot where Florence had been standing. Requiem ripped a hole through the fabric of physical and understandable reality and it shoved Florence through that tear with not a drop of pity. What was being let out through the hole in the meantime was beyond their imagination, beyond what a human brain could possibly comprehend, so they simply closed their senses to it.

The eldritch and the immortal and the intangibly powerful flooded past them in a screeching wave of golden wind.

And then it stopped.

The Forum was silent, and Florence was gone. A small metallic object clattered to the ground where she’d stood, fist-sized and wickedly sharp. The mirror walls around Kujo fell like sheets of water to the ground and he dropped onto his knees wordlessly. Nothing was moving, or speaking, and the moon came out from behind a screen of silver clouds.

Trish was on her feet.

She tripped at first but then she was running. Mista was at her heels in a second.

Her eyes were trained on Giorno, standing where Florence had been a few moments earlier. He turned to see them coming towards him and opened his mouth.

But he didn’t have the chance to speak, because Trish had hurled herself onto him and wrapped her arms around his neck with enough force to push them both over onto the ground. Mista skidded to a halt and fell to his knees by their side.

Giorno heard sobbing. He was sure it wasn’t his own, but then he felt a lump in his throat and a sharp ache between his brows. Then he wasn’t so certain.

“I’m so sorry.” He said.

Trish tightened her grip. As if she was afraid he’d go again.

“I’m sorry.” He repeated. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wouldn’t have let this happen to you.”

Trish violently shook her head against his chest. “Shut up,” Her voice was light, he could hear the grin in her words. “Stop apologising for one second and let me hug you for Christ’s sake.”

Then he felt a pressure on his hand. He looked down to see Mista clutching it and staring at the pavement.

“Welcome back, boss.” Mista said, to the ground.

Giorno smiled, and twisted his wrist and grabbed Mista’s, then pulled him in.

He clasped his arm around Mista’s bare head and pressed it to his chest then did the same to Trish, pulling her up from where she lay across him. How cold his fingers were, was what their first thought was, tangled firmly in their hair. It was a shock and a wonderful reassurance. He held them both for a moment before biting his tongue, squeezing his eyes shut as the stinging grew, and then pressing his lips to the tops of their heads.

Both Mista and Trish gasped for air as their friend leant into them. Tears rolled down Trish’s cheeks. Mista blinked his tears away, the action only doing more to fling them down into the dust on the ground.

Giorno buried his face between his friends’ shoulders and said, with only a small crackle in his voice, “I’m home.”

Chapter Text

Or, to put it another way, the same story was told with an entirely new voice. Where the alterations began, where an intruder within the story changed everything, that tiny divergence made the whole difference.

Lives were saved. Some were lost. Many more were never even born into the world. Not that anyone in this splinter story knew of these changes, only a few even had the suspicion that some among them might not have lived as long had the intruder not – to put it simply – intruded. Of course, there was no way for them to know the extent of this change, so they went on with their lives with a certain kind of gratitude in their hearts. That person lived on in dear memory. They didn’t forget the stranger, but time still marched onward in the way it always would have.

Time went on and everything happened differently.

Jonathan continued his studies in the field of archaeology and after completing his doctorate, true to his word, sought out the homeplaces of almost every piece in his father’s collection. This journey took him around the world time after time and brought him as close to his boyhood love of classical adventure and heroism as it could.

Soon after turning twenty Jonathan married his childhood friend Erina and took official ownership of his family manor after his father’s death that same year.  Around this time Jonathan was joined in his travels by his adopted brother Dio, who served more to invigilate Jonathan’s recklessness than to officialise his interactions with the countries’ embassies (as he usually claimed his role was). Exactly what the two of them spent almost two decades doing was always closely guarded between them and shrouded in a bizarre secrecy. The truth; that they were hunting down, investigating, and destroying the stone masks, was only shared with their closest friends. This task which consumed their adulthood gave them no pleasure to carry out but allowed them plenty of time to come to terms with each other as partners and tighten a bond they may had fought against under different conditions.

It was during a visit to his wife upon hearing about the birth of his son in his absence that he met a man named Robert Speedwagon in London. Many rumours about the circumstances of this encounter were circulated, each more outlandish than the last, but their friendship soon outlived these stories. With this man’s support, and his brother’s ambition, Jonathan formed the organisation most commonly known as the Speedwagon Foundation. Thanks to the Foundation’s success in the oil industry in the early twentieth century Jonathan and Dio’s travels rapidly became funded with a seemingly bottomless pit of assets so the two soon turned to other greater endeavours. During the wars the SPW provided medical provisions to the allies. It saved a great many lives with its advances in technology and medicine. And in the following decades became notorious for its impact on the wider world of enterprise and charity.

Upon the date of Jonathan Joestar’s death in 1949 his mourning was shared not only among his own family but throughout many who had never even met him. He was remembered as brave, kind, and frighteningly selfless. These were the words used to describe him by his closest loved ones; Erina and Dio, until their deaths one and three years after, respectively.

One year in the late seventies an expedition into the wastes of Greenland discovered a strange meteorite. The bizarre events following this discovery were quickly picked up by the Foundation, and by the mid-eighties the SPW had dedicated a portion of its work to studying the arrows fashioned from this rock and the incredible abilities gifted by them.

