REQUIEM

“  it’s good to see you, too  !  ”   mista glows with excitement. seeing giorno on the island is something that he hadn’t anticipated, but knowing that he’s here fills mista with a sense of confidence. giorno seems almost unkillable, unbeatable. if something happens during giorno’s stay, the kid will undoubtedly stop it before it gets the chance to harm anyone.

mista takes a sip of his own cocoa. mmm, pepperminty.  “  this seems like a… rather complex project they have set up, y’know  ?  kinda odd how a bunch o’ kidnappers seem to care so much about our comfort and entertainment. maybe it’s just me…  ”

          “No, it’s odd.” Giorno agrees easily. The whole project has been suspicious since the start. Months here and he doesn’t think he knows anything useful, not really, just tried and test with all of it wrapped neatly in the shadows for the most part. He’s tired of it, really.

He automatically judges. It’s as easy as breathing for this young man, as simple as farting. The instant he sees all these cookies, hears the request: he judges. 

“But at what cost to your sugary soul, apparently?” Badou chuckles, shakes his head. At least they’re good presents? 

“Fun activity…not really my cup of tea and cookies.”

          This fair and Giorno has accepted the lot drawn for him at this moment. A result of his hubris—if he’s being dramatic about it—for taking out so many cookies.

“me neither. about the fish and the cold, i mean. no clue how they’re even gonna have lights under all this.” his palm turns over, fingers slipping through giorno’s with a light squeeze. narancia’s touch is warm, practically radiating heat―perhaps an afterthought of his kinetic energy, dynamic as summer and its deafening firecrackers. he tugs giorno flush against his side, then, and uses his free hand to whip his scarf around them both. its pom-poms are an endearing flourish, but practicality had won him over in the store―whatever fabric it was, it was fluffy to the touch and warmed quick. he doesn’t complain about giorno’s clutching. once he recalls the last time they were on ice, it suddenly makes perfect sense. so narancia glances over with a cock of his head, unable to help himself from cracking an impish smirk. “better?”

          He’s used to this in little ways—months of being in Narancia’s presence has weathered Giorno softly to sudden displays of physical contact. Still, though, it somehow manages to catch him off guard in some manner or another because months cannot easily erase a lifetime without. Giorno is grateful despite it all—grateful in a way he may never be properly able to thank Narancia for, at least they have this: a shared scarf and easily slotting together side by side. He’ll take what he’s given even if it’s mundane as sharing warmth to fend off the cold.

He smiles. Oh what a wicked and devilish smile it is. To witness Giorno slip into something drastically different than the persona he has played out over the last several months was truly entertaining. Highly amusing even. Could this be considered his true self? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe it’s just another face of his, one of many that once put all together showcased his true and complete self. But that could be said or practically any person out there, no?

“ Well you’re definitely right about that. ” he lets out a laugh. “ But I’m not kidding around. That is my name. That’s who I really am. ” He lets that sit for a bit, wanting Giorno to understand just what he’s getting at. “It’s fine though, I completely understand. If you’re more comfortable using that name then so be it. Got no trouble with it at all. ”

There’s always been a sort of playfulness about the man whenever he spoke to people. It’s the reason why he referred to himself as a ‘puckish rogue’. Yet there’s something more this time. Something that hangs in the air as he speaks. It’s unclear whether this is due to the conversation at hand or just another showing of what kind of man he truly is.

“ What’s my game? ” he lets out another laugh. “ None, actually! I just kinda did this as a spur of the moment. ” This had to be a joke, right? Who in their right mind would risk not only themselves, but their group as well on some act of spontaneity? “ Honestly this could potentially fuck me over big time since I got no idea what you’re all about. But I guess that’s why I invited you in the first place! ”

And out comes another laugh, though it’s much more subdued. Either the man’s crazy or just downright stupid. Probably both. Eventually the laughing ceases as a thought had just occurred to him. This little meeting of theirs can’t continue on without having something to drink. Always did the mind and body good when it came to matters such as this.

