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Chapter Text

Dio had, apparently, prepared for the question of how the pair could get around without money (and with barely any clothing). When the private small plane touched down at Capodichino in Naples, Giorno and Risotto found a Mercedes Benz stretch limo with gold trim waiting for them on the tarmac, driven by a pleasant American woman in head-to-toe black who spoke flawless Italian. 

They glanced at each other as she opened the back door and waited for them to climb in. 

"So. Your father's loaded loaded." Risotto noted, deadpan.

"I spent roughly 600,000 USD of pure gold bullion healing you in the hangar," Giorno replied, just as dry. "Enya tossed her coin purse at me like it was a bag of pennies."  

Risotto gaped for a moment. He still glanced around the tarmac warily before covering Giorno, who simply walked slowly to the vehicle and wearily moved inside, grunting as he clambered into the long seat on the left side of the limo. Risotto followed him after another sweep, pulling along Dio's mysterious briefcase.

There was a bag of fresh local vegetables, fish and wine on the seat, which had been gathered at a market for them before the plane landed. Risotto slopped into one of the other parts of the stretch seat, huffing after wrestling the suitcase into the limo. "Maybe that's why this suitcase feels so heavy. Maybe it's full of gold."

The driver asked where they were going over intercom, and Giorno rolled off an address in the Vomero district. They were soon on the road toward Napoli.

"Mister Nero, let me know if the suit on the hanger doesn't fit you," the cheerful driver announced. "Mister Brando says he had to guesstimate your size." 

Risotto blinked a second time. He hadn't noticed; neither had Giorno, but there was a suit bag hanging from a hook toward the back of the vehicle, all-black. He grunted again, sliding himself down  the seat to pull down the suit. It was tailored and all-black, but there was nothing cheap about it - the jacket was silk lined and the pants and jacket were cashmere, so dark that light seemed to disappear into the material. 

Giorno was tired, but held himself alert enough to mind where they were going. He didn't see them taking any unexpected turns as they reached the city, so for the moment he focused on the little noise that Risotto had made, and he looked the hitman over while Risotto was pulling on the pants. "Are you hurt?" he asked gently. "I'm sorry I lost track of you after Steely Dan pulled me away. Did you take any damage after that?" He was still annoyed that he'd missed the opportunity to take out Hol Horse himself, thanks to Padre's meddling. 

Risotto shook his head. "Scrapes and soreness. Don't worry about me. You're the one I'm worrying about. You can barely stay on your feet." He zipped the pants up with another series of small grunts, and then followed with the jacket. Both fit him comfortably; neither too tight nor too small. He was pleased. If this was what life under Dio would be like, he'd definitely have to start taking side jobs, insane vampire or not.

It was a short drive, only a handful of miles before they reached Giorno's private house. On the cobble street, the limo came to a stop and the driver opened up the doors for them.  They were standing together in front of what looked like an ordinary rolling-shutter metal garage door. There was crudely spraypainted graffiti on it. The buildings on the street were tight, high, and of old stone and mortar work. Risotto looked skeptical.

Giorno just smiled. "Wait."  He entered a code into the keypad, and the garage door opened slowly and crankily, admitting them into a dark space behind. Risotto shrugged and grabbed the wheeled luggage while he had the groceries tucked under his other arm; he didn't want Giorno straining himself with his extensive injuries.

Inside, the space turned out to be a multi-car garage, full of different parked vehicles and an elevator with red doors at the back. Risotto tried not to drool openly. There was a sleek little Quattroporte, a Maserati, and a couple of Ferraris as well as two motorcycles, all parked neatly on a slight incline leading upward toward an elevator. Careful to ensure the garage door closed after them, Giorno then stepped to the elevator and entered another code. 

The elevator let them out into a spacious open-air floor plan with a half-moon of ceiling-to-floor glass windows overlooking the coastline and lower Napoli, broad white couches and delicate hanging crystal chandeliers, with glass bannisters lining the gently curved stairs leading to the next floor. Risotto thought he also saw an outdoor infinity edge pool and a large smoking balcony to the immediate right from the stairwell on the second floor.

"Is this a house or a museum?" he snarked, while Giorno beckoned him on through the seemingly gigantic crystalline space toward the kitchen tucked away at a turn near the back. 

Giorno breathed hard after the exertion, supporting himself against one of the marble counters in the kitchen. "It's too big and too cold, I keep wanting to renovate, but that's one of those things I'm not allowed to talk about or you'll cut my throat." He smirked at Risotto then. 

The hitman set down the groceries and Giorno reached for them, slowly removing the fruits and vegetables from the bag. Movement hurt like hell, but he needed to keep his circulation going. He also grimaced at discovering a pound of raw, cubed steak wrapped in paper. Padre!

"It used to belong to Capo Polpo, who never used it, and then to Bucciarati, who never used it, and then it was given to me when I got here because I didn't have anywhere to live, officially. And now I never use it either, except for the dungeon we built in the basement. We like Bucciarati's villa better. It's too small and we keep banging into each other, but it actually feels like a home." 

"You have a dungeon in the basement," Risotto started to chuckle, a morbid rattle of laughter; he couldn't help it. He'd been squatting in miserable dumps for months, stealing food, and Giorno and his people were casually draped in Passione's wealth and thought nothing of it. He felt bile and acid roiling in his stomach, the bone-deep anger of a mistreated dog, but Giorno's quiet, weary warmth made it challenging to stay truly angry with him. "I knew we were being ripped off by the former Boss, but I didn't realize this is where all the money was going." 

Giorno shook his head, sympathetic. "Capo Polpo was particularly wasteful of resources, because he brought in millions of Euros for the Company a year. However, I'm afraid the dungeon is all my doing." He paused for a moment, and looked Risotto in the eyes, serious and still,  lagoon eyes shining above a face of lines and bruises. "I can't change what happened, Risotto. I can only promise to try my best to see right done by you from now on." 

"I'm over blaming you," Risotto said, shrugging his hands, leaning against the kitchen island. It was a half-lie, because Giorno was injured. It was a half-lie because part of Risotto would never stop hating all of them, for his own sake and for his men. It was a half-lie because it was easier to say that little than admit he was desperately falling for Giorno. And this Giorno, this strange otherworldly
Giorno, hadn't even been the same one that had ripped apart the Hitman Team for the sake of Don Bucciarati's rise. 

But part of Risotto still wanted to punish him in the dead Giorno's place, just the same. 
 
He pushed away from the counter and nudged at Giorno. "I can put away the rest," he said, gruff. "Don't stress yourself." 

Giorno attempted not to look relieved, but he clearly was, at having the task taken out of his hands. He retreated backward a pace, now leaning on the inset stove for support. Risotto finished putting away the fresh groceries, and began hunting for glassware in the well-stocked cabinets.

Giorno gently indicated the correct cabinet. "It wasn't relevant at the time, and I really didn't have much of a chance to consider it until now, but do you actually have anywhere to live right now, Risotto? Or were you actually squatting in that factory?" 

"No. I was squatting somewhere else." Risotto let his bitterness leak out. He rubbed his hand through his hair and brought down two of the wineglasses. 

"Stay here then," Giorno suggested, in a tone that implied order, not discussion. "We only come here every few months, if we need to host a large interdepartmental meeting, or when we're in the mood for the basement. It's all a little dusty, but I don't want you going back to squatting when I have this laying around useless." He gestured lightly with a hand, the bruising on his arm dark and vivid, then tapped his cheek. "I suppose it might be lonely for one person in here, but at least there's hot and cold running water and it's quiet at night?" 

Risotto frowned and looked aside, clearly debating with himself before spreading his hands wide in surrender. "Fine. Buy me off with housing." It came out darker - and maybe more honest - than he intended, but he looked over and gave Giorno an I didn't really mean it like that look. He reached for the bottle of wine on the counter. "Now. You and I are going to go sit down, drink all of that bottle your father sent, and stop moving." 

Giorno picked up the wine, his body screaming to sit down. "Yes, please."

--

They took the wine and some cheese and olives on a hastily-thrown together plate that Risotto tossed together, and went to sit on Polpo's ridiculously huge white leather couches at the center of the main floor, after shaking the dust off the throws and pillows and covers. Giorno picked up the remote from the table between the couches and turned the bright chandelier down to a low yellow sunset tone, lowered the shades to half-down over the big glass windows, and turned on the A/C to filter out the dust they were kicking up. Each of the couches was more than broad enough to double as a twin-size bed, so Giorno stretched out on one with a quiet sore groan, and Risotto took the couch opposite. 

They talked, but they avoided discussing anything remotely related to 'what came next'. For the moment, the future didn't exist, and they didn't want it to. Instead, they carried on the light chatter they'd been keeping up on the plane trip, casual nothings and sharing small snippets and anecdotes from their pasts. 

"Normally I don't drink this much," Giorno commented as he helped himself to a second full glass, "I don't actually like alcohol. But I think I can drop that for tonight. Every single muscle in my body hurts." The alcohol was hitting him, and since he wasn't used to it, it was hitting hard, but the pleasant heat in his head and stomach seemed to push his intense soreness and pain to one side. 

"Between dying, everything I did to you and everything your father did to you, and then being shot, I can't believe you're here at all," Risotto said, stretching his long legs out in front of him and letting his head roll back to rest on the back of the couch, careful not to spill the half-full glass of wine in his hand.  "You're tougher than I gave you credit for." 

Giorno blushed, still not over being praised, and rubbed at his forehead. "No work talk. Instead I'm going to say this." He rolled onto his side, propping his elbow on the couch and gazing at Risotto. "I'm really glad you kidnapped me." 

"You're drunk," Risotto snorted, hiding the faint heat he felt creeping up his own face behind a long pull on his glass. 

"No, I'm not," Giorno protested. "Well, I might be a tiny bit. But it's the truth, Risotto. I needed to be pushed out of my comfort zone, just like you said. And if you hadn't taken me away, Padre might not have chosen that moment to come after me. And if Padre hadn't taken us, I wouldn't have gotten to know my past."

Giorno turned back onto his back. Lying on his side was irritating one of the larger wounds on his hip. He gazed up into the chandelier for a few minutes, the glow of the yellow bulbs reflecting in his eyes like tiny stars. "You might expect me to hate him, but I really can't. I want to use him for good. Just like I could have chosen to hate you, but instead I saw the strong and kind person underneath the vendetta and wanted to save his life." 

