Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Wait- Let go of me!”  

“Trish! Don’t worry- I'll- AGH!”  

“No... Giorno... please... just-”  

RUN  

Waking hit Trish as a full-on collision. Her consciousness crashed through the wall of her mind, shards of it piercing the soft behind her eyes.  

Her lungs struggled to catch up, filling sluggishly as she gasped, eventually steadying along with her sight, her hearing. 

Her short pink skirt came into focus below, she was sitting. Faint light brushed against the silk. 

She was... inside? No, there was wind. A breeze pushed through her bangs.  

It was dark out. But, in the way that teases morning light. Across the patchwork cement floor, lit by bright lights meant for onlookers outside the enclosure, iron bars cut through the city lights, far below.  

Wait- How high up am I?  

A pink lock poked into her eye, and she moved to brush it out, only to find her hands stuck together behind her. Bound by plastic zip ties, tightly against the chair she sat in. 

Oh shit.  

Promptly she shut her eyes, searched her mind, and found Spice Girl still there, still active, buzzing nervously under her skin. She sighed relief. 

A second later, and the bonds melted, and Trish stood up way, way too fast. 

Her knees hit the ground, palms slapping the cement to catch her. Her stomach churned and she swallowed the bile down, head spinning. Never before had she had a hangover this bad before.  

Finally, when the world was steady enough, she managed one foot under her, pushing up off her bare knee, wobbling.  

Yeah, standing was a mistake.  

Blindly, Trish shot her arms out in search of a support, finding the railing behind her chair. She clutched it, pulled herself against the iron, bent over it and hurled. 

It was a stairwell. The splat’s echo clarified that real quick, and through watering vision she could see the spiral’s shadows descend down the tower.  

Tower? Wait-  

She knew this place. Had seen it on tourist’s magazines. A clocktower, right? 

Propping up on her elbows, Trish managed to raise her head to see an old bell oxidizing less than a meter above.  

And her eyes stayed there. Snagged. Her blood freezing them in place. She didn’t want to look. She couldn’t. She’d barely seen it on the way to the bell, but the colors alone petrified her in place. 

Images of a dreamy morning’s golden-brown biscuits came to mind, but smothered in that off-brand strawberry jam she hated. 

Desperately she gulped down another bout of bile. 

Then, his shoulders hitched. A horrible rasping noise escaped him. Her nerves spasmed, caught in the sin of staying still. 

She shoved off the railing, scrambled around the stairwell, tripping along the way, but still somehow managed to kneel in front of Giorno without a proper fall. 

Arms pulled back, bound around the back of his chair, he slouched forward, the fine pieces of his black suit ripped as though he'd been chewed up by some massive knife-toothed animal. Most of his hair fell in strands around his face, curled bangs and braid loose, barely resembling his usual look.  

Without thinking, she’d reached up, pulling back some of the hair from his eyes. Salt and sweat stuck them to his pasty forehead. His crunched brows caught much of the sweat as well as...the... 

Blood.  

Giorno heaved another hoarse breath. Lungs sounding like ruptured bellows.  

Trish brought her hand back, observing the crimson on it numbly.  

Blood crusted much of his hair to his face and neck, some rivers of it still flowing fresh. Much of the clear blonde lay overpowered by old and new shades of crisp red. 

“T...rish...” 

Blood drizzled from his lips. She hoped it was just drippings from his ruddy scalp.  

Though, it took another broken gasp of air for Trish to snap back. She inched closer, reaching up to hold his shoulders. “G-Giorno?!” 

“Tr...” 

“Hey. Hey ok- look at me. I’m here. And you’re here with me now, ok? You’re awake. So, you have to endure this shitshow with me now too, ok?” She shook his shoulders, maybe not as gently as she should have. “Ok?!” 

“Mmmmmmh.”  

Trish cursed under her breath, giving an official survey of the damage.  

“Y-You’re gonna have to make a new skull and a-arm. Probably.” She chuckled in a way she hoped didn’t sound as unhinged as her nerves felt.  

“Mmmmmmh.” 

“Alright, you’re gonna have to be a little more help than that, Gio.” Reaching around, she had Spice Girl touch the bonds, softening them into a playdough consistency.  

The moment she did, Giorno pitched forward, yanking a gasp from Trish. In a dizzying flash, she fumbled a grip on his shoulders, and swung herself around to his front, catching him in a kind of clumsy hug to hold him up. 

She hated how she felt a thick crack in his chest. And she hated even more the wet gasps he hacked up afterwards. 

But at least, when she settled him into leaning heavily against the rickety wooden chair, his eyes had opened. 

Glassy green surveyed the ceiling, the early morning outside, before coming to rest on her. 

“Tri...sh.” She couldn't tell whether it was a grimace or a smile. But she could definitely see the blood stained on his teeth. 

She gulped the panic down. “Alright. We’re getting you out of here. Just-” Nope. Standing up was definitely still bad. Trish grabbed onto the railing behind the chair for support, clutching her mouth instinctively, even though she was pretty sure she’d completely emptied her stomach a minute earlier. 

She’d shut her eyes to steady the merry-go-round of iron bars and cement and bells. So, when she felt a faint puff of coppery air against her cheek, she startled somewhat, opening her eyes to see Giorno’s expression stirring directly below. 

He was looking around, head lolling in a way that really didn’t look promising. And the moment he looked down, Trish averted her gaze. She wasn’t keen on seeing that skull and blood-matted hair-mash again if she could help it. 

“Trish. L... Look.” 

At his eager tone, she allowed a glance past his hair to see him pulling at something in his shirt. “Wait. What’s...?”  

She’d failed to notice it earlier. Around Giorno’s neck, tucked under his white shirt, was a string. Kneeling beside him, she pushed his weak fingers aside, fishing the string out herself. At the end, it weaved through a page of notebook paper. Snapping the string, she pulled the note from it, unfolding it to read, 

“A good morning to you two beauties,  

I hope this letter finds you in good health, as I wouldn’t want you to be in more pain then necessary.  

If you’ll recall last night, I made an offer to you, Don Giovanna, that you seemed rather put-off by. And-”  

“What-?” A cough racked Giorno, and she saw him desperately try to cover it with shaking fingers. When his breath finally settled into the somewhat-stable hitching rhythm of before, he rasped, “Offer? Wait, he...means...?” Giorno slumped onto his elbows, head resting heavily in his palms. She watched him smear fresh blood from his fingers into the old of his hair. “God... The traffick...ing ring.” 

“Who’s?”  

Giorno glanced to her, distant look clenching her chest tight. “Keep... reading.” 

With a nod and shaky breath, she attempted to uncoil the lump in her throat, but ended up just reading over it. 

“-And I took it upon myself to do my best to convince you, with my most persuasive techniques. As you are now aware of.  

You’ll find yourself in the Torrazzo di Cremona, not far from my own luxurious home, where you’ll remember dining with me last night. You’ll find the companion you brought there with you is a tad more cognizant than you’ll find yourself to be.”  

Trish wasn’t sure if the noise that came from Giorno then was a meant to be a chuckle or a cough, but she kept going when he nodded her on, 

“Companion, I entrust you now with your Don’s life. In his right suit pocket, you’ll find a handheld transceiver.”  

Before Giorno could try to fumble for it, she found the walkie-talkie, pulling it out for him to hold as she glanced over the last part. 

But it stilled her. Words clogged in her throat, even as her lips stuck ajar.  

“What’s it... Trish...?” 

A weak hand landed on her shoulder and she snapped back, “S-sorry I just-” 

“What’s wrong?” 

Even as he said it, she watched him stifle a cough, gulping down something with it as though it were the thickest sludge. 

She forced herself to look away, and read the note, 

“Your Don Giovanna only has one hour to live. That is, only if you don’t follow my instructions perfectly.”  

She glanced back. And Giorno met her gaze steadily, breaking it only to point at the next line. 

His eyes were unfocused, and blurry, and she read the line, 

“Get him to tell you the location of Passione’s most sensitive files on Rome, March 2001, and how we would retrieve the item associated with them.”  

“The arrow.” The realization scraped the words against his throat. “Faviloni was talking about- last night- h-he needed- he wanted my help for his trade- but now he just w-wants the arrow-?!” Hacking took over his voice and chest, hunching him over, crushing his eyes shut. 

“Gio- Just-” Trish held his arm as he finished the fit, “Y-You don’t need to talk anymore, ok?” 

When his breathing steadied, he said nothing, trembling in place, holding his gut in a way that reminded her of- 

She jumped up, pulling her skirt up with her just in time for him to retch blood onto the cement.  

The sight wrenched a grip on her heart and stomach. Though, the most she could do for him was hold his hair back from his face, bundling it all in one palm, holding his tensing shoulder with her free hand. 

When the heaving finally subsided, and he gasped for air through ragged lungs, Trish helped him lean back into the chair. He slumped gratefully, diaphragm shaking from exhaustion.  

More as a question to herself, she muttered, “What the hell did they do to you?” 

He wiped his lip, the back of his sleeve reddening, as he replied, “Stand is still... in here.”  

“Wait- you mean... in you?” 

Trish followed his nodding gesture, landing on the gross red-splotched cement. Sure enough, after a second, she could make out the tiniest wriggling forms, like blackened maggots. 

“God-” She clamped her mouth with a hand, “That’s disgusting.” 

“Mmmmh.” 

“Is that why you can’t just heal all of-” She gestured broadly, “-this mess?” 

Giorno inclined his head. “Mmhmmmh.” 

“I- I thought we knew the Capo’s stand? Some kind of hat-related thing?” 

“Isn’t... his. He recently... got new recruits and...” 

“Didn’t document their stands properly. Right. Ok. So, you can’t heal yourself ‘cause of the stand and-” Terror hit fresh as she scanned the words again, “and it’s going to kill you in an hour?! That’s not fucking fair!” 

“Calm... down.” Giorno’s hand reappeared on her shoulder. “Breathe...” 

His look was steady, but she saw him actively stifle a bout of fear. 

“I am breathing.” 

“Not… calm enough.” 

“I know ok, I know.” 

Yeah. Sure. Just breathe. Stay calm. Like that had worked so well last night. 

--- 

“That’s the fifth place with one of those custom-order mailboxes that looks like the house.” 

“Seems to be a pretty popular thing here, yes." 

She huffed, reading Giorno’s tacit desire for silence, and let a minute pass, just for him, before she couldn’t take it anymore.  

“Why do I have to be the stupid one again?” 

Giorno sighed, signaling for a turn before blowing through the stop-sign regardless. “They know me already, I’m their Boss .” 

“ And I’m just your ditsy date?” 

Giorno raised a finger. “No. You’re the fantastic actress Trish Una, playing the undercover ditsy date to your dear friend Don Giovanna. Through your brilliant stage-presence as nothing more than a breathtaking beauty, you’ll be marked off as a non-threat, and be able to slip away and rifle through some of Faviloni’s more sensitive documents when you ‘accidentally get lost’ on your way to the bathroom.” 

She crossed her arms, hugging herself with them as she attempted to dismiss the way he practically sang ‘breathtaking beauty.’ “You got this whole thing planned out, don’t you?” 

“I’ve been preparing for a while now. I should have something to show for it.” He tugged at the briar rose he’d chosen for a boutonniere, a soft, cloud-filled pink, matching the crisp vest beneath his slick black suit.  

Trish herself puffed the same shade beside him. White lace fell from her left shoulder like ivy, growing onto the structured bodice of a barely knee-high silk dress, cut to shoot out from her waist, the fabric folding like an open book’s pages, creating oval openings for the blazing fushia underside to shine through. 

The dress was loud. Obnoxious. Begged for attention. 

And he’d picked it.  

Trish flattened out a silky crease. Only after putting on the thing did she see she was a matching briar rose, but flipped upside-down. 

She’d fucking loved it.  

The dress, she meant. A month ago, when Giorno had asked her if she wanted to attend a dinner party with him- and brandished the dress as a blatant bribe- she’d eagerly accepted. The split-second after, he’d looked worried, and when she asked, he explained it would be dangerous, and that she didn’t have to help if she didn’t want to. But he assured she would be safe and only in danger for as short a time as necessary and- 

She’d stopped him, “Do you need my help?”  

“...Yes.”  

“Then I’m going.”  

So, here they were. Just two guests, no extras, as Giorno had promised the host, on their way to the capo’s fancy mansion dinner party to steal information. 

As much as she griped about the part she had signed up to play, her limbs tingled with anticipation. She liked to think it was excitement, rather than fear, that jolted her nerves when Giorno pulled the car to a stop in the driveway, peach trees swaying in the evening breeze.  

He must have noticed it too, turning in his seat to address her, “Trish, it’s ok if you’re alittle nervous.”  

“I know. I know, I mean, I’m excited, if anything. It’s like a movie. Some cool spy movie or something.” She tried to bury her gaze in the mansion beside them. Her poker face was nowhere near as good as Giorno’s. “We should probably get going-” 

Click.  

It wouldn’t open. “Did you just... child-lock me in?”  

“Trish, I just want to talk for a second.” 

Reluctantly, she turned, knowing he was waiting for her to face him, and she sighed, “Yes?” 

“It’s ok to be nervous.” 

“I know that.” 

“It’s also ok to be scared.” 

“Giorno-” 

He shot a finger to heaven. “But it is never ok to think that there is no way out.”  

