Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Abbacchio wonders if his luck really is the worst in the world. 

Perhaps the good of his luck had already been spent a few months ago, with the Diavolo incident. How ironic? His good luck is only spent after his bad luck puts him in a shitty situation. 

But hey, better late than never...I guess.

If his luck had been any worse, they all would’ve died a few months ago. In the life of a mafia member, all it took was the tiniest misstep for all hell to break loose. At some point, he knew he had been pretty damn close, when Abbacchio had suffered major injuries along with Narancia and Bucciarati, yet they were all blessed enough to survive. Well, surviving came with a price. Sometimes, in his nightmares, he still found himself there—in a time where they didn’t all win together.

He’d feel the ache of an unforgettable wound in his stomach. Salty wind, dusty rocks, ocean mist, all spoiled and contaminated with the metallic smell of his blood. He’d taste it in his mouth, his skin would be slick with shock, his front brutally painted with red. Someone would call his name, tension and despair filling the air. His body would lay bonelessly on the rocks, a golden glow banishing peace and forcing his body to be complete again. 

Those same thoughts would always nag at his mind during the night, like a forgotten dream with a bad ending.

“Abbacchio, are you listening to me?”

He was startled out of his thoughts. Abbacchio pulled his attention out from the deep recesses of his mind and focused it on the other gangster in the vehicle.

That golden brat. 

Even after taking up a higher ranking, Giorno still seemed too naive for Abbacchio’s tastes. During the week of their coup, Abbacchio never got along with the young gangster. With the same ferocity, the ex-cop did not agree that Giorno was worthy of the high position the boy had been rewarded for his success, either—but it wasn’t Abbacchio’s place to argue. Bucciarati had insisted that Giorno would take a high role on the team after defeating the previous Don. The others felt the same; Trish, Narancia, and Mista felt no hesitation towards the matter—they had already fully trusted Giorno and deemed him worthy of the position. 

Due to this, the title of Don was now in some sort of limbo between the golden brat, and the much more deserving Bucciarati. Since nobody else outside of their group knows about the coup, there isn’t a huge rush to move into the position. As of now, Bucciarati is still acting as Capo, and Giorno will slowly be admitted towards the formal position of Don as the aftermath of Diavolo gets cleaned up. Since Bucciarati and Giorno both have similar plans for Passione, they will work together, with Giorno being the official representative—despite actually co-leading with Bucciarati. 

Although, it will still take a few more months before the transition can happen. There were plenty of things that needed to be sorted out first. 

Acknowledging this, the rest of the gang eagerly waited. They saw no problem with Giorno being given the title of Don in the future. Instead, they cheered him on, fully trusting him to do a good job. 

‘Are they incapable of seeing the bigger picture?’ Abbacchio wondered.

There were so many thoughts in his head, and sometimes it felt like he was the only one thinking them.

—No matter what luck somehow carried Giorno through their treacherous journey, he was still a kid. Just a naive, 15-year-old kid. A mere teenager. 

He didn’t know what real pain was like. 

He couldn’t know. 

The pain of being abandoned like Narancia, or pressured like Fugo. The utter heartbreak of having your life turned inside out through horrible situations—like him, Bucciarati, or Mista. 

No, Giorno was a “perfect” inexperienced brat with nothing but a brave face and an untouchable demeanor. Never faltering, always brave, always perfect. Disobeying or improvising selfishly without a single thought, only to have it be swept under the rug. The ends justify the means; That is the phrase that describes Giorno’s entire existence. 

It really pissed him off.

“Abbacchio,” Giorno said flatly.

Abbacchio’s eyebrow twitched. “I heard you the first time,” he growled under his breath. “What is it?” His purple eyes squinted with annoyance.

The boy ignored it.

“We’re parking. The location is a five-minute walk ahead,” Giorno said shortly. He must have sensed Abbacchio’s hostility. 

The car rolled to a stop. They were in a patchy dirt lot off the side of the road. 

Let's just get this idiotic mission over with. 

Abbacchio exited the car and closed the door.

——— ~1 Hour Earlier~ ———

Abbachio rested comfortably in his room. 

The team had finally settled themselves into a pleasant home following the chaotic aftermath of Diavolo, only a few months ago. The sizable abode contained 6 bedrooms, a kitchen, a dining room, two bathrooms, and a living room. The house itself was designed by Bucciarati to accommodate the team, operating as a small, casual base. They called it “The Rest House”. All bedrooms remained upstairs, with a large bathroom also included in the hall. The kitchen, dining room, living room, and second bathroom occupied the ground floor. It felt like home.

Abbachio’s own room held an even stronger feeling of home. All of his things from his previous apartment were here, adding a sense of familiarity. However, over the past few years, his definition of “home” had changed. Sure, his previous apartment had been where he lived, but it didn't really feel like home. Not in the way it did here. No, the Rest House had a much more home-like feel, mainly because of its other inhabitants. The sound of his fellow gang-mates bustling around the house was a familiar element—an element that was never part of his home life before. It felt...familial. (but he would never admit that out loud).

However, despite being home, duty always calls. Sitting in the chair by his desk, Abbacchio pressed the phone closer to his ear. 

“There’s been reports of a massive drug stash yet to be eliminated by our efforts,” Bucciarati’s strong voice echoed over the speaker. “We received an anonymous tip that a lone-party has been making deals in a dense forest, located 20 kilometers away. My laptop has been supplied with coordinates. Apparently one of our distribution managers caught word through desperate citizens who were unwilling to be admitted at Passione’s newly established rehabilitation centers. I want you to figure out the identity of the culprit drug team, and deal with them accordingly,” the Capo finished. 

Abbacchio sighed, leaning back in his creaking chair. “More drugs? You’d think these people would learn their lesson by now.” He said with a mix of disappointment and annoyance.

Bucciarati’s voice remained unwavering, despite some obvious frustration. “Many people find themselves unable to change from the old ways of Passione. They feel as if the only rules that matter...are the ones they followed when they initially joined.” A quick breath was heard over the line. “Regardless, I need you to go to the alleged exchange spot and use Moody Blues to find our culprits. The path you’ll be taking consists of old roads and relatively unused trails, with trees on all sides. The path ends with a dirt lot, and you'll travel on foot into the clearing. That is where the deals reportedly take place. A car is on its way for you now,” Bruno finished.

Abbacchio got up from the chair in his room, sighing, phone still in hand. The job seemed simple enough. In fact, it was similar to many he’s already had beforehand. Go to a location, use Moody Blues to identify suspects/gather information, and report it back. Simple enough—usually not dangerous. 

He gathered his things, while Bucciarati’s voice reintroduced itself through his phone.

“There's one more thing. You won’t be going alone,” the voice announced, almost reluctantly.

Abbacchio paused.

This...was odd, to say the least.

He was never usually sent with another member of the team for these particular missions. 

(Noise echoed up the staircase, next to his dim room. He heard the familiar sounds of Narancia and Mista, talking loudly downstairs.) 

The confused gangster took a moment to assess everyone’s current location.