Risotto grumbled at him. "I hate that your naivete somehow works for you and everyone just ends up," He paused and breathed hard. "Caring about you. That's not how reality works. That's not how people work. I'm not kind. Or good. I genuinely wanted you dead, Giorno Giovanna. The idea of strangling you with my own hands while I fuck you into oblivion still gets me rock hard. But you just convince people, by doing nothing more than patiently waiting until they stop hitting you. I don't understand how you pull that off." 

"I don't know either," Giorno confessed. "But I make my own reality. And I know that you're a good person, Risotto."

Then he went quiet for a while, long enough that Risotto thought he might have fallen asleep; his eyes were closed. He got up and took one of the woven white throw blankets down from the back of the couch, and draped it over Giorno. Like this, in tatters, he looked so young, so vulnerable, so human.

Risotto wasn't sure if that scared him or not.

"I'm not asleep," Giorno whispered, eye cracking open. "It all hurts. It's keeping me awake." 

Risotto sat on the edge of the couch, frowned down and found a pillow to tuck under Giorno's head. "I hoped the wine would help that. Do you want some more?"

The blond shook his head no. He inhaled deeply, and then one of his hands emerged from under the blanket, and his slim fingers closed around Risotto's wrist. The assassin looked confused, and did not resist as Giorno took his hand and lifted it.

The blond brought Risotto's hand toward his face, and looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes in the dim light. "You said you could put me down any time," Giorno spoke so softly, his fingertips tapping against the back of Risotto's hand, then rubbing a nervous little circle in the tan skin with his paler forefinger. "Please. I can't get to sleep."  

Risotto pressed his hand to Giorno's forehead for a moment. He felt too warm. "I'll do it, but." He brought his lips down and kissed Giorno softly under his eye. "I can't promise I won't fuck you while you're unconscious." 

Giorno's pulse jumped. "No penetration," he countered, reddening from throat to scalp. "And no puppeteering. I need to be here when I'm having sex." He lifted his gaze, eyes wide and yearning. "So I can feel you in me. I'm supposed to be healing." 

"Fair enough. Anything else?" 
 
"Promise me you'll sleep too. We both need it." 

"I'll go find a bed after I take care of you." 

Giorno craned up as best he could to kiss Risotto's cheek. "Good. Thank you." 

"Sweet dreams, I hope." The assassin moved over Giorno onto the couch, pinning the blond's arms down under the weight of his knees, making the white couch leather creak and puff. He licked his lips and then brought both hands up, closing them gently over Giorno's mouth and pinching his nostrils closed at the same time. He pressed hard, trapping Giorno's head in the pillow to keep him from being able to twist free.

Giorno made a dark mhnph trapped in his throat, and his body struggled instinctively for a few long moments, legs lifting and shoulders rocking side to side under Risotto, before he succumbed and fell limp. 

Lifting his hands away, Risotto checked to make sure Giorno's breathing had resumed and was steady, and when he found that it was, he chuckled and sat back on his haunches, just looking down at his young Don with a fond, slightly exasperated expression. "Naive," he murmured, huffing out a hard burst of his own breath. Giorno struggling under him that close to his dick did things to him, no matter the circumstance. He slung himself off Giorno to go investigate the second floor bedrooms and distract himself from his erection. 

He found one of the bedrooms seemed the least dusty, and after shaking off the bed covers, he went back downstairs and gathered up Giorno and his blanket, carefully hefting the blond into his arms to take him upstairs. Like hell he was gonna sleep alone with Giorno being right there. It would be easier to monitor him if they were in the same bed anyway. Giorno made a small noise as he was lifted but did not wake.

Once he put Giorno into the bed he quickly peeled out of his borrowed clothing and moved in next to him. He really had wanted to at least rub one off on Giorno's back, but as his head hit the pillow and he reached to start turning Giorno over, he ended up just crashing, hard, with his face falling into the crook of Giorno's left shoulder. 

They slept, enfolded in Napoli summer night.

--

Risotto slept poorly, waking every few hours in old, tense habit, checking both to see that Giorno was still there, still breathing, and still asleep. Giorno was warm and soft and snoring gently, and Risotto wished he'd had a camera or some way to capture the image of the blond in such an exposed and tender state. He lingered, drinking in the sight for a long time, and resisting the urge to touch, for fear of waking Giorno and shattering the spell. 

He felt as if he'd somehow blundered into an alternate reality during the week, and everything that had happened - from the kidnapping to their Stand fusion to his being pulled into Giorno's orbit and the battles inside Dio's fortress - seemed head-spinningly surreal, like something from a dream. Suddenly he was surrounded by markers of wealth and power after a lifetime of being denied them in service, and he was greedy for all of it, and more.  

He wanted Giorno to recover, but he also didn't want to leave his side. Didn't want to lose the intimate access to his body that Master of Puppets gave him. He knew that once Giorno was back at work, their separate lives would resume. He knew he couldn't hold Giorno against the work, and his connection to his inner circle. 

He trusted Giorno to keep to his word, and understood exactly what the young sottocapo was taking on in attempting to bring him onboard. He knew there would be much less chance of them having any time alone together like this for the near future. Risotto was grasping hold of those last few hours to keep all that he could. 

He let Giorno sleep, and slipped carefully out of bed for a while to stretch, piss, poke around the house and slap together some kind of breakfast. He pulled on the suit pants but left off the shirt and jacket, as he felt too warm for them. The hitman was definitely curious about that dungeon Giorno had mentioned, but when he investigated the elevator, he realized he didn't know any of the codes, and there wasn't enough of an indication on the keypad as to give him a chance to guess and crack it. 

After satisfying his curiosity about the house, and noting the pool needed cleaning, he returned to the bedroom and found Giorno awake in bed. 

"Hey," Risotto said, settling back down next to him. "How's the meat?" 

Giorno made a face at him - they'd discussed the eating on the plane trip in - and snorted. "Still raw." He looked somehow more tired, the bags under his eyes and the limp way his hair hung across his face making him look rumpled and crushed. "I'm not sure I can even move now." 

"I'll put you back down if you want, but first tell me the elevator code to the dungeon. I have to see this." 

Giorno laughed. "It's 4444. Its an in-joke with Mista." 

Risotto's turn to make a face. "That guy. You seriously let that guy fuck you?" 

"We are not discussing work, remember?" Giorno's aquamarine eyes flashed a clear warning. "Anyway, no, let me try and get to the bathroom first and get some water, at least." He grunted and slowly, very obviously stiffened and stressed, tried to push himself up and get out of the bed. Risotto moved to help him, offering steady arms. 

"Can't your Stand do anything more?" Risotto wondered, as the slim blonde managed to get onto his feet and stretched slow, wincing the whole time. "You look like a quail egg." 

"Gold Experience can't fix bruises and muscle soreness," Giorno sighed. "I wish it could. But it's the reason I'm on my feet at all. I'm burning Stand energy right now just to keep myself from collapsing."

Risotto frowned. "Stop that. You can't rely on your Stand if you don't have enough physical strength to begin with." 

Giorno shook his head. "If I wasn't, I'd be on the floor right now." 

"Then let me take you to a doctor. We can say you were beaten up by thugs. It wouldn't even be a lie. You could get some nice legal pain pills out of it. How long do you think you can get away with burning the candle at both ends?" 

Giorno gave Risotto a miserable, vulnerable look. "I'm used to taking care of myself," he said, his voice uncertain as he peeked out from under the fall of his unwound golden forelocks. "You know doctors and mobsters don't mix." 

"You don't have a house physician or something on call for Passione?" 

"No, it's always been me," Giorno looked at the floor. "And that's one more thing we're not going to talk about, right?" 

"You," Risotto said, sliding off the bed to fold his arms around Giorno, "Need help." He held Giorno close and murmured. "Turn off your Stand. I won't let you fall." 

The blond gave a shudder, and then complied, a small and subtle shift of energy releasing. Giorno did slump then, his legs collapsing under him, but Risotto caught him back up. 

"I told you," Giorno said, frustrated. 

"Quiet. Come on, what do you want, bathroom?" 

"Yes." 

--

"I feel like an invalid," Giorno groused, leaning on Risotto as they slowly made their way down the glass-walled stairs back to the main floor. 

"Let people help you," the hitman scowled. "You're doing worse than I thought. I may have you call your friends. They may not be able to heal you, but they can take care of you while you recover. I don't want you doing anything more stressful than breathing for a while yet." 

Giorno froze, and pressed his fingers into Risotto's arm, shaking his head. "Not yet. Please. I love them and I miss them but..." 

"But you're too tired to put on the game face, and you can't handle them babying you because you think you're a burden and it embarrasses you when they do." 

Giorno pressed his lips together and nodded, pain written clean on his features. "I don't want them to see me like this." 

"Fortunately for you," Risotto smiled then, fondness entering his words, "I'm not your friend. I'm your kidnapper. The weaker you are, the better it is for me. I'm supposed to see you like this." 

Giorno chuckled and rested his head against Risotto's arm for a moment, a rub of his temple against Risotto's bicep. "Does that mean I'm developing Stockholm syndrome if I like being held hostage?" 

The assassin laughed, then turned softer, and looked away from Giorno. "I'd keep you for longer if I could. Don't think I'm not thinking about it. You're helpless. No one knows where you are. I could still stuff you in a trunk and drag you out of the country. Between your abilities and mine, we'd do just fine wherever we went." 

"A little house on the Côte d'Azur," Giorno said, wistful and dreamy as Risotto set him down in one of the white couches again. "Laundry flapping on the line. I can wear white, and grow oranges." 

"Now you're taunting me," Risotto huffed. "Keep that up and I'm knocking you out and stapling your mouth shut." 

"I have no obligation to be kind to my kidnapper," Giorno riposted, prim but playful. "Besides, you would end up hating it. It'd be too passive and placid for you. You need to stalk and kill." 

"Even killers have dreams, Don Giovanna," Risotto retorted, moving into the kitchen. 

--

They ate lightly again, Risotto having made a simple vegetable fritatta for their breakfast, and then Giorno rested, drifting in and out of bleary consciousness leaning on several couch cushions propped against the couch's arm, while he stretched his legs out on the white leather. 

Risotto was curious about the wheeled luggage that Dio had sent along with them, which sat on the floor between the couches unopened. "The pilot loaded it up right after we were on board and told me not to touch it." 

