#downmoonwrites

The rain's been beating down since they woke up, a steady drizzle just insistent enough to be irritating. His hands are wet, his hair has curled with the humidity, and Slow Dancer's been aggressive and finicky. He himself is in a rapidly worsening mood. He's tired and sore and damp, and every time Gyro starts whistling a tune, or humming some stupid song to himself, Johnny gets a little more pissed off. He wants to set up camp before one of the horses takes the wrong step, and cuts their race to an abrupt end.

"Gyro," he calls again, not bothering to bite back the irritation in his voice, "it's almost dark. I can't see nothin', 'n the horses can't manage this terrain in the dark."

He peers ahead through the gloom, but Gyro doesn't so much as turn his head.

"Gyro!" he calls again, louder this time. "Chrissake, Gyro, stop, or I'm stoppin' myself!"

Valkyrie keeps up her steady pace, and Johnny settles back in the saddle with an irritated sigh, convinced he's wasted his breath yet again. But then, Gyro's finally, finally slowing to a stop, and dismounting from his horse.

"What's wrong with a little rain, Johnny?" he calls back, that singsong-y, amused lilt to his voice. Johnny bristles at the remark, the hint of condescension, like Gyro's addressing a whiny child, but remains silent. Gyro's not waiting for his answer anyway, because he saunters off into the dark, leaving Valkyrie behind.

"Watch my horse, Johnny," he calls back, "I'm going to find us a place to put up for the night."

Johnny raises his eyebrows in surprise; he wasn't actually expecting the ninth attempt at getting Gyro to pull off for the night to work. He urges Slow Dancer forward, until he can grasp Valkyrie's reins in his stiff hands, and tries to make out the blur of Gyro's figure as he disappears amongst the trees.

With Gyro gone, Johnny's left in eerie silence. The steady beat of the rain echoes numbly in his ears, as he strains to listen for any sounds of Gyro's return. He's not worried, no, but he's not about to let his guard down, not with the strange situations they keep finding themselves in, or the potential threats of a forest at night.

The sharp crack of a twig startles him, but it's soon followed by the murmur of a deep voice singing in a foreign language. Gyro stomps back into the little clearing Johnny and the horses are waiting in.

"You're too loud," Johnny declares, as soon as he can make out Gyro's murky figure.

"And here I am," Gyro replies, "returning with good news about our camp for the night."

"Who knows what's out here," Johnny continues on. Gyro steps close enough to take both sets of reins, and begins to lead the horses through the path he just took. "Or who."

"Johnny, there's no one out here. I'd be able to tell if there was someone following us. I have a very acute sense of hearing, you know."

"Ha! You say that like you haven't been singing or whistling or crashing through the brush all day. If anyone were following us, they'd just have to listen for you."

Gyro laughs his strange laugh, unbothered by Johnny's remarks. There's not much that seems to bother Gyro.

Still, when Gyro picks up his whistling again, Johnny finds himself relaxing the slightest bit. The irritation built up from the day crumbles with the sound of Gyro's nonsense tune, until he's left with exhaustion settling firmly into his bones.

They walk for a bit more, Johnny's thoughts wandering further as the steady rhythm of Slow Dancer beneath him brings him just that much closer to the edge of sleep, until Gyro stops, and announces his discovery.

"Ta-dah!" he says. Johnny can't quite make it out, but he can imagine Gyro's grand gesture towards the little alcove carved out of the cliff face in front of them.

"Wow, Gyro," he says, "you found a hole."

"I found a goddamn dry hole, Johnny."

Johnny snorts, but Gyro plows right on.

“You’ve got your dead leaves for bedding, a nice sandy patch near the entrance for a fire pit, and look-”

He points in another direction. Johnny squints towards the dark copse of trees.

“There’s even space to settle the horses for the night.”

“This hotel sucks. I demand my money back.”