“ Hey, you want something to drink? Could get ya some booze if you want. Think I remember you mentioning wine a while back ago. Might be wrong. ” He pulls back the curtain to their private booth and sticks his head out, calling one of the servers who he apparently knew by name. “ Emerald, could ya please come over for a second? Gonna need something nice t’ go along with the conversation. I’ll pay you extra if ya take it out of Torchwick’s personal collection. ”

          He possesses a self-awareness Giorno found sorely missing in the last man who wanted to be referred to by a moniker instead of an actual name, at the very least. And though Giorno might have a low tolerance for many an authority figure—they have failed him one too many times as it is—he can give credit where credit is due, relent respect when it’s properly earned, never a thing to be freely handed out.

          At least Victor Dumont has not completely hidden himself away in the shadows, and that is already a major step forward. Giorno has a set of expectations, easy to meet, all things considered, but also easy to fail given those he interacted with before all this.

          “I’ll stick with the name you’ve given me.” He says simple but dips his head—a small show of gratitude. “Thank you for understanding.” Perhaps it’s a bit stubborn of him, a bit childish, but Giorno fought too hard and lost too much to call another person Boss for a long while yet. This place isn’t Napoli, it isn’t even Italy, but the principle of it all still stands.

          The man in front of him is not a stupid man, not really, not from what Giorno has observed from over the months, but he’s taken off guard regardless. Decides to hold his opinion until he gets something stronger. It isn’t as though he drinks often anyway—well, not frequently. “I like sweet wine the best, but if there isn’t any, don’t trouble yourself.” Tea would have also been a fine choice, but he’s wary about other people fixing his drinks these days though if someone wanted to poison him, he’s sure they would have done it by now, or maybe not. Can never be too careful these days.

consternation seizes him in its virulent jaws. he remembers this; it is one of the last sensations he does. before life and light had been torn from him, their team had suffered chariot’s sleeping spell―narancia recalls a soul-swapping blight, a breath of false hope, a row of iron bars and a requiem that played quietly.

in a cutting gale of irony, what the city volleyed them was not so unfamiliar―though these additional effects certainly were―and momentarily he stood frozen in his new location, in his new body, until reality cracks its whip across narancia’s senses.

“giorno!” he startles himself with a voice that does not belong to him, but the mild disorientation has nothing on his spike of panic. it is his worry for the other boy blooming all at once, and as narancia bursts into the next room, he grabs his true body by its shoulders, eyes wide and racing all over for signs of distress. he is met by black bedhead and a crumb-speckled mouth. gleaming back at him are bright violet irises, which must no doubt see green ones framed by soft, blonde curls. “are you okay?! you’re not hurt anywhere?”

there would be no forgiving anybody if he were. the thought makes narancia boil like himself again beneath this unfamiliar skin; it brings back a flash of what he knows he shouldn’t have seen, and for giorno’s sake he invokes everything in him to drown it all out. the flippant woman prattling a language beyond narancia, the ugly curl of a violent man’s lip, a trench coat and gunshot and everything that followed― 

“it is you again, right? it’s gotta be you,” he declares, concludes. narancia breathes out a sigh and the adrenaline with it, dipping to rest just his forehead on giorno’s shoulder. ( kind of giorno’s shoulder. ) “it’s always… n-nah, sorry. i mean, fuck, i don’t know what i’d do if anything ever happened―”

but it had.  /  @auricdirge​

          It happens quickly—there one minute, somewhere else the next. There is no gentle waking from this, not like the last time. Just a realization that happens within seconds, the feeling of it all familiar in a way that makes Giornos stomach lurch something terrifying and dreadful all in one.

          He’s quick to scramble on his way—graceless in form, something he hasn’t been—hasn’t let himself be—in months now. Narancia’s body is a gangly limbed creation, but Giorno has practice with it already in the oddest of sense—déjà vu, but not something he’d ever want to repeat if he can help it. Things like this—events that happened on that day—are not ones he’d ever want to repeat.

          Luckily though, his search ends before he even makes it out of the threshold of the room. His own face peering at him frantically (different though—he doesn’t have to look up like he did last time, and isn’t that the strangest thing to realize among others?) and words falling in a pattern that’s familiar enough for Giorno to allow himself a small moment of relief.

          “I’m fine.” Words tense and iron spined, but not snapping. There are memories that aren’t his, a difference from last time too, and Giorno has enough indignant emotions at the brief glimpses he’s seen and the situation at hand that it shows. Too much too soon, perhaps. For all that Giorno is good at dealing with himself, he’s just a boy that feels too much sometimes.