"I don't know either," Giorno confessed. "Maybe it's Steely Dan's head." 

"Grim," Risotto chuckled. Giorno liked it when Risotto laughed, it took years off his face. "But I would expect that from your lunatic of a father." He hefted it into the large table between the couches with a grunt. "Want me to open it?" 

Giorno said, "Go ahead. Just be ready just in case Padre's got some last weird trick to play on us." Risotto nodded, and tapped his finger against the lock, using Metallica to 'pick' it so that it snapped open with a tiny click. Giorno looked on, blinking his eyes a few times to keep himself focused. 

There was a severed head in there, but it was Hol Horse's, not Steely Dan's, and it was encased in a solid plastic block, frozen forever with singed hat still on, and an expression of misery on his face. There was a hefty envelope taped to a side of the block addressed to Giorno, and after the grisly trophy was removed, they also found 2 tailored suits in white and gold embroidery for Giorno, two top of the line new cell phones in jet black (with only one phone number in the contacts), and a small bag of Dio's ancient gold bullion, which Giorno estimated was probably about another 3 quarters of a million in USD. There was also a new folding hunting knife for Risotto, with a note attached to it that simply read, "We'll talk. Meanwhile, mind my son. - D." 

"I didn't imagine Padre was the type to give gifts," Giorno blinked, as he took the envelope off the plastic block and felt at it. There was something heavy and round inside the envelope that he could feel with his fingers. 

"He's doing it to get the last word in, like a proper narcissist," Risotto answered, but he had already unboxed one of the phones and slipped it and its charger into his pocket. He drew the knife, opened it and whistled, impressed. "Can't complain. This is more expensive than it looks." He made a few stabs at the air. "Feels good in my hand, too." 

Giorno reached for the knife and used it to slice open the top of his envelope. He drew out a sheet of old paper written in a fine, feathery hand in Italian. Along with it came a golden ring. 

Like the gold bullion, it was old, and well-worn. There were minute scratches inside the band, and some lost jeweler's imprint almost rubbed off from use. The outside bore an small oval-shaped diamond in the center of some intricate goldwork resembling the Egyptian Eye, and circular golden o-shaped rings ran along the rest of the band on the outside. 

The letter read: 

Giorno:

The world is changed by your example, not your opinion.

I expect greatness of you, and if you do not deliver it, I will intervene to see that you do. I will be watching with interest as you develop your kingdom, and if you truly need powerful aid, you may contact me again. Do not expect me to care for the petty concerns of a day to day mafia life, however. You are more than capable enough to handle those yourself. The eyes of DIO look toward the greater promise of a horizon far beyond this world.

Enclosed is a trifle. I will tell you of its history in brief. 

This ring I enclose belonged to one Mary Joestar, wife of George Joestar, father of Jonathan Joestar. She died in 1868, protecting her son during a carriage crash in a rainstorm the mountains of England. George Joestar gave this ring to my father, Dario Brando, with only the most pure and heartfelt of reasons. It was hoped that the man would use the ring to provide a better life for myself and himself. 

He sold it for drinking money. 

It took me some effort to track the Joestar wedding rings down and secure them for myself. I pass one down to you, not as a token of the Joestar lineage, nor of Jonathan's blood that you share, but as a warning from the unmourned past.

Kind efforts well intentioned can lead others to destruction by enabling their weaknesses. The sentimental foolishness of Jonathan is in you, but also the persistence and cunning of DIO. Be sparing in your mercy, and savage in your compassion. 

You are my son. Act like it. 

-DIO

Giorno felt heat flood his face. He inhaled, brushed at his eyes, and then regarded the ring again before slipping it onto his right hand ring finger. It fit as if it were meant for him. He vowed to himself that it would never leave his hand, that he would take it as Dio intended. 

Risotto noticed him rubbing his face. "Everything okay?" 

Giorno nodded, face feeling tight. "Yeah, Padre sent me an heirloom." He found he had trouble breathing, his chest tight with emotions too unfamiliar and yet too precious to bear. He realized he missed Dio. "This ring was part of the family's history." he held up his hand to show it.  

"He seems to care about you. As much as a crazy vampire can." Risotto said, putting down the knife and picking up the plastic block containing their mutual enemy's severed head. He turned it about in his hands, feeling grim satisfaction - and then, abruptly, struck by the uncomfortable reminder of Sorbet and Gelato. He felt himself turning colder as he was flooded with memories of his betrayed and murdered teammates. Guilt bit at Risotto's throat anew. 

"I won his favor, but it's conditional," Giorno sighed. He was under no illusions as to how his relationship with Dio might progress in the future. "You should keep that," Giorno said as he sat back in the couch, unaware of Risotto's inner turmoil. "You won that fight anyway, not me." 

"I don't need victory tokens." Risotto set the head down again, and his eyes were in shadow. He swiped his hand over his face and looked away, then rose abruptly. "Give me a minute. I'll get some water for you." 

"Risotto," Giorno reached out. Risotto's mood had shifted so fast, but now he saw it clear; something had triggered a dark memory in the hitman, it was plain on his face. "Tell me." 

"Not yet." 

"Have we not established trust by now?" Giorno pleaded. 

"I can't. Not to you," Risotto repeated, and left the room. 

Giorno's mouth moved in a dissatisfied twitch, and he inhaled once and exhaled. He wished that the hitman would confide in him. He'd - they'd - come so far already, hadn't they? 

Out of consideration for the pain it seemed to have caused, Giorno leaned forward with effort, took Hol Horse's head and tucked it under the table, out of sight. 

-- 

Risotto stomped an angry circle in the kitchen, knowing his anger was futile, knowing he was trapped by his own choices, he'd put on his own leash. The reminder of his loss and the vastness of that loss snapped at his heels, and Metallica picked up and amplified his furious mood, sending the corners of his vision red and making him clench his hands until his nails drove into his palms and drew half-moon bites of blood out of his skin, dropping tiny spots on the kitchen tile. 

He soaked in his bleak thoughts, and was only broken out of them by the feeling of arms slipping around his body from behind, hands clasping together along his waist. He glanced down, startled, and saw golden metal and armored hands set with large purple ladybug inlays. Giorno's Stand, but he felt soft breath on the back of his neck, a sigh, and heard Giorno's voice speaking from Gold Experience's lips. Giorno was not well enough to leave the couch, so he'd pushed his Stand forward on his behalf.

"I don't know what happened to upset you, but I'm sorry," Giorno's Stand gripped the hitman harder, squeezing, a faint golden glow moving to envelop Risotto. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling hot tears, but the tender energy of Giorno's Stand was slowly calming Metallica, slowly easing him back off the brink.

"I think it must be about your team. It's the only thing you've steered away from talking about with me. I know it's sensitive. I know it hurts. I know it doesn't help to hear it after the fact, but I still want you to hear me saying it clearly. I'm sorry. I consider the ruin of La Squadra one of the worst mistakes I made the first time as Don, and I can't justify what we did except as ignorance, fear and impatience. I know it's not comforting to hear me say that it required so much blood for me to learn such an obvious lesson. I was young, I was stupid, and I was careless," Gold Experience sighed into Risotto's neck, Giorno's pain rippling through the Stand.

"Even if I didn't personally pull the trigger in this world, I am responsible for what I did in mine, and I should have done things differently." 

Risotto choked down a sound that wanted to be a bitter laugh but was closer to a sob. Metallica was calming but the pain in his heart burned like spears of fire. "Why do you get the happy ending?" he managed, voice raw and rough. "Why do you get to have your family back?"

"I wish I could answer that." Giorno's voice was so soft. The Stand's warm, plastic lips brushed the back of Risotto's neck. "I can't. There's nothing about me that deserves that second chance. But this isn't the happy ending, Risotto. I still have to build it for all of us. And I need you in it." 

Risotto's eyes were tightly closed. His words were a struggle to get out of his throat. "Just. Leave me alone for a little. I'll... be fine." 

He could feel Giorno's reluctance, but Gold Experience's arms unwound and the Stand drifted back, head bowed, fading into the air. 

He went to the sink, ran cold water, and splashed it across his face several times to wash away the heat and salt of the tears he couldn't wholly control, heaving dryly into the sink as if he were trying to physically wring the grief out of his body by force. 

--

A bit later, Risotto returned, bearing a pitcher of water and calm again; he sat, poured out a glass for Giorno and pushed it across the table, then sat back, hands linking in front of his face and eyes dark, lost in thought. The edges of his eyes were red-rimmed.

Giorno waited, wondered what he was thinking, but Risotto then spoke. "I need to tell you something. Your father had a consultation with a seer while you were sedated in his lap," he began. "It involved you, but I only understood part of it. It sounded like religious babble. An 'inevitable Advent' and that they didn't need to rush the plan. They seem to think your Stand needs more time to develop first." 

"'My eyes look to a greater horizon beyond'," Giorno murmured. "So you think..." 

"You were right before - we were released on conditions. You should consider yourself not so much free as let out on a very long leash," Risotto said, breaking his hands apart and looking at Giorno. "Your father may retract that leash at any time. They also spoke of a sacrifice." 

Giorno nodded, and turned his head to gaze away in thought, expression turning grave; remembering the words of the Requiem: Live as a slave. "I'm sure that's part of what the whole testing nonsense was all about. Especially if, as you imply, I'm being set up to be the altar lamb." 

Worry creased his forehead, and he briefly envisioned chains wrapping around his throat - one leading to Dio, one to Risotto, one to the nebulous form of Passione and Italy itself, one to the cosmic eyes of Bruno's Requiem. It seemed to him that the inlay in his chest tightened across his skin for a heartbeat as well.

"I seem to be piling on a lot of leashes lately," Giorno tried to keep his tone casual, hiding the sudden spike of anxiety that the images stirred. He picked up the glass of water and drank, but he knew Risotto could read the shifts of his blood and probably saw straight through him. 

Risotto nodded, eyes still dark. "Be careful," the hitman warned, "Allow many more of them to take hold and you won't be able to move at all. That was our mistake."

"Tell me," Giorno asked, gentle. He felt that Risotto was finally ready - and maybe needed - to speak about them then. 

And Risotto told him. He let his memories spill out, telling Giorno anecdotes that had him gasping with laughter, and wide-eyed with surprise, and about the Boss's constant insults and devaluation of the group that had Giorno fuming alongside him. He told Giorno about the group's cat. And then he talked about their deaths. Sorbet and Gelato and how Sorbet had been sent back in 36 neat, plastic-sealed slices. He told Giorno how much he reminded him of Gelato; how much he saw of Sorbet in himself, and the two of them together.  