Trish was out with her friends for the night. The golden child was out of the house as well. Bucciarati remained at his own private base, since he was a Capo (this did not stop him from constantly visiting,), while Mista and Narancia were evidently in the living room. Nobody had seen Fugo since the gang had officially betrayed the boss, and the nervous teenager decided to stay behind.  

Abbacchio wondered who would be accompanying him. There were reasons these missions were usually completed alone. More people means more attention. It also means more potential for unnecessary harm. Nonetheless, he went alone because there would be no reason to bring a partner. 

Apparently, today was an outlier. Bucciarati wanted someone to accompany him this time. Who? Why? Curiosity buzzed in his mind, alongside confused reluctance. But he trusted his Capo—if he wanted Abbacchio to work with someone, there was probably a reason.

He waited for Bucciarati to continue. A tension-filled pause remained until the determined Capo finally spoke.

“I’m sending you with Giorno.” It was spoken quickly and carefully.

Frustration and annoyance quickly rose through Abbacchio’s veins, his fists clenched, nostrils flared. He almost felt betrayed. 

“What are you sending me with that naive brat for? He’s just going to get in my way! I don’t need some damn little kid to interf—!”

“Abbacchio.” Bucciarati’s tone held no room for conflict.

Jesus Christ.

Leone reluctantly sealed his lips, letting the Capo speak.

“I know you aren’t fond of Giorno, but my mind is made up,” the man stated sternly. “His abilities will be a necessary accompaniment for your mission. We aren’t sure if the culprits will be there, or how many there are. They aren’t expecting us. Furthermore, we are not sure if any Stand Users will be present. Don’t worry, it shouldn’t take long—he’s already on his way, anyways,” Bucciarati finished with a no-nonsense tone.

Abbacchio hunched with reluctant acceptance. Damn that Capo.

“...Fine. I’ll go with the brat,” he said softly, masking the inner conflict that was raging within his head.

There was no point in arguing. He had no chance of overpowering the determined Capo’s word.

Bucciarati’s proud smile could already be sensed over the phone.

“Thanks, Leone, I appreciate it. But please remember,” the Capo lectured, “Giorno is a part of this team. You’ve seen the others, and how they feel about him. I am not saying that you have to like him, and I am not forcing you to be friends with him—but please, try to work together. He’s willing to help, and you shouldn’t treat him like a mere child. Don’t compromise the mission over your distaste towards him. All you need to do is gather the information, be on the lookout for danger, and safely return back to the house. I have no doubt that you two can get this accomplished. He should be there soon.” 

Another beat. 

Abbacchio’s eyes focused on the floor, reluctantly processing his leader’s words.

There was nothing he could really do. Orders were orders.

“... Alright. You have my word. I’ll try not to beat the shit out of him.” 

Abbacchio hung up the phone and left the room. The frustration from his mind showed through his pace walking down the creaky steps. Mista questioned him as he walked towards the front door. Before the nosy gunslinger could hear a response, Abbacchio loudly shut the door behind himself.

Across the room, another gangster raised his eyebrows.

“What's his problem?” Narancia asked from the couch, legs resting on the coffee table. Coco Jumbo looked at him thoughtfully. 

Mista eyed the door before walking back to the other chair by the TV.

“Who knows. He’s probably just pissed he got assigned a mission while we get to relax here at the house,” Mista replied casually, shrugging. “Now pass me the remote!”

Chapter Text

It was a crisp afternoon, fresh air blowing through the trees, pushing soft dirt along the dusty path they walked upon. The car had been left back at the lot, forgotten in the back of their minds as their footsteps quietly echoed against the nearby trees. Giorno and Abbacchio marched in silence. 

Abbacchio was glad he didn't have to talk to the brat, but felt irritated regardless. He definitely didn’t want to strike up a conversation, but the silence remained uncomfortable. It felt like Giorno was above talking, like he was the one controlling the silence, only thinking to open his mouth when he saw it necessary. These kinds of thoughts made the ex-cop seethe in irritation.

He tried to distract himself with the setting of the forest. 

Trees rustled, leaves reflecting the light of the 5 o’clock autumn sun. Animals remained hidden to the eye, but their presence was undeniable. Abbacchio’s own eye would catch a bird or a squirrel here and there. Minutes passed nearly unnoticed. A warning wind drifted across his cheek, rustling the leaves of the forest. The breeze caressed his skin with a cold bite to it, briefly numbing his face. A cold night was ahead.

“We’re here,” Giorno finally spoke. 

They stood in the clearing. It was a small flat area clear of trees or shrubs. Roughly half the size/area of an American football field, it seemed like the perfect place for a peaceful picnic, or in this case, hidden drug deals. The peaceful setting stimulated Abbacchio’s mind. Perhaps he should come here again sometime to clear his head. 

Although the scenery was peaceful, Abbacchio found it nearly impossible to enjoy while Giorno stared at him expectantly. 

'What the hell are you looking at?' he wanted to say. 

Giorno stood tall, his appearance ‘perfect’ as always. His flawless hair rested perfectly in its signature style, the threads shining like woven golden silk harvested straight from the sunlight. The boy’s lavender suit fit his chest, perfectly tailored without error. Sparkling emerald eyes continued to gaze at Abbacchio with everlasting patience.

Abbacchio wanted to spit on the grass, tell Giorno that I don't need you, go back home. But he couldn’t. No matter his distaste for the golden boy, his respect towards Bucciarati was greater.

So instead, he remained silent, calling forth Moody Blues. Abbacchio searched the clearing for potential replay spots. Giorno shot occasional glances in the ex-cop's direction anytime the boy wasn't keeping to himself, surveying the area for threats.

Not bothering to notify Giorno, he used his stand to replay whatever sources he felt available. He could vaguely feel the pull of potential past actions tug at his soul, like a stretched hand waiting to be grasped, or a mouth waiting for permission to speak. He obliged at every opportunity he could, dozens of minutes passing like seconds. 

>>>A woman on a peaceful date with her husband. Children playing tag along the grass, hiding among the trees closest to the clearing. A man taking a simple stroll. Another older man walking his dog. A set of campers passing through while carrying equipment. An artist sitting on the grass with a sketch pad in her ha—>>>

“Abbacchio.” 

The purple-eyed Stand User barely held back a noise of irritation from being forced out of his concentrated thoughts. He looked up at Giorno, now standing a yard or two away from him. Still too close for Abbacchio’s liking. 

“I found something,” Giorno said cautiously, as if trying to avoid attention towards himself. He swiftly turned around, walking to the outskirts of the clearing. Abbacchio cursed, Moody Blues cutting off its current irrelevant replay, beginning to follow the golden-haired teen instead. After a few numb moments, the two gangsters stood side-by-side near the treeline.

“Could you replay this for me?” Giorno asked softly. Too softly. 

Giorno was never boisterous or loud in that way that Mista and Narancia were, but Abbacchio could tell that the young gangster was holding back his volume. Quiet volume was always respected during missions, but Giorno had been doing this since the car ride. He was even acting quieter and more reserved than previous missions. It was a little weird.

Abbacchio scoffed.

Bucciarati probably gave Giorno the whole speech of teamwork too, influencing him to keep his mouth shut, and to not provoke Abbacchio.