Gyro hoots with laughter, and begins to dig around in his pack. He pulls out a canvas cloth, and traipses off towards the trees with the bundle in his arms. Johnny sighs again, and turns towards the cave entrance. It’s dark enough that he can’t see much, but it looks okay from what he can see. No weird sounds, no funny smells, no sense of danger. He begins to unfasten his pack from Slow Dancer’s saddle, and throws it down and into the cave as best he can. He unhooks one leg from her saddle, and eases himself so he’s more or less sitting side-saddle. He’s not really looking forward to dropping onto the wet earth and dragging himself into the cave, but he doesn’t have much of a choice.

The leaves are wet and slimy beneath his hands, but once he gets into the cave proper, they’re dry and crisp. He lights a match as soon as he’s able, and in the feeble light, examines the space. It goes back far enough that they should just be able to fit their bedrolls without getting wet, and, like Gyro had said, the mouth of the cave is sandy and dry, tucked underneath the lip of the cave. He should be able to get a tiny fire going.

Johnny works in the dark. Once his match goes out, he drags his pack forward, towards the back of the cave, and clears a space for a fire. The leaves light quickly, and he finds some brush and twigs to throw on the blaze.

He can hear Gyro crashing around out there, setting up the canvas for the horses, the sound of them snorting, a snatch of a song. He comes back once to collect Slow Dancer, leading her off towards the trees, then disappears into the darkness once again.

Johnny rolls out his bedroll the best he can, and shrugs off his wet cloak, laying it out by the fire. It'll be days before it really dries properly, but a damp cloak in the morning is better than a wet one. Then, he settles himself close to the fire, and waits.

Gyro comes stomping back after a while, shaking off his hat and his cloak and his wet hair at the mouth of the cave, before crouching down and squeezing in beside Johnny.

"You look like a wet cat," he says. Johnny scowls at him.

"Like you look any better."

" 'Least I'm not behaving like a wet cat."

Johnny's mouth snaps shut. He scowls deeper and throws another handful of twigs onto the fire. Gyro throws his pack back into the cave, humming to himself as he lays out his bedroll, and pulls jerky and dried fruit out for their dinner. Johnny accepts his portion, and drops a handful of nuts in the space between them. He'd found them a few days ago, just as they were entering the forest. It's the last of the store he'd picked, and he drops them as some sort of peace offering. Gyro forces him to depend on his own strength and determination, and as much of an ass as he is sometimes, Johnny’s not going to take his frustrations or his discomfort out on Gyro.

For a while, they say nothing. Gyro cracks nuts and throws the shells into the fire. Johnny chews on his food, and throws a handful of leaves or brush onto the fire whenever it starts to drop too low. The rain keeps up its steady beat in the darkness outside.

"Horses alright?" he asks eventually. It’s an awkward attempt at recovering from his bad mood, but Gyro accepts it instantly.

"Fine. I brushed them down and hung their rugs to dry out."

Johnny hums a noise of acknowledgement. He picks up a stone, a nice, smooth one, and holds it in the center of his palm. At the start of the race, he practised incessantly with whatever semi-spherical object he could find- stones, berries, nuts- but as his frustration grew, his desire to learn the Spin diminished. It's been a day, maybe two, since he last gave it a shot.

He raises his palm, and tries to clear his mind. Gyro's instructions on mastering the Spin are vague at best, but he reflects on them the best he can. He almost feels a little different this time, as he stares at the stone in his palm and takes a deep breath. Something about the rhythm of his lungs feels nearly comforting, giving him something to focus on. It’s almost as if energy is thrumming through his veins and beginning to swirl beneath the stone. If he concentrates hard enough, he can almost feel warmth in his hand, too.

Given the circumstances, he should be able to do something. He can feel the difference this time, but it's almost like there's a piece missing somewhere, some connection that keeps the stone from moving, and he can't figure out what it is.

He stares at the stone until he feels himself grow lightheaded, then drops his hand in a rush. His chest heaves with the breaths he's sucking in, and he drops himself backwards, lying on the end of his bedroll and staring up at the rocky ceiling.