Giorno pushed himself off the couch and crossed around, slow and painful, to sit down again next to Risotto. He pulled the hitman's rough hand into his and held it, listening intently with few interruptions as Risotto let his memories pour out. He tipped his head against Risotto's, and Risotto rested his forehead against Giorno's, and the words came in stories, in long floods, until Risotto was raw from speaking, too tired to continue, and his hand tightened in Giorno's with almost desperate need. 

Giorno soothed him, gently rolling his temple back and forth against Risotto's. "You've been carrying so much for so long. I won't insult you by telling you to put it aside. I know you can't." He reached up and touched Risotto's brow. "And I don't think you should." 

"They want me to kill all of you. Until I do, they can't rest in peace." Risotto's head hung low.

"I know," Giorno's eyes closed. "I'm asking something unfair of you, and I know that." He looked up, turned Risotto's face toward his with a soft motion of his hand. "I'm asking you to live for the future, instead of the past." 

Risotto let out a low, miserable sound. "Giorno, the future's done nothing but betray me. Over and over." 

"But I won't." Giorno vowed, gazing fondly into the hitman's dark eyes. He kissed Risotto tenderly. 

"I wish I could believe you," Risotto said, kissing him back.

-- 

It was easier to say farewell with their bodies instead of their words.

It was late on the second day, and Risotto was deep inside Giorno, filling his ass with deep and steady thrusts of his cock, rubbing the blond's bare, bruise-speckled back with his hands in an uneven rhythm. Giorno's head was propped on his folded hands, and he moaned softly and eagerly, sighing at the assassin's touch, even though the fucking was freshly aggravating his internal injuries. He couldn't bring himself to care. He needed it too much. The couch springs ground underneath them as Risotto kept up a slow and unyielding pace. Giorno's fingers gripped into the couch, and his face was bright red, his mouth wet and shining. 

Risotto pumped and pumped, and soon stuttered in a breath as he filled Giorno with a hot spurt of cum. He slid out, and both of them stilled, panting, damp-skinned. Giorno let out a long, low sigh, more than sated but ready to sleep again, his twitching body already crying out in protest at the renewed pain burning through his marked thighs and spasming innards. 

"I'm going to put you down in a minute," Risotto murmured into Giorno's hair. "When you wake again, I won't be here. You're going to stay here and keep resting. I want you to call your friends once I'm gone. Do not look for me." 

"How can I contact you?" Giorno asked softly, as Risotto bent to move away his hair and kiss slowly at the finger-marks on Giorno's throat, and the deep red star on his shoulder. 

"I'll be around, though I'm going to leave Napoli for a few weeks first to clean up a few things and get my head straight," Risotto told his Don between worshipful kisses at his bruised shoulder. "I put the number of the second phone into yours, but you're not to call it. I won't break my promise. Your friends are safe from me. But I don't want to be here when they arrive, and you will not allow them to look for me, either. I serve Don Giovanna, not Passione. When I'm ready, I'll find you." 

Giorno was relieved, despite that. He nodded, biting his lip. He didn't want Risotto to leave, and something bitter and small and selfish in him began to wail and thrash at the back of his mind. 

"I'm going to miss you," he whispered. Risotto's weight was on him and he couldn't turn over, but he yearned to look the hitman in the face just one more time. "I don't want you to go." 

"I don't want to go either," Risotto admitted, threadbare and hurting. He pressed down and forward, pushing all his weight into Giorno, and nuzzled at his neck for a few seconds before he brought his hands up and around to cover Giorno's mouth and nose once more. "It's better this way," he said softly, breath sneaking over Giorno's ear as he took the blond's air away. "Go down, gorgeous. Nice and easy. One last time." 

Giorno whimpered, but he fought that time, arms slapping uselessly against the foot of the couch and digging at a pillow. Risotto's grip was inescapable, his head was trapped between Risotto's strong arms, and the hitman was determined. Giorno swooned away underneath the assassin's hands with a small, desperate pleading sound as he faded. 

Risotto groaned hard and loud as he peeled himself off Giorno's body, watched him breathe for a few seconds, and then covered him with the white throw blanket. "Fuck." 

He took twenty of the gold coins out of the bag in the suitcase - more than enough payment to hold him over for some time without performing work - and took one last long, yearning look at his bruised and beautiful Don as he lay helpless on the couch. 

He'll be all right, he lied to himself.

Then he inhaled, turned sharply on a heel, found his clothing, got dressed, and left the house, tossing one of the gold coins in his hand as he turned his eyes toward the sky.  

Chapter Text

When Giorno woke again, gasping back to consciousness, he was alone, and everything was dark around him. 

The absence hurt almost as much as his wrecked body. Risotto was gone. Dio was gone. Night had fallen, the sun set and the moon nowhere in sight. Outside the night was starless, dark and overcast. Only bits of ambient light from the city below and some vague glow from the sea came in through the half-closed picture window. Less than a candle's glow, enough to pick out the vaguest outlines around himself, but nothing more.

Giorno felt anew that cold bite, the dread of darkness that had clung to him for as long as he could remember. The terror of abandonment, of being left alone with no support. And everything he had pushed aside for a week to be 'dealt with later' started to back up in his throat, as if it were physical, trying to choke him from inside. This time, he couldn't fight it off.  

He fumbled around, in pain, and found the second cell phone, the one he'd been left with. His fingers jittered as he turned it on. The illumination of the screen flared in the dark, too bright, painful. He thumbed through to the contacts and found the second number in them. He stared at the name next to the number. RIS. NERO. 

His fingers shook even harder as he hovered above the dial button. He wanted to call. He wanted to hear Risotto's voice, even if it told him not to call again. He wanted it madly. His thighs were still burning and his empty body was screaming with agony but he still craved Risotto's voice in his ear and to pretend there was that hot, stuttering contact at his shoulder of lips teasing over his skin. Just once more. 

Maybe there was still a tiny bit of Metallica left inside his body, withering and dying inside him, crying out in vain for its master, for the lost connection. He felt sick to his stomach at the thought.  

Giorno threw the black phone away back onto the table, away from himself. A last-ditch effort to save himself before he gave in to the wrong impulse. 

He folded himself over his knees. He folded his arms over his head and shoved his fingers through his hair and pressed his fingertips into his scalp and pulled hard at the golden roots of his hair. He shook violently, rocking up and down in place; he wanted to break everything in sight, smash all the glass and all the pretty, cold decorations just to make it all as ruined as he felt, but he was too racked to move. He wanted to scream, but the lump in his throat blocked his voice. He tried to breathe, tried to breathe, it wasn't working, he was spiraling and he couldn't stop himself... 

Gold Experience burst out of his back unsummoned, half-formed, glimmering bright against the dark and back in its normal humanoid shape again, but it only pressed a hand on the back of Giorno's neck, rubbed its fingers into his skin, and looked past him into shadow. It was a cold comfort that could no longer fill the gaps and cracks of his grief as it once had when he was a child afraid of the dark, now that he had known real love and real friendship.

You have a life beyond this grief, the Stand finally spoke to him, cutting through the noise and clatter in Giorno's overheated mind with gentle firmness. This is temporary. Pick yourself up and live. 

"It hurts," Giorno hissed back, voice finally cracking through the blockage clotting his throat.

Because you are human, Gold Experience countered. In case you forgot. He told you to call the others for help when he was gone. Are you going to disobey his last command? 

Giorno froze for a moment, then heaved out a deep breath. A weird, hard little laugh, bittersweet and aching, fell out of him; there was something wrong and yet right in the argument, a truth he couldn't elude. "You're right." 

Of course I'm right. I'm you. 

Gold Experience pulled fully from him, formed up solid, and guided Giorno up. The Stand supported him fully, pulling the blond off the couch and steering him through the dim house toward the inline phone on a wall toward the back near the kitchen. 

Giorno shoved at his face, pushed his straggling hair out of his eyes,  and then forced himself to breathe. In, out. 

5 breaths, 10 breaths. In. Out. 

He was not useless Haruno Shiobana any more, quaking in hunger and fear. He was Giorno Giovanna. 

Son of Dio Brando. 

And he had friends now. Powerful friends.

He picked up the phone with Gold Experience still tight at his back, keeping him upright. The dial tone buzzed in his ear and he pressed the speed dial that would call the villa. He wondered which of them was going to be on the phone to answer, and perversely, guiltily, he hoped it wouldn't be Mista. He wasn't ready to have that conversation yet. 

Was it better or worse that it was Abbacchio that answered? The goth simply said, "Yeah," on the other end. Giorno swallowed his saliva and said, "Abba, it's Giorno. I'm okay." 

He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Phone says you're calling from Site B." 

"Yes. Please let everyone know." It was so hard to keep his voice steady. He missed them so much, and he needed to be the person they expected him to be, and he still didn't want them to see him as ruined as he felt inside, with his heart in shreds. "I plan to stay here for a few days while I recover." 

Silence. Then, unexpected. "It was that bad." Tender ferocity roiled under the surface of Abbacchio's cold-seeming words, and Giorno was startled to hear that much emotion in the goth's usually colorless voice. Since when did Abba care so much? Or was it just that he had missed the tells from overfamiliarity? 

He wondered what else he had been overlooking. 

"It was," he paused, considered. "Bad and... complicated. But I'm going to be okay." 

"Good," Abbacchio said, simply. "You'd better be. Do you want us to come?" 

"I do. Just..." What did he want to say? He struggled to find the perfect words, the right Giorno words. "I need everyone to stay calm. Risotto's gone. I just," and he trailed off again, feeling helpless to explain. Somehow, Abbacchio understood anyway. 

"It's fine. Everyone's going to make a huge fuss over your stupid ass and you probably won't be able to piss without being shadowed for a while. Mista's been fucking embarrassing since you disappeared. Trish is here for him and Narancia. Bruno misses you. We have intelligence to report but something tells me you might already be ahead of us on that one."

"Thank you," Giorno said, quietly. He found himself toying with the phone cord in his hands. "I feel like I owe everyone apologies for making you worry." 

"For the love of Christ, brat, you were kidnapped. Stop apologizing." 