Not that it did much. Just being in Giorno’s presence nearly set him off for a handful of reasons.

“Tch,” Abbacchio offered. A set of somewhat recent footprints presented themselves near the edge of the clearing’s grass, close to the trees. Moody Blues fluidly assembled itself into the prints, searching for the pull of a potential replay. 

There it is. He felt one. A person was here a few hours ago.

Moody Blues began to rewind; A man with a black jacket and long gray pants formed.

Giorno watched, his face emotionless except for a small pinch of interest visible in his brow. 

Moody Blues began to play. The newly depicted man was suspiciously hunched, walking with cautious eyes and sure steps. The figure walked towards the treeline, about to leave the clearing and continue deeper into the forest ahead. 

Abbacchio paused, along with his Stand.

“I’m going to follow Moody Blues into the forest ahead. You will stay here. I don’t need you to follow me,” Abbacchio stated coldly. He turned to Giorno’s busy eyes. The young emerald irises seemed like they wanted to argue, although they flickered, holding back due to Bucciarati’s word. 

Something about Giorno’s tense expression made Abbacchio sigh, deciding to reiterate with a slightly less hostile tone. He could at least play along.

“I need you to stay here near the clearing, and patrol for people who might meet up here. Whether they be citizens or Stand Users, ensure that they don’t interfere. Call for me if you absolutely must, but this replay doesn’t feel like it goes very far. I should be back before long.”

That should keep Giorno busy. The boy would just draw attention to them both if he followed Abbacchio, not to mention that the older gangster didn’t need a partner for this. 

Giorno nodded and left Abbacchio alone, following his word. The lavender-suited boy turned around, showing Abbacchio only his back, beginning to walk towards the clearing. The movement wasn’t sassy, it wasn’t done with any attitude, it was merely done with nothing but a sense of business. An aura of professionalism.

‘I gave him a role good enough,” Abbacchio thought to himself while following his Stand. ‘Although no ordinary citizen would dare to think about coming here at this time. Dusk will be here soon.’ Abbacchio sighed to himself, walking farther away from the clearing, vanishing deeper and deeper into the trees. 

‘Let’s just get this over with.’

———————————

Giorno briefly dropped his professional demeanor, huffing in frustration as he walked amongst the clearing. 

‘Why does Abbacchio loathe me so much?’

Sure, he understood that he was a kid. He understood that he had only known the team for a few months now. They weren’t required to respect him in any way, shape, or form—but that didn’t stop the others. 

Bucciarati welcomed him with a proud smile. Mista accepted him with a smug grin and a strong gaze. Trish looked at him with trusting and thankful eyes. Narancia slapped him on the back with a thoughtless laugh. But Abbacchio was different. 

Abbacchio sent him distasteful glares. Avoided any chance of interaction with an irritated grunt. Giorno could tell that Abbacchio didn’t tell him to stay put purely out of safety concern, or the goodness of his heart. No. The blond is more than familiar with the look of someone who hated to interact with him. Someone who regards him as a waste of breath. Someone who regards him as a burdensome punching bag. Useless.  

It made Giorno’s stomach sit heavy, reminding him of a dark past. Old scars and phantom wounds ached mildly under his shirt. He could almost hear the drunken yells and shattered glass. Giorno shook the thoughts away. 

Abbacchio didn't deserve to remind him of those days. Giorno wasn’t stupid—he knew that Abbacchio was a good person. His gruffness and irritability were understandable, with the long dark life of a gangster always following behind him. His distrust and irritation towards Giorno should be expected. 

So why did it still upset him so much?

Giorno shook his head, utterly lost at the question. He needed to stick to the task at hand. His footsteps walked along the trees, their sound seemingly softening in volume. The sun was low in the sky, sunset waiting to arrive in about an hour. He kept his eyes open and ears fine-tuned for any suspicious activity. 

...Minutes passed continuously...

...He kept walking...

…

*Snap*—

Giorno turned around in a heartbeat, Gold Experience erupting out of his body. They both scanned the clearing for the source of the noise. A stick laid in the center of the clearing, cleanly broken in half. 

He blinked—

It was gone. 

‘What?’

He blinked again—it wasn't there. 

Giorno walked closer. He knelt to the ground, examining the soft dirt patch, where he swore he saw the stick. 

Nothing looked out of the ordinary, the dirt looked untouched. No imprint of a stick ever laying there, or even the disturbance of one being broken was visible. Giorno’s brow furrowed in confusion. He stared at the ground, thoughts bouncing around in his head, eyes calculating. The forest was quiet, making his confused thoughts scramble inside of his head even faster.

“So this is the newbie who nearly runs the show of Passione now, huh? You should really learn how to examine things more closely.” 

Giorno’s eyes widened in horror. He tried to turn around— 

A sharp pricking sensation was felt at the nape of his neck. His legs buckled quickly as they collapsed from his control, refusing to move. Knees falling harshly to the grassy ground, a small shockwave traveled up his body as he hit the floor. 

Giorno laid on the ground helplessly as a familiar-looking man walked from behind him, holding a small syringe. The suspect danced the glass tube between his hands, spinning it on his fingers before slipping it into his coat pocket. A black coat. Long gray pants. Where did he come from? How didn’t Giorno notice him? Why did he seem so familiar?

Recognition suddenly filled Giorno’s eyes as he struggled on the ground and strained himself to see the enemy. His lazy legs could still move, but not much. Breathing was also becoming difficult, his body begging for oxygen that his lungs couldn’t supply any faster than they were already trying.

That syringe must have contained some type of mild muscle relaxant.

Giorno forced his sluggish body to reposition itself and see the man’s face. He had short, gray hair, and cold brown eyes. Straightening his back out of its hunch, he stands tall over Giorno, still fallen. Black hoodie, gray pants. It finally came to Giorno’s head. 

‘This was the man from Moody Blues’ replay—“ Giorno’s mind raced. ‘—Shit! I have to—‘

*Crunch*

Pain erupted from Giorno’s shin as a strong black figure phased out from the enemy and quickly moved. A Stand User. 

Giorno couldn’t hold back a yell after hearing—and feeling—the brutal crack of his leg. It hurt so bad, especially with the drug making it hard to brace. Pain throbbed through his leg and up through his body as he desperately tried to even his breathing to ease the pain.

The man scoffed, his voice dripping with disgust. 

“How pathetic. Were you really the one to defeat the previous boss? Perhaps I was misinformed,” the dark figure hissed with amusement, “Although my abilities are quite formidable, this was just too easy. ”

Giorno was barely listening as his mind raced elsewhere. The other gangster had to have heard this by now, he shouldn’t be too far away. If Giorno could just shout loud enough, he could notify Abbacchio. 

—But the thought of yelling made Giorno’s throat feel numb. His tongue felt sluggish in his own mouth. The man above him continued to chuckle at his futile struggle on the ground.

As the cocky man’s Stand began to walk closer, Giorno poured all of his body’s focus into his lungs, preparing to yell with whatever energy he had left.