Abruptly, the heat seemed to stop working, and the car froze. Trish could only nod, the air laid too thick for her to answer. Seconds passed like that before- 

“Good.” And just like that, his word cut the chain loose, and the air broke, free to flow again. “I’m sorry, I know that you know all of that already, I just... wanted to reiterate it.” 

A smirk tickled her lips, “’Cause you’re nervous?”  

A matching one pulled at his, “Yeah, maybe.” 

The dinner went off without a hitch.  

Capo Fausto Faviloni himself greeted them at the door, welcoming them with a smile that sang with genuine gratitude and joy as though they were busy friends that had finally found the time to grace his humble home with their presence.  

Inside, beyond the luxurious furnishings, swam an impossibly nostalgic aroma that Trish couldn’t help but ask about. Faviloni, a shorter and stockier man, took time explaining it as a family recipe from his home in Sardegna, which, of course, earned an immense smile from Trish. Hitting it off with the capo himself had seemed a far-too ambitious goal just minutes earlier, as she had been hoping to chat up his wife more so, but this was a turn for the better.  

As she plunged into elated conversation on Sardegna with Faviloni, she caught Giorno’s eye, and he nodded, trust and pride exuding from him to her. She smiled. They could do this. 

Faviloni’s wife, Faye, was delicate, but nonetheless as warm and kind as her husband played to be. 

Right... the way he dropped a meatball on his lap and chuckled heartily with his wife’s snorting giggle like that was... 

Trish looked to Giorno at her side, smile fading, setting her wine glass down.  

Despite his face, his mask of an entertained guest, staying pleasant and polite, he caught on. And he understood, she knew that much by how the look rested on her, and his hand which- 

-rubbed on her ring finger. Giorno then glanced up, cutting his eyes across the table three times.  

She followed his signal, gaze coming to rest on the capo’s ring finger. Despite the stubbier digits, old with years of rolled gelatin underneath skin, she saw no indent on his finger to indicate a wedding band. No tan-line to indicate the summers the capo and wife just said they had spent abroad together. A glance to his side, and Trish saw the same lack of mark on Faye’s finger. 

Surely, if they were as happy, religious, and as carefree as their stories together claimed, at least Faye would risk a simple band being seen by the public, if not by guests who knew they were happily married. 

Neither wore wedding rings, or had evidence of ever wearing one. 

It was small, and maybe unfounded, but nonetheless it was a lie. An act. And it reminded her of the files Giorno had on them. 

Pictures flooded her memory of this smiling man selling girls and boys like they were the cattle he forced-fed in rotting stables. 

“Faviloni would never give up his business partners, even if we tried to ‘persuade’ him. And if we confront him to say we know, then his partners will clean house of any evidence or loose ends to the operation, and disappear entirely. We just need one of his ledgers. We’ll be able to piece together the locations and buyers from there.”  

Faviloni, finished with cleaning up the tomato sauce, gleefully announced dessert.  

Trish excused herself. Asked where the bathroom was.  

Faye smiled, ever so gently, with wrinkles prickling around her eyes in a way that reminded Trish of her own grandmother, the thought making her miss that old smell of hearty perfume and rosemary.  

“Down the west hall, it’ll be the second door down.” 

Trish thanked her, and sent Giorno a quick glance before leaving to get lost in the mansion. 

The office was the fourth door down. The light still on and door ajar, almost inviting her in. And, after a check behind her, she slipped into the room.  

She’d worn white silk gloves for more reasons than fashion. Her fingers slinked into drawer after drawer, between paper and book and file until she finally decided to kneel down, looking under the desk- 

There you are.  

She pulled the middle drawer out again, pushing papers and pens out of the way to press down on the fake back.  

A soft thud and up popped the back. There within lay a leatherbound booklet, worn and without dust.  

Trish retrieved it, let the pages fall open to see- 

Initials, shorthand, and prices, all pressed and exchanged between fine columns and rows. 

She’d found it. 

Relief settled between her shoulders one breath before she heard it. 

Click. The cock of a gun hammer. 

“Get up.” A woman’s voice. Cold as the metal in her hands. “Hands behind your head. Slowly.” 

“...Faye?” Trish puzzled out loud. But the voice was harsh. Nothing like before.  

“I said get up.”  

A moment passed before Trish obeyed. Rising. Shoulder blades watching her hostess. Her hands empty above her head. 

“Now face me.” 

She did. 

In the doorway, the capo’s wife stood as a bronze statue, the weight of the revolver nothing to her weathered joints, as though she’d been built to hold one, to fire one between Trish’s eyes. 

And she would. Trish could see it.  

“What the hell are you doing back here?” 

“I got lost.” She said it as a formality. 

“Not trying to find the bathroom. What were you looking for?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

“You little-” Faye took a step right as a huge CRASH shook the floor, the desk, the bookshelves. Volumes fell, a vase smashed, and Trish braced herself on the desk, Faye grabbing the doorway for support. 

Then there was a harsh yell. The back of Trish’s neck prickled with it. 

“Giorno-?!”  

POW  

Trish froze. The shot had just missed her eye. The flash still leftover in her vision.  

“I said. Don’t. Move.” 

Despite slouching against the doorframe, Faye held the gun steady, aim centered again between Trish’s eyes. The capo’s wife straightened up, inclining her head. “Next time it’s a new eyebrow piercing.” 

Trish gulped. Nodded once. A new throbbing told her she now had one cartilage piercing on her right ear instead of three. Though, she didn’t dare check. 

Spice Girl hummed under her goosebumps. Angrily. She barely kept her down, and could feel her writhing in anticipation.  

Wait. She told her. Not yet.  

She’d promised to be smart, clever, and hidden under the star-shaped sparkles she had peppered over her eyes.  

When she understood the situation, when she had a way out for them both, then the buzzing under her skin could stand beside her. Right now, a sheathed weapon was more dangerous than a known one.  

Footsteps like a stampede rounded the hallway corner, thudding closer. 

“She’s in here.” Faye called.  

The broad-shouldered suits flooded into the office.  

Before she could even count them, one yanked her arms behind her, secured a zip-tie, and shoved her down with a kick. Trish landed face-first on the wool rug, squirming to roll over, but a thick arm pinned her to the floor. 

“Wait- Let go of me!” 

Before she could break down and let the buzzing take shape, a sharp pang slid into her neck. Terror surged her as, almost immediately, her mind and limbs turned to lead. The hum over her skin dulled. 

Shit. Alright, that could be a setback.  

“Bring her.” 

Then she was up, hauled up onto someone’s shoulder, and carried out. 

The hallway flowed as an indefinite river of woven burgundy beneath her. She hoped Giorno was faring better than her on his end. 

Though, something told her that definitely wasn’t the case. 

Her wrists burned. She groaned. Squirmed. Spouted curses. Got told to stop. Got hit on the head. 

Got sat down. Back in a dinner chair. By then her focus was blurry. Waning and waxing and making the crystal chandelier above look like a million dancing stars.  

“Hey.” Fingers snapped in front of her. “She’s looking at me, right?” 

Someone muttered something beside her and the dark form in front of her shot up. 

“ Jesus , I told you to drug her after I explained ...!”  

The form moved away from her. Arguing with the someone. Something about... stand users? Oh, was she one too? Trish couldn’t remember. 

She wasn’t a threat anymore, apparently. They knew she didn’t have those standing power-things. Unlike the other. The other stuck in the chair across from her. 

The one with gold hair named- 

“...Gior...no?” 

Wait- he didn’t look right. She knew what a Giorno looked like and that didn’t look right... 

“H-Hey.” Trish called. The motion pitched her maybe alittle too far forward and she fell. Her cheek slapped against the wood floor, splashing sticky liquid everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere? Why everywhere? How could it be everywhere when it was just from one person? But there it was. One person’s red sticky liquid. Everywhere. 

“T...rish?” 

She managed to roll over. Above her, behind the gold curtain, pretty turquoise gemstones watched her. The white pools they laid in widened.  

She smiled. She wished she could touch them. Dip her fingers in to see how deep it took until she pricked her finger on the faceted stones. 

“Your ear is hurt.” The voice from within the curtains mumbled, “Here- just let me-”  

A shimmering gold arm slid out of his normal arm, moving towards her- 

POW  

He cried out, recoiling back as the sparkling arm had a hole punched through it. As the gold disappeared, he groaned and held his normal arm. She could’ve sworn she saw even more sticky red dripping down his fingers. Drip. Drop. Drip. Drippity... 

“Trish- Don’t worry- I'll- GAH!”  

She stifled a giggle. The sharp thing the suit-man used wasn’t nice but she knew Giorno would be just as floaty and free as she was in a minute, so she was happy for him.  

But... he didn’t look happy. 

Her mind twisted away from that carefree flying, and suddenly she was falling. Down down down. Wherever direction her mind went, it apparently went  very fast. And soon she found herself very sad.  

He was sad. Did she do that? He only got sad after he reached down to her and got poked through the arm. It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t tried to touch her, right? Wait- she knew that one. The story with spinning wheels that pricked pretty princesses and put them to sleep.  

Wait. Was she the spinning wheel? No, she wasn’t shaped like one. And she wanted to be the pretty princess, saved by the handsome prince riding in on the sunrise. A delicate flower to be plucked and protected and cherished. Like the flower on his suit. 

But...  

But then it was all bright golden spinny spinny spindles and thread. Everywhere. Stringy strings and beautiful colorful colors. And she couldn’t think anymore, only see. 

She watched it all snake around her as she lay, floating, weightless, not falling or flying anymore. 

Floating... Floaty... 

The stars above fizzled out like fireworks. 

The rest from there was just that. Fireworks. 

Sleep was a dark sky, only broken and lit intermittently, and at intervals Trish couldn’t control. But when the light appeared, it was with a harsh thundercrack.  

Each snap, each crack, each yell and cry from someone beside her that echoed heavily in her chest- it whipped her neck up to see where the noise had come from, and what bright sparks had shot out from it. But by the time she found the source, the light had gone out again. 

She didn’t float anymore. Now, she sank. Deeper and deeper into the dark sky, like an abyss.  

Only when the fireworks cracked closer, when the light from them illuminated the foreign trees and sharp grass far beneath her and the form beside her in the darkness, and she could see the golden hair plastered to his bloody face, did she remember. 

“No... Giorno... please... just- 

RUN  

---  

“Trish... Breathe...” 

Her lungs were tired. Her throat was hoarse from the forced air. In and out and in and out and- 

Trish didn’t realize her face was wet until her lips parted and she tasted salt. 

“I- y-you got hurt bad- really fucking bad and I could’ve done something before they fucking drugged me but I didn’t ‘cause- I- I- God I’m a stupid fucking- 

“Calm...” Giorno hushed. “It wasn’t your... fault.”  

Matted blonde hair pressed into her trembling face, fresh blood melding with the old from her ear. It took her too long to understand he was hugging her on the ground. Stiffly, like if he teetered to the right too much he’d fall. She had clutched fistfuls of blonde hair over his back, which she released upon the realization. The tension bleeding into her mumble, 

“And now... you’re going to die? It’s not fucking fair.” 

At first Giorno said nothing. She felt his shoulders tense as he pulled away from her, and she steadied him as he settled into a sitting position there.  

“I’m not... going to die.” 

“What? D’ y- you have a plan?” Trish wiped her face. Sniffing it back up. 

Giorno stilled, his face contorting into something that wasn’t quite a grimace but a- 

Smirk. He smirked at her.  

“You.” 

“What?” 

He pointed a bloody finger at her. “You’re the plan... Trish.” 

“I’m the...?” 

“Our only hope.” Giorno’s head dipped, and he tipped forward. “Our-” 

Trish caught him, grunting under the weight. “Ok... alright, yeah. Ok. Up we go.” After one last wipe of her nose, she propped herself onto one knee, pulled him up, and heaved him back onto the chair, the motion earning another bout of hacking from him. His eyelids fluttered open at the end of it, and he blinked and squinted like he could barely see. 

It pulled in her chest, sitting heavy like marble on her shoulders, enough to push her lungs down and away from her.  

At a young age, Trish came to know that wheezing, the strain that crept up the lungs of a body grasping at life. Her grandmama had it. Back then, she thought it was just an old age thing, until her younger uncle had it, battling the last stages of tuberculosis in his body.  

It sounds different in each throat, tinted with the hue of that person’s voice.  

Giorno’s sounded too young. Like it didn’t belong. 

It was a fucking stupid way to die. Trapped up in some clocktower. Being killed slowly from the inside by some fucking coward sipping tea at home. 

Giorno didn’t deserve that. 

Trish stood. Her head throbbed, stomach broiled, all as pink nails dug into her palms.  

Her eyes slid to the walkie talkie. 

If they were doing this, they were doing it her way. 

--- 

Chapter Text

---

Marco scratched his chin, it felt like his stubble had already grown twice its length, now that it was dawn.

On the other corner of the clocktower leaned Aldo, the skinny bastard. The prick sent a smirk, making sure to take his time brandishing the pack of Marlboros he stole from him an hour earlier, pulling on out for a smoke.

They’d been standing watch since midnight. Next shift would be coming soon. Probably not the new recruits. Apparently, Faviloni had pulled them for some kind of important errand in Rome, sent them off last night.

