Chaos.

With his legs crossed Giorno leaned on the covered armrest with his elbow, laid his other hand on his knee and tilting his head he averted his gaze. “Well, the truth is, Mr Polnareff,” he said lightly. “I’m afraid it’s not something you could do anything about.”

In that moment, a shiver seized the dome of Polnareff’s shell as he saw the first sign of a great unease, appearing like a large undefined shape moving under the surface of the ocean. Giorno watched the shadows with his wispy, wavy hair still above his head, his eyes unmoving. Whenever Polnareff spoke of his father, Giorno would make that face; his forehead perfectly smooth, his lips thinning and his eyes distant. Then, he would speak in a detached manner and after he left, Polnareff would not see him for at least a few days, lest it was strictly business. If Polnareff could sweat, he would, and if his cheeks could flush, they might have, too. There were some advantages to this form, after all. “Well,” Polnareff said kindly, hoping Giorno wouldn't think less of him for what he was about to say, “I could always listen. You know?”

Giorno's face became a profile against the wallpaper. “I suppose,” he said yet again, and Polnareff came to wonder how well he truly knew him. Despite their countless long talks over the past few years Giorno's trust was like a matchstick flame. If you got too close, your breath would be enough to put it out.

[...]

“So, what?” Polnareff spoke to him pointedly. “Just because he’s been avoiding you for a bit, you’re gonna hold it against him forever? Is that what a friend does?” Mista was a dreadfully irrational and hard-headed person at his worst, always living within his own images of the world, but the layers of delusion were thin and he was sober through his down to earth nature. All Polnareff had to do was shake his logic up a bit, surely.

“You know, I think I get it. I finally get it,” Mista said, his voice clear in the silence, Polnareff’s plight outright ignored. “I used to think I was different. But I'm not,” there was a fleeting quality to that very same clarity. Polnareff listened with his feet digging into the soft earth, his claws spreading anxiously. “I used to be a drifter. No attachments whatsoever. And that had changed already before I met him, but,” he shrugged, his shoulders rising against the draping orange light. He wavered and his body sank yet again, his fingernails scraping against the wooden surface of the table. “But that guy—or kid, that I used to be, he barely even feels like me anymore,” he hung his head. “Maybe that's normal. I dunno. But sometimes… sometimes, it really just feels like…” his voice diminished pitifully. “Like he's just gonna gobble me up. Swallow me whole,” his confession was quiet and tensely truthful, and Polnareff couldn’t seem to absorb it, “and leave nothing behind. And it's like,” Mista gesticulated with his other hand, tensing and curling his fingers, clutching in the air. “Nothing's ever enough—”

[...]