“Abbacchio! He’s here! Abba—!“

Powerful arms snaked themselves towards Giorno’s neck, abruptly pulling him towards the enemy stand’s face. The movement jostled his injured leg, and Giorno shortly groaned at the extra pain. His body twitched before finally going limp, the effects of the syringe succeeding in their purpose. The sound of his cry drowned into the forest’s leaves, providing the smallest spark of hope. If Abbacchio heard him, there was a chance Giorno could get out of this—but the man looming behind his dark Stand didn’t seem so worried, and it quickly extinguished any hope Giorno had managed to scrape up.

“Naive brat,” The man hissed. “He can’t hear you.” 

The enemy Stand sneered, its featureless face somehow capable of reflecting the same amount of malice as its User.

Now that Giorno was forced to look at it, he observed the figure. The stand was a shiny black color, with white highlights and accents accompanying the form. It was humanoid; height and build not unlike Moody Blues or Gold Experience. Similar to the former, it had minimal facial features. Several bright white “X” marks were visible on the head of the stand, replacing each ear, the mouth, and the nose as well. Unseen to Giorno, a bright white X was also present on each palm of the Stand’s slender-fingered hands, currently grasping the collar of his jacket, dangling his unresponsive body above the grass. 

“....A... bba...cchio...oo…a...bbb—“ Giorno continued to force the pathetic sounds from his weak and hoarse throat, desperately trying to move his heavy tongue.

His chances of escaping this situation alone were slim. He needed help. Gold Experience wouldn’t answer his call. He strained as hard as he could, pushing harder and harder, mentally clawing at his soul to summon forth. His vision blurred at the strain—Gold Experience refused his call. He was too weak.

Interrupting his thoughts, the man’s voice came back into focus.

“—Would you quit trying already? Dumb brat. Even if the drug wasn’t suppressing your ability to move or scream, your friend isn’t coming. My Stand assures that. Since you won’t live to tell the tale, I’ll spell it out for you—“

No, he couldn’t believe the man’s twisted words. He couldn’t lose here. He needed to keep trying!

“..no..nono..Abb... acc ..hiooo... hgh ...abba...ch... io—“

Suddenly, the hands grasping his collar fluidly changed position. His weight was now being held by a single hand, the Stand’s other now relaxed at its side. The remaining hand had snaked around his throat, ceasing his pathetic and weak calls. Giorno shook pathetically in the enemy’s grasp, twitching desperately. 

“My Stand is called The Sound of Silence, brat. It can nullify the effect or use of any senses of its victim. In your case, the sound you’re producing. The Sound of Silence has taken hold of your sound. You could scream—“

No!

The hand around his throat tightened—

“—struggle—!“

Giorno’s body tightened, his leg still burning as if it were on fire while dangling above the ground—

No!

“—And as long as I’m here, nobody will ever hear you,” the man said, his eye glinting maniacally. Giorno’s own eyes were beginning to water and lose their characteristic sparkle, the lack of oxygen/attempt at struggling taking its toll. The brown-eyed man’s grip unexpectedly loosened slightly, although Giorno knew better than to think it was out of mercy.

Giorno could barely see anymore. He definitely couldn’t talk. Faintly, he could hear the man talking, although it was fuzzy through the haze of his pain. Gray static began to corrupt the edges of his vision, threatening to take over at a moment’s notice. The smell of leaves and dry dirt filled his nostrils, grass tickling his nose. He was gasping, as fast as the drug would allow his diaphragm to work—which wasn’t enough. The grasp on his throat made no effort to ease his struggles, either. 

“Shhhhh...it’s alright. Poor kid.”

Giorno gulped and forced out a wet huff through his mouth, pulse still racing. He weakly tried to use one of his hands to pull off the threat to his throat, but only pathetically and lethargically slapped at the man’s arm. 

“How pitiful.” The man scoffed. “As interesting as it was to meet the one who killed the boss, I think I should really start wrapping this up. So—“

…N-No...

Giorno braced to the best of his ability. The Sound of Silence raised him even higher by the throat, slender fingers squeezing his windpipe. He hung, limply, muscles occasionally twitching with an attempt to struggle. The man chuckled, followed by a quick short rush of air—

His chest felt empty. His heart stopped. The blood in his body felt as if it went still. It was cold. Like someone drenched his skin and organs with the Arctic Sea—Right after that brief yet frigid sensation left him, he felt it. 

The pain. 

His chest was full one moment, the next— it wasn’t. Like he was missing something. He was still dangling above the ground—However, he wasn’t being held by his throat anymore. No, this was beyond worse. A slender black arm ran through his chest, suspending him in the air. The long mass had traveled through his torso, and out of his back. Giorno’s head limply lolled forward against his will, giving no choice but for his dull eyes to stare at the black appendage that likely just killed him. 

How did this happen? Is he about to die? He always knew it was inevitable, but now? At this very moment?

He was scared. At that moment, Giorno Giovanna did not exist anymore. Instead, there was the sad, lonely, broken Haruno Shiobana. 

A look of defeat, eyes reflecting sheer horror, was left on his face. Fatally wounded by a man who didn’t see Giorno worthy of even knowing his name. A man who’s emotionless Stand was smugly staring into Giorno’s nearly lifeless eyes. A Stand whose arm remained sheathed all the way through Giorno’s gushing chest, its hand gripping Giorno’s once-beating heart. 

The man’s eyes were shaded by the fading light of the sun, a glinting smile and a deep chuckle rumbling through the shocked silence. His Stand, still grasping the viral organ, retracted its arm back out of Giorno’s chest, carelessly tossing the bleeding teenager into a boneless heap on the ground. The Sound of Silence passed the warm organ to its User, who now held it in his hands. He looked at it closely, and spoke carefully.

“Rumor has it that you can still persist after losing certain parts, my boy. So I decided to raise the stakes,” the man waved the bloody mass in his hands, before proceeding to toss it on the ground towards Giorno’s unmoving form. “I’ll be beyond impressed if you can make it past this one....but I don’t count on it,” the man finished, turning his back and striding away, leaving the clearing. His footsteps walked away casually, as if he didn’t just tear a vital organ from a teenager’s body.

Where he went, Giorno didn’t know. He didn’t care; he couldn’t care. All he could do is feel the emptiness of his chest as his vision started to fade. Every one of his senses consisted of blood and static. Dirt, metal, grass, blood, sweat. It invaded all his dulling senses. He could feel the blood soaking every inch of his shirt and pants.

His vision had now separated into fours, he could faintly see his dead heart in front of him, sitting on the now red grass. He didn’t know how he was still awake. Giorno felt like he was floating, like a faint dream.

 He tried to reach out his hands and grasp whatever he could, as a weak attempt to revive himself. His right hand squished against a hot and wet mass. It was soft, but sticky against his blood-drenched fingers. 

 .... His own heart was in his hand.

 But it was too late.

 His eyes darkened, finally losing their light. 

 It was impossible to move his own body anymore. If he could feel anymore, he would feel cold, wet, and uncomfortable. Ungracefully sprawled stomach down, he laid on top of the grassy dirt of the clearing. 

