Changeling-Giorno Giovanna x Reader

Charade

^ The song I imagine you to be singing- but it can be anything you want!

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cha·rade

/SHəˈrād/

noun

noun: charade; plural noun: charades

an absurd pretense intended to create a pleasant or respectable appearance."talk of unity was nothing more than a charade"

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The stage door closed with a thud, and the pair were released from whatever had bound them.

Unlike most stand users they had encountered, the effects of the girl's attack had left them none the worse for wear. In fact, the areas penetrated seemed noticeably smoother and pleasantly tingled in the night air. A strange ability, to say the least.

Giorno spotted his wallet lying open on the ground next to the dead man. He looked ancient, but his weathered face betrayed small signs of once chiseled cheekbones and a strong jaw. His eyes lay closed as though in sleep, and a content smile danced upon his lips. It was poetic, how alive he looked. More so than most people with a pulse.

His body looked so light, both in weight and in spirit. A sense of nullness radiated from him, encasing the two strangers in an impenetrable bubble of silence. The world seemed to stop for the man lying here, seemingly reluctant to wake him.

The wallet lay open near his knee, a thousand lire note pinned below its leather flap. 

Not nearly enough for an ambulance ride. He retrieved the wallet hesitantly. Everything made sense.

"It's not fair," Narancia whispered. "We should tell Bucciarti."

Giorno stood. "We can't."

"Why? She needs help."

The blonde took another look at the body near his feet. 

"She won't take it. Not from us."

Narancia's eye twitched angrily. He started to argue, but then understood. He shifted his foot, and a plastic bag dusted with a white powder flew down the street. 

The angel of death carried by the breath of men long since passed. He turned.

Giorno shivered.

***

The door closed with a thud. You looked to Physical Graffiti expectantly. She was silent and void of any visible emotion, as always.

You checked your watch. 10:27. 

Shit. Not nearly enough time to do makeup. Or cry.

"Fizz?" Physical Graffiti wrapped herself around you, her holographic surface changing into your s/c shade. A tear slipped down your cheek.

"And now ladies and gentlemen, the wondrous vocal musings of Miss Valentina Valdez!" The emcee's soft voice trickled out from the cage mic centerstage. Polite claps and whistles came from the crowd, rendered invisible to you by virtue of the floodlights illuminating your face. Your eyes instinctively traveled to the table in the back, lit by a dim bar light. To your surprise, they were all sitting there, watching you expectantly. There was not a hint of aggression on their faces as you adjusted the microphone and nodded to the band.

***TIMESKIP TO AFTER YOUR SET :)***

You smiled and waved, leaving the stage for the last time that night. 11:20- you had gone on longer than you had expected. You never let the group of gangsters leave your sight, though. They had stayed for the whole show, clapping at all the right moments. Still, you were terrified of leaving. Their type don't just forget about -ahem- incidents like that, even if they were unharmed.

You stepped into your dressing room, recalling Physical Graffiti and putting on your street clothes. A lukewarm water sat unopened on the vanity table, which you promptly inhaled. You wiped the water off your mouth and sighed. 

Grabbing your cell reluctantly, you phoned the police to report a dead body at the back of La Luna. With a shaking voice and a heavy heart, you slowly gave them the address. The lady on the line wanted to keep talking to make sure you were alright, but you ended the call as soon as the necessary information was given. You'd be walking home alone tonight. 

The stage door creaked open as you gingerly walked to the entrance of the club. You sat on the curb, watching for the ambulance or whatever car they use to pick up dead junkies in this little slice of hell you lived in. There was another man, a younger man, who rode in an ambulance and died in a white room, another man you had loved. 

I always end up in the same place, you thought to yourself. But he died for nothing.

Physical Graffiti manifested, apparently of her own accord, and sat watching the street next to you. Over the years, you'd found that she seemed to be fond of some things. She liked to watch cars go past, and she liked feathers and birds. She did what she wanted to most of the time, and that usually consisted of watching things. It was kind of scary.

You felt your hand reach into your back pocket for a lighter. You didn't smoke, but a friend of yours did. You liked watching things burn, he liked to smoke. It was a good relationship.