"Shutting up." The roiling sense of miserable loneliness that ached within him eased several notches at the stern sound of his friend's voice. Abbacchio, for all his bitterness and bile, was his friend. And his voice reminded Giorno that he truly missed all of them, even the cranky goth. "Please come. I'll try really hard to be awake when you get here." 

"Yeah. Bye." A click. 

Giorno inhaled and set the phone back in its cradle. Gold Experience had sank back into his skin, holding him up from within long enough to do what he needed to do to be ready for them. 

He made his way to the couch, and took Hol Horse's head and the black phone and the letter and sealed them all back inside the luggage, then transformed the luggage into a mouse and sent it scurrying upstairs to hide inside a closet.   

He slowly made his way upstairs, back to the bedroom he and Risotto had been using, and put himself into the bathroom. He washed his face with cold water, rubbed a warm cloth over himself to clean off the last traces of the assassin from his body. 

Naked then, he sighed as he held the substitute robe he'd still been wearing from Cairo after he'd been healed of his wounds. It still carried the thick scent of opium and dust. He clenched his fingers into it for a few moments, but then he transformed it into a series of pillbugs that he sent scattering down his body, to the floor and then wriggling into dark corners behind cabinets and baseboards until they were gone from sight.  

There was another robe in the closet and some sweatpants that he pulled on; they were not nearly as comfortable as the silk he'd just destroyed. 
By the time he made it back downstairs, he was completely exhausted again. His head spun with the combination of his fluctuating emotions and the physical effort. He toppled sidelong into the couch, turning off his Stand again. He clutched at one of the pillows, holding it against his chest, and browned out. 

--

Bruno had actually been against everyone going to see Giorno right away.

It came down to an actual screaming fight between himself and Mista, and Bruno had finally had to pull rank on him, reminding him that he was the Boss. Mista went red in the face and stomped off to the back garden cursing vehemently about 'you fuckers weren't there, you don't even know him' and various other things he truly didn't really mean, but his anger was too hot and too wild to control. He'd spent the whole time on poor sleep, stricken with nightmares and intrusive images of Giorno, his Giorno, suffering, bleeding, dying, run through with nails and razor blades, with him being able to do nothing about it. Outside, under the lightless sky, he roared and raged and the Pistols buzzed around his head, trying to talk him down.

In the end, Bruno took only Trish and Narancia with him. Abbacchio stayed behind, partially to keep Mista from doing something absurd. What that was, he wasn't quite sure, but he felt like it was probably the last thing Giorno actually needed. 

Bruno spoke softly to Trish and Narancia in the drive over to Site B. 

"I don't know what to expect when we get there, but we should be prepared for it to be ugly, and difficult to see," he warned his soldatos. "If I know anything about Giorno, he will probably hate us seeing him injured and try to downplay it in front of us." He sighed, as he drove. "We need to be mindful of that. Last time we got him back from Risotto, I nearly had to tie him to bed to keep him from reinjuring himself by trying to pick up duties too quickly. So try and be gentle with him, but be ready to intervene." 

Trish agreed with this, but she also frowned. "He's not a baby, Bruno. He can handle a little love." She said this, while holding a basket full of food and other goodies that she'd packed for Giorno in her lap. 

"I'll do whatever he wants," Narancia vowed, legs bouncing with anxiety. "Whatever you guys say. I just gotta know he's gonna be okay." Giorno's absences always hit Narancia extra hard. He kept remembering the younger Giorno's death in the turtle and couldn't keep the dread from chewing at his gut. And he knew he wasn't the only one thinking about it.  

All three of them had seen Giorno die before their eyes. 

As they arrived, they were quiet in emerging from the elevator, speaking in low voices. They found the main room unlit. Bruno went to the side and activated the chandeliers, pushing back the darkness but keeping the light mild. They quickly found where Giorno had crumpled at the couch. 

He was unkempt and battered, and it was hard not to feel stabs of fear at the sight; his golden hair hung wild across his face, limp, unbraided and unstyled, his face bearing deep shadows, dark bruises and pits under his eyes, at the corners of his mouth and on his cheeks. 

Narancia hovered over the back of the couch and fretted to himself, bobbing up and down on his toetips with nervous energy.

Trish lifted her hand to her lips, sssh. She set the basket down on the table, then crouched down between the couch and table and very gingerly and gently put her hand out to touch Giorno's shoulder. She kept her voice kind and low. "Giorno. Sorry to wake you. We're here." 

The blond mumbled, lips parting, and then he cracked a green eye open. "Hi." His voice was raspy.

Trish nibbled on her lip. He was definitely in some of the worst shape she'd ever seen him, except for the time his prior self had died in her arms. She felt a chill down her spine and fought down the memories. Giorno was still here and he was still alive.

"Hi yourself. Bruno and Narancia are here too. We didn't want to bring everyone all at once. Are you okay being touched?" 

"Yeah." Giorno raised himself, with a grunt. The shudder of his arms was enough to tell how much effort it took. As he righted himself and pressed his back against the couch, Narancia sneak-attacked from behind the couch and wrapped his arms tight over Giorno's shoulders, pushing his nose into Giorno's hair. "Missed you so much," the scouter sniffled. "Really, really missed you." 

There was warmth and fear in the hug and Giorno tipped his head back, bumping  the back of his head gently against Narancia's brow. "I missed you too," he said, and smiled, and meant it. "I really could have used Aerosmith's help." 

"I'd have kicked their asses," Narancia growled into Giorno's hair. 

Bruno, observing from a slight distance, came around and sat on the opposite couch, leaning forward with his hands linked together, elbows on knees. "We're glad you're home, Giorno," he began, lowering his hands. His blue eyes looked closely over Giorno, taking in what he could see. "And you're under no obligation to tell us anything you don't feel ready to. Do you feel up to talking about what happened?" 

Trish settled on the couch next to Giorno, reaching for and pulling his hand into hers, giving it a squeeze. She saw the dark bruises on his wrist and struggled not to wince. 

Giorno looked from one to the other, from Trish to Bruno, and breathed in. "No point in delaying."  He spoke clinically, and a little too quickly, as if he wanted to get it out as fast as possible, summarizing the events from his kidnapping by Risotto, then a highly condensed explanation of Dio, Dio's fortress, and that he had been in several fights, and raped multiple times.

Narancia went very, very quiet. His arms tightened in around Giorno.

Trish's eyes went wide. "Jesus. You had a death march to Rome, didn't you." That phrase had become something of a group shorthand for the demise of Diavolo and all that had been required to bring it about. She squeezed Giorno's hand harder. She hated how casually he could mention being sexually abused as if it didn't mean anything, but she didn't want to confront him about it. He had to be in so much pain, though, she thought.

Giorno nodded, weary. "I did. But," he lifted his eyes and matched Bruno's gaze with his own; they had always understood each other perfectly with nothing but traded glances. "Risotto Nero is no longer a threat to any of us." 

Bruno raised a brow, but he nodded. He was itching with curiosity to know more, but he pushed that aside. "Well, that's more than enough to put you on vacation status as long as you want, Giorno," he said finally. "I'm exhausted just hearing it. What a nightmare." 

"Why did your dad want to hurt you?" Narancia let go of Giorno and stepped around to perch on the arm of the couch beside him, to his left. "I mean, we all kinda had shit dads 'cept Bruno so I can see it, but. Why your dad, I guess?" 

Giorno lifted his head and looked into the chandelier. "You remember I told you that my father was a vampire," he began. "It's true. He's also powerful, wealthy, and controls a network of strong Stand users of his own. He kidnapped me to decide if I was actually worthy of being considered his son or not. And if I wasn't able to satisfy him, he probably would have killed me."

Trish muttered, quoting, "'I think your old man and my old man should get together and go bowling.'" At the stares she got from the others for saying it, she blinked back. "What? You idiots never saw The Breakfast Club? Molly Ringwald? I'm renting it and making you watch." 

Giorno leaned her way, a black chuckle falling out of him as he pressed his shoulder against hers in sympathy. Neither of them had any love for Trish's father. Then he lifted his hand to show everyone the gold ring on his right hand. "I passed. And in the process, I learned so much about my family and its history. Even about my mother. I'm not a blank slate any more." 

Trish took his hand and examined the ring for a moment, wide-eyed. "An actual family heirloom." She sounded wistful. 

Bruno really had a hard time suppressing his curiosity then. He knew how badly the previous Giorno had ached to find his place, for answers about where he'd come from, and now that this Giorno had met and confronted his father... "You must be feeling such mixed emotions right now." 

Giorno confirmed this, "He's untrustworthy, to say the least. In many ways, the worst possible father I could have had. But I can't hate him." 

"Did he suck your blood too?" Narancia put on a terrible version of the cliche vampire voice, raising his fingers into claws. "Bleh, bleh."

In answer, Giorno pulled down the shoulder of his robe and pointed at the three finger-sized pale white dots of restored flesh at his neck. "Vampires eat with their hands." 

Narancia gaped at him. "Eww, gross. Your dad sucked you." He snickered. 

Giorno added with a completely straight face, "Apparently, I taste delicious to vampires." 

Trish groaned. "Things I did not ever need to know, Giorno!" She swatted at him, and he said "Ow!" and then she took her hand back. "Shit, sorry!" 

Giorno laughed, shaking his head. "It's okay."

Trish and Narancia hugged onto Giorno and he let them, even with a few small winces he didn't bother to try hiding. "I'm so sorry," he said then, eyes closing. "I'm sorry that everyone had to waste time worrying about me. I wish I could have communicated with you once I was in my father's fortress." 

"We can talk about that later," Bruno decided. "You've done nothing wrong." He brushed his hands together brisk, as if to say 'that's the end of it'. But then he looked up and met Giorno's gaze again. "I hate to be harping on a point that may be sore, and which you've already spoken of, but I do need to know one thing for certain, Giorno." His look said 'and i expect an answer'. "Did you kill Risotto?" 

The sottocapo shook his head, softening with a sigh. "No. I let him go. He fought by my side against my father's hired men, and saved my life. Twice. I promise you, Bruno, he's eased off his vendetta. I have his vow." He added, with quiet determination, "Passione needs him, and so do I." 

Bruno blinked. "You did go through a lot." 

Narancia and Trish traded their own meaningful look behind Giorno's shoulders.

"I have no regrets," Giorno said. "What I bought with my blood is a diamond in the rough. Let it rest there, for now." 