“ᴬᵇᵇᵃ....ᶜᶜ...ᶜʰᶦᵒ….” Giorno tried to scream, one last time, only to come out as a lifeless whisper, deaf to the wind. 

Hearing the shimmering noise of Gold Experience, Giorno imagined it sadly gazing at its dying User. How funny. Of all the people he kept alive during his journey to betray the boss, the only one he couldn’t save now was himself. All he could do was feel the ground against his skin as his senses slowly faded. 

His stomach rested on something hard and rugged; he must have landed on a stone when the enemy stand dropped him. 

Dark blood dyed the ground and his shirt. Dripping sounds could be heard coming from the gaping hole in his body.—vessels and veins unexpectedly hitting air, blood traveling to soak the forest floor. 

Any somehow existing tension in his body was now completely gone. Giorno’s vision gradually faded to black, dull green eyes still open, ear pressed against the warm and blood-slick grass. His breathing would soon fade forever, and his body would grow cold. The life had finally been snuffed from his eyes, now staring emptily towards the direction of his previously clenched fist. The forest was quiet. 

———————————

Abbacchio has been following this damn replay for a while, it felt like. The transformed figure of his Stand had done nothing more than slowly walk forward, moving farther and farther into the forest. The gangster huffed.

The replay of the suspect wore a black jacket and long gray pants. He had an aura that attracted little to no attention compared to other enemy gang members he’s seen. The jacket’s hood hung loosely over the young man’s face, loosely obscuring grayish silver hair, and cold, unfeeling brown eyes. He kept walking.

...Something was wrong. This didn't seem right at all. 

This guy has been walking farther and farther from the clearing, where the deals were reported to happen—that didn’t make sense. Bucciarati explicitly told him that the exchanges were reported to take place in the clearing. Why was he walking away?

Perhaps he should go back. Maybe he started the replay too late, and needed to rewind more? Besides, Giorno was still alone, and was probably getting suspicious. 

Abbacchio was slightly surprised by his internal monologue when Moody Blues stopped, suddenly. The figure started to make a small noise in the back of his throat, deep and taunting. The noise grew in volume until it became specifically distinct. 

The dark-clothed man was laughing to himself. 

Dark, rich laughs came from his Stand’s mouth, sending horrified shivers down the confused gangster’s spine. Abbacchio’s heart suddenly sunk, as he was unable to do anything but watch as the man gradually ceased his laughter. 

“Leone Abbacchio...if you’re seeing this, I’m sorry to say that you are pathetically gullible.” The man’s head lifted from his hunch as he stared forward, eyes crinkled with cold amusement. “...You’ve left your friend all alone back there, haven’t you? ” the man laughed again.

Abbacchio felt cold. Shivers continued to prickle down his spine, his uncaring demeanor cracking by the second. 

There’s no way Giorno got into a fight. Although it pains him to admit it, Gold Experience is a force to be reckoned with. Not to mention it’s loud as hell, and Giorno would definitely yell for help if anything suspicious had come up. There’s no way something was wrong. This suspicious man simply miscalculated, setting up an elaborate trap, making a huge dramatic deal about it, while it didn’t even work. Giorno was probably waiting back at the clearing with a defeated enemy. Right? That explanation made much more sense than Giorno being attacked, and not calling for help...

Despite the reassuring thoughts within his frantic mind, Abbacchio still couldn't shake the fear or dread from his core. 

“You should probably go help him.” The ruthless man sneered, snapping the gangster back into reality.

Moody Blues hastily returned to its User as Abbacchio sprinted back the way he came, his strides moving past everything in his way.

‘I swear to God, Giorno. If you’re okay, I’m going to beat the ever-loving shit out of you myself.’ 

Abbacchio would never admit it, but at that moment, he prayed . 

Chapter Text

Everything was dark.

Or was it light? Black, white, gold, static all danced together. 

Senses drifted together, sharing themselves. 

He couldn’t feel himself. 

He thinks he sees red? 

Green, red, red, red. Gray, gold, red. Red. Gray turning into gold, turning into red. Someone was screaming. Was it his thoughts? Off in the distance, there were several sounds of shattered glass. 

The gold shined brighter. Two hands. 

One cold, one warm. Both wet. 

He couldn’t feel anything. 

But he felt hot. 

Then cold. 

He felt nowhere and everything. Everything drifted and floated. 

Silence drowned out a faint scream 

Words floated through his mind, physically and synthetically. 

Gold experience. 

Dream, he heard a dream. 

Life. Death. 

Light. 

Gold Experience…

Then things changed. For a moment he could feel. 

Painpainpainpain——-cold cold, hot, warm, wet, groaning. Rock, hard, rough, cold. 

Hurt pain pain—-cold cold, useless. Useless. An invisible pulse, in his hand and in his chest. Faded in and out of existence together, dancing. Gold joined the dance. Then black. Everything was black. A breath. A beat. Did they happen? Black answered. It stayed. Pain grew. He got lost in it. The black joined his mind completely. Everything is black. Everything was black. Everything became black. Finally, everything went black.

—~2 Months Ago, Rest House Living Room~—

It was a calm day at the house. Evening sun lazily sparkled through the windows; the gang had just finished eating supper together. Comfortable chatter filled the house, familiar voices all around. Bucciarati had finished his work early enough to come over, too. 

After all the dishes had been clean and cleared, the team casually relaxed in various places on the main floor. The kitchen/dining area lay open next to the large living room, where Mista and Narancia resumed their antics. 

“I’m telling you Narancia, what you’re saying doesn’t make sense. Water can’t not be wet,” Mista argued, “That’s the whole purpose behind the phrase ‘is water wet?’”.

Narancia rested on the opposite side of the couch, removing his gaze from the now ignored TV, and towards Mista. Abbacchio rested on a separate couch listening to music, purposely oblivious to the mayhem.

“But water itself isn’t wet!”

“Yes, it is!” Mista insisted, the Pistols rallying behind him. 

“No, it’s not! Wet is a word that describes something in contact with water! Would you call fire burnt?”  

“No, but that’s not the point! —Hey Giorno! Tell Narancia that he’s crazy for thinking that water isn’t wet!”

Giorno had walked into the living room from upstairs, carrying a large bag in both of his hands. He walked up to the window sill next to the TV and set down his bag underneath it. Mista stared in confusion. Abbacchio also gave a suspicious glare, but it was ignored. Giorno carefully reached into the bag, pulling out several oddly shaped objects that Mista couldn’t see. 

“Oi, Giorno, what d’ya got there?” Mista questioned, the previous argument abandoned.

Narancia also huffed, also deciding to follow the new conversation. 

Giorno continued to pull more things from his bag, placing them in a line along the window sill. When he reached back into his bag, Mista caught the objects’ shape. Small cactus plants. 

“...Uh, Giorno?” 

“Hmm?” Giorno hummed, focusing on his activity. 

“Why are you putting a bunch of the same small cactus plants on the window sill?” 

“Yeah! And why is the dirt they’re shaped all...weird like that?” Narancia joined. 