Marco huffed, a grin finding its way onto his face. Last night. Even by his standards, it’d been brutal. But he enjoyed the creativity that went into it. How many knives could a body hold point-up, the handles wedged in fresh slices of flesh? How much water did they have to pour over a hooked body to rip the shoulder’s sinew? The newbies certainly had interesting ways of rough-housing up the wannabe Boss.

Turning, he glanced up, the clocktower spearing the waking sky as a quiet giant.

Those two had been awful silent. Faviloni said they’d be awake by about dawn.

“Should we wake ‘em up ourselves?”

Aldo was closer now, leaning on the other side of the door. Evidently unsatisfied with annoying Marco from as far as the corner.

“Nah, they’ve had a night. The little shits’ll be calling sooner or later anyways.” He patted the walkie-talkie strapped to his belt. “Should be before the next shift.”

“God, I fucking hope so.” Aldo blew a breath as high as he could, as though it could reach them. “I wanted to give the little lady a proper hello, since Fav kept us from her last night.”

“Yeah, once she coughs the information outta that brat, he said she’d be fair game.”

“Oho, and a fair game she’d be. You see under that skirt? Fuck, man I-”

“Hello...? Is this thing on?”

Static hissed from Marco’s waist, and he grinned, wrenching the thing up to his mouth. “Ready to talk?”

Silence stretched for a moment. Then-

“I’m ready to talk if you’re ready to listen. Though, I’m pretty sure Favolini said he wanted to hear the information himself.”

“We’re calling him now, so he’ll hear you on our end.”

Aldo was dialing.

“He’s not here?”

“No.”

“Too scared to be around his Boss a second longer?”

“No. Just too comfortable elsewhere.” Marco leaned against the brickwork. “You think he’s actually afraid of skinny little shit kids like you?”

Then the bricks behind him moved. Warped. Swung out like someone’s arm and looped around his throat, yanking him back against the old brick that now pressed around him like he was sinking into a giant bowl of pudding.

A voice hissed impossibly through the melting wall,

“He should be afraid.”

Then the brick melted, revealing a bright plume of pink hair, soft as hell nose and cheeks, along with the chick’s fucking bright blue eyes that Aldo didn’t remember as glinting with hellfire like that.

Those were the eyes that darted to him, that shot an ice through his veins worse than Narcan.

His gun was up, he knew he yanked it up, he could at least do that. “Back off or I-I'll fucking shoot!”

Marco struggled, the scary-ass brick-wall arm strangling the fight out of him second by second, eyes too busy straining to beg for help.

Despite his threat, despite his Walther CCP pointed at her fucking forehead, arctic blue eyes met the barrel, promising something colder than steel.

He fired. Twice.

He was a good shot. Each hit their mark.

-and glanced off. Not even how a ricochet should work. More like if the bullets were just mesh fucking earplugs colored silver.

“What the hell?!”

Then she was gone. And Marco got released, the wall sucking itself back in like a gut, solidifying. He fell forward and grasped at his throat, finally able to force air through.

Before he was even steady, Marco looked up frantically, rasping, “Where- Where the fuck she’d go?!”

That’s when the whole fucking wall attacked him.

An even bigger section of the wall snapped off, like chocolate breaking, and flew towards Marco.

Before either could so much as flinch, the wall slammed into him, turning into puddy again, and melded to wrap around him. Effectively rolling him into a Marco rug.

Aldo himself stood fucking frozen as the other mobster disappeared into the wall-roll, hitting the ground with a hard thump.

Afterwards, it was quiet. He thought he could hear his heartbeat rattle in the handle of the gun.

A heel clacked to his three o’clock, and he spun. Fired-

She caught it. The gun. The 9mm bullet still in the barrel. Right in front of his fucking face.

The gun hammer had to be puddy, ‘cause he never heard the strike. Never saw the flash.

He only saw the pink blur as she yanked the gun from his clammy grip. A hard punch slammed his nose in, pitched his balance back, and he hit the ground hard on his ass.

Throbbing blood seeped into his throat and mouth as he glanced up, watched her clean the chamber and check the cartridge.

Carefully curved brows pinched in thought. Then she shut the chamber with a sharp metallic slap and aimed down.

It fired. Thwacked a bullet against the fucking road.

Satisfied, she took a step towards him, racked the slide again, and pointed it between his eyes.

He shook. He fucking shook and he couldn’t help but shake underneath this pink chick’s freakishly steel face.

That piercing gaze glossed over him, a thin layer of acknowledgement before she spoke,

“Where’s Faviloni?”

---

Hauling Giorno downstairs was way more exhausting than she’d anticipated.

After waking him from his short nap, Trish realized real quick that he was in no state to walk. So, Spice Girl shared the weight on his right, while she propped up his left side. They’d basically carried him down the long flight of stairs, and now, with the front door in sight, Trish sighed relief with, “Almost there.”

“Mmmmmh.” As they got closer, Giorno seemed to perk up, brows knitting in confusion as he mumbled, “Where’s-?”

“Took care of them. They weren’t even stand users. Or if they were, they were newborns, or just complete idiots.”

She’d left the door open. Well, busted open. The hinges lay shattered beside the warped doors.

As they passed through, she watched Giorno stare at some of the missing wall bricks stretched and curled around still human-like shapes. Pieces of a phone littered beside them.

“Nice job with... that.”

Trish tripped some, resettling him up higher as they rounded the corner, “Thanks. Yeah, you should’ve seen the looks on their faces. Being rolled into a burrito never looked so terrifying.”

“I hope you got what you... needed from them before... turning them into burritos.”

Apparently, he’d gotten used to the rhythm of hitching breaths and shoving words in between.

She answered, “The taller one was really talkative. I know the Faviloni’s are at home, and-” They rounded one last corner, “where the two bastards parked their car.”

“...Fresh off the lot, apparently.”

Trish gaped, “Holy shit, is that a Lambo?!”

Across the street, dawn’s orange glinted off of the panini-pressed box body of a crimson Lamborghini.

“Diablo.”

“What?”

“It’s a Diablo model... With a rear wing... Too flashy in my opinion.”

Trish huffed a laugh, pushing them on. “Oh, and your car isn’t?”

“...Alfa Romeos aren’t flashy.” Giorno muttered, almost to himself.

Good, if he could still joke like that, they were in good shape. She didn’t even want to check what time it was; she knew their little break-out had eaten up more of Giorno’s hour than she would’ve liked. At least Milan’s morning traffic hadn’t fully kicked in, she hoped.

With Spice Girl’s help, she lowered Giorno into the passenger seat, buckling him in like a child. His eyes blinking how they were, he definitely wasn’t driving, even if they did need to get there fast.

Right, so, Trish had to drive. And she had to drive fast.

The red racer glove on the stick-shift watched her. Waiting.

Giorno coughed out, voicing her thought, “Wait- It’s stick-!”

“I know! I can see that!”

“But-” a cough “-you don’t know stick!”

She batted at his weak hand fumbling to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Stop that! You're not driving. Really it's fine Giorno- it's fine.” She grabbed the red shifter, other hand wrapping around the wheel. “Fugo taught me last summer.”

“Yeah- How to start- And then you crashed into the side of the-” Giorno dissolved into a fit, covering his mouth with a hand. When it subsided, she saw blackened blood drip from his palm.

“Well, thing is, we don’t have time to argue.” She thrust the keys in, yanking them to the right. “And I’d say I remember a little more than that.”

Silence.

The car didn’t start.

“Ummm.”

Giorno rubbed his eyes, anxiety clawing up his voice with the rasp, “Put it in neutral.”

“Right, right. I remember that one.” Some pulling and the shifter landed beside the N.

“...”

“Clutch and break.”

“Mhmm. Yep. I’m doing that.”

“At the same time Trish-!”

“OH! OH! OK! I GOT IT NOW!”

With that final yank of the keys, the dash lit up, and the engine roared to life.

“Good. Good. Now, slowly... gently-”

“Release the clutch and gas it, I remember.”

“Yeah but gently-!”

The car lurched forward once, before Trish eased on the gas, swearing under her breath as she steered the thing out of the parking spot, and onto the road.

“Ok, main road... Should be that way... Turn right by the bank on the corner.”

After a few too many right turns, they slowed to a stop at a larger intersection. Several roads met around an oasis of green bush and grass. Business owners were beginning to set up shop for the day, and the buildings began humming with the bees of everyday life.

On the corner was the bank.

“A right here?”

Giorno didn’t answer. The seconds of stillness burned on her feet against the pedals.

“Giorno?”

She jerked to see him swiveled in his chair, straining to see behind them, muttering, “You... you took care of the guards before they could... call anyone, right?”

“What are you-?”

The car slammed forward. Metal behind them crumpled. The lurch threw them both against the dash.

Trish barely caught herself enough to keep from slamming her nose into the steering wheel. “What the fuck wasthat?!”

“Porsche 9/11. Time to go!”

She spun in her seat to see a black car behind them, tint barely showing two new faces, one sliding out of the car and stomping over. “Oh God-”

“Drive, Trish- Now!”

“Right! Right!” Her foot slammed on the gas-

-and the whole car shut off.

“Wh-What happened?!”

“You stalled it!”

“I- What?!”

Glass shattered and a thick hand slammed on her throat. “AGH-!”

“MUDA!”

A gold blur and thwack, and the hand was gone, a harsh cry following the man as he crashed against the road, leaving Gold Experience’s arm in front of her face.

It was rotting.

Trish couldn’t stop the rasping cough that rocked her, her head pounding and throat burning from the sudden force the man had put on it. But she did manage to look over.

The dark goop dripped onto the console. The whole golden form was coated with a kind of black ooze that seeped from invisible pores. The sliced violet eyes watched her, bleeding the dark molasses.

“G... God. Giorno?”

He shook. Hands clutched the seat, whitened from strain. Sweat gathered on his brow. Then he gasped, and Gold Experience dissipated.

Trish barely caught him as he fell forward. With a grunt, she shoved him back up against the seat.

He was warm. She felt his forehead. Too warm. Like a furnace, he boiled the air around him. Sweat beaded across his brow, crunched in pain.

Knots tangled her chest. “Hang on for me, ok Giorno?”

He grunted, titled his head enough to be a nod.

Good enough. Trish turned back to her broken window.

The one who had grabbed her rolled over on the asphalt, sluggishly. A red Fiat Punto wailed as it barely skidded to a stop in front of the man. The other just popped out of the Porsche behind them.

Right. Time to go.

Clutch and break. Then-

The engine roared back to life and they took off.

Trish threw it into first, second, almost third gear before swerving to miss some crossing old guy and his dog.

Clutch. Third gear. Gas. She shot a glance behind her.

The black Porsche didn’t swerve to miss the old man. Despite the speed-bump, it tailed her all the same, if not closer now.

Trish tore her attention back to the road. Nearly T-boned a moped in the roundabout. Nicked the curb as she turned off. She was fine. They were making it. She could do this. Clutch. Fourth gear. Gas. Clutch. Now fifth gear. The red RPM needle hummed up and around the numbers on the dash.

The road opened up, buildings scattering further apart for more greenery to bleed through. Sport fields passed on the right before trees huddled in to hug the road, providing a tunnel of foliage.

Two lanes. One oncoming. A larger truck chugged in front of her, sandwiching the Lambo between it and the Porsche as said black ride pushed up on her crumpled bumper.

A glance around the truck saw the glint of an oncoming white car.

Giorno caught on, worry climbing in his voice, “Trish-?”

“Fuck it.”

She punched the gas, and roared up beside the truck.

The Porsche followed on instinct, as she'd hoped, blind until it was too late.

The white car’s horn blared and Trish swerved in front of the truck.

Tires screeched as the Porsche braked, smoke sheering from the tires as it attempted to get back behind the truck in the split-second before metal and glass smashed together.

The Porsche missed the gap, hitting the back side of the truck while the white car slammed into the driver’s side.

Black paint smeared the back of the truck and the front of the white car as the three cars spun to a stop.

Trish noted the Porsche 9/11 saddled against a tree trunk, crumpled like aluminum foil, before she adjusted her rear-view mirror, sighing relief, “That takes care of that.”

A hiss sounded beside her as Giorno resettled in his bucket seat. “You drive... like a maniac.”

She couldn’t stop the humored noise that escaped her. “I drive like a maniac? Yeah, ok.”

“It takes one to know one.”

She grinned. Glanced over to see his smirk wane. He slumped against the back, clutching his side.

Her own smile faded. Returning to the road, she muttered, mostly to herself, “Almost there, Gio. We’re almost there.”

The trees parted, opening the horizon for her to see a massive roundabout coming up. “Oh, hey. We are almost there. I remember this place. We went right up here.”

“No... Go straight.”

“But- We went right last time?”

“Straight is faster.”

She considered it. And when she meant ‘considered it’, she meant she glanced over and saw and hated how Giorno winced at even the smallest bounces in the car and-

“We’re going right. I’m driving, it’s how we got there last time, and I’m pretty sure I can get us there faster by going that way ‘cause I know the road.”

Giorno sighed. “Last time, we stopped at the store for lipstick you lost... so it was out of our way... Stay. Straight.”

The split was coming up. Ignoring him, she slowed to veer off to the right.

“Trish-!”

“I know what I’m doing!”

“No- I mean just-!”

“I’m going right!”