Nowadays the Foundation supports research in almost every field of study, to follow Jonathan’s wishes. His impact is seen in everything from the household to the military to the medical to the supernatural.

Dio’s written accounts of his journeys around the world are published and reedited by the decade and read widely, often described as a powerful voice telling an even greater story. Some critics discredit these stories as being too weird to fully appreciate, or fanciful and childish. Others take them to heart, seeing no reason not to love such a bizarre adventure.

Both his and Jonathan’s names never left the minds of those who read those books.

*

The Joestar manor stands, perfectly preserved and open to the public from 9 until half 5 from Mondays to Fridays, excepting bank holidays, atop that hill in the midlands of England as it had always been.

A brass plaque is driven into the turf twenty feet from the front entrance. It bares the family crest and displays a history not unlike the one recited above, with some slight omissions for the sake of the public’s interests. The text is somewhat weathered by decades of rain and wind and the edges are gnarled with knobs of chewing gum. Some graffiti of initials and profanities are scrawled onto the surface with black pen ink.

A young woman kneels by this plaque and begins to scrub at the pen with a rag soaked in spirit. Her ears are plugged with earbuds, playing various classic rock titles.

She’d only visited this site out of obligation before but had found the manor weirdly magnetic this time. Each previous year it was the same – stagnant and scenic. The surrounding countryside feels foreign and empty, it didn’t belong to her and she couldn’t help but think it looked like it was still trapped in the 19^th century. It’s too picturesque, too quiet. She still preferred cities and roads to meadows and pebble paths.

The graffiti eventually comes off and she stuffs the rag back into her jeans pocket. She’s been inside the manor already. It was all “please do not touch” and “stay behind the red rope” and was overall so eerily still. A place like that deserved to be lived in. After all, a whole bunch of shit had gone down in there over the years. She’d love to know about the drama which hadn’t been recorded within those walls. Jonathan and Dio sounded like the kinda guys to get up to some interesting and dangerous shit in their youth.

And there’s nothing she loves more than interesting and dangerous shit.

Irene stands up.

And she takes one last look at the plaque and then up at the manor. Her great-great-great-grandfather still feels so far away from her, despite what she’s heard from her grandparents and the all the info online. But it feels much more real to be here in person.

She may visit this place again someday in the future, with the rest of her family. It felt more like a home to her than she could’ve ever expected.

*

This story went on.

Different, like a song sung to another tune. 

Giorno never saw it, but - to put it one way - it was a song played for him.

Chapter Text

Jotaro hissed in frustration and stared again at the grey blinking bars at the top of his mobile’s tiny screen. The reception was terrible here.

“Can you hear me now?” He said into the receiver. “I said that she’s gone. No, I mean gone. Banished. Wherever she is now, she won’t be coming back.”

The Foundation worker on the other end had believed the rest of his story, along with the assurance that the mask Florence had taken had been destroyed by Giovanna’s attack. Even his sudden reappearance was taken without a second question. But Florence’s current whereabouts had thoroughly captured the Foundation’s imagination, much to Jotaro’s frustration. He’d considered dropping the phone onto Polnareff (who had insisted on taking the Requiem Arrow from Giorno’s hands almost immediately after his return, gibbering about precaution and lingering danger like a worried mother) but he knew better, knowing that Polnareff had fallen into bad favour with the Foundation after pulling his stunt with the arrow earlier that year. Most of the SPW were still greatly fond of the old sod, he was irritatingly amicable like that, but there was no promise that the operatives on the other end of the line wouldn’t then begin demanding that Polnareff abandon Passione entirely. And of course, that would never happen.

He continued to answer their questions. He’d eventually get around to asking them about their transport back to Naples.

Out of earshot, further down the Piazza del Colosseo with the looming Colloseum at their backs and the rising sun to their right, three teenagers sat piled onto a low wall around a plant bed, their heads resting on each other’s shoulders.

The girl, her brightly dyed hair now pushed far back from her face, appeared to be dozing. There was a faint scar-like line around her right eye. She was recovering from a grisly episode of supernatural first-aid.

A young man wearing a bloodied sweatshirt and a pair of garish trousers was struggling to keep his eyes open. He rubbed his face with a grubby hand and yawned.

“Dude, how can you be awake right now? It’s like…four am.” He said.

The boy between the two of them shrugged. “Inter-dimensional jet lag, I suppose. It was midday when I left.”

“Oh.” Mista was disgruntled, feeling as if the three of them could have benefitted from a communal nap on their trip home.

“What day is it?”

“Uh…Sunday. No, Monday morning.” Mista answered. He frowned when a smile crept across Giorno’s face. “What so funny?”

“Hm,” Giorno hid his mouth. “I’ve been gone four days.”

Mista stared blankly back at Giorno. “Don’t joke about that shit.” His expression softened as he watched Giorno’s smile widen until he split into tired giggles. Mista sat up a little straighter to look Giorno face to face. “Hey, Boss?”

“Yes?”

Mista looped a finger under one of Giorno’s curls, hair he was certain had been almost chest-length last time he’d seen it. This aforementioned hair was now only cresting Giorno’s shoulders. The lack of weight meant it curled even more than usual. It also bounced a little when Giorno turned his head towards Mista. This greatly entertained Mista’s sleep-addled brain.