It felt so different that time, so tantalizingly close, but the taste of failure weighs heavily upon him, the stone still clutched in his hand. He glances towards Gyro, only to find him staring. Johnny quickly wipes tears out of his eyes and sits up.

"I still don't get it," he says loudly, trying to force nonchalance into his voice. Instead, he just sounds miserable.

"Johnny," Gyro says, still staring intently at him, "what was that breathing?"

"What?"

"The breathing, you- I think you almost had it."

Johnny inhales a shaky breath and uncurls his palm. The stone rests there, unmoving, but warm.

"I don't know," he admits, suddenly self-conscious, "It just felt...kinda right, I guess."

Gyro shuffles beside him, catching Johnny's attention. He plucks the stone from Johnny's palm and drops the heavy weight of a steel ball into his hand instead. It's Johnny's turn to stare at him with wide eyes; Gyro won't so much as let him look at the steel balls, nevermind touch them, since that day back on the beach in San Francisco.

"Try it again," he says, "with the breathing."

Johnny frowns for an instant, but hesitantly focuses on the steel ball in his palm. He tries to settle himself back in that moment, to relive everything that just happened, the breathing, the flow of his blood. Warmth. Steel. Air.

He sighs, and in an instant, the steel ball spins wildly in his palm. On instinct, he claps his other hand over the top of the ball, to keep it from flying out of the cup of his palm, stopping the movement without realizing it until it’s too late.

It doesn't really matter though. Gyro looks at him for a second, his mouth hanging open, before he bellows with laughter and claps Johnny hard on the back.

"Look at you, Johnny! The breathing! I can't believe that actually worked!"

Johnny catches himself grinning in response, an airy sort of laugh escaping his throat. It's the first time since the start of the race that he feels hopeful.

“I hope you know I don’t appreciate this,” Dio says between gritted teeth, his phone jammed between his ear and his shoulder as he finishes typing out an email.

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Diego says airily. The phone call, it shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it’d been so long since they last spoke that it managed to catch Dio off-guard.

“You’re lucky I answered.”

“You say that,” Diego says, “as if I wouldn’t keep calling until you picked up.”

He would. Dio rolls his eyes.

“What do you want, Diego?"

"Straight to the point, as usual. Alright, I won't waste your precious time then. I hear your offspring is in the country."

"What? How did-"

"Please, you think I wouldn't find out? Frankly, I'm offended I had to find out through other means. I thought my brother would at least have the decency to tell me something as monumental as this."

Diego is a lot of things, prideful not excluded. He'd as soon sew his mouth shut before he admitted to being upset about something, and his ego is big enough to rival Dio's. But there's a strange hint to his voice, a little twinge of something that sounds an awful lot like disappointment, like he's actually upset he found out about Haruno's arrival through whatever grapevines he has twined about himself.

"It's not your business," Dio says, carefully neutral. Diego scoffs on the other end of the phone.

"Typical. I don't know what I expected."

"Diego-"

"I'll be round tomorrow."

"You will not." Dio stops his typing and grabs his phone before he drops it. "Diego, you better not be cutting your classes. I will not stand for that kind of behavior, especially as I'm the one paying for your education."

Dio's shouts echo in the space of his office. The line sits quietly, until Diego sighs.

"It's a free weekend, Dio," he says softly, "not that I was expecting you to know that either. I'll be round in the afternoon."

He hangs up before Dio can reply. He considers calling Diego back immediately and shouting sense into him until he'd call off his whole foolish trip. No doubt he's coming by to gloat over Dio playing father. He wouldn't stoop to insulting Haruno- of that Dio is at least positive about- but he has no desire to bear the brunt of Diego's commentary.

Although.