Giorno huffed and shot a hand out to grab the wheel, “Then commit-” He yanked right, “and punch it!”

She shoved away her confusion and floored it, barely grazing the car in front of them as they veered off-

-right as glass smashed behind them.

Trish swiveled to look.

A red Fiat Punto settled from the inertia, mashed into the car that had been ahead of them a second before. The man that Gold Experience had punched out of the car minutes ago now slumped on the red hood, pieces of the windshield twinkled around him.

“That asshole came back?!”

“Must’ve stolen the car- Trish, watch the road!”

“Right! Right.”

Clutch. Fifth gear. Gas. And they were gone.

---

Five minutes later, and the Lamborghini Diablo was winding its way up the Favilonis’ driveway.

Peach trees lined the cobble road. The blooms were just beginning to sprout, soon to be a marvelous blanket of pink clouds against the warm sky. She made a mental note to get outside when they did bloom. Definitely something to drag Giorno out of the house for. He’d fight against leaving the office, but it’d be really just for show. The sparkle in his eyes at the mention of seeing the pink blossoms would betray any display he put on about work or responsibility.

Trish glanced over, the teasing remark on her tongue, before she stopped. The inertia of it vanished, and she gulped the words down, faced forward.

Her knuckles clenched white on the wheel.

First, she had to get him home alive.

Gravel crackled under rubber as she slowed to park in front of the mansion. Same spot they had been in last night.

After a quick survey around to see no signs of life, Trish turned to him. “Hey. Giorno.”

He looked bad. Really fucking bad. Laying into the bucket seat heavily, somewhat on his side, his shaking arms twisted around his gut and he curled up like a hurt insect. His hair fell in clumps of red and gold ribbons down his shoulders and face, only partially obscuring the weakening grimace that came with each shallow breath. He was shaking, horribly, a minute ago. But not anymore. Now he was still.

So very still.

The only movement was the hitching rise and fall that could be called breathing only in name. When she brushed hair away from his face, his lips lay flushed a sickly blue, parting his skin’s paint that stretched too thin on the white canvas.

She didn’t want to think about how long it had been since they woke up in the clocktower and read the note. She didn’t know. She didn’t need to. She needed to go. Now.

“Hey.” Trish shook his shoulder. “Giorno. Just- could you... make a noise if you hear me... Please?”

Faintly, she heard him groan.

“Alright, I called Mista using one of the thug’s phones back at the tower, and by now, he should be about ten minutes away. Hopefully less. But... I am gonna need you to wait here, ok? I’ll- I’ll be right back, m’kay?” The last word she gulped.

Another groan, this time louder.

“Ok. I’ll... be back.” She nodded, maybe too much, forcing herself to start opening the door.

Trish stopped. A frail grip had wrapped around her forearm. She looked back.

Somehow, Giorno had rolled over, grabbed her arm, but he wasn’t looking at her.

That wheezing breath broke apart into short rasps, “Be careful.”

She tried to smile. “I will. T-Thanks.”

But he didn’t let go yet. “D-don’t be... reckless.”

“I won’t.”

“I know... I know but...”

Giorno looked at her but past her, like he knew she was there, but only from memory.

“...Hey.” She tried. “It’s ok to be nervous. O-Or scared. Remember?”

She desperately wanted what he did then to be a smile or a smirk. But it looked too pained to be that.

Though, he did let her go, and managed, “Sorry... just wanted to... reiterate.”

It stung in her eyes, but she smiled, making sure she played her part right, “Because you’re nervous?”

Giorno looked at her then. And she knew he was doing his best to smile, “No... It’s because I’m scared, Trish.”

She watched his eyes squint, prickling with water.

And when she filled her chest with air then, it shook.

She knew if she stayed a second longer, she would never leave. So, she compressed the breath, threw a spark in her lungs like a combustion engine, and pushed on.

Trish shoved the door open behind her, still watching him, laying her palm to his clammy temple a last time.

“You’re going to be ok. This is the way out. I promise.”

She heard his breath hitch when she laid her lips to his forehead, placing a soft kiss there before sliding away.

The car door shut. Trish didn’t stay long enough to see the hitch that loosed saltwater down his cheek.

Outside, the mansion loomed above her. Early morning pressed light over barrel tiles and stark white pillars. Still no sight of life. Though, that piece of shit was definitely in there. Cowering.

Trish blew a curl out of her eye, only now realizing she shook. But not from fear. No, fear didn’t hum in her bones like this.

She took a step, heels clacking against the marble stair.

If this wasn’t the way out, she’d fucking pave it herself.

———

Chapter Text

It wasn’t the same house.  

Trish figured the place would be a wreck from last night but...  

Something crunched under her heel. The pink ribbon of the shoe glittered as she moved it, revealing pieces of a porcelain vase, the roses and water now soaking into the runner rug disheveled beside it.   

The whole foyer bled like that, coated and crusted with piles of books and broken glass. Some messes seemed more happenstance, some more orderly, all half-acknowledged, all half-cleaned.  

But no suits. No thugs. Not yet at least.  

Another crunch beneath her shoe and she considered removing her high heels, for the sake of stealth. It passed.   

If anyone dared to cross her, she wouldn’t be the one regretting it.  

Rounding a corner, she froze in the dining room. The sight of the thick oak tree stuck her there. Its limbs shoved through the ceiling while roots thrust through the floor, upheaving the foundation, easily.  

Dinner plates and wine stained the rug under the flipped table and chairs.   

Except for one. One chair remained upright. Fuzzy as it was, she remembered him in it. Crimson seeping from his head.   

If she looked hard enough, she could almost tell the difference between wine stains and-  

Trish pushed on. Heels crushed glass and porcelain. She wished it was skull and bone.  

Even without hearing the muffled ups and downs of the stressed voices, she figured they would be in the office.  

Fourth door down the hall.   

This time, the door lay shut. She pressed her back against it, forcing herself to still and listen, just to be absolutely sure it was husband and wife.  

Muffled arguing punched through the carved wood.   

“That’s great. I’m glad you feel that way, Faye. Now, do you want to actually fucking help me find the damn thing?”  

A loud thump. Like a book slamming down. “I’ve been at your side for seventeen years of this shitshow! Don't you think I deserve some damn respect?!”   

“For what, exactly?”  

“Keeping your sorry ass alive, for one! If I hadn’t killed Antonio, if I hadn’t persuaded the Bernardi Brothers into letting us live by trafficking their shit for them- and after your fuck up?- you would be rotten bones at the bottom of the Navigli right now!”  

“I was trying to get out! And there you were, digging us deeper!”  

“You don’t just get out of this trade, Fausto.”  

“What was I supposed to do, then?!”  

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe don’t squirm under Passione’s thumb enough to warrant their fucking Don showing up for dinner on our doorstep with some fushia cockapoo in tow?!”  

Wood snapped and tore the door’s hinges from their places, the door slamming hard into the wall beside it. Trish strolled in, Spice Girl screaming under her skin.  

Trish smirked, darkly. “Good fucking morning, you pieces of shit.”   

A gun raised, clicked, and Faviloni fired three shots.  

Three bullets splintered into the wood wall behind Trish, each missing her flesh by a shallow breath.   

“You idiot!” Faye hissed and snatched the revolver. “We don’t even know for sure if she’s a user!”  

“But last night-”  

“Shut up! You could’ve killed us- get behind me, now.”   

Faviloni shook, anger and frustration and humiliation flushing through him before he managed a step back.   

Cold eyes trained back on Trish, the long steel barrel once again trained on her curling bangs.   

“Get the fuck out of our house.”  

“Not until you release your stand’s hold on him.”  

Obnoxiously fake realization tilted the greying woman’s head back. “Ah... So, you’re not here for us. You’re here for him?”  

“Release him. Now.”  

“My dear,” She smiled, like to a sweet stupid little child, “I think there’s a bit of a misunderstanding. Now, I’m sure you think you know what you’re doing. And I applaud your confidence. But I’m told that my husband’s power is a close-range one, and couldn’t be what’s holding the Don captive.” Faye tilted her pouting lips down. “Or did your precious boyfriend not think you smart enough to share that information with you?”   

Trish inclined her head forward, bangs brushing shadow into her eyes. “Last warning. Let go of him, Faye. Or else.”  

The woman held down a chuckle, making more of a spitting noise, “ Me?! You think I’m the-?”  

“I don’t have time for your shit.” Trish spoke evenly. “And actually, neither do you. Seeing as how you’re already dead.”  

The beginnings of a laugh sprang from Faye, before it caught in her eyes like a leash yanked it, and the grin dropped, her eyes widening, “What-?!”  

Wood creaked and snapped as a slingshot, hurling back out the two bullets from behind Trish.   

A shot sank into Faviloni’s shoulder, spinning him to send a shocked look to Faye, before the second bullet pierced his skull. His limp body crashed against the bookshelf beside and the ground below.  

Before Faye could take another shaking breath, she fired the last three shots from her revolver.   

Trish grinned.   

Spice Girl materialized, barred pupils glinting as she glanced the shots off her arms like nothing.   

Terror erupted from Faye, wide eyes trained on the metallic being, “You’re a-!”  

THUNK  

A scarlet geyser sprouted from the fresh hole in Faye’s throat.  

Trish hummed. “See, you talk too much.”  

Thanks to Spice Girl, the sticky bubblegum consistency of the wood wall had hardened just enough to unstick it from the opposing hallway wall, slinging the last bullet out, and lodging it deep in the older woman’s throat. The bullet now buried in the wrinkled old age that would’ve taken too long to kill such a woman.  

The smoking metal barrel clunked to the floor. Faye scrambled for purchase against the desk before her arms did fail her, and she collapsed, hitting and sliding down the desk, only to slump on her side against it. Her wheezes rasped air in and out, gargling and pushing blood out on the way.  

“Now,” Trish lowered to squat beside her, short silk dress puffing as a sunset-pink cloud above her knees, contrasting the dark river pooling on the marble under her heels. “There’s a simple way of doing this, and a hard way. Both end in your flesh going cold.”   

Spice Girl picked up the revolver, passed it to Trish, all while glaring daggers at the woman.   

Faye stared back, her anguish swimming beside astonishment. “H-how’d you...?”   

Trish smirked, enjoying the weight of the empty gun in her hands. “You’re a really fucking good shot, Mrs. Faviloni. You don’t miss.”  

Blood guzzled in a particularly bad breath, and the woman hacked the next one before stilling, eyes glazing over, yet still watching Trish.  

“In your dining room. Last night. You missed Giorno’s arm. Meaning-” Trish leaned in, grabbed the woman’s hair, and tilted her head back to look her square in the eye. “You chose not to shoot him. Instead, you hit his stand’s arm. And with a precision that someone blind to stands would never be able to pull off.” She let go of Faye’s hair, dropping her head back into the crimson pool. “From there, it wasn’t hard to guess who’s stand was tearing Giorno apart from the inside. Especially when the thugs you assigned to guard us didn't have stands. You were understaffed. Afraid. So, you wanted the arrow to make stand users of your own, for protection or whatever power-hungry shit, and if not with Giorno’s help, then he could be used just as a means to an end with a long-range stand like yours.”   

Faye was blinking, lazily, wheezing gurgling less and less.   

“It would’ve worked too. Maybe. But you wanna know how you got here? Sprawled in blood on your fancy-ass floor like dying roadkill?”  

The older brows pinched as though she still had strength to talk back. Though, she only could glare.  

Trish got close, enough to hiss in the old wrinkled hag’s face, “You don’t fuck with Giorno’s family.”  

Then she rose. Towered over the dying coward below her. “Oh, and when you get to hell,” Trish gestured with the gun conversationally, “If you see a tall motherfucker with speckled pink hair, tell that devil I said hi. He’ll know why.”  

Faye’s brows furrowed a second before Spice Girl split them.   

---  

A ray of hope there still may be in this, the gift I give to thee.  

From this slumber you shall wake, when-  

Trish found them outside, in the front. Up until now, her limbs had pulsed with adrenaline, but as she shoved through the doorway towards the car, they chilled and shook with the residue.  

The white Mercedes sat parked behind the Lambo. Car door wide open, engine still humming in anticipation, as though the driver would return soon, his usual passenger slipping into the seat behind him.   

Though, just based on how Mista’s shoulders shook at the very bottom of the stairs, Trish knew that wouldn’t be the case, not this time.  

“Mista!”  

He started, muscles petrifying themselves in place, as she pounded down the marble.   

A misstep nearly sent her sliding down the last few as Trish spouted, “How’s-?!”  

Mista’s upper half swiveled to her and she froze. She didn’t want to look, but the form in his arms was something she saw because she had to. Because Mista held him like that. Sunlit head on his arm, body draped across his lap like a Madonna and Child marble fucking statue. Complete with skin as still and white as chiseled stone. Glossy only on the drying saltwater-stained cheeks.   

It ebbed her remaining adrenaline until it was just a small trickle, barely the rush it was a minute ago, when a gun’s flash nearly blinded her. Now, a horrible voice in her head wished it had.  

Trish slumped to her knees beside them. Her brain churning itself into mush. Words catching and dying on lips that moved without direction. Without purpose.  

So, Mista answered her first question. She didn’t see his face, but she heard the leftover crackle in his voice, “He was um... he was still talking about two minutes ago. Well,” He sniffed it back up, broil now entering his tone, “if you call croaking and creaking like a door talking.” He turned to her then, fire reaching his eyes, “What the fuck is happening Trish?! What’d you do in there?! He’s coming back- isn't he?!”  