“What happened to your hair, man?”

“Cut it.”

“Yeah, but why.”

Giorno shrugged. The curl bounced out from between Mista’s fingers. “In retrospect it wasn’t really necessary. But at the time I think it gave me the impression that I wasn’t standing out as much as before. I think people were staring at me before I cut it.”

“Good looks must be such a curse.” Mista leant back, planting his hands into the dry soil behind them. “I don’t blame them for staring. Those bastards can’t have known what hit them.”

Giorno smiled. Trish shifted by his side.

“I think it looks good,” she said, her voice a little muffled. “Your hair now, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Mista added quickly. “Me too. If I didn’t make that clear.”

“It’ll grow back fast,” Giorno said, rubbing the back of his neck. He was beginning to miss the braid.

Beside him Mista was building up to another question. Seeing Mista’s hesitation Trish asked first, before he could begin acting like an idiot.

“What was he like?” She asked, her cheek still resting on Giorno’s arm.

Giorno’s eyes danced over their surroundings for a few seconds, as if he were looking for the words to use. He took his time answering. His two friends watched with sleepy but interested eyes.

“Dio was…almost how I expected,” He began slowly. “As a child I’d convinced myself that my father, whoever he was, must have loved me. He must have, and he must be a kind and good man because if he wasn’t and if he didn’t care for me then I really didn’t have anyone else to be loved by. And then once I learnt who Dio had been- well I might have over-reacted, but you surely understand what a shock it was. I had thought that maybe, even if he had committed all those monstrous actions against Kujo’s family, that maybe at one point in his life he’d just been…normal. I wanted to think that he’d been a good man once who was only corrupted by that mask.”

“I think I understand,” Trish said, her voice soft. “The man I met who called himself my father, he was nothing like the man my mother described to me when she was still alive. I can only guess, and hope, that she was remembering him correctly.”

Giorno nodded and added, “But I was right. He wasn’t anything like the father I had hoped for throughout all my childhood. He wasn’t particularly heroic, or generous, or comforting. And he might not have given a shit about ‘family’ either. But he still had good in him. Maybe if I hadn’t been so lucky in my childhood I would have gone down a similar path as he did. I might have turned out just as cruel. And maybe if he were luckier he’d have been as happy as I am right now. He might have been a hero. But the man I met back there… back then…” Giorno smiled again. “I’d still be proud to call him my father.”

Trish smiled even wider. “Good.”

“Although,” he began again suddenly, startling his friends, “Another man I met, I need to mention him too.”

Neither Trish not Mista knew where this was going. The tiny pieces of information they’d been fed about this family’s history was few and far between, all they’d been able to piece together was enough to understand what Giorno had been talking about up until now. But it didn’t hurt to keep listening. It was all so damn weird, and kinda fascinating in a bizarre way.

“Kujo’s great-great grandfather,” as Giorno spoke he glowed with pride. A new look on him, as Mista and Trish observed, but a good one. “He was much more like how I’d wanted my father to be. It’s almost uncanny. He was kind, and selfless, and as much of a hero as you could possibly imagine. He barely even felt real. Everything I’d ever wanted him to be - I don’t want to think of either man as less than the other, though I’m not sure I’d even have the capability to. When I was with them…I…”

A light filled his eyes.

“I felt loved. Not like I’d never felt it, love, mind you. But I really wish it was a kind of love I had felt before. That was me in those moments and I was loved. I have that now, I can know that. I met my father, one way or another, and he loved me. Even if when I say “my father” I might not mean just one man alone– it’s complicated and messy and the long story involves so much tragedy and blood and heartbreak– but I’m so proud of the simple fact that I can say it. I can know that I was right. My father loves me, and he was a good man. They both were.”

When he finished Giorno exhaled and dropped his shoulders. It was a moment of release, relief, like he’d let go of a breath he’d been holding for years. He then looked to Trish and Mista apologetically.

“I didn’t mean for that to get so heavy.”

“No, no, I get it,” Mista said, “I think. You went through a lot so it’s fair you have a bunch to get off your chest.”

“Yeah,” Trish added. “I think it’s best you just tell us these things. Experience has shown us that when you hold shit that’s bothering you away it results in more trouble for all of us. And time travel.”

“Actually, I don’t think it was time travel.,” Giorno corrected her, “It’s more likely I was sent by Requiem to an alternate time line so that there wasn’t any danger of me changing the future I came from. I was only living in the alternate version of this world’s past.”

“Yeah yeah whatever.” Trish waved Giorno’s words away. “You’re back now. I don’t want to think about alternate timelines and dimensions anymore. It makes my head hurt.”

“Oh, shit,” Mista flinched as he remembered something all of a sudden.

“What is it?” Giorno asked, startled.

Mista was rummaging around inside his sweater, almost pulling it over his head in his hurry. Eventually he retrieved a small leather-bound book. He held it out to Giorno.

“This is yours. I sorta forgot I was carrying it with me until this afternoon. Sorry.”

Giorno took the book. He turned it over curiously and said, “Of all the books you could have borrowed, you chose a book of poems. I thought you hated them.”