Now that it was brought to his attention, Mista observed the plants even closer. There were seven of them—small cacti about two inches tall. Each rested in an appropriately sized pot, on the window sill. Although having seven of the same exact plant lined up on the window sill was odd, the oddest thing was actually the dirt. 

The dirt for each plant rose above the pot, and it wasn’t flat like usual ground. Instead, the dirt was pressed and slanted at a near 45-degree angle pointing towards the ground—like a ramp.

“I’m trying a little experiment. These aren’t genuine plants you see,” Giorno explained, reaching into the bag on the floor. He pulled out a small, hollow, and smooth marble of glass. 

“Each of these cactus plants is actually one of these glass marbles, brought to life by Gold Experience.”

“Well yeah, I could have guessed the man who can create plants wouldn’t go out and buy them,” Mista teased mockingly. “But what are they for? And why glass marbles?” he asked. 

Giorno smiled. 

“I’m glad you asked, Mista. When I create life with Gold Experience, it doesn’t have to be permanent. As you could probably guess, it takes less energy to temporarily bestow an object with life. However, I can make it permanent if necessary, like when I heal a certain person’s excessive bullet wounds,” Giorno teased. 

Narancia snorted. 

“But something you may not know is that there are two ways that an object given temporary life can return to its original state through my ability,” Giorno explained carefully. “The first method is through my direct command. This is where I can have Gold Experience instantaneously remove the given life from an object, turning it back to normal.” 

“—Like that ice guy! With the car parts you turned into grass, and then back to parts again.” Mista enthused. 

“Precisely.” Giorno nodded. 

“—But what about the other one? I’m having a hard time thinking how else you could remove life from an object without your direct command,” Narancia asked, scratching his head. 

Giorno’s face softened into a genuine smile once more. Deep inside, a part of him relished in the knowledge that people were interested in him and were eager for his words. He would never take people’s interest in his existence for granted. 

“Well, the other one is a little more complicated,” Giorno spoke, carefully choosing his words, “Gold Experience can also ‘link’ the life energy given to something back to my own energy, if that makes sense. Imagine it like a wireless battery. I can give temporary life to an object, but only for as long as Gold Experience has the energy left to supply it.” 

Mista rubbed his chin. 

“So….is it like a cell phone with service? ...Like how a cell phone can work on it’s own if it has service, but without it, it can’t function as much as before?”

“Yes!” Giorno encouraged, “That’s another fine example. These plants, gifted with temporary life through the second method I mentioned, are like the phone in your analogy. Gold Experience would be the phone service. As my Stand uses energy elsewhere—no longer prioritizing supplying ‘service’ to the plants—these plants would revert back after a certain amount of energy has been spent.” 

“Ohhhh! I see!” Narancia spoke with awe before stopping and scratching his wild hair, “But what’s the experiment for? Why are you applying that ability to those?” He pointed to the neat row of cacti by the window. 

“Well, there was something about the method I wanted to test. Namely, how strongly I could link them to Gold Experience. I was curious to see what would happen if I linked the plants to my energy, each with a stronger bond than the last.” Giorno pointed to each plant individually. “If all goes according to plan, then these plants would progressively each turn back into glass, roll down the dirt ramp, and shatter onto the floor, depending on how much energy I would be spending elsewhere.”

“How interesting.” A new voice joined. Bucciarati had walked into the living room. 

“Yeah!” Narancia said loudly, “I think it’s a neat thing to test your Stand with! But how sensitive is it? Like what would have to happen for each cactus to transform and break against the floor?” 

Giorno pointed to each plant one by one, explaining their strength. 

“This first cactus is relatively weakly linked to me. Any sudden fluctuation of Gold Experience releasing power could cause it to break. If this goes according to plan, we may have to up some glass fairly often from this particular plant.” Giorno explained, softly laughing at the end. 

He pointed to the next one, as each of their eyes followed.

“This second one is a bit stronger, but not by much. If this one transforms and falls, it likely means that I’m in a scuffle, and using Gold Experience slightly more actively—or at least trying to.” 

He points to the next four. 

“These each increase in strength more than the last. If they reach up to this point—“ Giorno gestured to near the 5th cactus, “—then something is surely wrong. That would mean I’m in a situation requiring immense use of my Stand.”

The gathered team members started to tense. They didn’t like the direction this was heading, and there were still two plants left. Giorno moves to the second-to-last cactus, resting on the right side of the window sill. 

“This one is linked in a particular way. If this were to transform and fall, it would mean I am no longer conscious, shortly after using an immensely strong portion of my Stand energy. If this happens, you have my apologies.” He looked to the floor for a moment. “It should never have to happen though,” Giorno added strongly, with fire in his eyes. 

An emotion quickly flashed through everyone in the room, although it moved on just as quickly. Their eyes met with the rightmost side of the window sill—There was one cactus left.

Giorno took a breath. 

“...Now, this one…”

The gang tensed. 

“...I gave it the strongest temporary life I could bestow. Its strength nearly matches objects I’ve given permanent life. If this were to ever transform and break, then that would mean....” Giorno looked down to the floor again, his eyes shaded. 

—He felt a warm, comforting hand on his shoulder. Bucciarati spoke with sheer certainty. “We will never let that happen, Giorno.”

The boy couldn’t help the appreciative smile from presenting itself on his face. 

“Yeah! No way! Narancia yelled. 

“We’ve already made it this far. I doubt we’ll have to worry about that!” Mista encouraged. 

The room was filled with caring, passion-filled air. Abbacchio remained on one of the couches, immersed in his headphones. 

***

After the gang had moved past the briefly grim conversation, Bucciarati moved to the kitchen. Dessert would soon be served. 

Giorno finished up, putting away his extra things when he was suddenly interrupted by Abbacchio’s unexpected voice. 

“Why would any of us care if you got hurt?” he said coldly. 

Giorno’s busy hands stopped for a moment, a small shock running through his body at the harsh words. His gaze darkened, now pointed at the floor. 

The Sex Pistols gasped dramatically, less discreetly than their User. 

“Oi, knock it off Abbacchio,” Mista said sharply.

“Yeah, what the hell? Of course we care about Giorno,” Narancia joined. 

Abbacchio scoffed.

“I’m just saying. People in our line of business tend to only get killed if they act carelessly. You shouldn’t expect us to be responsible for cleaning up the consequences of your own actions,” he spat, giving Giorno a leer. 

The golden boy said nothing, his face expressionless, still staring at the floor. 

“Abbacchio, why do you gotta be such a hardass?” Mista groaned. He turned to Giorno. “Don’t worry about Abbacchio, he’s just grumpy since he wants dessert,” Mista smirked. 

“Tch.”

Narancia also laughed, rising off the couch and giving Giorno a friendly pat on the back. “Yeah man, he doesn’t mean it. We all care about you, some of us just suck ass at showing it apparently.” Narancia stuck his tongue out at Abbacchio, who glared back. 

“—Hey boys! Dessert is gonna be ready soon, so get your lazy butts over here!” Trish shouted happily from the kitchen. She (along with Bucciarati) must have missed Abbacchio’s rude remark towards Giorno, since the living room and kitchen were on opposite walls of the ground floor, the dining area separating them. 