The concept of coming back meant he was gone. That he was gone and what she did didn’t work. But that wasn’t a fucking option right now. Not for her, and definitely not for Mista, so she swallowed it down and stammered out, “I- I don't- I don’t know... Really- I fucking don’t! I did everything right! S-So I mean yeah he should wake up and heal himself in just a minute if we could just wait -”  

“I’ve been waiting, Trish! Two minutes is a shit-ton of time to sit with him while he’s this fucking freezing!”  

“Wh- He’s cold?”  

“Yeah. A frozen-ass block of ice.”  

“He... But he can’t be- He was...” - feverish just minutes before.  

She was pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. Pale marble pressed a chill into her skin, her palm, her fingertips. She pursed her lips, stifling its tremble, and resettled to sit closer. Wordlessly, Mista understood and passed their friend off to her, helping situate his head in her arm and shoulders in her lap.   

He was heavy. And for a second, Trish was back. In Rome. Where she’d seen it before. The weight of this same body without a mind. The ghost of another soul crying out with her own voice thrummed in her throat. Back then, this body had gasped with his soul again. Back then, it had only been a moment before he jolted and-  

She felt his forehead again, stupidly, even though she already knew he was cold, but the way the skin moved without the muscle contracting underneath... something horribly frantic stirred within her at it. Soon it was pushing her to almost tangle her combing fingers in his hair before she finally forced herself to breathe and calm and to just lay two fingers on the side of his neck to see if-  

Nothing. His pulse was still. Quiet.  

Trish swore under her breath, muttering it over and over again and digging into her scalp with her nails until Mista got up to pace.   

When he spun back, Mista spoke low, weight sinking the words, “You killed them, right?”  

“Yes.” She gulped. “I-”  

“And you’re absolutely fucking sure the user is dead?”  

Trish made sure to look him in the eye, she at least owed him that. “Yes. I did everything I could.”  

“You’re sure-?!”  

“Yes Mista! Every fucking thing I could’ve done? I did! I definitely did so I'm as fucking confused as you are right now!” Her bottom lip trembled, shook with her chin and she snapped her teeth over it with a hiss.   

Muscle coiled as Mista turned, reared, and kicked the side of the Lambo. Hard enough to dent. “Fuck!”   

When Mista shot his glare back to her, shoulders hiked up as springs that seemed like they would only break, he snagged, and something actually loosened. Tension ebbed and he ducked his head, looking sheepish of all things. “I... I’ll call the others.”  

“Y-You don’t have to if... I can if you’d rather-”  

“No. I’ll do it. We need to get him out of here soon either way.” The gunman gestured back inside the sarcophagus of a house. “You took care of everyone?”  

“Everyone I ran into.”  

A nod and Mista turned, pulling out his phone. All the movements mechanical, like a well-oiled machine continuing on, despite any bumps in the road. The damage from those could be fixed later. “I’ll call Bucciarati and check the perimeter. Then we’ll take my car and meet them as soon as we can and...”   

Trish heard the phone buttons stop dialing. Though, she didn’t look up, not even as she heard her friend’s steps stop beside her.   

After his golden head had tilted inward, towards her, hiding most of the red, she’d found a free ruffle of shorter hair to pull her fingers through. The action calming, so much so that she allowed herself the daydream that they were somewhere else. That his eyes were only closed in sleep, his lips fallen open like that just for long, peaceful breaths of long-needed rest. The purple perched on the bow of his lip didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was just a smear of fruit or-  

A hand landed on her shoulder, gentle in the way Mista could manage. “I'll circle the house. Be ready to leave when I come back.”  

Not daring to unclench her bottom lip, Trish nodded, hummed.   

She watched Mista’s hand enter her vision, reaching out towards gold that was never supposed to tarnish with rust like that.  

Then the gunman’s hand clenched, retracted, and he rose. A second later and cobble dirt crunched under his boot, the phone dialing as he paced away.   

Then it was quiet. Horribly fucking quiet. And she found herself trying to fill it, despite her face flush with surface tension about ready to spill over.  

“He’ll be fine. Mista always bounces back, you know him... I’ve always envied that.” But now she was talking to blind eyes under tight lids, still lips and numb ears. “Sorry, I just... nothing makes sense. Even though... I did everything right... so why...?”  

She sniffed it back up. “It’s not fair. It’s really not. And- y-you understand that, right? I- I found the user... made sure I killed... ” And just like that, she broke down, shoulders like anchors on a sinking ship, now without that piercing motor in her skull that pushed her on, that pushed her to...  

“I killed them both.” Trish sputtered through her palm and fingers, tears streaking onto them. “And I’ve never...” She sniffed hard, delirium tugging a grin on her. “I... I always kind of knew, actually, that if I ever killed anyone, it would be for you.” Her lungs hitched. “Isn’t that shit horrible? Aren’t friends supposed to keep friends from committing stuff like murder?!” She couldn’t tell whether her shoulders bounced from laughing or sobbing.  

“What kind of friend are you?” She hissed, a breathless plea before her voice rose back up like nausea, burning in her throat, “What kind of friend are you that you could do this to us?! The stand is gone but you’re still lying here like... and I...” She yanked a curl back from her face, unsticking it from wet cheeks flushed with fresh blood. “I told you that I- and- why did you have to leave when you knew I was coming right fucking back?”  

His lips remained parted, unmoving. Bleeding that horrible violet underneath, clouding the once bright petals perched on his stone mask.   

It reminded her of how, before this mess, she would study him. Excitement at the escape from boredom- or whatever else she could call it- would flutter in her chest at the chance. He’d be so engrossed in some report or another at his desk with Bucciarati, and the older would point to something troublesome, enough to crease the blond brows. Then his lips would part, pull in the bottom lip, and work at the corner with unseen teeth. He’d knead it in a soft and slow motion, but a worried one nonetheless. Enough that she felt relief when he finally would ease up, releasing his hostage at Bucciarati’s calming tone. Over time, the habit produced a small fissure down his bottom lip.   

Now, the little slice in soft skin stared back. Closer than before. Had she ever been this close? Enough to see the peppering of light freckles dashed across his nose? She didn’t think so. He had looked much different from far away. Broader, sharper. A force of nature that controlled any room he blew into.  

But now, in her arms, he looked small.   

Limbs strown limp and loose, face oddly relaxed and even peaceful. No masks. No expectations. No weight weighing on those sunken-in eyes.   

He looked almost... free.   

And that burned her selfish tears that much deeper into her skin, her trembling lips, her throat, like a searing brand.   

But, no. That was wrong. “No... Didn’t- Didn’t you want to stay?” Her voice teetered above shaking breaths as she brushed more of the bloodied blond away. She was close, and she found her forehead resting on his. “Didn’t you want to stay here with us... with-?” At that, it all bubbled up, scrunching her brows taught over his loose ones. “Because I tried. Really. ” Trish pursed her lips, barely breathing words over them. “At least... could you open your eyes, so you can at least see that I’m sorry?”  

She watched tears fall onto his closed eyelids, and wanted to scream. Wanted to bash something. But instead, she melted.   

Her eyes squeezed shut, bleeding water, as she desperately tried to return to that dream. That he was asleep. That he would wake. That he would grace her with some snarky remark or tease of a smile.   

Vaguely, she felt the cloud’s touch of his lips as she mumbled her tears into them, “I’m sorry.” Over and over, as she brushed his cupid’s bow with her own, “I’m so sorry, Giorno.”   

The dream could’ve been a lush meadow, never a living thing taller than them, spotted with wildflowers and colorful weeds, rolling with breezes they could never care or hope to catch. Or they could have been in a tree clearing, a hushing creek tracing along their path there, moss hugging and coloring the ancient trunks, the winding branches steepling above them, intertwining roots and supports built to be the church the wildlife sang hymns in.  

It could’ve been home, on the checkered floor of the kitchen for Christ’s sake. And maybe it was. Trish found herself lost in the dream, wherever it was, stuck mumbling about meadows and sunflowers into his still flesh as the lullaby she wished it was.  

Only in the dream now, she could wrap an arm behind his back and a palm behind his neck. His lips wouldn't be cold and still, but warm. Kind. Gentle. As she felt fingers push into her hair, a soft touch also rested on her back, his thumb pressing on her bare shoulder blades.  

It took her too long to realize she was suffocating him.   

“Tr...ish.” muffled into her lips.   

She froze. Her eyes shot wide open and she yanked back. “Giorno!?”  

After a gasp for air and a few weak coughs, he settled. His gaze was half-lidded and barely focused, but he was there. He was there and she knew it by his head tilting to follow her and his lips melting upward at her own manic grin.   

“You’re alive!” She touched his forehead, his cheeks, his neck. Warmer, with a faint pulse. “How- But- God, y-you’re actually ok!?”  

“Course.” He grunted.   

All the air in her lungs shoved out at once, too fast and she sucked in another breath as she spilled, “Thank God you’re fucking back I- I really didn’t know what I was going to do if- if- I- oh!” Trish bent to snatch him up in a tight hug, squeezing his shoulders and chest until he gasped and hacked.  

He asked, weakly. “Gently.”   

Deaf to everything but her own mind racing, Trish pulled back and mashed a firm kiss on his mouth, practically squeezing another plea from him.  

“Gently!”  

Processing it this time, Trish released him, snapping away and fumbling to make sure his landing back on her lap wasn’t harsh on his neck. “S-Sorry! I just- um- I’m just really glad you’re ok!” She sputtered it through a sheepish smile.  

“I’m glad too.” Despite his faint voice, he was smiling. His eyes were.   

At that, a kind of short giggle escaped Trish, before she cleared her throat and hurriedly switched to damage control. “Y- You’re- you’re not completely healed yet though, are you?”  

Giorno shook his head, a careful motion. “No... But I fixed the... important things with what... Gold had the energy for.” He sucked in air, definitely regretting trying to sit up.   

“Hey hey, no moving. Lay back down. What do you still need? Can I help?”   

Obliging, Giorno let her settle him back in, and looked up at her, kindly. “You’ve already done... far more than I could’ve ever... asked of you.”  

Trish blinked, his look throwing her for a moment. “Well... w-who else was gonna save your ass?”   

“Maybe... someone who actually knows how to drive.”  

“Ok, listen here - ”  

“Giorno?!”   

They snapped up to see Mista back, stampeding towards them, spilling words like a cart off the rails, “Oh my God you’re alive you’re fucking alive the moment I leave what the fuck man I-!”  

And before either managed a shout for him to stop, Mista plowed into the two, piling on top, still babbling even as Giorno coughed and hacked and Trish threatened death and curses upon their friend.  

“Fucking MOVE!”   

“ But he’s alive!” Mista ignored Trish shoving him as he squirmed over them both to pinch Giorno’s cheek. “Dude you were dead!”  

“I know Mista yes now could you please-?!”   

“And-” Their friend swiveled, almost toppling Giorno over in the process of jabbing a finger in her face, “You didn’t even think to tell me?!”  

“You were on the other fucking side of the house!”  

“Well you definitely still have the ability to yell in my face or maybe even across the fucking lawn!”  

“Guys-” Giorno wheezed.   

“And you-!” Mista swung the finger to him. “You piece of shit!”   

In a blur of blue, the patterned sweater engulfed Giorno, massive shoulders pulling him in so that Trish could only see tufts of gold poking out, then brows crunched over eyes that begged her for help.  

She couldn’t help but grin. Alright, he’d be fine. Probably.  

After a squeeze hard enough to earn a small yelp, Mista grunted over Giorno’s shoulder, “Don’t ever pull shit like that ever again. Ever. Scared me half to death, you bastard.”  

“Mm’sorry.”  

At that, the thick arms slackened with a sigh, and Mista pulled back to hold him at arm's length, peaceful as a mountain that had shed ages of mud and grime from its shoulders.  

In contrast, as soon as he was released, Giorno paled, slammed a hand over his mouth a split-second before he lurched forward, a pulse of nausea trying to punch its way out of his cheeks. After the short bout, his shoulders slumped with a hard sigh, and a burp escaped him.  

“Oh God, did I do that?”  

“Yeah, Mista, you almost squeezed the Goddamn life out of him! And all over my lap!” She scuttled and re-oriented her legs under Giorno to lay him back down, muttering swears and hushes as questions to make sure the blond was comfortable. He only hummed in response.   

“Well, excuse me for getting swept up in a touching moment!” Then, something horribly knowing bobbed up in the plum pits of Mista’s eyes. “And, you know what, you’re not really in a good place to lecture me about it, Trish."  

“W-What are you talking about?”   

“Oh, I’m sure you know.” Then Mista stuck his tongue out, puckered his lips, and made the worst over-dramatic kissing noise she’d ever heard in her whole life.  

“Agh! Mista!” She wacked him over the head. Her friend laughed hard as she buried her fiery red cheeks in her hands.  

“No, you’re mistaken.”   

Trish ripped her face out of her palms, daring to watch Giorno... cover for her?  

“No, Mista, it was more like-”   

Then Giorno mimed it. What she did. A minute ago. But with over-the-top cliché ‘mwah ’ kissing noises that made Mista break down, shot through with surprise and hysteria at Giorno’s display, practically falling out of her lap.  