“I do. They’re sappy and boring as shit. But you like them.” Giorno paused in his inspection of the book, glancing up at Mista, who was staring lazily off at the sunrise. Mista continued, “Wherever you were you’d be thinking about this stuff, I know you do ‘cause you never stop thinking. So, I thought it would be neat to, you know, hold onto it while you were missing. It made sense to me at the time.”

“Hm,” Giorno tapped the cover of the book. “Can I ask why there’s a burn mark on the front?”

“I got shot.”

“Ah.”

He really had missed out on a lot while he’d been gone. Maybe some other day they’d have the chance to fully recount what had happened while the three of them had been separated.

As Giorno tucked the book of poetry into his waistcoat something slipped past his fingers. It fell to the ground like a feather; a small slip of paper which came to a rest between his feet on the cobbles. It had caught Mista’s eye as it fell but he stayed put while Giorno bent to pick it up from the ground.

“I almost forgot it.” Giorno’s voice was quiet, his gaze so intently locked on the folded paper that the others found themselves watching him more closely that the paper itself. His mouth parted like he was going to speak, and his brow furrowed – as if he didn’t know quite what to do now – and something kept him from unfolding it in his hands.

“Is that from him?” Trish asked.

Giorno only nodded. He wanted to open it, of course. But once it was opened that was that; it would be the last he’d ever hear from Jonathan. But then again that moment had to come at some point. And it would almost certainly be a dishonour to their memories if he only put off reading it. They’d wanted him to read these words, so it was important to them. And that made it important to Giorno.

So, he opened it.

And began reading.

~

Giorno,

I write knowing full well you will leave us once you awake. I take no offence at this, remembering how fondly you spoke of your friends and how lonely I know you must be while away from them. Almost everything I have inferred about you is from a voice in my heart, one I never think to doubt, because it is one speaking with love. I am sure you know why this is, for why else would you have sought me out? I truly do wish that I have lived up to those expectations of yours. I am often a poor and clumsy substitute for a brother, son, friend. I cannot even begin to think of taking the part of a father. I do hope you were not disappointed.

This letter serves not to ask you anymore questions, since I know you cannot respond to me once you return home and read this. I only hope to settle your mind once you have left us. Do not worry about me, you’ve expressed enough concern in these days for a lifetime.

If you are to think about me, about what I might have done after you leave us, I pray you are not plagued by unnecessary worry. However, you will not be surprised to read that I will only continue to pursue danger in some shape or form. I sincerely apologise. It is simply how I am.

The years waiting for me will be dangerous. Terrifying, and I almost hope that they will be. The things that you’ve shown me and Dio of the world hidden from us all our lives have given me the desire to seek it out even further. And that will of course put me in great danger. But I’ve never wanted to do something more than this before in my life. I wish to find the remaining masks (Dio has told me about them. I am quite flattered that he shared this information with me, but more thankful that you shared it with him in the first place.) and to keep what happened that night from ever happening again. If I must, I may even dedicate my entire life to this mystery if it means a safe and happy future for my family.

And about this future of mine…

I made my choice to ask you very little questions while I had the chance to. I suspect you know an awful lot about me and my family. Resemblance, mannerisms and my own rampant imagination has told me as much about you. But I do not wish to know the whole truth as I believe it would haunt me far worse than an unanswered question would. Something tells me I should leave it at this and I am more than happy to. I have lived this long with no albatross around my neck, and as I know now curses are realer than I first thought, so I’ll make this choice to remain safely ignorant. The future will be as exciting to me as always, thanks to you. And I truly mean it. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I cannot begin to imagine what horrors must have driven you to us and what pain you endured during our time together. And I can never thank you enough for these few days.

I would like to make just one request of you, Giorno. Please stay safe. If you are anything like me, then you’ll never be far from the fray. It gives me pain greater than I’ve ever felt to imagine you in that danger. It is like a part of me might die.

So, remain strong. I know you can because it is a strength we share. If I ever raise a son I can only hope he will be as strong as you. I have much to learn before I become a man worthy of being a father but seeing how magnificent you grew to be, well, perhaps I can still look forward to teaching my children the same virtues.

After days of thinking what to say to you in our last moments I think that this is what I’ll leave you with. Stay brave, and share your kindness. Be great.

Naturally, and with the greatest of care,

Jonathan Joestar.

~

Jonathan followed his signature with a flourish sweeping out far below his surname.

After this was a blank stretch of paper which was broken very near to the bottom of the page by a portion written in a second hand. It continued onto another sheet of paper tucked behind the first. This writing was choppy, as if it had been written on an uneven surface in a hurry. At a few points in the diction the pen had ripped right through the paper to leave a small puncture.

This message read as follows.

~

I sincerely hope you will not linger on my mind.

I have enough to worry about already. Nothing has satisfied me since I came to understand how the world I live in works. Your interference in our lives has only widened this lens and I now fear I’ll never be fulfilled no matter how much of this world I make my own and crush under my feet. And Jojo will never forget about this time. No matter what he sees or learns or achieves in the future I am sure this encounter will become just a thread in his tapestry, another reason for him to keep moving forwards. His delusions about your identity have perhaps invaded my own imagination to an extent but nevertheless I will not allow sentimentality to hold me to the past when the future has recently become so much more interesting thanks to your meddling in our lives.