"I only wish we could have been there to help," Bruno spread his hands, a gentle gesture indicating he had no desire to challenge Giorno's statement- then. "It was terrifying, finding that wrecked car and wondering if we would only see you as a corpse again. What little we discovered from our call to the Speedwagon Foundation was mostly question marks and guesswork - nothing we didn't already know from our own investigations. I would like you to speak with them later, though, if that's all right, Giorno." 

"Sure, we probably owe Polnareff a favor, and now I have more questions to followup about the Joestars. I overheard while at my father's mansion that two Stand users had a fight in the hospital over Risotto's body?"  

Narancia nodded brightly. "Oh shit, yeah! Me n' Trish! It was crazy! I got shot! I was gonna ask you to fix my arm," He pushed back his sleeve and showed the carefully bandaged shoulder under his Snoop t-shirt, where he'd been shot by Hol Horse, "But Bruno said you might not feel good enough to do it for a while." 

"I'll try. Come down here." He patted his lap, and Narancia promptly flopped into it and settled down, like an eager cat, with his head and shoulders flat across Giorno's lap, and his legs dangling over the arm of the couch, sneakered feet bobbing into empty air.

"Does it hurt a lot?" Giorno asked.

Narancia shook his head, looking up at Giorno with bright purple eyes. "It did at first but only when I move it some now. Thanks for fixin' me, though." 

Giorno smiled. "As many times as you need." He lifted his hand and pressed his fingers against Narancia's shoulder, the smoky afterimage of his Stand overlaying his own hand and filling Narancia's wound with a light golden glow as the bandage came apart and turned into new skin and muscle. Narancia bit down hard to not cry out and upset Giorno, but he still went "mph!" a few times and squirmed and squealed. 

"Who shot you? What happened?" Giorno wanted to know. 

Trish heh-heh'd under her breath, proud of the fight; she didn't have them often, but when she did, she liked to win. "Some guy in green and some other asshole busted into the hospital, started shooting and stole Risotto's body right out from under us. Narancia, did you see the guy who shot you?" 

"Uh-uh," The scouter sighed. "Fucker got away in the elevator before I got eyes on."  

Giorno idly began to toy with Narancia's hair, with no real purpose in it, just indulging himself with comfort in tender touch, fondness for his friend's closeness, reminding himself there were others in his life beyond Risotto who he could touch. Then he said "Oh." softly to himself. "I know who it was. Those were two mercenaries that my father hired. I was there when they brought Risotto to my father's fortress. The one that got away from you was called Hol Horse, and he's dead now." 

"Was there a guy in green?" Trish wondered. "Because I tied that guy up and left him at the hospital." 

"Unlikely. I didn't see anyone matching that description while I was there. I think my father mentioned the name Kakyoin as not returning with Hol Horse though. There was also Steely Dan, a Stand user who wore black and white clothing, but he's also dead now." Giorno was very careful to keep emotion from his voice then. "I ripped his jaw off before I took his life with Gold Experience. He was one of the rapists."  

"Damn," Narancia cheered. "Good job, Gio!" 

Giorno remembered the taste of blood and meat in his mouth, and shadow crossed his weary face. "It needed to be done." 

Bruno sat back, hand brushing over his lips for a moment. "Can I ask the two of you to give us a minute alone, Trish, Narancia?" 

"Huh? Oh, sure, boss. G, you want some water or somethin'?" Narancia slung himself up with an 'oof!' and worked his healed shoulder in a circle, rolling his arm through the air before bobbing his head from left to right. Trish plucked up her basket before nodding too. "We'll be in the kitchen making some food. Yell when you're done." 

"Thanks." This done, Bruno moved off the opposite couch and around the table to sit next to Giorno on his right. He spoke softly, just for the two of them to hear. "I know you're putting on your best face for the troops. Thank you for that. But how are you really, Giorno?" 

WIth Bruno, who he trusted beyond trust, Giorno confessed, "Terrible." He hung his head, shame coloring his cheeks. "I feel nauseous, every single part of my body hurts inside and out, it's difficult to walk without support, and except for sporadic blackouts, I'm not getting enough rest to feel like I'm recovering, because of the pain. If I don't use my Stand to keep me going, it's worse."   

Bruno was more worried then. Giorno, who never allowed pain to stop his forward progression, was admitting he was almost too beaten to move. That was horrific in and of itself. Bruno swiped his hand over his mouth a second time.

"Giorno, there's two things I need to tell you. Firstly, I want to reassure you that you are safe. We will make sure of that. Secondly, I want you to know that I don't have any expectations of you. The only thing I care about is that you have the time you need to come to grips with all of it. I don't want you to feel pressured to rush back to work." Blue eyes moved and reached to green, and the two gazed deep into each other as Bruno carefully took Giorno's hand into his, folded both of his warm hands around Giorno's fingers. "You're obviously suffering, and we want to help you." 

"I feel safe here," Giorno spoke, after a moment. "I feel safe with all of you. I just wish I felt less compromised." His hand was tense inside Bruno's grasp. "It... I feel guilty because," He sighed, then admitted, "I've been here for two days already before I called you. Risotto was here with me until then. He suggested we spend some time recovering on the way back after my father let us go, and I talked him into coming here." 

Giorno bit his lip, eyes washed in grief. "Please don't be angry. We needed time to negotiate, and I didn't know how I could face you all. I'm... I'm so sorry. You were all worrying, and I was safe and didn't communicate, and I should have. That's unforgivable."
 
Bruno brushed his thumb gently along Giorno's brow, tenderly sighing. "I can't be angry with you. Somehow, I knew. I knew this thing with Risotto was more than it appeared, that something was playing out beyond the vendetta. I swear I knew it from the moment we learned you'd vanished that Sunday morning. It was as if... Requiem was telling me 'this is not something to worry about', but I couldn't help but worry anyway." 

Giorno nodded slowly. "Something is happening that I still don't understand fully either. Beyond this incident. Our Stands, Risotto's and mine, I don't have the shape of it yet. But, Bruno, I swear to you, on my life, when he killed me I was intercepted by your Requiem. And it told me that it wanted me to live, and gave me a choice as to whether I wanted to 'die free or live as a slave'." 

"I can guess what you said, since you're here with us still," Their faces were close, almost close enough to touch, and their conversation grew quieter and quieter as the secrets became more important. "So he actually did kill you. And my Stand acted on its own to save your life." 

"By merging Metallica and Gold Experience together, somehow. The two of us can use an ability called Master of Puppets now, which can only exist when Risotto and I are in range of each other, and when Metallica has also been injected into my blood. That's what saved me. It's an entirely new Stand type, a fusion. When it's active, each of us has full access to control the other's body, and their abilities. When I was shot by Hol Horse, Risotto was able to activate Gold Experience for me even though I was critically injured, and heal my wounds. I was able to reinforce Gold Experience with Metallica to fight my father."  

Bruno drew back, disappearing into thought. Giorno thought he might have been consulting his own Stand. Giorno waited to see what his Don would tell him. 

"My Stand confirms your words are true, but it won't explain why this power exists," Bruno came back to himself and frowned. "It's always been obedient, but it rarely communicates in words, only impressions. That was true even before Requiem, and now it feels more mysterious than before. Something does feel strange about the whole thing." 

He rubbed at his forehead. "Christ, this is so much. From what you say, I understand why you seem protective of Risotto now, but I'm concerned that this new Stand fusion or something in the aftermath of it is manipulating your judgement. You've been through a deeply traumatic series of events, and you became reliant on Risotto to help you navigate through them. It's inevitable you would have bonded in the process. In any case, let's see how you feel as you recover, right?" 

"Sure." Giorno nodded. "That's fair. He said he was leaving for some time to clear his own head."

Bucciarati's gaze darkened. "Honestly, I think I may be a little jealous, Giorno. You and I have been close far longer; why did my Stand pick Risotto instead of me to embue this new ability?" 

Giorno shook his head. "Requiem Stands do as they please, but never without greater reason. It might have just been that he was the closest Stand user available at the time to use to bring me back. Or that it wanted to use me as a conduit to cool down Risotto's vendetta and protect all of you through an indirect means by forcing us into connection. Only Requiem can answer, and if it won't... it won't." 

He gazed out and over the space before them, starting to want to drift from pain and fighting it again; this conversation was too important to slide out from. "You're still my Don, Bucciarati." He tipped close, lifting a hand and slipping his fingers through Bucciarati's thin, straight dark hair, tender. "My body belongs to Passione, and I belong to you." He recited again the words of the gang's oath, so familiar, hoping to comfort and reassure his friend through his vow. "There's definitely more I want to tell you, so much more, but..." 

Just then, Narancia stuck his head out and bellowed from the kitchen, "Are you guys done makin' out yet?!" Somewhere behind him was a scandalized half-laugh half-yell from Trish, "Nara!" 

Giorno couldn't help it, he started to laugh. Bruno rolled his eyes and chuckled too, but it wasn't quite in his eyes; he looked firmly at Giorno and added, "We will definitely be continuing this conversation later." 

The sottocapo nodded, equally intent, then lifted his voice to call to Narancia. "You can come back. We got into work talk." 

Trish and Narancia came back with a large plate, a pitcher of lemon ice water, and some glasses, Trish's basket slung over her arm. "We made crostini, and some vegetables and dip. It' probably not great, but it's food," Trish said cheerfully. "I wasn't sure if Giorno felt up to eating or not, so I thought, small portions. I also brought some of those junky puddings if you'd rather." 

"Please eat, your body needs calories, especially now," Bruno noted to Giorno. "You were already bad at taking meals regularly before this." A beat. "We worry."

"I can at least try." The blond felt warmed at Trish's consideration of smaller foods, and of his favorite cheap snack. He was hungry, but also wary of his stomach, as his nausea had been increasing since Risotto had left him. He reached forward and took a crostini and bit into it. It was good: warm parmesan cheese and spinach chopped fine and spooned with a drizzle of olive oil over a slice of crispy crust bread. His stomach did not complain, so he had another.

"Yeah, eat up! I made the dip and cut the vegetables!" Narancia flopped back into the couch, picking up a roughly cut celery stick and waving it about before crunching down on it loudly.  He was proud of helping. 

The group settled down to snack and light chatter, catching up as friends without focusing on work, and after a while, Bruno glanced at his watch again. "It's late. We should probably go and let Giorno get some rest, don't you think?" 