And it's a strange thought, a strange detail to pick up on, but Diego /did/ sound almost...affected. Something about the touch of strain in his voice. Dio can remember the exact moment he last heard that strain in Diego’s voice, and it was years ago. What on earth Diego has to be upset about, Dio hasn’t a clue, and he’s not looking forward to dealing with it, once it finally emerges.

Diego arrives just as Dio’s seated Haruno for lunch. He doesn’t bother knocking, so neither he nor Haruno are even aware of his arrival until he’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

“Ah, family luncheon, is it?” he says. “How very charming.”

Dio bites back the scathing remark on the tip of his tongue, only because Haruno is sitting at the table, staring at Diego, and only just barely.

“This is Diego,” Dio says. Haruno turns to look at him, crumbs from his sandwich in the corner of his mouth, before turning back, curious about this new person.

Diego raises an eyebrow at Dio, but approaches the table confidently.

“Hello,” he says to Haruno, looking down at him with a carefully neutral expression.

“Say ‘hello,’ Haruno,” Dio prompts.

“Salve.”

“So, no English, then?” Diego says.

“Italian.”

“Ah. Well, my Italian is rubbish, so English it is. What’s his name?”

“What?” Dio casts a close eye over his brother. Diego always has some game, some scheme running, and Dio regards him with suspicion.

“Haruno,” Dio answers after a beat. Another raised eyebrow from Diego.

“Doesn’t sound Italian, does it?”

A hint of a frown passes over Dio’s face, but he smoothes it over to match the neutrality on Diego’s face. Diego’s fishing for information on Haruno, but no way in hell Dio’s telling anything regarding that story.

Diego turns his attention back to Haruno. He studies the little face, the wispy black curls, the sharp eyes. It’s not a conventional resemblance, but he’s undeniably Dio’s child.

“Congratulations, Dio,” Diego says, “your spawn is rather cute.”

Diego kicks out a chair at the table and sits down before Dio can make any comment.

“I’ll be staying the weekend,” he says, carding his fingers through his hair.

“The spare room’s occupied,” Dio says. It’s rather impressive how long Dio’s managed to control his temper, although Diego can hear the sound of his teeth grinding together. Can’t be good for him.

“I’ll sleep in your office.”

Dio chews a bite of food, suddenly looking far too contemplative for Diego’s liking.

“Fine,” he says eventually, “but you’ll be looking after Haruno while I go into work tomorrow. Monday, too.”

“What?”

“It’s either that or I put you on a train back to your dormitory. Or else, you could stay with friends, couldn’t you, Diego?”

The neutrality falls from Diego’s face; it’s not often that anyone hits so close to home, but Dio has always been able to do that to him, reading him like an open book, despite how carefully Diego tries to hide his heart.

“My empty dorm would be preferable to this,” Diego says, “but when would I even miss an opportunity to impose on your hospitality? Fine, I’ll do it.” He tries to play it off as casual, but he can’t quite cover up the strain in his voice, something that Dio most definitely notices. And Haruno, if the shy curl of his shoulders is anything to go by. Diego suddenly feels a stab of guilt.

He doesn’t call her back until mid morning, after Haruno’s been dressed and breakfast dishes have been washed. She picks up on the second ring.

“Mariah,” he says, sipping on a cup of cold tea.

“I know you’re on vacation,” she starts, and Dio sighs. He has a feeling of what’s coming. “But Mr. Appice is insistent that he speak with you. I’ve tried to explain that he can reach you through email, but you know how he is.”

“Unfortunately. I’ll call him today and arrange for a meeting-”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Brando, but he’s here now.” “What?”

The thing he likes most about Mariah is she takes all the personalities of his clients, and his own short temper, in stride. That, and she’s a terribly competent assistant, but there are certain clients in his caseload that simply won’t listen to reason, no matter how many times it’s repeated to them.