To settle your fears; no, I have no intention of taking one of those masks you spoke of for myself. It would be a fool’s errand to reach for that power in the hope of gaining some superiority over my adversaries, after seeing how little of my own self would remain afterwards. I only intend to make my name with what power and skills I have cultivated for myself. Take that as a lesson from me, Giorno – I have been impressed to a point by your capability and would hate to think that it might wither in a moment of personal weakness and greed.

My future is inexorably tied to Jojo’s, this is to nobody’s surprise. I might follow him for some of my life to come and he may follow me for some of it too. We might make a great change to the future of this world. Or we could fade into the dusts motes of forgotten history. If I have anything to do with it, we will be remembered. In whatever world you came from and are returning to, Giorno, I do hope our names are still spoken. If not, do be a dear and tell your contemporaries of my virtues. It would please me greatly to know that I am immortal in at least one way.

I write this as you and Jojo say your goodbyes, being sure our conversation will be our last too. I hope you do not haunt me, and I hope I do not haunt you. It is a great pain to be held back by someone, alive or otherwise, and I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone.

You have the same strengths as I and most certainly the same weaknesses too. Whatever you may be hungering for, take it before it devours you in return. Claim it as your own. Hold what is dear to you close and crush whatever tries to pry it from your hands. If I can do it, so can you.

That is what I have learnt from you, Giorno. You are as strong as me and greater. I hate to put it to words, but you’ve proven that to me. You have the very capability to trust and love that I’ve been void of for as many years as I can remember. I thought that this would make you weak but it has only made you stronger. I will learn from this and all I ask of you in return is to not be held back by what I lack. Be better than me. Be better than Jonathan.

Do not let me down.

~

Giorno’s eyes lingered on those last few words. There was no second signature there, only the bald edge of the paper. But he didn’t need a name to know who had addressed him.

The writing was so fresh, some of it had smudged in his pocket. Yet it was written over a century ago in another world away. Both Mista and Trish got this impression too; seeing how fancy the handwriting was, from what they could make out over Giorno’s shoulders. Trish knew far more English than Mista though she had little desire to read what the letter said. It was none of her business.

Behind them, Kujo finally hung up and dropped his phone into a coat pocket. He rubbed his temple and walked towards where they sat.

“The Foundation will arrive in half an hour to collect any artefacts Florence might have disturbed. I’ll be taking one of their cars back to the hotel in Naples. They’re offering a ride for you three too.”

Mista and Trish looked to Giorno. He was still reading over his letter.

“Thank you,” he answered without looking up, “We appreciate the gesture.”

“Wait, so we’re taking the offer?” Mista asked.

“Yes.”

Mista laughed. “Wow. All the influence in Italia and you’re accepting a lift from the Foundation. Wasn’t it only a few months ago that they thought you might be some sort of up-and-coming super villain?”

“That’s a crude way of putting it.”

“But I’m right,” Mista leant forwards, raising a brow at Kujo. “Aren’t I?”

Kujo grimaced. “They had concerns. For a time, I shared those concerns.”

“And I wouldn’t blame you,” Giorno said, folding away his letter. “Once I knew who you had been comparing me to I understood your fears. That man committed worse atrocities than I would ever allow in my country. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to live through it, Signor Kujo. I don’t blame you in the slightest.”

At this Trish tried to meet Kujo’s eyes. She was practically glaring a hole through his skull.

Jotaro shifted uncomfortably and said, finally, “I’m sorry.”

Trish relaxed.

Giorno smiled, brushing hair from his eyes. That was fine. Even better than fine. He’d never expected an apology for something he no longer held a grudge against. What he remembered from that night before he’d run from home felt so silly to him now. They’d both overreacted, and they both regretted it.

“Though,” a devilish smile crept across Giorno’s face, “If you’re up for it I could quite easily get us home myself.”

“How?” Mista asked, afraid of the answer.

Giorno gestured to the cars parked down the main road. “By driving.”

“Absolutely not.” Kujo said.

“Then you’re not invited. I’ll drive these two home and you can just…jog behind us, whatever makes you happy.”

“Funny.” Kujo was not laughing. He gave Giorno the kind of look that told him he’d make sure that this adventure would not end with grand theft auto.

“Yeah, about that,” Mista said, turning grey, “I’d really prefer not to get in a car driven by you, Boss. I dunno if you remember but it usually doesn’t end all that well with you behind the wheel.”

Giorno shrugged and tried his best to look disappointed.

“Oh!” Trish suddenly jerked her head to the side, a thought snatching her attention. “Speaking of home,” she prodded Giorno’s arm, and waited for him to finish the sentence. Giorno stared blankly back at Trish’s expectant face. She scowled once it was clear he didn’t understand. “What you told me last month,” she hissed. “About a certain property.” She was spitting each word out between her teeth.

“Ah.” Giorno’s expression cleared but was just as quickly replaced by shame. He’d entirely forgotten about the deed to Buccellati’s house he’d promised to Trish some time ago, being distracted by his misadventures of the past few weeks. He felt rather bad about forgetting now. Trish looked livid. He sheepishly rubbed his neck – the same nervous habit he’d picked up after cutting his hair – and looked away from Trish’s glare. “Sorry. I’ll get the keys and address to you as soon as possible.”