Giorno removed his empty gaze from the floor and walked towards the kitchen. Enjoying some laughs with the rest of the crew during dessert, his dampened mood gradually raised. By the end of the night, he practically forgot about Abbacchio’s comment. 

The rest of the night passed with no trouble. Nothing but a house full of cheerful gangsters, eating good food and playing games together for the rest of the night. If Giorno could, he would wish that nights like these could never end. 

By the end of the night, everyone besides Abbacchio crashed in the living room, falling asleep after watching a movie. 

Trish cuddled up with a pillow and blanket on the floor, her back against the couch. Bucciarati also rested on the floor, asleep in a sitting position against the wall near the softly snoozing girl—even while unconscious, the Capo was always close enough to protect his team. Narancia and Mista both had crashed on the couch, the former slouched against Mista’s shoulder. Mista’s head rested on the leather armrest. Giorno occupied the remaining couch, asleep with a blanket that the previous two gangsters had thrown on him, once they noticed the boy’s slumber. 

Giorno’s breathing could be seen as his chest softly expanded up and down under the blanket. His expression was peaceful and soft. 

Abbacchio left to go sleep in his room, turning towards the staircase after observing the scene. He walked carefully past the sleeping group, careful not to wake any of them. The tall man sighed, walking quietly past the windowsill. If someone woke up, he’d probably be dragged into a small conversation. He was never one for forced small-talk, so the last thing he wanted was to wake any of them up. 

Especially Giorno. 

—————~ Present ~—————

Abbacchio found himself near the clearing faster than expected—in his mental haste, he had nearly forgotten that the replay led him away from Giorno at a walking speed. An involuntary flash of guilt plagued his gut.

 He left without Giorno because of annoyance and spite, leaving him alone—after Bucciarati had told him to work together. If Giorno was somehow hurt due to Abbacchio’s selfishness...the thought only made his stomach sink further than it already has. 

The quiet rustle of leaves taunted Abbacchio as he ran. The cold wind stung his face as he ran against it, pumping his legs with determined speed—He could see the clearing through the trees ahead. 

‘God damn it,’ the worried gangster spat, a disguised prayer. 

When he ran between the final trees, the scent hit him before the sight.

Blood. A lot of it. 

‘Fuck.’

Abbacchio sprinted towards the middle of the clearing, the strong metallic scent of blood now conquering his entire sense of smell. He had no more concern for keeping his unfeeling facade, his eyes shamelessly crinkling with worry. A curled-up heap up could be seen ahead of him. Lavender suit now thoroughly red, messy blond locks laying dead on the stained grass. Giorno. 

Abbacchio sprinted up to the broken teen, sliding onto his knees, hovering over Giorno’s form. The sight he saw up close was nauseating. 

“Oi! Giorno! Wake the hell up!” Abbacchio yelled, failing to prevent the panic from seeping into his voice. 

Blood was everywhere. It coated everything. The dirt, the grass, Giorno’s clothes, Giorno’s skin. Abbacchio’s skin, Abbacchio’s clothes. He didn’t think this much blood existed in a teenage body.

“Giorno..?”

 Abbacchio surveyed for damage. 

Giorno’s right leg was broken at a gross angle, but it wasn’t a compound fracture, seeing that the area wasn’t a source of blood on the lavender pants. Where was all this blood from? Abbacchio moved around to survey Giorno from the front—

“Oh...oh God.”

Abbacchio focused all the energy he had to not let the nausea win, but it clawed up his tight throat regardless. 

Giorno’s lifeless eyes remained open, staring half-lidded at the ground in front of him. Blood coated his entire front. Not a speck of lavender was visible on his chest piece. A gushing black hole penetrated his upper torso and through his back. He was laid on his side, right arm stretched in front of him, positioned limply over top of something dark.

Hesitant curiosity invaded Abbacchio’s thoughts. 

The man forced down a gulp, reaching to move Giorno’s hand. The young fingers limply fell to the side into the grass, exposing—

Abbacchio stood up abruptly, feeling vomit crawl up his throat as his mind put the pieces of the story together. He turned to his side away from Giorno, vomit painting the grass, as he fell harshly back onto his knees. 

“... No..G-Giorno!” Abbacchio shakily exclaimed without thought. On the grass, previously being in Giorno’s limp grasp, was a dark, maroon, gleaming hunk of flesh. 

Giorno’s heart. 

‘—Oh God—’

‘—Someone ripped Giorno’s heart out of his own chest—’ 

‘—He tried to reattach it with Gold Experience—’ 

Abbacchio paled. Through the cold fear weighing down his movements, he snuck another glance at the small boy’s face. 

Giorno’s face was slack, dull green eyes staring forward, unseeing. No longer were the sparking emerald irises shining with determination—instead, they stared blankly, unfocused. Dead. Tear tracks parted through the blood on Giorno’s face. His dim pupils faced the direction of his still-warm heart. 

He didn’t make it in time. 

Abbacchio’s breath got ahead of him. He suddenly felt incredibly alone. Giorno was dead. Another teammate, dead because of him. This happened because of his childish emotions. His stupid fucking temper. 

Abbacchio had practically left Giorno for dead in the clearing. He had been too annoyed to let Giorno come along with Moody Blues, and now the kid paid the ultimate price for it. The ugly truth repeated itself in his head, haunting him. The kid was dead because of him.

...Was Giorno always this small?

Abbacchio’s face felt wet. He reached to his damp cheeks, pulling back his fingers to look at them. Where there wasn’t Giorno’s blood decorating his shaking hands, there were small clear droplets of liquid. 

Tears. He was crying. 

Oh god, he had royally fucked up, hadn’t he?

The forest drifted away, Abbacchio now lost in his own thoughts. The darkness of his own mind surrounded him. 

‘—What will Bucciarati think?—’

‘—I killed Giorno; he is dead because of me...I have a dead kid on my hands.’

Giorno’s limp form haunted the blurry corner of his vision, as he stared blankly at the bloody grass. 

‘Another partner lost because of me.’

 Abbacchio shook uncontrollably, tears still running down his face. 

‘…Giorno…’ 

Abbacchio sat on the red grass in silence. A golden glow from the dying sun cast a shadow on his wet face, the warmth useless against the heavy cold in his veins.

He turned to Giorno once more, overwhelmed with guilt. 

“Why would we care if you got hurt?” The sentence echoed in his mind. 

Was that why he didn’t hear Giorno call for help?

Oh god. 

Abbacchio could imagine Giorno bleeding out, breathing his last breath, suffering by himself. The broken boy not even bothering to call for help through his agony—only through sheer doubt that Abbacchio would care. Dying alone, his last thoughts being about how he was a failure, and nobody would pity his death. 

—But this wasn’t Giorno’s fault. Abbacchio felt that it was his. Because Abbacchio was the careless one. 

And now, here Giorno was. Dead, along with the setting sun. 

The gold glow reflected off the back of Giorno’s stained hair, shining the inside of his outstretched arm. The glow almost seemed ethereal, dancing weakly off Giorno’s front as the gentle sun warmed his back.

