Giorno stares up at the ceiling. His bed is lavish and wonderful, made by one of the maids they had hired to help with the upkeep of the mansion. They may be criminals, but they can still be neat criminals. Giorno lets out a little sigh. These domestic things make even the strongest of Passione wonder what could have been. A normal life, maybe. What do people want? What does Giorno want? Is it even moral to think about such things when your job is to send people to die?
How many times has he looked somebody in the eye, promised them salvation, and it turned out that was a lie. How many times was he the last person to witness somebody before they became a slave to fate?
What has he done? He may have set so many people free, but it doesn't undo the harm that has already been committed. It doesn't help all those poor children whose lives have been ruined, the widows, the families that have been shattered. Him gaining control doesn't stop the violence. This was damage control.
Giorno doesn't dislike himself, exactly. He's... important. But a person is really just their actions and circumstances. This was the path he chose to go down. What he could have lost by following through doesn't matter, in the end.
He inhales, exhales.
Giorno is alive. Fugo is alive somewhere, too. He's probably working meticulously on paperwork, or perhaps working with Polnareff to plan the upcoming missions. Head hung low, back hunched, eyes tired. He's in the mansion somewhere, so close but just out of reach.
Or maybe he's not. Maybe he went out on a mission without Giorno's permission and got himself killed. Maybe it's Giorno's fault that Pannacotta died, because he was distracted and thinking of their arguments.
How disgusting it would be for Pannacotta's last thoughts to be of Giorno.
How repulsive it would be for Pannacotta's last thoughts to be of Giorno.
How cruel it would be for Pannacotta's last thoughts to be of Giorno.
His stomach churns. He stares. He watches himself stare.
Two arms, two hands, two legs, two feet. Ten fingers, four limbs, spread out and limp like a doll a child discarded.
He must look silly, that's okay. He's allowed to look silly. Distantly, he hears Gold Experience Requiem tell him that he looks sad. Maybe she's right. He doesn't feel sad, though. He doesn't feel much of anything. He feels the silk sheets and the soft comforter below him, the plush of the bed, the gentle circulation of the air. That's all there is.
What if Pannacotta did die, though? Love was extremely risky in their line of work. This hasn't been the first time Giorno thought of it, and it wouldn't be the last.
What if he didn't get to say goodbye?
He feels like vomiting. He can't remember the last time he told him he loved him.
One head, one body. A brain that won't think and lungs that won't work. His ears ring, and he's aware of how quiet it is in his bedroom. When did it become his, again?
Somewhere far away, he hears the echoes of a loved child playing in the yards behind the mansion. Their father playing with them, chasing them around. And they're happy, and it's all they could ever ask for. It's a place where they can look back and know, with a total certainty and fondness that everything that they have ever risked has been worth it.
The picture is blurry but it's painted in gentle, bright colors, and it feels so unusually familiar. He reaches out, he wants them, he wants to tell them how happy he is. He runs to catch up with them, the soft grass beneath his bare feet and he needs to tell them. And so he does, and he extends his arm, and he reaches his hand out, and as the man turns his head to meet his gaze, Giorno's heart stops with the sudden realization that the man is Pannacotta Fugo, and he is Giorno Giovanna.
Their world is swept out from underneath his feet, the color draining from the broken image. He's falling, he vaguely thinks, but he reaches out to try to latch onto his beloved anyway. In a second, he wonders if Fugo would try to catch him, and tries to endure the pain that it brings him when Fugo doesn't.
He reminds himself that he doesn't deserve that hand, anyway. He would take it, if it was there, but it wasn't. After all, it shouldn't be there, not with the life that he lives, the things he's done, and the secrets he keeps. He wishes he had somebody to take his head out of the clouds; to force him out of the pointless delusion that a family could exist in his future, especially with Pannacotta. Fugo would not allow himself to consider it, and he shouldn't either.
As the last of the fantasy crumbles around him, chunks of earth and color and sensation falling with him, he can't bring himself to mourn its downfall when he alone was the cause of it.
Giorno's hand grabs at his collar.
Giorno has the world. He has everything he could have ever wanted. He's the most powerful man in Italy. And yet.
He was going to die alone, wasn't he? He was going to die alone, without Pannacotta.
Giorno turns to lay on his side, and brings his knees up to his chest.
YOU ARE READING
A Pearl
FanfictionIt always feels like Giorno starts the fights, when they happen, but he can never remember or figure out how. The growing divide between the boy who didn't have a childhood and the ruthless don he was supposed to be was starting to wear on him and F...