Trish punched him in the arm.

“Ow!”

She was grinning.

“Idiot. I’m not angry at you. At least not about that. Yeah, I’m pissed that you left without telling us, or trying to talk about the stuff that was bothering you. I’m pissed that I didn’t even know that- who knew! We both had terrible dads! And I’m pissed you left us with this mess to sort out by ourselves; those Foundation workers who tried to kill me and so on. I shouldn’t be fighting a bunch of crazy American anarchists! I’m a fucking supermodel! No, I’m not angry at you, Giorno. Do you want to know what I want?”

Giorno slowly nodded, cradling his arm.

“I want you to come with me to his house. You and Mista,” she nodded in Mista’s direction – who was politely watching this exchange with a shit-eating-grin across his face. “I want you two to come with me and just, you know, hang out or whatever. Like friends are supposed to do, as I’ve heard.”

“Is that it?”

“Do you want me to write you a formal invitation?”

Giorno laughed. “Alright, I get it. It’s a good idea. We should do that. We have a lot to talk about after all.”

“Yeah,” Mista added, “I wanna hear about your time travel shit. What did you even do? What was the food like? How did you understand how all the old timey people talked, uh, I guess you’re smart though. You probably did fine.”

Then, Kujo’s phone rang again.

He hadn’t expected this call, they could tell from the look on his face as he picked it out of his pocket. When he saw the number blinking on the tiny screen his face turned from confused to ashen in an instant.

Giorno sat up straight, nearly knocking Trish off his lap. Mista had a similar interest in this scene unfolding but hid his curiosity a little better.

Kujo flipped his phone open, put it gingerly to his ear and said his name, then fell silent.

After a moment he asked in English, “How did you find this number?”

Giorno’s curiosity multiplied in the exact moment that Mista’s vanished; like hell he was going to try to understand a single word of that.

“No, I’m in Italy at the moment.” Kujo continued, his tone giving nothing away. “No, not yet. I’ll be-” a pause of a few seconds, “Slow down for a moment, please, I can’t hear you. It’s, uh, ten? Eleven at night where you are. You should be asleep, you shouldn’t have called me.”

He fell silent for a little while longer, his face pained as he angled the phone speaker away from his ear. Someone was shouting at him on the other end.

“Please, stop shouting. I’m here with-” He cut himself off as his eyes locked with Giorno’s. For a moment he hesitated, before finally giving in and dropping a tension in his shoulders. He put the phone closer to his face again. “I’m here with family.”

Giorno exhaled suddenly.

“Yes. No, he lives here.” A second later Kujo pressed his phone to his jumper and cast his eyes upwards. He grit his teeth, glanced to the side where Giorno sat, then finally spoke back into the phone, “Alright.” He held it out to Giorno with some painful remorse.

Giorno took it without thinking. He looked up inquisitively to Kujo, but the man only tugged his cap down and turned away. His job here was done, apparently.

So Giorno looked back down to the phone, still on the call with an unfamiliar number.

He put it to his ear.

And was immediately greeted with a loud and accented, “What’s your name?”

An American voice, young and female.

“My name is Giorno.”

“Mine’s Jolyne.”

“It’s nice to speak to you, Jolyne. Is Jotaro your father?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Giorno immediately hit an awkward wall in the conversation. He hadn’t seen anything like this coming, so didn’t know what else to say. A daughter? His guess was accurate, but no less uncomfortable for him to imagine.

He found Trish’s eyes on him. She was frantically motioning for him to keep talking.

“How old are you?”

“I’m nine. Are you another uncle? You sound old.”

Giorno coughed. He didn’t think he sounded that old. “I’m sixteen, Jolyne. And I am a distant cousin. Our family is very complicated, so I think your father would like for me simply say that.” Some steps away, Kujo subtly nodded.

He heard a sigh on the other end.

“I wish I knew about you before. All our relatives are old and boring, or they live super far away. Have you met Josuke?”

“No, I have not.”

“He’s cool. Dad doesn’t want me to hang out with him again though because he thinks I’ll get hurt.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I fell out a tree when I saw him last summer. We were playing. It wasn’t his fault.”

“Oh. Is your father like that a lot? He is very protective of you.”

“Yeah, when he lets me go anywhere with him on holiday its like…I can’t do anything. He barely even talks to me. I only got to call him because I spent all night looking for this number in my mom’s books. She’ll be so mad if he tells on me. I bet he’ll just stop taking me totally at some point. I won’t even be able to see Josuke again”

“Jolyne?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Alright.”

“Your father has made mistakes. And he will again. What annoys you, him keeping you and your uncle apart, might be one of them. Children have as much to learn from their parents as he does from you, so you can set him right. But that shouldn’t be your responsibility. Not all men are cut out to be a father. But your father - I think is ready to learn from you.”

The phone fell silent for a moment.

“Your dad’s like mine, isn’t he,” Jolyne said. “You had to, uh, teach him stuff. Like you just said.”

“You are a smart girl, aren’t you?”

“Bet your shit I am.”