“He was waiting outside the door when I got here this morning at half past. I’m sorry, Mr. Brando, I really am. He’s been here all morning, and he’s refused to leave until he spoke with you. I suppose I can put him on the phone, but he’s distressed, you see, and I don’t think he’ll listen to me anyway-”

“I’ll be there shortly,” Dio says, and hangs up. He resists throwing his phone across the room by sheer determination (and Haruno’s big, blue-eyed stare from across the table). He downs the rest of his cold tea in one go, and stands up abruptly.

“Haruno,” he says, “we’re going to work for a little bit.”

Mr. Brando storms into the office with a face like thunder and a little boy propped up on his hip.

“Mariah,” he says when he bursts through the door, “this is Haruno. I’ll be in my office.”

“Mr. Brando-”

Mr. Brando sets the little boy down and kneels in front of him. He rattles something off in a language Mariah certainly doesn’t speak, but the little boy nods. Mr. Brando hands him a backpack and stands, drawing one hand over the crown of his head in an oddly fond gesture. He tears down the hallway without so much as a look over his shoulder, leaving Mariah with Haruno.

Mr. Brando doesn’t often surprise her; he’s a temperamental man, but she’s competent enough to keep up with his perfectionism. Dumping a little boy into her lap, however, is a new level strange, and it’s making her reconsider just how well she knows Mr. Brando.

The little boy- Haruno- for his part, doesn’t seem put out in the least. He watches Mr. Brando go down the hall, then slips back behind Mariah’s desk when he disappears. The little bug-shaped backpack is plopped onto the floor, then opened by small fingers. Mariah watches as he pulls out a clattering pile of toys out of the bag, then sits down on the floor and starts moving them about. He does it so quietly that she doesn’t realize he’s started playing until a few moments later, when she sees him bounce a little horse figurine across the carpet like it’s galloping. She’s distracted by the phone ringing, and then her emails, and then clients passing in and out of the door, but she doesn’t quite stop wondering just what Dio Brando gets up to when he takes vacation.

 Appice scurries out of his office within an hour, after Dio has thoroughly chewed him out for dragging him out to the office for a matter completely unrelated to his case. Still, he leaves thanking Dio profusely. After their conversation, Appice’s acutely aware of how hopeless a lawsuit he’s bringing to court, and how he’d most certainly lose if it were anyone but Dio working his case. And that had certainly struck fear into the fool’s head, if no sensible warnings had.

He shuts off the lights and closes the door to his office. His thoughts had been on Haruno the entirety of his meeting with Appice, but no one had knocked on his door, and he’d heard no crying or fits. It left him just a little too suspicious to be relieved, however, and he walks quickly down the hall.

Whatever he was suspecting wasn’t Haruno perched in Mariah’s lap pointing to her computer screen and chirping in Italian. It puzzles Dio enough that he stops dead in his tracks and frowns, watching the two of them. Mariah looks up to follow the line of Haruno’s finger, and catches Dio’s eye.

“Mr. Brando,” she says, “I see Mr. Appice’s left.”

“Yes. He shouldn’t be bothering you anymore this week. Haruno?”

Haruno turns at the sound of his name, and slides off Mariah’s lap.

“We’re watching videos,” he says in his little voice, looking up at Dio.

“That’s very nice, Haruno, but we have to go home now. She has work to do.”

Haruno frowns a little, but slowly stoops to start picking up his scattered toys. Dio has the distinct impression he’s just disappointed his son.

“Thank you, Mariah,” he says, collecting a toy car and a robot off her desk. “I’m sorry to have dropped this on you, but I don’t have a sitter.” “It’s perfectly alright, Mr. Brando,” she says. She’s watching Haruno, with the faintest trace of a smile on her mouth. “He’s a good little boy. Is it Italian he speaks?”

“Ah,” Dio says. He’d forgotten all about that. “Yes. He’s- his mother lives in Italy, and he hasn’t had much opportunity to learn English.”

“I see,” she says, and then- “he’s your son, correct?”

Dio nods, a bit dumbfounded, and a touch apprehensive. It’s not exactly something he wanted to spread around the office.