Or he was shoved out of it. Along with Giorno. Trish didn’t really remember what happened besides her two friends rolling off of her legs and onto the ground, a fit of laughs and coughs and tears.  

She was stomping away. To a car. Whichever one had the darkest tint.   

A grin scrambling its way up to the twin torches of her ears.  

---  

Chapter Text

Giorno looked like a giant corndog.  

His bed pillars rose up and over, and, along with the thin sheer between them, it all added to the look that they’d put him in a microwave. Hopefully, he wouldn’t burst. 

Bucciarati had insisted on something like thirty different blankets of varying thickness and textures. Of course, Fugo had warned against it, since waking up immobilized probably wasn’t the best thing for Giorno’s mental state right now. Without so much as a glance up from his work, Bucciarati gave a short hum of acknowledgement, and it was clear the bundle would stay. 

As Bucciarati scuttled out, anxiety pulling his phone up to his ear again, Trish sighed. This actually was a more recent calm in their older friend’s demeanor, hard-won, and took the entirety of the day to reach. 

Not a moment after they had pulled into the driveway baking in the late morning sun, Bucciarati had been at the car door, yanking it open, asking a flurry of questions at a speed Trish had no stamina to keep up with. Before she could even sit up properly, he had snatched a sleeping Giorno from her lap in the car, already hurrying into the house, Trish calling after. 

By the time Mista and herself made it through the doorway, the sleeping blonde was already placed upstairs in bed. Bucciarati perched halfway down the stairs, delegating tasks to the others, each running off this way or that. 

It took Fugo almost knocking her over, and his very hurried apology, for Trish to realize the weight of each personal hell the rest of them must have endured all morning and night. She suddenly felt terrible for choosing to call Mista in the heat of the moment, and not Bucciarati. She didn’t hear how the gunman’s phone call with his old Capo went, but she could guess it wasn’t pleasant.  

She’d made her way up to Giorno’s suite, passing the potted ivy and marigolds of his sitting room, bathed in morning sun, to arrive in the bedroom doorway. Abbacchio was on the phone in the corner, but noticed her, sending a nod that she returned as she slid inside.  

Without much thought, she found herself pulling up a chair beside the bed, settling in for what she thought would be a long wait.  

Exhaustion threatened in her shoulders, and she only allowed them to sag, forcing herself to look up, ignoring the pull of her eyelids. She couldn’t sleep now. Not yet. She assessed her workload. 

In the rush of it all, Bucciarati had basically just plopped him on his bed. His back sank into the comforter around him, dirtied suit leaving dark marks on the intricate lace surface. In the car, she’d attempted to clean him up with what she had then. Napkins from the glove box and sun-heated water from Narancia’s forgotten water bottle had been her first aid kit. So, at least his face was clean. His clothes and hair? Still stained and splotched, sticking to open wounds and crisp with dried blood. 

Clothes first then. 

Since Abbacchio had rushed somewhere else a few minutes ago, she summoned Spice Girl to help her. Sliced eyes materialized beside her, glancing the blonde up and down before sending her a consoling look.  

With a small smile, Trish thanked her stand internally, and they got to work.  

After she’d successfully slipped off his suit’s vest, he stirred, mumbling something worried. She hushed him, pressing her palm to his cheek, and he calmed, face slacking back into sleep. 

It tugged at her though, pulled the broiling back up into her gut. She could’ve been faster. She could've gone straight instead of right and been there quicker- 

“You’re good at that, you know.” 

She didn’t startle, but Narancia’s voice still caught her off guard. She swiveled to see her friend walking in, carrying towels and a first aid kit.  

“Good at what?” 

Narancia plopped the armful down in the bedside chair. “Doing all this taking care of people shit.” He settled on his left foot, turning to her, thinking before offering, “Like, if I was fucked up like that, and I had to choose someone to fix me up, it’d be you.” 

She smiled small, shrugging. “It’s just doing what any of you would do.” 

“Well yeah sure, anyone can put band-aids on, but I mean, not everyone does it carefully.” He shifted foot to foot, crossing his arms into a knot, but managed to keep eye contact as he said, “You’ve got that kind of careful thing that you know, people like moms have. And it’s nice.”  

The compliment melted her heart into a smore. “Thanks, Nara.” 

Violet eyes glanced to the ground with a smile. He shifted and looked up, probably about to say something else wonderfully endearing when- 

Giorno gasped, sputtering air in and back out. 

It wasn’t a cliché dramatic gasp, but it was still enough to startle the actual fuck out of them both. 

After they both swore, Narancia’s hand hit his chest like some old lady and he leaned in. “You need to work on not doing that, Gio.”  

Spice Girl lowered him back onto the bed before disappearing, and his brows furrowed, his hands prodding at the comforter beneath like he wasn’t sure it was there.  

“Giorno?” 

His gaze roamed like he heard, like he was trying to find her. When he finally came to rest on her, his lip twitched up, right before his chest spasmed and he fell into a fit of spitting up the blood pooled in the back of his throat. 

Then she was swearing, catching a towel Narancia tossed her and wiping his mouth, trying to catch the mess before it ruined his pillowcase even more. 

She heard Narancia already thumping out of the room with a “ Bucciarati!”  

In seconds, the bedroom buzzed with activity, each bee whizzing back into the hive for orders on high.  

Trish found Narancia next to her, harmonizing her swearing with his own as they pushed Giorno onto his side, mopping up the clumps of blood he spat out. 

After a calm finally came over him, Giorno settled, eyelids fluttering, and they gently pulled him onto his back. She barely had to turn to accept the new pillow Fugo offered. Then Mista appeared beside her and lifted his head for her to replace the stained cotton. She fell back into the bedside chair as Narancia moved in and took the old case away. 

“Shouldn’t he stay on his side?” Mista asked. “Isn’t he gonna need to puke again?” 

“Hopefully not.” Bucciarati moved into her view, dropping to one knee beside her, reaching out to press gently on the blonde’s shoulder. “Giorno? Can you hear me alright?” 

His gaze roamed the ceiling, though his face scrunched and he gulped down something thick and disgusting. When his voice moved after, it scratched like rope on skin, but at least now it was freed somewhat, “I hear you.” 

“Can you see?” 

He blinked hard. “Not too well.” 

“How’s your stand?” Abbacchio now stood by the bed post, arms crossed, though not really trying to hide the worry in his voice. 

She watched Giorno’s hands flex, testing fingers before fist. Then Gold Experience breathed out of his form, shifting into its own. 

It sat by him, winged heels pressing into the comforter to mimic weight. Sliced blocks of violet eyes materialized to look at her.  

She couldn’t stop her relieved sigh from escaping. The rot was gone. “Thank God.”  

The rest of them were struck silent. Proxied pain clear on each face in its own way. 

“Did he...?” Abbacchio spared her a confused glance. 

“Look worse? Yeah. Alot worse.” 

“Jesus.” 

Fugo muttered quietly, almost to himself, “He looks like he got eaten alive.” 

“Yeah, by like... termites or some shit.” Narancia muttered back. 

“It was more like maggots.” Trish earned a disgusted look from Fugo, and Narancia stuck his tongue out with a harsh ‘blegh’ noise. 

Bucciarati, face a little paler now, pressed on. “Giorno? I’m sorry to ask it of you but, are you able to heal yourself?” 

Easy guess that the phone calls he’d made the second Giorno was in bed was to their ‘family physician’ about making himself available immediately. Despite how Giorno’s self-healing would be infinitely more efficient and effective, Bucciarati’s hand still hovered over the phone in his pocket, ready. 

Giorno shifted in place, less like he was uncomfortable, but more like he was assessing what worked and what didn’t. He took a shaky breath before nodding, “Yeah, I can.” 

But Gold Experience didn’t budge.  

It settled the air into mud around them. No one dared to push him on. They all knew too well what it was like to have Gold Experience fix them up. It wasn’t healing. It was replacing.   

She’d heard Fugo describe it as sinew and muscle pulling itself apart, tearing and twining back with new foreign tissue. Bucciarati had added how it felt like a million ropes unravelling just to knot themselves back together. Narancia said it hurt like an army of fire ants crawling under your skin, gnawing and ripping stuff while other ones put it back together with new lumps of wrong-colored play-dough. Mista had just wished he could be shot again instead, and Abbacchio had grunted agreement on that one.  

Back then, Trish had nodded and agreed politely, sipping her soda and switching the subject.  

Now, she reached out, her fingers slipping over Giorno’s pale ones on the dark comforter, mossy with lace ivy. “Can we help? In any way?” 

He hummed, kindly. Or tried to. It came out like a rattle. 

“No, it’s ok. You all can go.” 

She gave him a look. “And do what? Pace around outside uselessly while you rebuild every fucking bone in your body? Yeah, no thanks.” 

Abbacchio stood beside her, “You think you can just shoo us off, kid? Tough shit.” 

“Yeah, tough shit!” Narancia was crossing his arms, imitating the older, earning a glare from him. “But really dude. We’re staying.” 

“We’re here, Giogio.” Fugo nodded. 

“Yeah, I’ll be grabbing some lunch for the pistols but-” Mista sent a smirk. “Bet your ass I’ll be here for anything you need.” 

“Sorry, Giorno.” Bucciarati nodded firmly. “But we want to do what we can.” 

It tugged in his numbed gaze, and he nodded, his fingers squeezing hers.  

“Alright.” 

--- 

She’d hated to hear it, but, apparently Faye’s stand had left his insides a mess of necrotic tissue. Whatever organs those gross maggots had burrowed into, they dug the cells out like moles, clambered into them, swelled the cells full of their rot, and used the nutrients to breed more, before abandoning the husks, vandalizing the organ with their tunnels of dead flesh.  

Giorno had grinned- or tried to- and told them he was grateful to have been eaten alive. Now that the living stand was gone, he could rebuild with the blackened pieces left behind. 

They’d busied themselves with doing what they could. A warm towel here, an ice pack there. Giorno sighed in relief at the press of a hot towel on his skin sheltering the resown tissue, as he relaxed on the chill of ice against recently completed jigsaw puzzles of bone.  

He made sure to heal his throat first, freeing up the line of communication, and soon he had Abbacchio dislocating his shoulder so Gold Experience could properly snap it back in place, repairing the muscles accordingly.  

“On my signal.”  

“M’alright kid.” 

“…Now.” 

CRACK  

A short shout escaped Giorno, and she watched him shrink afterwards. No doubt beating himself up for the outburst. 

She squeezed his hand harder, getting a quick glance from him before- 

“ God- That noise- the fucking noise your arm made-? Fuck.” Abbacchio recoiled as Gold Experience took over. 

“Sorry.” 

“No, it’s ok- I just… Fucking hell kid.” And then Abbacchio was up and pacing to face the wall behind Bucciarati, rubbing his eyes. Trish had watched the older hide behind the other’s gentler demeanor on more than one occasion. Every time it had to do with that same trembling worry that rose in his violet eyes and lip. 

She turned back to see Gold Experience press a metallic hand against Giorno’s shoulder. He straightened up and sucked in a breath- right as the stand sent a shockwave through him, and he keeled over to hold his stomach.  

She could’ve broken his fingers and wouldn’t have noticed. 

After a few agonizing seconds of him locking noises behind tight teeth, Giorno gasped and his stand pulled away, finally allowing him a few deep breaths before he nodded, “Alright, now my ankle.”  

“What the fuck’s wrong with your ankle?!” Narancia wailed. 

“Comminuted fracture.” 

“What?!” 

“Means it’s pixie dust.” Mista filled in before sending a look to Abbacchio’s back, “I can take this one, if you don’t want to, Abba.” 

A humored grunt escaped him, and he picked up some tossed reddened rags by the nightstand, “I’ll find Bucciarati and add these to the laundry load he’s running. My stomach can only take but so much more of this.” 

“So-?” 

On his way out, the older called, “Whatever the shithead wants.” 

And after a glance to see the nod from Giorno, Mista actually grinned. Trish winced a little. His coping mechanisms for stress were as confusing as his clothing choices. 

“Alright then, Gio.” The gunman did a small stretch, siphoning his nervous energy up and out before cracking his knuckles. “Gonna be honest, I wish I could call this payback and enjoy it, but…” it snagged, “what was the phrase about cake or pie or-“ 

“‘You can’t have your cake and eat it too’?” Fugo sighed.  

“Yeah! That one!”  

“Just break his ankle, Mista.” 

“Oh-!” Narancia snapped and pointed, “Break a leg!” 

“Aha- yes!”  

They high-fived. 

“Mista-” Trish groaned. 

“Right, right!” He jogged over, threw up the comforter, landed a knee on the mattress, and grabbed hold of Giorno’s ankle. 

“Alright,” the blonde resituated, pulling himself to sit up more. “On my signal.” 

“Ok. Got it.” 

“One- SHIT!”  

Giorno lurched forward, almost breaking her fingers this time, face scrunched tightly as he croaked, “I told you to break my leg on my signal .” 

“You never said what the signal would be!” 

“That wasn’t-! Agh, fine.” Giorno let it go, slouching back onto the cushioned headboard. “I apologize for the confusion.” 

“You apolo-? I... Jesus, dude.” Mista muttered, passing the leg to Gold Experience. He scratched the back of his head before sighing, “Yeah, ok, I’m the one who should be sorry.” 

