Giorno would normally never show such emotion, so much of his true feelings in front of others, even those he had come to trust. There were only a few fleeting exceptions, the death of the teenager before him one of them. As he watched Narancia, whose own emotions were clearly and quickly overcoming him, a feeling of immense guilt bloomed in his chest. It was so heavy and painful, enough so to make Giorno feel as if he might tumble downward because of it.
His own hands twitched at his side, now that both were free. What was he supposed to do with them? The same hands that had failed to keep Narancia safe before; the same hands whose owner had failed to save Bruno Bucciarati and Leone Abbacchio? What could he even do with them now?
âIâm sorry,â Giorno says, using one of his hands to cover his own face. âI couldnâtâŚâ
The words would not leave him, perhaps because he did not wish to think of them in the first place. The guilt that had been born in his soul since that day had never left him; it was something he could live with, but never forget.
âIf I had been quicker, I couldâveâŚâ I couldâve saved you. You could have lived. You should have lived!
Instead of forcing himself to try and speak, Giorno reached out towards Narancia. He pulled the thinner teenager into a tight embrace, one that was perhaps uncharacteristic of himâ yet, as he held on tightly, Giorno wondered why he hadnât hugged Narancia sooner. How else could he both validate that he was truly real, and comfort him at the same time? It was painful for Giorno, yes, but he knew that Narancia must be hurting as well.
Inhaling sharply, Giorno tried to focus on the positive of this situation; even if this was some cruel joke, something conjured up by a stand or not, the fact that he could see his comrade again was something he ought to be grateful for. The guilt he felt over Naranciaâs death only caused Giorno to hug him tighter.
âNo, itâs like you said⌠Iâm so happy to see you again.â
 â s... shut the hell up, giorno, â narancia manages, fingers curling into the back of giornoâs top. thereâs grit to his words as if struggling to speak them past the watery tone thatâs still leaking into the syllables.Â
 how fast could the guy have moved? one second narancia was keeping an eye on his radar and the next there was a flash of indescribable pain, a birdâs eye view of the ground, and he was gone. if the bossâ stand had to do with time shit, then... what could anyone have really done?
 ( except win at the end, narancia guesses. )
 â ... it ainât your fault. we couldnât even find where the bastard was hiding, â he continues, trying not to give the blond room to object. if anyoneâs gonna be at fault for anything, itâd be...
 narancia doesnât want to think about abbacchioâs death. how aerosmith with manipulated into shooting someone (the leader of la squadra? the guy they had tried to track and failed back in sardinia?) and how bucciarati and him left abbacchio alone when heâd be defenseless--
 he swallows the blame back down and shakes his head. thereâs no intention to step away from giorno despite how much heâd love to reach up and squish the kids face and tell him with the stern face he learned from bucciarati that if giorno tries to blame himself for this again heâll punch him, but the fire isnât there.
 for now, heâll deal with being simmering coals. when all of his strength comes back, heâll let giorno have it should he try to shoulder all the guilt again.
 â ha...! you better be, ya jerk. iâd be pissed if you saw me and walked off, â he teases, hoping to ease into a more comfortable conversation. narancia refuses to lift his head still, afraid of how red his cheeks must be and how much of a spot he definitely left on the youngerâs top.Â