Giorno laughed. The call crackled, and he could tell that Jolyne was rattling the phone’s cord with her excitement.

“Do you think I’ll ever meet you?” She asked.

“I hope you do,” Giorno said, looking to Kujo, “I would love to show you Italy.”

“Like dad would ever let me.”

“I will convince him in that case.”

As Giorno was saying this Trish had pulled Mista across his lap and begun roughly translating what Giorno was talking about. Mista knew about Jolyne already, but he hadn’t pieced together that she was the one on the phone until now.

“Who’s talking to you?” Jolyne asked. She’d heard someone beyond the phone, namely Mista swearing in coarse Neapolitan about Giorno’s fucked up family.

“Oh.” Giorno moved the phone to his other ear and tapped Mista’s shoulder. “My friends are talking loudly. I’m sorry.” Mista quickly shut up once he saw the look in Giorno’s eye.

“Can I talk to them?”  

“You want to speak with them?”

“Yeah,” Jolyne said, confident beyond her years. “I’ll find out more about you from them than I would from asking you. I know you’re not gonna tell me anything good if I ask you.”

“Oh, if you say so. I’ll give you to my good friend Trish.” Giorno handed the phone to Trish and said to her in a low voice, “Choose your words wisely.” And quickly stood up before she could respond.

Blinking, Trish put the phone to her own ear. Jolyne indeed had many questions and the energy with which she asked them almost left Trish reeling. But after a moment she got the hang of her Floridian accent, the strange circumstance of the conversation, and Mista’s occasional input by her other ear.

Meanwhile, Giorno approached Kujo who had leant against a lamppost nearby. He had some bags by his feet, as well as a sleeping turtle.

“You met them.” Jotaro said, sudden enough to startle Giorno.

“I did,” Giorno replied once he’d recovered from the shock. He sat down on the curb, legs stretched out across the cobblestone and fingers folded between his knees. “Do you have questions?”

“No,” Kujo said, then added, “I wouldn’t want to hear about that man from your mouth. Even less Jonathan.”

“I understand.”

“He’s just jealous,” a voice spoke up by their feet.

Kujo glared down at Polnareff’s tiny form, emerging from the turtle’s portal with a wide grin. “Shut up.”

“You are! You’re jealous of him, you big baby.”

“I can’t believe I missed you.” Kujo pulled his cap down and closed his eyes. Polnareff laughed. “Good grief. How did dying make you even more insufferable than before?”

“It’s a gift,” Polnareff said. He motioned for Giorno to lean down and hissed into his ear, “Humour him, kid. He may not look like it but he’s ready to listen to you. Whatever it is that you may want him to hear, go ahead. This is the chance you missed the other night.”

Giorno nodded, then smiled. “You’re not upset at me too?”

“Nah. I’m not your mother, believe it or not. Consider yourself thoroughly told-off and don’t run off like that again without letting me or the others know first.”

“I won’t. I wouldn’t ever want to.”

“That’s my boy.” Polnareff gave a hearty thumbs up before sinking back into the turtle’s room. The last Giorno saw of Polnareff that night was him enthusiastically jerking his head towards Kujo. That was his way of saying;

He’ll bugger off back to the US or Japan as soon as he has the chance to, so you better get this over with while you still can. He’s a pain in the ass to talk with but if there’s anyone cut out for the job it’s you, Giorno. Bonne Chance.

The light from the lamppost threw a cloak of yellow light over Kujo, casting him in bronze shadows where the sunrise mixed with the glow from the bulb and hiding his entire face from view under his cap brim. This mountain of a man was such a similar silhouette to Jonathan’s, yet with a totally different tune. Jonathan was - as Giorno had concluded early in his encounter - merely a large but effectively harmless goliath in a prim sweater vest. Jonathan brimmed with energy both literally and figuratively. He had breathed, bled and sung selflessness. Kujo on the other hand, despite being no shorter in stature, seemed to shrink in comparison.

This man standing over Giorno was tired. He may have had that same energy as Jonathan at one time in his life but now he was worn down. Something heavy lay across his shoulders, or many things did. Giorno could now accurately suspect that one of them was that heavy weight that came with the title; father. All sorts of fears and frenzies are born from that role. Especially if the man in that position chose to take on the full responsibility it offered.

And it was far too easy to run away from that, it had taken Giorno most of his life to find a father fit for the job. Even his friends have had the same foul luck with their own fathers.

He really truly hoped that Jolyne could have better than he ever did.

“You’ll keep her from harm’s way, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And will that mean keeping her from you too then, Signor? If I’m not offending by asking.”

“You are offending, but I couldn’t give a shit about that because it’s four in the fucking morning. I could care less about your formality.”

“I simply intend to remain on your good-side, Signor. How else will I ever meet my great-great-grand-niece in person some day?”

Kujo groaned. “Don’t say it like that. It’s so weird.”

Giorno smiled and put his cheek to his palm. “But in all seriousness, I do hope you keep her in reach. That girl is sharp. She’ll know when you’re pushing her away, even if it is for her own safety. She’ll know when you’re leaving her, Signor. And nothing hurts more than someone you love leaving without a goodbye.”