          “I’m fine.” He repeats, softer now after a deep breath is taken. “I should be asking you that, actually. All things considered.” He accepts the weight on his shoulder with than ease that would not have been there months ago, hand raised and patting against the crown of blond curls. “But you seem to be alright.”

          He catches sight of a young boy on the outskirts—near enough, anyway. wary more than likely of the large crowd that likes to gather around the soup, not that he blames the people—free soup is free soup. Neither does Giorno judge the boy for his distance; it’s a lot of people with no shortage of noise and jostling bodies and jabbing elbows.

for all the perfect crimes he can juggle, a poker face is not one of them. narancia is slouched on the counter top just adjacent the sink, inhaling the remains of his juice box when giorno’s words pounce on his ego like springtime venice.

and speaking of. it takes all of him to curb his shock and not spew his tr●picana across the freshly mopped floor; instead, he swallows that last sip with a mean, audible gulp. narancia sputters something between a curse and a strangled little grunt, a fist pounding his chest as it vindictively pounds right back. memories that had been nominal, even comic embarrassment had grown unkinder by the day. he hears his friend’s name and feels his heart wrench for the wrong reasons. “t-tense?! me?” there’s no use. how he plays right into the suspicions is not lost, even on narancia. “i… s’nothing! i just―” and the worst idea at the worst time hits him: what if they’ve only been here, like this, cozy and happy in giorno’s housing, because narancia’s been the only one around― “well, i just kinda saw… u-uh… so, like, i saw the… what… what you guys were doing. and― and no, it’s cool! i-it’s fine! i ain’t judging, honest! as long as you… y-you like… him―” shit, what the fuck, it hurt. narancia doesn’t realize, doesn’t know when he’s shut his eyes. “s… sorry… i didn’t mean to look.”

          The reaction is more than Giorno expected, and the words that follow aren’t ones he can quite make sense of. There’s a gap between understandings, a miscommunication, probably. Giorno frowns, half out of concern caused by Narancia’s sputtering coughs and equally chokes out words and half because of his own failings at completely understanding what’s going on.  

          “Alright,” spoken more so because he needs a moment to process. This is a conversation that deserves his full attention, it seems, so the dish in his hands is washed and put away. The others can be taken care of later, he decides—drying his hands on a dishtowel and leaning against the counter next to Narancia. “I didn’t know you were there initially before you picked us up.” He starts and thinks it must have been right after the fight, maybe while he was healing Mista; he was comically distracted then, that process of his Stand’s power takes a certain amount of concentration, delicate as it is; Mista screaming in his ears during the entire thing didn’t help matters either. “I was never that secretive about Gold Experience’s powers, at least not to you all. You could have stuck around. He probably would have complained less about the whole thing in Coco, actually.”  

“I am,” came Risotto’s terse response regarding his Team. “More than just a team of assassins. They were family.” His voice held an uncharacteristic amount of emotion. Whatever it was had been lost upon a stern, intimidating expression when he stared the kid down. His team knew what they were getting into when they all betrayed the Boss, even two years prior when they lost the first two. All those deaths weighed heavy on a normally cold heart. His tense shoulders only relaxed just a bit– even if Giorno remained ready. 

He may be out of range of whatever Stand the kid had, but in return so was Giorno. Metallica’s range had been… Severely limited. He still had no idea why.

“Make no mistake, I am furious that you and Bucciarati’s Team killed my own. However at the time, you still worked for the Boss. Not that it mattered in the end seeing as you all ended up in the very same predicament as our own. For whatever reason.” Risotto’s resentful gaze fell off of Giorno, a mistake perhaps but it mattered very little.

“I’m not interested in fighting. La Squadra Esecuzioni ended with me. There’s not much anyone can do to an already dead man. I followed you simply to see who the kid that had a hand in killing my family was.” His gaze fell back on Giorno. “But seeing as you’re in this purgatory itself, I can only assume the Boss got to you as well.”

          The ire is validated, so Giorno feels no need to harbor any new ill feelings towards the man outside what has already festered and grown from the past. No need to rebuttal or defend himself—family is family, he supposes. Their battles against each other have already been fought, choices made, and deaths dealt. “We were all manipulated on some level, whether we want to admit it or not.” Giorno himself doesn’t, but it is a fact that he will have to live with. “I had plans to overthrow the man from the very beginning, but the whole issue was expedited when we learned of his true intentions. However, it is not my story to tell, so I will leave it at that.”