“...But you’re not?”  

Mista broke into a smirk. “Ok, alright, I am actually sorry about catching you off-guard.” 

“Mhmm.” 

“I swear.” 

“Sure. Anyway, Fugo,” His head rolled to address the other leaning on the bedpost, “could you get a new ice pack,” he pulled at the one sweating on his shoulder. “This one’s melted.” 

And so it went on like that. 

A whole thirty minutes passed of pulling Giorno apart and putting him back together. It got to the point where Fugo swore Giorno’s teeth would break, with how hard he gnashed them together, stifling shouts and groans. Taking off his boot, Mista offered his sock, which did earn a humored grin from Giorno. A split-second later, and the sock was an eel. Muscled shoulders used to flexing in gym mirrors shot up with a very high squeal and Mista scrambled back, the eel slipping out of his grip.  

Giorno laughed. A raspy echo of what it could’ve been. But, right then, for Trish, it was by far her favorite laugh. From anyone. Ever. And contagious to say the least. 

When his bones were set and insides nuzzled back together like soft clay, he sighed, long and heavy, laying back on the piled-up pillows behind him.  

Trish placed a steaming towel across his forehead, and he pulled the warmth over his eyes. She watched his whole body decompress, muscles humming in relief. 

In total: a class three concussion, four broken ribs (to Mista’s utter horror, of course), punctured and waterlogged lungs, a broken right ankle and shattered left knee, arms pulled like they’d tried to stretch taffy, a dislocated shoulder, and a splintered collarbone. Trish didn't even try to keep track of all the organ stuff he had said was shredded.  

And frankly, all that mattered now was that smooth way his lungs pushed air out and in. Bare chest unhindered in its rise and fall, abdomen wrapped in gauze down to his waist, stopping just short of his exposed hipbones- 

Trish cleared her throat, threw her eyes back up to his. “Better?” 

He hummed, reaching up to pull a hand through his hair, only to snag it on- 

“Oh- sorry.” She grinned as an apology. “I completely forgot about trying to get the blood out of your hair.”  

She resettled closer, attempting to brush some of it out before she got Mista to grab and wet a towel from the bathroom. Rubbing it didn’t really help either. 

“Jesus, guy just needs a bath.” Mista muttered. 

“Rude.” Trish spat. 

“It’s not a bad idea, though.” Fugo crossed his arms, touched his chin. “I was going to suggest it soon anyways. Before you fall asleep, Gio, it probably would be best.” 

With a nod, Giorno pushed himself up further, grunting, “Good plan.” 

Mista bowed, delivering the line in his worst British accent, “Shall I draw up a bath for you, sir?” 

Giorno rolled his eyes and waved him off.  

As Mista grinned and strolled out, Fugo stepped forward, “What can I get for you as a change of clothes?” 

Change of clothes. Right- wait. Baths... She blanked. Why? What happens during a bath again? 

“There should be some night clothes in the second drawer.” 

Fugo nodded and went to fish them out of the dresser. 

Dresser. Dressing. Un-dressing. For a bath. That’s how baths work.  

Right...So- 

She should leave, right? Or did he care? He probably cared. She would care, wouldn’t she? (Would she?) But- more importantly- she should leave. Instead of staring off into space like the wall was suddenly so interesting, she should- 

“Trish?”  

“Y-Yeah- Yes I’m-” She cleared her throat, forced herself to pause and ask Giorno calmly, “What is it?” 

“Aren’t... aren’t you going to go get cleaned up too?” 

Did he mean in the same tub?  

“But the bathtub is too small for two-?”  

She caught herself. Too late. She felt her cheeks go fucking crimson . Of course he didn't mean the same bathtub- why the fuck would he mean that?! Why would she immediately assume it and then ask him like- 

“Yeah, um.” He resettled, thrown a bit by the question. “The bath isn’t actually too small- it‘s more like... I meant, aren’t you going to get cleaned up in your bathroom?” 

Yes. Of course. Yep. That made more sense. Also, she noted that Don Giorno Giovanna probably had an Olympic-sized swimming pool for a bathtub. Fucking double-dumbass jeopardy on her part. 

“Yeah. Right. Yes. I should probably um...” She got up, she’d been sitting on the bed. Now she was up, taking too long to form words. 

“I’ll see you in a bit.” Giorno offered her, a tease of humor lurking under it. 

“Yes, yeah. I’ll-” She backed into the chair, almost knocking it over, catching it and righting it before turning back to him, clasping her hands together. “I’ll go now.” 

Giorno nodded, the faint tell of a smile there.  

Trish pointed with a joke on her tongue before pausing, deciding against it, and just leaving. She’d embarrassed herself enough already. 

By the dresser, she caught Fugo struggling against a smirk, opting instead to send her a teasing look. 

She mouthed ‘piss off’ on her way out. 

--- 

Trish opted for a shower. A hot one. 

And oh my God had she needed it. 

Peeling the dress off was infinitely more satisfying than she’d anticipated. But, as she observed the poor thing, she almost groaned; it was beyond salvageable. Blood stained large portions, the boddice had a number of surface scratches and gashes, the silk of the skirt was sliced up, and the back string ties were ripped out, the holes now openly mouthing off across the gap. Mournfully, she placed the red and pink heap on the ground, unsure how else to pay her respects. Maybe she’d give it a Viking funeral. Goad Giorno into lending her a shoebox and a lighter. They could send it off on a boat in the garden pond outside or maybe in his massive bathtub while they-  

She yanked her mind back. Christ.  Anyways-  

The moment she stepped under the water, she felt her skin slink right off. She understood snakes now. The whole shedding your old beat-up skin for a new underlayer? Yeah, it felt good. 

Sweat and dirt had coated her hair and face and body. Now, the grime muddled the water swirling into the drain at her feet. A reddish hue coming through every now and then as she scrubbed the crisped blood off her arms and legs.  

She hadn’t been hurt that bad. Not really. Just a hard hit to the head and some surface wounds. Definitely easier to clean and treat than Giorno’s lexicon of injuries. The drug cocktail in her system had mostly run its course, the hangover feeling dissolving into grogginess thanks to some painkiller from the kitchen cabinet earlier. 

After hopping out, she wrapped her hair up in a smaller towel, and slid into some loose cotton shorts and her softest crop-top sweater, a dark navy on her torso with small pink poofs at the shoulders. A short blast of a hairdryer later and her hair fluffed by her ears.  

She was clean. Now she could go back and- 

Do what? Prance around shampooing Giorno’s hair while Mista and Fugo splash him with bubbles and squeak little rubber duckies in her ears? Maybe they could all sing a long repetitive sing-a-long song too.  

She slumped her shoulder against the doorway, gaze drifting through her steamy sauna of a bathroom. She’d have to wait.  

Ugh.  

Well, maybe she’d see if she could call some pickup for dinner or... something. There wasn’t much else to do besides- 

Her brow crunched. Wait.  

It lay on the floor, still tucked in the silk of the dress’ right breast, still soft as the puddy she left it as. 

Oh, there we go. 

--- 

She found no one in the kitchen, the messy living room, or library, and frankly, she didn’t know why she decided to run everywhere when she could’ve guessed Bucciarati would be in Giorno’s sitting room. 

But evidently, he wasn’t.  

She scanned the parlor, only to find the bedroom door partially open, Mista’s complaining and Fugo’s chiding trickling from it. 

Their little bath time couldn’t be done already, could it?  

She really only heard the two louder voices and some other she couldn’t make out. Along with some particularly loud splashing. She peered in.  

The bathroom was on the opposite wall to the parlor’s door. It wasn’t a straight shot, so she struggled. But she did see- 

“TRISH!”  

Her skull could’ve slammed through the ceiling with how high she jumped. She swore. Turned. Saw Narancia’s shit-eating grin. “Shithead!” She wacked him on the shoulder. “I could kill you! In fact I almost killed you if I didn’t hear it was your dumbass voice!” 

The fucking bastard held his hips and swung them back and forth proudly, “But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You love me too much. And besides, I’m too adorable to kill.” He batted his eyelashes.  

She stifled a grin. “You’re. Horrible. And very kill-able.”  

Narancia pushed closer, batting his eyelashes harder, until she shoved his forehead away.  

“Hey,” he swiveled back, “at least I’m not some peeping tom.”  

Heat flushed her cheeks and she sputtered, “I wasn’t trying to look for that, dumbass! I was just checking to see if they were done and I could go in ‘cause I have to tell Giorno about-” 

A hand landed on her shoulder. “Ah, Trish! I thought I heard you.”  

The number of times she had adrenaline shoot down her spine today was about to be too many.  

Though, when she turned to see Bucciarati’s kind look, it all soothed over like hot cocoa on cold bones. “Why don’t you come in?” He said.  

With a sigh and nod, she followed the older in, ignoring Narancia still smirking behind her. 

The other two were situating Giorno into bed, his freshly washed gold rolling in waves down blue silk pajamas fresh from a glossy magazine cover.  

He perked up when he saw her, sitting up further. “Oh, good timing. We were just about to discuss last night’s operation.” 

Bucciarati tapped what had come to be her bedside chair, “Won’t you sit down?” 

She did. Crossed her legs and was about to start when Abbacchio began, “So, what did you guys learn?” 

Giorno piped up, “The trafficking ring extends far beyond Faviloni, he’s just on the more visible front lines.” 

“Apparently not visible enough, if he was able to hide his night job from us for as long as he did.” Abbacchio muttered. 

“We'll discuss how to better monitor our Capos another time.” Bucciarati soothed. “For now, we need to take down the current infestation.”  

Giorno nodded, continuing, “We know Faviloni was using Passione’s boats and docks as meeting places and for transportation, and in several different cities. Meaning those various Capos either were paid off or too incompetent to see it happening right under their noses. Unfortunately,” Giorno knit his hands together, settling them in his lap, “I was confronted by him, and put in a situation that forced me to show my hand, and as a result, our investigation was cut short. Mista.” 

The gunman perked up from his place against the wall. “Boss?” 

“You swept the house before we left, did you find anything useful?” 

He shook his head. “Nothing. Couple must have burned what leads they could, knowing that we knew and that their bosses would pay if we found anything tying them to their sinking ship. Left the place a wreck in the process. Though, it was almost like they were looking for something-” 

“Like this?”  

She’d waited for her moment. And in a triumphant sweeping motion, Trish dug a hand into her bra to pull out the brown leather puddy with a flourish, allowing it to pop back into the once-dusty ledger with a “Ta-da.” 

“Dude! Whoa- wait-” Mista plucked it from her hand, throwing it open and scanning it, “It’s a ledger!” 

“Give it.” Abbacchio snatched the book, flipping through. Scuttling over, Fugo and Narancia did their best to not disturb the taller as they crowded to see the book's scribbled shorthand and columns.  

It took a few seconds before the older’s face fell, and he sighed, “Hate to say it but, as good of a find that this was, it would only be useful if Faviloni was still alive. With him dead now as the obvious leak and our main lead, his partners will clean up shop, and stop using the information they knew Faviloni used. They’ll start fresh with new aliases, locations, and times.” Abbacchio handed the book off to Fugo. “Sorry, kid.” 

Trish met the look with a grin, propping her head up on her fist and elbow, muffling the words with the inside of her cheek, “Good thing I listened to them arguing about it, then.” She tapped her chin. “Something about how one of them killed one Antonio, and that they had to traffic people for the Bernardi Brothers to atone for it.” 

Fugo’s jaw dropped. “The Bernardi Brothers?! Wait, wait, wait- the two massive figures in Parliament that have been in Passione’s pocket since even before Giorno? Those two?!” 

“Certainly sounds like it.” Trish hummed happily. 

“Oh- The two guys with the dalmatians that bring that good lasagna to dinner?!” Narancia asked. 

“They’ve been exceedingly helpful and loyal to our organization, even after the leadership turnover.” Bucciarati added. 

“Not just to the organization, but they seemed rather eager to be in my pocket specifically.” Giorno hummed.  

Blue eyes caught on, and Bucciarati watched the younger more carefully, “You think they could do it?” 

Giorno rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t put it past them. They’re already moral-less as it is. They’ve proved that much to us.” He looked to Trish, asked, “You’re absolutely sure you heard them correctly?” 

“Yeah. I couldn’t not hear it with how loud they were.” 

With that, Giorno nodded and looked to Fugo holding the ledger. “Are they in there?” 

The other looked up from it. “No. Not that I can see so far.” 

“So, if the Bernardi’s aren’t in it, then they will safely assume they’re clean of Faviloni’s dirty books, and continue operating as usual, with maybe a few changes.” There was a growing excitement in his eye. 

“But not enough changes to get away with it, since they don’t know we’re on to them.” Narancia pointed. “That’s how we'll get ‘em, right?!” 

Giorno nodded, a smile growing, and the air hummed with it.  

“That’s awesome!” Mista burst. 

“Hell yeah! The team’s back on the case!” Narancia faked holding a magnifying glass in front of his eye, looking and pushing into Fugo’s face. 

The paler shoved him away before sending a kind grin to her, “Good work, Trish.” 

She smiled back, then sent a glance up as Abbacchio patted her shoulder with a “You did good, kid.” 

Bucciarati was beaming at her and Giorno- 

smiled, weakly, before it dropped, and he seemed to get lost in the comforter’s floral pattern.  