“He looks like you,” Mariah says, “his eyes- not the color, obviously, but- well, he’s very sharp, isn’t he, Mr. Brando?”

Mariah is not a flatterer; she is a straightforward but tactful young lady, but not prone to compliments. At her words, Dio feels a strange, but not entirely unwelcome twist of pride.

“Yes,” Dio says, “that he is.”

He zips up Haruno’s bag and helps him put it on, looking for the last time to make sure no toys were forgotten. Mariah waves goodbye as they leave, Haruno looking a bit sullen, but waving in return.

“I’m sorry, Haruno,” Dio says, once they’re successfully on their way home. He’s not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for, but the look on Haruno’s face touches him with guilt.

Haruno is strapped into his booster seat, and he looks out the window as they drive through the busy streets of London.

“Miss Mariah is nice,” he says simply. Dio looks at him in the rear-view mirror.

“She is very nice. What were you watching while I was away?”

Dio sits, poised, in the hard plastic of a seat at the airport. He rests one leg over the other, his things in a bag by his feet, and a tablet in his hand. Even though he’s on the first day of a week of vacation, he can’t afford to miss out on the time away from work. They’ll be enough to catch up on as it is when he gets back into the office, and besides, reading emails passes the time. He’s been waiting for an hour already, watching the screen with the incoming flights listed with an ever-deepening frown, as the flight he was waiting for was marked with delay after delay.

Dio gives an impatient huff, and bounces his leg over his knee once. He puts his tablet away and stands up, his back popping as he stretches. He’s walked circles around the airport already, pacing and waiting for a flight that was meant to take less than three hours. There are some familiar faces on the circuit, people that’ve been waiting for flights nearly as long as he has, but they’re all seated, flipping through magazines or making idle chatter. They look calm and relaxed, like nothing so life-changing will be getting off a plane within the hour.

Not that he’s nervous.

Dio’s phone pings, and he digs it out of his pocket. He’s surprised to see a status update from the flight, and glances at the flight board to see that yes, the flight is still being listed as delayed. He debates this for a moment, frowning down at his phone, but then he hears the announcement made over the sound system:

“Flight 7245 from Naples, Italy, to London, United Kingdom, has now landed.”

It’s hard to be patient, even as he convinces himself to do so. There’s a flutter of something weaving its way through his nerves, something that has him walking a little more quickly than necessary towards the gates. He watches as a trickle of passengers begin to filter out, spotting their family members and rushing towards them with hugs or glares, or those that make straight towards baggage claim, with no one to meet them, the hazy gloss of travel clouding their faces.

Dio lingers by the wall, deeming it better to keep out of the way. He waits as the trickle of passengers existing the gates turns into a flood, and then another trickle, a handful of stragglers, and finally, the airline staff.

Dio’s stomach gives an odd little twist, a feeling that he stamps down almost immediately. He sees the dark little head he’s been waiting for, a petite little boy holding tight to the stewardess who has him by the hand. He approaches the pair slowly, the stewardess spotting his approach and meeting him before he can do something stupid, like disappear.

“Are you Mr. Brando?” she asks, all sweet smiles and professional calm. He nods once, only half-listening, as he’s preoccupied with staring down at the little boy attached to her hand, the little boy that stares back with big blue eyes, clutching a stuffed animal, but otherwise appearing rather unaffected by the man towering in front of him.

“If you’ll follow me, sir, I have some paperwork for you to sign.”

He nods again, and follows mutely behind the stewardess. The little boy bounces along beside her, but he keeps looking over his shoulder, looking back at Dio with those enormous eyes. The stewardess presents him with a release to sign, something he only reads the barest amount before signing, and smiles charmingly at him.

“Thank you, Mr. Brando. Enjoy your stay in England, Haruno.”

He looks up at the sound of his name, but his gaze is quickly drawn back to Dio. The stewardess slips off, but neither one of them pay much attention.

“Haruno,” he says, after a beat, “I’m Dio.” Little Haruno stares up at him.