The lamplight flickered off, the sun almost fully risen above the Roman skyline. Kujo stood silently at the roadside, the two lanes stretching off away from him in either direction into the morning’s mist. It would have been a painful moment to sit through if not for the chatter behind them. Trish had Mista by the collar, Jolyne on speakerphone, and a look of glee on her face. Whatever they were talking about was apparently hysterical.

“It’s nice isn’t it,” Kujo said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Companions. Or friends, if you call them that too. I’m comically bad at keeping them myself, so I strongly recommend you protect them with your life.”

It left Giorno a little speechless.

Kujo added, “If you tell anyone I said that I’ll kill you.”

“Oh, of course. As long as you take my words to heart as well, Signor.”

“Yeah, sure whatever. And one last thing, kid.”

“Yes.”

Kujo looked immensely uncomfortable as he said, “Please just call me Jotaro. It’s what my family calls me by.”

And with that, Giorno nodded. “Of course, Jotaro. I look forward to where this road leads us.” He said, and gave Jotaro’s leg a reassuring pat.

He was rewarded with a scowl but elected to ignore it in favour of the scene behind him.

It took no description, because nothing had ever filled his heart up as full like it until then. His friends, his family, and a place he had previously only thought of with disgust. All of it was laid out before him washed in the most beautiful golden light and sparkling with laughter.

Like a page in a book, he marked this memory and this moment. Because it was a good one.

Chapter Text

Five days later, thirteen miles south of Naples.

Giorno stood relaxed against the wall of the house and opened his eyes.

The Mediterranean began eighty feet below him and stretched out under a glassy sky, disturbed by a dozen tiny fishing boats and some distant speedboats leaving frilly white paths in the water behind them. High rocky cliffs framed the horizon on both sides like arms wrapped around the sea. Voices and laughter filtered up from the narrow streets lazily running along the steep cliffside like the tiers of a cake. The air was cool, and everything smelt of salt and orange trees.

It was absolutely nothing like England. Which was a comfort; he’d greatly missed the stifling beauty of his home.

Too slow to stop the thought from forming, he wondered if his fathers would have liked Italy. A soon as the idea crossed his mind a small twinge crossed his chest. He held a hand over his heart for a second and frowned. Of course, he missed them. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Having been given those tantalising few days with them at least some part of him still wished for more. He missed being their son.

He dropped his hand to his side and locked his eyes back on the sea.

Useless thoughts, useless and painful.

I still am. I still am their son. And I’m sure they would love Italy.

He told himself that, reminding himself once again while the pain in his chest dimmed.

He was still becoming used to this; fresh grief as well as knowing a part of his family he’d always wished for. He simply couldn’t ever encounter love without grief raising its ugly head in return.

But, as he’d learnt too, that was just how his family worked. Jotaro had finished his story the following day after the encounter in Roma without further interruption and made this clear to him; some members of the family believed Dio that had cursed their bloodline with his actions while he was alive. So Giorno was not exempt to it. There had been a distinct sadness in Jotaro’s voice when he’d said this to Giorno. He too had a lot to lose to a curse.

So, Giorno understood when Jotaro had then left Italy without leaving him a direct line of contact.

Well, no, it wasn’t understandable at all, Giorno thought to himself, scowling out at the coast. He’d thought that their talk in Roma had built some bridges between the two of them after a rocky start but apparently not. It was a shame, this made the process of contacting the rest of his living relatives much slower and more complicated. Names like “Jolyne” and “Josuke” were so tantalising, but ultimately unhelpful. He’d have to spend some time finding his family the best way he knew how to; using the powers he had at his disposal through less than legal means.

And if this meant even further soured relations with Kujo, Giorno regretted that. He truly hoped they’d get along better some day in the future.

Until that day however, Kujo would have to put up with his meddling.

A seagull squealed overhead and Giorno was brought out of his thoughts. The bird wheeled above before diving back towards the rocky coast and ducking out of sight.

Maybe it was time to head in, he thought to himself. He’d left it long enough to make a dramatically late arrival at Buccellati’s old house but there must be a point where it becomes rude. Mista and Trish were waiting for him in the house he was still standing outside after all.

They’d waited so long for him. The memory of their reunion; the feeling of holding them both in his arms, remembering the sounds of their voices again, realising how brave they’d been without him-

He covered his mouth and smiled.

He couldn’t help but smile with each thought spared to them. He couldn’t stop himself from being proud, and thankful.

At several points in his life he’d thought he’d lost everything, or least what could bring him joy like this. A correction; who could do such a thing and fill his heart. But with this he was sure that he only had to wait for it to come along again. People like Trish, Mista, even Jotaro, were precious enough to him to keep the fire burning in his eyes. And the promise of distant family like Jolyne or this talked-of Josuke would entice him to still prompt his feet forward.

And memories of Jonathan, Dio, Bruno, they gave him reason to smile and laugh and cry and joke and make their memory proud. Because that was the duty of a son after all.

Because he learnt from his fathers. He learnt from friends. Little did he know but they were learning from him too. The journey he’d set out on had shown him more than he’d hoped for and brought him the most beautiful and accidental memories. Mistakes were so so worth making when it led to moments like those.

So, with nothing else but an amused smile and one last look over the coast Giorno finally turned and entered the house.

He was looking forward to learning more.