#viraditore

giorno's smile is soft and unassuming, as friendly as ever when hearing counsel from his adviser, from his friend. countless times before he has assured him that he can handle hearing anything -- be it bad news, disappointment, unpopular takes -- there is a reason he chose fugo of all people for it. i trust in you. he'd said this and he'd meant it then. he still means it now, although the meaning has evolved since. lately, he finds, there are few who are willing to be fully honest with him.

and he can't, for the life of him, understand why. he's not diavolo. he is not a tyrant casting a dark curtain of fear onto all. he saved italy. he does not hide in the shadows, he is the sun illuminating over all the cities. he has ushered in a golden age. an age of peace and prosperity, an age of renewal & hope. it wasn't an easy place to reach, there were difficult choices. . . some even regrettable in his reign. but the cost was worth it.

they fear you. requiem's voice -- light and yet thunderous, feminine and masculine, a thousand voices and a single one that echoes his own -- whispers in his ear. he can feel the imprint of his stand's hands grip onto his shoulders, tense & protective. they do not trust you. it warns him, it echoes what he has been suspicious of for quite some time. if that fear festers they will plot against you.

giorno's smile is still intact, perhaps for a few seconds longer than it should have for it to be considered a normal response. he blinks once, studies fugo's stiffened frame. requiem has never warmed up to fugo's position -- they differ on opinions, they often clash, though it is a battle fugo knows nothing about -- and giorno has defended him, every single time.

this time, he's not feeling too keen on defending his behalf.

❝  might i ask why? ❞ he leans forward, his chin resting atop his hand. ❝  i expect this sort of opinion from my enemies, yes, but never a friend. never you. ❞

( he has felt this way for quite some time. requiem continues to whisper, persistent. the lidless eyes narrow with displeasure, though its tone is apathetic. like a seed of distrust planted years ago, the roots growing slowly with time. )

❝  unless, of course, this has something to do with those absurd rumors about my origin as of late. ❞ one chance, there is one chance provided as an out. giorno prays that he takes it, willing to humor him and sort this matter out as miscommunication. oh how he prays. ❝  with my so - called vampiric father that wanted to conquer the world. ❞

there is faint humor in his tone. but the leaked intel from intercepted messages of that bothersome foundation ( who spy on him still ) was no laughing matter. it was a disturbing piece of information that nearly made him consider tearing the photograph to pieces. giorno is not diavolo. he is also not his father, he swears he never will be.

in the aftermath of what had been a pointless, pyrrhic victory they crowned another king and it wasn't him. and he was glad for it, in truth, only because he couldn't imagine being forcefully burdened with another reason to live after all he'd lost. ( what he'd done, what his team had done was never for the sake of power ; it was vengeance, it was justice. ) heavy is the head that wears the crown. it looked too heavy to bestow upon a boy of fifteen years old, too optimistic and too ambitious for his own good.

risotto had wished for destruction upon passione and got exactly what he wanted. for two years now giorno had waged a vicious, bloody civil war against the heart of the organization over the controversial drug trade. entire teams had been dismantled, men of power displaced, countless lives destroyed. risotto's hand played a part to it, not because he believed in the boy's spirited cause, but because he relished seeing these people topple & fall gracelessly. la squadra di esecuzione had suffered, no one cared. why should he spare sympathy to any of them in return?

he did not care if giorno burned all of rome to get what he wanted. he still doesn't. but he would be lying if he didn't think, every now & then, that a mistake had been made. not the death and usurping of diavolo, that was always meant to happen, but the cost and the aftermath proved too much.

❝  it's strange to be asked this now. no one cared what my men thought when diavolo reigned as don. ❞ he began with a faraway tone and downcast gaze, the memory clear as day. it's not funny, he isn't mocking the boy. it's merely a comment comparing then to now. ❝  we were his dogs sent to kill all who were deemed his enemy. and diavolo saw traitors everywhere. ❞

which face saw them, he sometimes wonders. the would - be devil with his sneer or the passive coward with the twitchy eyes? ❝  he had no inner circle of friends. not even his elite squadron. he took no counsel, no advice from others, he ruled in solitude because of greed and paranoia. it's one of the many factors which led to his death. it's one of the many lessons giorno has taken from this cruel, pathetic reign. ❞

( giorno, who only lived through a week of it, risotto sometimes remembers and almost laughs at the absurd notion. giorno, who charmed a brigade to their willing deaths and involved them all in a war they had no business being a part of. giorno, who together with bucciarati, snatched an inheritance & then a victory that belonged to him. )

❝  that is, of course, assuming giorno still takes your counsel. he placed you in the position of advisor for that reason. i heard he forced you into it. ❞ and this is where he leads into his answer, his truest & harshest thoughts on the matter. fugo wanted, no, demanded honesty. and so he shall receive. ❝  i can't imagine having my time wasted, forced to stand beside a throne with a don who only argues and contradicts my every single point. it would embarrassing, in fact, if it belittles me in front of others. but if he is also my friend, then i suppose we can speak on the issue in private afterwards. we can reconcile, we can be honest. ❞

prosciutto had been precisely that kind of friend. he was the bravest one, contradicting & debating risotto at times. it was why he was chosen as his second - in - command, his successor should he fall first. they'd argued at times, but they understood and respected one another. he misses having a friend like that, harsh and honest in the same breath.

❝  unless if i haven't felt that way in quite some time. unless if i already bite my tongue around him, to save myself the sanity from another argument. or worse, that i can't gauge him anymore, as either my leader or my friend. unless i have reason to fear him, as i did the last don. ❞

❝ have you ever read the mad doctor's files? intel on the elite squadron is irrelevant these days, but seeing as you weren't there, i can't help but wonder if it ever piqued your interest.  ❞

did you know him

the phone's screen is turned and flashed over to him. for a minute, he's ashamed to admit, his eyes don't register the sight at first. but he'll swear it's because of the quality of the image was a blur in bad lighting, not that his eyes -- which are sharp as ever, mind you, fugo -- are getting old. he needs to only squint for half a second to adjust. and it registers.

risotto's default expression already consists of a frown. this one deepens slightly, sincerely unamused. he is, what? thirteen years older than the other man. perhaps he is old by passione standards, in that, it's a game where men die young. but he is not old. let alone that old.