She heard the others talking, bouncing around leads and setting up meetings and spies and- 

“Hey, um. Could you guys give us a minute?”  

Of course, she watched humor flash on faces such as Narancia’s, before the humor caught on her tone, the tease of grins ebbing away. 

Bucciarati nodded, broke the silence, “Sure.” He rose. “Call if you need one of us.”  

And with that, they shuffled out one by one. The door clicked shut. 

The hive’s buzz gone, quiet settled in. 

Fugo had left the window open earlier, the one closest to the bed. Drapes pulled apart, midday poured in, trickling bird calls and squirrel chatter through the creamy liners, breeze pushing and pulling the sheer in and out, like foam on an ocean shore. 

“So, what is it?” She asked. 

“What?” 

Trish pushed her hand onto the comforter, but it didn’t pull his attention to her. He still stared at that spot in the floral lace, looping a loose strand around his finger, over and over and over. 

“What’s bothering you, Giorno?” 

“...I-” He stopped the movement, leaving his ring finger wound tight in the strand, strangling it. “I owe you a proper apology.” 

Her brows knit, “For what? ...Last night? That mess? It wasn’t your fault.” 

“But I could’ve prevented it.” He looked to her. “I should have looked into Faye’s history more thoroughly, I should’ve smelled the trap a mile away, and I should’ve never brought-” He snagged on it, his shoulders sagged, and he looked away.  

After a moment, Trish leaned forward, “Who would have you brought instead? Mista? In that dress? He doesn’t have the ass for it.” 

Giorno broke, a hiss of a laugh escaping him, devolving into a contagious giggle that spread to her. 

“He would spill out of that dress.” 

“He’d spill in that dress! Those fucking heels almost tripped me every five minutes! And I’m more experienced than him! Well... mostly.” 

It egged more of that smile and quiet giggle from him, feeding hers. 

She was almost sorry to bring them back to the topic but, “Don’t worry about last night. Really, Giorno. Shit happens, and it isn’t worth feeling guilty about afterwards.” 

He looked more settled about it, though he still offered, “I do still want to say I’m sorry, nonetheless. You went through a lot, too much, all while I was half-conscious and otherwise useless. It’s not something I ever wanted for you that evening, or morning, or ever. And it won’t happen again.” 

Trish smiled, just happy to see the worry leave him, “Thanks. And it’s really ok.” Her fingers fiddled in her lap. “A-and if we’re being honest, I probably should be the one apologizing-” Why was she bringing this up? She didn’t have to- but- “I-It really wasn’t fair of me to just k-kiss you while you were unconscious and all-”  

“I wasn’t unconscious.” 

“You-?!” Her glance shot up, caught him hear himself and snag his bottom lip. He didn’t chew at the fissure there, but that kind of pressure probably wasn’t good for it either.  

She felt heat broil under her cheeks as his eyes dropped back to the comforter. 

He was awake? How long? For how much? Did he hear her yelling at him? Crying? Should she say sorry or-?! 

“Trish. I’m... not the best at this sort of thing.” 

She found herself stuck on his finger coiling the strand around itself again. Around and pull, around and pull, around and- 

“How much did you hear?” She asked, quietly. 

“Enough to feel horrible that I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. You were a voice in a distant dream talking to me. And I wished I could have told you I was there.” 

Her shoulders hiked up, and she wished they could cover her burning ears. “I-I’m sorry, I... I didn’t mean for you to hear it.”  

Giorno looked up to her, his glint slicing through her lie, her core, but it was gentle, how a sharp knife should cut. “I am sorry I listened to something so personal, but, it was actually... rather nice. Actually, it was rather helpful.” He stopped fiddling with the strand, twining his fingers together in his lap instead, watching them spindle an imaginary thread. “After you left, and Mista blurred into the sky, the place I found myself in was comfortable, but numb, and... empty... Pleasant, though, somewhat. I was content, at least. But then I heard your voice.”  

He was lost for a moment, and he still looked past his hands, his bed, the floor, as he continued, 

“You filled the void there with something so tangible, I can almost feel its softness between my fingers still... And when your voice stopped, the world went numb again, and I found that I didn’t want it to stay that way.” 

She fought against melting as his eyes came up to lay warm over hers. 

“You brought me back.” He said. “And I don't think I could ever repay you.” His head tilted forward. “That’s what bothers me.” 

Oh.   

His look was molten, resting heavily on her and she wasn’t sure if she could hold the weight up any longer. Her shoulders fell, and she resorted to the one thought she could grab onto, among the millions of others rippling and blurring her mind. “You can repay me by not dying again.” 

Giorno allowed the ghost of a smile, “I wasn’t planning on it anytime soon.” 

A grin trickled across her face, fading as soon as it appeared, “But really. You don’t owe me anything. I saved your life, sure, but... it was because I couldn’t just stand by and let you, you know...” She was holding her arms. Like she was cold. She wasn’t, despite the goosebumps slithering over her skin. And yet she shivered as she studied the ground. 

A warmth settled around her shoulders, and she looked up to find Giorno sitting up on the edge of the bed, a breath away, wrapping her in one of his many blankets. As he took time to pull the corners to her collarbones, he began, “It's redundant of me to say it, but I didn’t want to die, either... Not in front of you.” He held the corners still, and it took her too long to realize she was supposed to hold onto them, keep the blanket tight around her. But when she did, he only relaxed his grip, his touch remaining as he stared through her, as he added, quietly, “It wouldn't have been fair to you.”  

His brows furrowed for a moment, before his mind seemed to return. He glanced up, his eyes finding hers again as he said, “So, for keeping me from that fate, I thank you.” 

His gaze harpooned her in place, and she thought she’d wriggle under it like a fish, but the brush of his breath on her face hushed her nerves, muzzled her words, “I- I’m not some kind of hero. I don’t like how everyone keeps acting like it. I... I just... I hated seeing you like that, is all.” 

She watched him think for a moment, and then a light played across his eyes. “So, you decide to suffocate me the moment I do wake up?” 

“T-That’s not fair!” She dropped a blanket corner to point, “You were dead!”  

“And you were kissing a dead person as though they were very much alive.” 

“I- I- Y-You were alive though- You kissed me back!”  

As soon as she said it, she shut up. Fast. His eyebrows had shot up, questioning her statement with all the certainty of those two piercing eyes. Always calculating. Watching. Knowing. He was a hawk that could pick out any stray mouse in the brush, could estimate which branch would snag on what tuft of fur, which corner to pluck it from the ground. All in an instant. 

She had no chance at hiding. So, she offered up herself willingly.  

“I- I mean... I was pretty delirious from adrenaline and whatever else and totally could’ve just been-” 

“Dreaming it?” 

It threw her. She had watched him. How he’d titled his head, how he’d let his eyebrows settle, no longer teasing. His gaze was kind. Delicate as an orchid but twice as vibrant. Thrumming with life but holding onto the reigns tight, so their driving horse wouldn’t even think to try bucking them.  

And it heated her cheeks like a broiler and her lips fell open, only to feel his breath from across the gap that she swore was now smaller. No, she was right. He had come closer, so very close to touching her nose with his, and she worried her chest would combust and there’d be nothing left of her but butterfly wings and warm bones. 

“Y-yeah.” She breathed. “A dream.” 

His eyelids sank. She thought he’d closed them until she felt his touch on her hand, his gaze cradling their fingers as he nodded gently, so as to not bump her nose, “I liked your dream. What was there again? Meadows?” 

He had let his hand stay there, resting, waiting patiently. So, she rotated her palm to face up, slipping her fingers into his, twining them as the stems and blades of grass that she remembered whispering in the breeze. 

“Wildflowers. Wildflower meadows.” 

His eyebrows furrowed as he asked, “Wildflowers? I don’t remember those. Are you sure?” 

“Positive.”  

His brows furrowed, almost worried, like she’d lost her mind, and Giorno practically whispered, “You do realize those are weeds? Why on earth would you dream of fields full of weeds when you could’ve pick anything? They’re... Well, actually...” 

She watched him think, lean back a bit and rub his chin even, before something clicked, and he bounced back, right in front of her face, words pushing fresh pink back into her cheeks, “That’s what you are!”  

“What?” 

“A weed.” He said. Rather happy with himself. 

“I’m... a weed? Really?” 

“Yes. You’re stubborn, resilient, and persevering...” He seemed to rethink it, after seeing her look. “Would you like to be called something else?” 

“W- Well, it’s just usually guys go for naming off pretty flowers is all.”  

He thought about it for a second, before asking, completely genuine and full of curiosity, “What kind of flower would you like to be, then?” 

Despite the off-thump she felt behind her ribcage, she attempted a to sit up straighter, smile and try to bring back that confident, teasing tone, “Well, definitely n-not a weed. Maybe something more...” 

More... what? Her heart sunk. Romantic? Was she really that naive? She sees a guy pepper her with a few cute flattering lines as thanks for saving his life and she just immediately thinks she can throw her heart at him, her arms open and ready to accept his? She had kissed him , and had just apologized for it. Sure he was being cute- she dare say flirtatious- but she didn’t want to think of it as something more when it was just a coy game for her to play along with until they both laughed and moved on, friendship intact and unharmed.  

But- she checked again, rubbed her thumb against his- and noted how his hand still twined with hers on the chair so gently and- 

She just wished she could stick her burning ears in sand, put the fire in her brain out. Instead, she sighed, “I don’t know what kind of flower I’d want to be.” 

“How about mine?” 

Air stuck in her lungs. Her spine became a tree trunk. Limbs became branches. Her heart skipped a beat. Not to mention it skipped town. Picked up and left her and in its place began to pound a juiced-up machine that just wouldn’t stop begging to race and race blood through her every vein and limb at high speed. 

‘Mine’ he says.  

She as his. And he hers . 

If his insides were newly formed clay, hers were baked to cracking, heat breaking them apart with the pressure. 

Lost in her mind, she almost startled at his touch slipping under her jaw, lifting her gaze up from him playing violin on the soft of her wrist.  

His brows rose in question again, but light and delicate this time, like he knew she was made of crumbling clay, knew she would break easily. He asked, “Or would you rather be something else?” 

And there Giorno waited. Patiently. Close enough she could see the rims of his irises and call them seashore.  

Waiting. Only as something like chivalry would hold him to.  

He knew what she wanted, he had only asked as to hold out a formal invitation. 

So, she kissed him.  

Carefully and measuredly. A handwritten rsvp in ink that she dared to press onto his soft lips, no longer bleeding that sickly violet, but now flushed a fresh pink with sweet sugar wine. 

After a moment, a wordless moment neither of them wanted filled with anything but what they shared, she signed his bottom lip at the fissure with her signature, before parting from him, leaving the letter at the door, ready to run and flee and return to what had been if she’d overstepped and- 

Giorno looked confused. Like she’d done something unexpected.  

Oh God- her heart lodged in her throat, a gulp catching there- she had misread him- she had dreamt it all alone and- 

His touch slipped up to hold the bends of her neck, thumbs sliding up and over her heartbeat racing below.  

Then he pulled her in, pushing his lips over hers.  

Touch pressed and seared on her lips and cheeks and nose like a brand, his reply clear and written with flowery prose in every kiss he placed on her. She pulled him closer- 

and they melted.  

Giorno snaked his fingers up behind her neck, the other hand wrapping under her arm and pressing into the small of her back. Pulling her into him further, his lips travelled to her cheek, almost her ear, and she let him. The bare of his shoulder pressed into her neck, and she kissed his cheek in return. 

They fell back, or for her it was forward. Gold fell as rivers, rolling out across the comforter, the silk puffing up on impact, almost pushing lace up past his ears.  

Giorno had winced when they landed, and she propped up on her elbows to kneel over him, asking, “Oh- God- wait- a-are you ok? Jesus, I forgot you’re still hurt and I just...” She bit her bottom lip, “I’m sorry- about... M-maybe you should just, um, rest for now and I’ll-” 

A knuckle brushed under her jaw, stilling her, guiding her gaze back to his. 

“I don't want you just stealing a kiss later, while I’m asleep.” 

His hand rose to her cheek, cupped it and she smiled, stifled a short giggle. Tilting her face, she pulled his palm to her lips, kissing it once before dipping back down. His touch welcomed her back, his arms enveloping her, and they returned to sharing smiling breaths between tugging lips.  

She thought just one more, just one more, but each only drowned her deeper in the clouds they danced through, her thoughts brought to nothing more than feeling where skin bled warmth between them. Their faces, necks, the bare patches of his stomach under the gauze pressing on what her short sweater didn’t cover- 

Trish heard the question mumble out of her, between breaths, “Is this a dream?” 

Giorno ran a hand up into her hair, parting from her to tilt up, kissing her nose, and opened his eyes to gaze up at her. He asked kindly, like he could grant it for her, “Would you rather be back in a dream?” 

Softly, she shook her head, her nose rubbing his, “Not if this is real.” 

He grinned up at her. “It’s a dream come true, then?”

She propped herself up to look at the face below her, the one always brimming with layers of paint, the one that never let any peering eye know each and every brushstroke that made up him. 

She smiled at that face, the one that only now lay bare before her, as real as he could be, all for her, as she said, 

“Only if I don’t ever have to wake up.”  

“Stay, and you’ll never have to.”  

~ 

THE END