Narancia frowned. "I wanna stay with Giorno." He looked to the blond with pleading eyes. "I don't want you bein' alone. You know, just in case? I dunno, you might need help getting around or somethin'?" 

Trish flapped a hand, dissatisfied. "We threw hands for it in the kitchen and rock beat scissors." 

Giorno considered. "I wouldn't mind but it might get boring for you if all I'm doing is trying to sleep." 

Nara brightly said, "That's okay, I can drive home if I get really bored. C'mon, Giorno. We can watch TV in bed or something. Pleeeease?" 

How could he say no to that? Giorno laughed fondly. "Okay, okay. You win." 

Bruno smiled, glad that Giorno was going to have company, and secretly relieved that the blond had accepted it so easily. He'd intended to leave one of them as a guard even if Giorno hadn't accepted, so this all worked out fine. "Trish and I will head out, then. Tomorrow, we'll pick you up a new cell phone, some clothing and pain medicine from home, and I'm going to insist that you take the medicine once we do. No cheating, no excuses, Giorno." 

Giorno gave in to his Don gracefully, dipping his head. "I will. And could I ask for some foundation? I know I look like a zombie." 

Trish beamed then. "Oh, I thought of that already." She pulled off the cover of her basket and started setting Giorno's makeup and brushes, gathered up from his vanity top at home, on the table. "I
figured you were gonna be dying without being able to put on your face. I know I'd be." 

The wordless look of damp-eyed gratitude that Giorno threw her made Trish grin harder. "I swear, you're such a girl," she said, but she meant it fondly. 

--

Trish gave Giorno a very warm hug before she left with Bruno, and before she pulled back, she spoke softly to him and twined her fingers with his. "If you want to talk about anything, okay? Anything. No judgement. Please. We love you and we're all here for you." 

"I promise," Giorno said, and he meant it. Her hand clung to his when she stepped back, as if she could only let go of him with great reluctance. Her eyelashes were shimmering when she finally turned away from him; he only saw it for an instant. He felt his heart sinking. Trish should not have left him in tears, and he wanted to reach out to her, but a fresh wave of exhaustion rolled over him. 

After they left, Narancia seemed strangely calm as well, as if he had also been putting on a face for everyone's benefit. He stayed close to Giorno on the couch, but was content just to be near, leaning against the blond. 

Giorno settled back into the couch's arm, covered with a pillow on his left, not wanting to put out the effort to move, stomach full and head drifting, worrying that he had hurt Trish and Bruno with the truth. His eyes dropped to half-open, but they opened fully again when Narancia finally spoke. 

"Giorno, can I ask you somethin' or do you just wanna sleep?" the scouter asked, turning sideways on the couch to look at his friend. 

Giorno pulled himself back to something closer to alertness. "Mm. I should try and sleep, but it's not been going well so far, so help me up to bed and we can talk there?" 

"Got it."

Giorno pushed off the blanket, then grunted and slowly got to his feet. Oh. Oh he'd been sitting too long, his legs were wobbling again. He groused to Narancia. "I'm trying to save my strength so I'm not using Gold Experience to keep me steady, and I feel like a 90 year old man right now." 

Narancia quickly hopped up and got to Giorno's side. "I can't even imagine you as an old man. Giorno with a beard? Going bald? All wrinkly? Hahaha, you'd look like shit!" He grinned and pulled Giorno's arm over his shoulders, and used his other arm to give Giorno a quick, friendly squish around the waist. "You're just gonna have to stay pretty forever, and that's all there is to it." 

Giorno laughed as they moved to the stairs and ascended slowly. "Someday, if I'm very lucky, I'll be that old. Even Padre doesn't actually look old, and he's been around since the 1890's." He didn't voice his inner thought, which was that he was quite sure he would never get that far. Some day, his luck or the whims of friendly cosmic-level Requiems wouldn't be enough to save him. That was a truth he'd never run from in the past, and he wouldn't do it now, either. 

"Oh shit, right, vampire dad. What DOES your dad look like? Kinda pissed off I didn't get to see him. Abba and Mista did. Does he have big fangs? Is he all creepy and pale in a goofy cloak?" 
"I used to have a picture. Did I never show it to you?" 

"Nope, not either of you. God, that's so weird to think about still." 

They made it to the bedroom, and Giorno slumped into the mattress with a sigh. Narancia clambered in next to him, pulling on the blanket, fluffing the pillows and stuffing them up under Giorno's head, and generally fussing about trying to make him comfortable. Then he laid down over the covers next to Giorno, turned toward the blond but with a few inches of space between them. 

"He looks just like me if I were about 20 years older," Giorno told Narancia, "He's big shouldered and forgot how to wear clothes. His eyes aren't the same shape as mine, though.  They're dark yellow, like honey." A little laugh. "He has fangs, but he doesn't use them to eat people with. They show mostly when he smiles. And he's just a little paler than I am. There's a big scar all around his whole neck," and he drew a line with his finger around his own throat, which was purpled and brown with multiple finger marks.

"Huh!" said Narancia, fascinated and wide-eyed. "So you wouldn't be able to tell he was a vampire if he, like, put some clothes on?" 

"Probably not," Giorno admitted. "He can see himself in mirrors, and he can also move in sunlight, which is different from what traditional vampire stories say." 

"Creepy," Narancia decided. He made a small nervous noise under his breath and then sat up next to Giorno, turning and looking down to him. "Sorry if I'm bein' weird. I'm mad about a lot of stuff and I didn't do any good helpin' find you. So I guess I'm kinda trying not to think about that and shootin' my mouth off. Am I maybe just kinda making you think about stuff you don't want to?" 

Giorno gave that a second to sink in, then grunted a little and pushed himself upright as well, sitting up with his knees folded in front of him, taking one of the pillows from behind himself and holding it in his lap. "No, questions don't bother me. I know everyone's feeling bad about what happened and wanting to know what they missed. I knew there would be a lot of hurt feelings because of me. I just wish I could convince everyone how sorry I am." He pressed his forehead into the pillow and wrapped his arms around it, with a little groan, his next words muffled. "I'm the useless one." 

"Whoa whoa whoa nobody's sayin' that, Giorno!" Narancia protested. He reached and tugged the pillow away from Giorno, but only so he could get the blond to look him in the eyes. "You are not useless. Don't say that about yourself, okay? Look, I'm gonna hug you now." 

Giorno rubbed at his face, which was dry, but somehow gave the impression of tears even though he wasn't crying. His eyes were shimmering the brightest, wettest bluegreen Narancia had ever seen them, and he was shaking a little, head to toe. "Okay," he answered softly. 

Narancia reached over and pulled Giorno sideways, into a long and wiry-armed hug. Giorno hugged him back, but it took a second to move his arms because of how stiff his body felt, and he hated it because he knew it sent the wrong message. He rested his head on Narancia's shoulder, trying to show his trust. He tried to let his body relax as much as he could.

"I'm gonna be super gay right now, okay? We love you, Giorno," Narancia said, firmly, petting the back of Giorno's head. "That's the reason we're all upset. It's not 'cause we think 'oh, gosh, we're down a guy and now work's gonna be way harder, thanks asshole'. It's 'cause we couldn't be there to stop you from getting hurt. Look, me n' Trish n' Abba and Bruno saw you die, Gio. King Crimson put a hole in your fucking chest. We saw the shit Risotto sent us last time." 

The scouter's voice drew dark and clotted, old pain resurfacing as he spoke. "And we couldn't stop that when that happened either. And we're all like 'what if it happens again' and asking ourselves why we couldn't be better and faster and... just, damn." He found himself pushing at his own face, fighting back a loud sniffle, and he pulled Giorno closer. 

The scouter shook his head again. "Look, I'm gonna tell you something and it's nobody's business but mine who I tell, but also don't tell anybody else, okay?" 

Giorno patted Narancia's arm, earnest. "Okay. Promise." 

Narancia turned his head, so that his cheek was resting on Giorno's shoulder. "Back when I lived on the street there was this one night. I was sleepin' behind like, this dumpster and it was super cold and this guy that I kinda-sorta knew, a friend of a friend, says, 'you look cold, kid, why don't you come back to my place?'. My eye's all fucked up and I'm cold and I probably hadn't eaten for a couple of days but shit I dug out of the trash so I was like 'yeah sure, okay'. And I go up with this guy, and the room's super warm and everything's bright and I'm thinking, 'okay, now I can get some sleep'." 

Narancia shivered in memory, and his fingers tightened a little around Giorno. "Wasn't how it went. Look. I'm not smart, right? I seriously didn't know what I was up for and now that I look at it it's so so obvious. But the guy I sorta knew says 'why don't you get in this bed with me and we'll keep warm together'. And my stupid ass goes 'sure'. And then he talks me into taking my clothes off because 'it'll be warmer'. And then he talks me into letting him fuck me." 

Giorno winced. "Narancia," he tightened his own hug. "I'm so sorry."

Narancia raised his head, his face dark but determined. "I'm tellin' you this I guess 'cause I know what it feels like to do what you have to do. So, after that, he kinda has what he wants, so he kicks me back out into the street, right? Barely gave me time to pull my pants up. Didn't even give me any cash. And now I'm cold and my eye hurts and my ass got ripped in half. I couldn't even take a shit without hurtin'! I wanted to turn around and go back and beat the shit out of that guy so bad. But the snow was wild and I kinda passed out back behind the dumpster again." 

He went quiet again for a few moments. "And that was once. You got way more than once. I wanted you to know it. You're not the only one. Anybody tries to say you deserved it I'll beat 'em to a fucking pulp, Giorno. I mean it." 

"What if I'm the one who thinks I deserved it," Giorno said, as toneless as the icy wind Narancia had invoked with his words. He was grateful for Narancia's sharing with him, but he also felt himself sinking further into self-recrimination. Narancia hadn't known better. He had. His fingers worked at an edge of the blanket. 

Narancia shook him, just a little, to keep his attention on him. "Are you mad at yourself 'cause it felt good so you think you wanted it, or are you mad at yourself 'cause you think you didn't fight enough?" 

Giorno blinked at his friend. Very hard. His eyes went wide. "I..." His voice went small and soft. "Both. Some of it felt good...and I was so weak, Narancia. I wanted more, and I didn't care that it was hurting me, because I had to do it..."  He trailed off, gasping for air, like his own throat was clotting again, trying to close him off from saying anything more. 

