Gold And Sapphires (JJBA)

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Giorno regrets it.

The sky is stained red, orange, and pastel pink in the fading daylight, the clouds grow golden, and the mansion casts a large shadow. Currently they stand in front of Holly's manor. Giorno is in the center with Trish by his side. The letter said Giorno was allowed to bring extras so he did. He brought along three extras; Trish, Mista, and Polnareff, the later of whom currently resided within a purse that was flung over Trish's shoulder.

The letter also said the gifts weren't required, but as it happened, a few large boxes were resting in Mista and Giorno's arms; they were gifts. Glass bottles of ruby red wine made a clinking sound as they jostled around. Soft basil bread baked only a few hours prior let off a pleasant aroma that mixed together with the scent of high quality cheese and fresh grown fruits combined into an array of fragrance originating from the boxes and bags.

The farther Giorno stepped into the Kujo's residence, the more his stomach seemed to think it was a good idea to learn acrobatics.

Dully, he wonders if he has brought enough. Perhaps he should've brought jewelry as well—instead? Maybe. But he read that people bring food to...gatherings like these. So he did. But what if the books were wrong? He didn't know. Fugo said it was fine. Fugo is smart, and has been to a family reunion before. Is Fugo wrong? Ah. Giorno is overthinking this isn't he? That isn't good, probably. He shouldn't dwell in what is already done. That is useless, useless, useless.

(He eyes the bags with a look of doubt anyway.)

His boots hit against the stone slab path at a painfully slow rate.

When Giorno reaches the rice paper door, after finally reaching the end of a dauntingly slow walk through a large Japanese garden, Giorno does not knock. In fact, he doesn't even move. His hands stay to his sides as if stuck in place by glue.

The house looms over him with its hardwood frames and thatched roof. From beyond the door came the faintest hint of clatters and loud voices. Warm yellow light illuminated the thick rice paper door, and cast pools of gold on the ground.

Giorno's hands did not move, not even an inch. He could sense Trish's irritation from next to him. His breathing was ever so slightly off, and the house was not welcoming or warm. It was daunting, looming. Haruno could not move.

Haruno did not want to move. Or maybe he did. He wasn't sure.

Haruno's breath seemed slightly abnormal, faster than usual. And will his hands please just move already?

Haruno was acting as he usually did; hiding and flinching away from relatives. His stomach was in loops, as if he was riding a roller coaster.

(No. No. That is wrong. He was not Haruno, definitely not Haruno. He was Giorno. He was not Haruno who cowered away from blood relations. He was not Haruno who never took action.)

Giorno vaguely feels Mista give his hand a comforting squeeze before retreating back to hold his own gifts.

Suddenly an exclamation came from behind, it was spoken in Japanese. Giorno spun around like the wind. The wine bottles lightly jingle from the sudden movement.

It's an older teen. With ebony hair tinted slightly purple and styled up into a, what Giorno considers, stylish pompadour. His skin is fair, and he has kind pastel blue eyes of a shade that Giorno realizes look a bit similar to his own. The new arrival carries carefully held plastic bags, pink, blue, sunny yellow; Giorno observes the delicate and colorful heads of bouquets of flowers poking out from the baggage.

The teen's Japanese is a jumble of incoherency; fast-spoken from his lips. Despite having studied Japanese with Fugo for the last month, and doing his best to recall the fragments of the language from his childhood, Giorno can only pick up a few words. It sounds like some kind of greeting.