Narancia squeezed Giorno even harder then. "It felt really good to me too," he said, his voice more tender than Giorno had ever heard it. "Until I was shittin' bricks the next morning." He held the hug a few moments longer, then leaned back, hands laying light on Giorno's shoulders. "Okay, so uh... gonna ask something really gross, okay? Go with me on this. How many of those times that you got fucked could you have done anything to stop it?" 

Giorno's throat worked. "Not many," he finally said, nibbling at his lower lip. "Most of the time either my Stand was not working and I was restrained, or I knew that if I tried anything stupid around my father, his Stand would pull my head off." A small grim laugh. "The World could put Gold Experience through six feet of solid concrete with one hand. Unfortunately, I learned that first-hand." 

"So." Narancia held up a finger. "You really couldn't stop them, so instead you said to yourself 'well, guess I'm into this' because your body got hot on its own, because our stupid dicks think with their dicks, right?" Narancia stuck out his tongue. "You know what I mean." 

"I suppose." Giorno rubbed at his face again. "It's not like I haven't been tied up before. You've tied me up." He pushed back a sleeve of his robe, baring the bruises on his wrist, and touching them gently with his other hand. Narancia made a small round 'o' of his mouth, and also touched the same spot. 

"I was thinking about that, yeah. I know how hot you get when you're tied up, right? I've SEEN it break you. And it's super hot. Because you're super hot, Giorno. So. okay. This is what you know. You like bein' tied up. It makes you hot. So your dick took over." 

"That feels like a convenient excuse. It'd be nice if I could think that way, but..." 

"Nope. It's not an excuse if you really couldn't do anything! I mean, what, okay. So pretend I'm a bad guy, right?" Narancia made a gun shape with his hand and tapped it at Giorno's temple. "I tie you up so good you can't move and I take away your Stand. What are you gonna do, bite my dick off? What good would that do? I'd just punch you in the face or somethin'. Or just shoot you if you really piss me off. Tryin' to fight back just kills you faster, that's all it does."

Giorno was silent for quite a few moments, processing what Narancia had said. "And you think you're not smart." 

"I'm stupid, I just don't give a fuck!" Narancia laughed, and then he bumped his forehead against Giorno's forehead. "G. You did what you did so you could live. That's all we wanted. You came back home and you lived. Even if you kinda look like I could make an omelet out of you now. Haha, a Giorno omelet. Tasty." He smacked his lips, snickering.

"Would it come out with three yolks?" Giorno chuckled back.

"Yeah!" Narancia giggled, flopping back onto his back in the mattress, making the blankets curl and ripple under his weight. "Three big shiny gold yolks! Man, now I totally want some scrambled eggs. Anyway, did what I said help, maybe? Or even make sense?" 

"Actually, it did. I feel better. Maybe Bucciarati's right, too. Maybe I really am not thinking as clearly as I should be. Risotto and I went through a lot in such a short time, and now he's left, and everything hurts, and... I miss him, Narancia." Giorno looked at his knees.  "I feel guilty about that, too," he added in the tiniest voice Narancia had ever heard from him. 

Narancia made a little 'ooh' noise. "I kinda wanna ask if Risotto has a big dick now but... miiiiight be too soon?" 

Giorno put his hand to his mouth, face flushing bright, lagoon eyes suddenly finding the blanket very interesting. "Maybe."

The scouter sat straight up and pointed, cackling. "That means he totally does! The guy's pure beef! I bet he fucks like a beast!" 

"I will not say anything to confirm or deny that," Giorno said, with exaggerated primness, his face heating even faster. 

Narancia cackled harder. "Giorno's got a new booooyfriend! Giorno's got a new booooyfriend!" he sing-songed, pointing and laughing the whole time. 

"And you're supposed to be the older one?" Giorno grouched, good-natured. He could handle ribbing from Narancia, but he sighed after. "I just... don't know how I'm going to explain the situation to Mista. My feelings for him haven't changed in any way, but I know he's not going to be happy with any of this, and I don't want to fight about it." 

"Yeah. Kinda sucks," Narancia agreed. "But, it's not like you're dumpin' him, right?" He looked anxious then, a frown forming between his brows as he realized more fully what he'd asked. "You're not gonna do that are you?" 

"Absolutely not. Mista deserves far more consideration than that, and I owe him my life a thousand times over. He still means everything to me. I'm just..." Giorno broke off, pushed his hair behind his ear, exhaling into his chest. "I'm not sure I can explain properly to anyone who wasn't there." 

"It's okay though," Narancia said, his voice dropping into a low, thoughtful register. He reached and took Giorno's hands in his, absently rolling his thumb over the gold ring on Giorno's right hand as he did. His hands were warm, and rough, like his heart, Giorno thought. 

"We don't gotta understand. All we care about is that you're home. Promise." 

Giorno smiled, and squeezed Narancia's fingers. "Thank you. I love you, Narancia." 

"That's 'cause I rule!" Narancia said, letting go to spread his arms and laugh.

After a comfortable silence, Narancia looked at Giorno's robed back. "I have way too much energy right now. Kinna pent up. You wanna backrub or somethin'?"

"It might help. I used to use Gold Experience for that back before I had friends," Giorno answered, moving to pull open the tie of the robe. 

Narancia's eye twitched, but he chose to let that go unremarked, instead sitting up and leaning in to help Giorno disrobe. Secretly, he also wanted a chance to see just how badly Giorno's body was messed up, though it was well-intentioned curiosity. As Giorno's robe came off, Narancia winced at what he saw beneath. 

Although all of Giorno's wounds had been healed, the paler replacement skin told Narancia a story on its own- beside the black bruises at his ribs, and the obvious slaps and finger marks, there were long jagged marks like he'd been clawed by an animal with massive paws, and he also saw two larger patches with rounded shapes that he interpreted as filled-in bullet exit wounds. One of them was dangerously close to Giorno's spine on the right side. The other would have had to have punched straight through Giorno's left collarblade and blown it to bits as it went out. 

He knew Giorno was maybe the toughest of all of them when it came to tanking damage, and Gold Experience had saved his and their own lives and limbs more than once, but this was still a lot for one person, and it wasn't like Giorno was some huge muscle guy. 

"I hate this," Narancia muttered, without thinking. Giorno gasped and froze in place, and Narancia quickly waved his hands, "Not you! Not you! I mean, you got wrecked and I hate that." 

"I guess I did," the blond replied, a little distant. "I know it all happened, and I know it's important that I take it seriously, but part of me feels like you're all fussing over nothing." 

Narancia pouted, and placed his hand on Giorno's skin, feeling Giorno's back moving as he breathed. He felt Giorno's pulse against his palm, reminding himself: he's still alive. Giorno wasn't cold and pale and turning slowly stiff to the touch. He could still talk and laugh and feel sad and have guilty thoughts about big assassin dicks. 

He shook himself out of it. "C'mon, lay down. I'll stay off you and do it from here." 

Giorno settled, folding his brown-speckled arms under his head and reaching up to pull his hair over one shoulder, baring his red Joestar birthmark and the three finger-marks Dio had left in his throat. Narancia touched his fingertips to them amd marveled at the difference in size between his fingertips and the circumferences of the wounds, and that they sat clearly right along the length of Giorno's jugular vein. So vampires had big hands, too, huh.

While Narancia hummed and carefully worked at Giorno's back - he was watching and listening for  wincing or any pain sounds when he came too close to the bruising - Giorno gazed at the gleaming ring on his right hand through heavy eyelids. The diamond and the gold had been carefully cleaned at some point, shimmering and twinkling at the smallest motion of his hand, and as he relaxed and his vision grew heavier, the ring began to blur in his sight until the diamond seemed more of a distant star.  

Under Narancia's soothing touch, Giorno finally fell asleep again, his head full of vague, yearning impressions of red eyes and white stars.

Once Giorno was asleep, Narancia sat quietly on the bed next to him for a few moments. He watched the slight rise and fall of Giorno's back as he breathed, and then reached and pulled the blanket back over his friend's shoulders. 

Narancia decided that he didn't care how bored he got, he was gonna make sure he stayed there all night. With his mind made up, he leaned over to the other side of the bed and felt around the end table until he found the remote for the bigscreen TV that hung from a bracket high in the ceiling. He switched it on and turned the volume down low, hoping he wasn't going to wake Giorno again, and flipped channels for a while while he tried to figure out how he felt about all of this. 

Giorno was okay, right? That was good. Sure he was banged up but they all got banged up a lot, so that wasn't so bad. But, they weren't gonna go after Risotto? Who kidnapped Giorno and beat him up twice?? How did that make any kinda sense?! But Giorno liked him now?? 

Narancia gave up. He was thinking in stupid circles, and whatever Giorno wanted was what he was gonna do. He found some cartoons and watched those for a while, only half paying attention until his eyes grew heavy. He tried very much not to let himself go, but soon he flopped over into the space beside Giorno, and dropped off to sleep as well. 

And Narancia fell into a bleak nightmare about pulling Giorno out of the snow behind a dumpster, finding him stiff and frozen solid blue. There was a huge hole where Giorno's heart should have been, and his blood was frozen into the snow as long, stringy trails of red ice. The frozen blood crackled apart into bitter shards as Narancia moved the blond's body and, shrieking, tried to wake him up. And he couldn't. He couldn't. 

When he woke up with a yelp a few moments later, sweaty and scared, he bolted upright. As his eyes focused, he saw Giorno looking tired and beaten and bleary-eyed next to him, knees up near his chest, still covered in blanket. 

"You too, huh?" 

Narancia groaned. "Yeah. Me too." 

"Maybe we can have better dreams if we stick together." He leaned back against the headboard, then moved the blankets open and patted the space next to him. Narancia scooted up and got in under the blankets, pressing up close to snuggle against Giorno. 

When Bruno came to check the next morning, he stopped in the doorway and allowed himself a small, wistful smile. The bright colors from the cartoons on the television flashed over the bed and walls, tinting the sleepers and the room in a riot of shifting tones and shadows. Giorno and Narancia were cuddled into each other, deep in sleep. Narancia's head rested on Giorno's chest, and a small smile curled his lips. Giorno's chin rested in the crown of Narancia's hair and one of his arms was up, almost protective, to cradle Narancia despite his visible bruising. The remote, forgotten, was in Narancia's lap. 

Bucciarati didn't have the heart to wake them. He closed the door as quietly as possible and let them sleep, moving back downstairs.