Abbacchio tried not to stare, but the sight seemed to attract his gaze like an industrial magnet. The pitiful crumpled form absorbed every ounce of his guilty interest, pulling at his...

...Wait a minute.

A faint, barely-visible golden glow was painted on the inside of Giorno’s arm, where his bloody back should have been casting a shadow. 

Abbacchio turned Giorno onto his back, with the care of a mother treating a sick child. He could see it. 

“Holy fuck...Giorno!” Abbacchio yelled. 

A previously unnoticed glint in Giorno’s eyes matched the faintly glowing form emanating from the hole in his chest. Giorno’s chest tightened, adjusting to the new flesh slowly building within. Dark, gleaming organs never meant to see daylight were slowly being masked by more flesh. 

Abbacchio was speechless with shock. 

Giorno—he—Gold Experience—

Sweaty hands pressed to Giorno’s neck. A fluttering, pathetically weak pulse. One he hadn’t thought to check for. 

‘B-But...his heart! Wasn’t it torn out? Don’t tell me…’

Abbacchio’s eyes bounced their gaze in all directions.

 A weakly beating heart forming, visible through the hole in Giorno’s chest, slowly being masked by manifesting flesh—

—a peculiar hole in the ground where Giorno was previously laying over, the shape of an uprooted stone—

—the nearly invisible shape of Gold Experience’s arm flickering out of existence—

—Giorno’s dead heart sitting on the ground 4 feet away from him—

—Giorno’s previously lifeless eyes, currently struggling not to close—

“Giorno? Giorno!” Abbacchio screamed. He got no noticeable response. 

It didn’t seem possible, but the bastard was still hanging on. He didn’t have time to completely figure out how. That’s not what mattered. What matters is the fact that, as of right now, Giorno was alive. He was alive.

And Abbacchio has to keep it that way. 

Chapter Text

———~ At the Rest House ~———

*beep! beep! beep!*

“Mistaaaaa! The popcorn is ready!”

“Okay okay!” Mista gasped in exasperation at the hasty Pistols. “Narancia, would you pick a damn movie already?!” The multitasking gunslinger shouted all the way from the kitchen. 

Narancia sat on the couch facing the television, scrolling through the choices hastily. 

“Nothing seems good!” The boy groaned, “Why is it that when we finally have the TV to ourselves, nothing is on?!” 

Mista could be heard shuffling around the kitchen. 

“Well maybe if you grew a pair, you could ask to change the channel next time Abbacchio or Trish are hogging the TV! You don’t know for sure they’re gonna deny you!” 

“Are you insane?! Unlike you, I’m not comfortable with pissing those two off! You know how girls are with their TV shows! Interrupting Trish while she’s watching her show is a death sentence! Let alone speaking to Abbacchio!” Narancia yelled across the floor. 

The “clink!” of popcorn kernels rapping against a bowl could be heard, along with the chatter of eager Pistols. Mista yelled, his mouth audibly full. 

“Whatever! If you can’t find anything, then go through the DVD’s! I’m not sure how much longer we’ll have the TV to ourselves, since Abbacchio didn’t say when he’s getting back!”

Narancia groaned, crawling up to the DVD drawer under the television. 

“Any preferences?!” 

“Nah, anything is good! Just make sure when you put it in the player you don’t scratch the—“

Crash.

—Mista cuts off his thought, groaning instead.

“Narancia! What the hell are you doing in there!?”

“Nothing! That wasn’t me, it was Giorno’s cactus thing! It’s that damn first one again!”

“Well clean it up! Since I cleaned it up last time! Not to mention that I cooked the popcorn too!”

Narancia sighed and grumbled to himself as he walked to the broom that was conveniently (yet tauntingly) placed by the window sill. 

“Damn you, Giorno. I swear, if I find out that this marble broke because you used Gold Experience to turn catch yourself from tripping again, I’m gonna—“ 

Crash.

Marble #2 had rolled and shattered onto the floor. 

Narancia’s eyebrow raised at the mess as Mista strolled into the living room, popcorn in hand. 

“Oi, did another one break?” Mista said with a hint of suspicion. 

“Yeah, the second one. It still shouldn’t be a big deal though, right?” 

Mista pauses, processing the question. He pushed down the pit forming in his gut.

“...Say, just to be sure, where is Giorno? He left earlier, right? Did he say where he was going?” 

“He left maybe an hour or two ago, yeah. Didn’t say where he was going, though.” 

“…”

“Should we call Bucciarati?” Narancia proposed.

They stood in tense silence for a moment. 

“Let’s try calling Giorno first. I don’t want to call Bucciarati unless we absolutely have to. He might be busy.”

Mista dialed Giorno’s number. They waited a short moment. 

*ring-ring-ring—

“Hi, the number you are calling is not available—“

Mista released a tense sigh, removing the phone from his ear, placing it on the coffee table in a defeated manner. He turned to Narancia with slightly worried eyes. 

“No answer. It sounds like his phone either died, or has no connection. It seemed too fast to be a manual call-decline.” 

They sat in thought once more, the air growing tense. Even the Pistols started to feel the worry in the air. 

The remains of two glass marbles laid in shards by the wall, taunting them.

Narancia started to speak, rubbing his neck in worry. 

“Well, why don’t we wait a little bit and see wh—“ 

Crash. 

            Crash. 

‘......’

‘......’

“Call Bucciarati,” Mista spoke with terrified certainty. 

Narancia snatched Mista’s phone from the table with panicked speed, dialing Bruno before passing the phone to its owner. Immediately afterwards, Narancia grabbed his own phone, calling Abbacchio.

They stand in tense silence, praying that somehow they were just being paranoid. 

—— ~Bruno Bucciarati’s Private Rest House~ ——

Bruno Bucciarati was a sympathetic man. He cared about many people in his life. However, none could compare to the special place in his heart his team occupied. 

Even before defeating Diavolo, the Capo knew his team was special. Not only were they bonded fairly well, but they each had their elements that made them irreplaceable. Bucciarati couldn’t even begin to plan what he’d do if he lost someone. He still has occasional nightmares, haunting him on bad nights. He’d toss and turn, unable to shake the horrors that would plague his mind. 

Mista collapsed into the ground, killed by his own bullets. The Sex Pistols crying over their user’s body, whilst disappearing one by one. 

Abbacchio motionless on the beach, dying alone on the rocks as Moody Blues cracks and fades away. 

Narancia impaled on a steel fence, his body already cold by the time they could get him down. 

Giorno as a faceless corpse, brain and skull mangled, King Crimson’s fists bashing through Gold Experience’s head over and over next to the Colosseum. 

Bruno shook the thoughts away. None of that happened, they were all safe and accounted for. Well, except for Fugo. 

Bucciarati stretched his neck, sorting out the info in his mind. 

Fugo didn’t know that they succeeded in their mission against the boss. Bruno was still in the process of sorting everything out. 

Diavolo’s death was kept under wraps. People knew that there was a team who attempted to overthrow the boss of course, but that was all. Any other thoughts or suspicions were kept quiet, for the fear of the theorists’ own lives. Passione members all knew what would happen if they looked too far into something related to the boss. It wasn’t worth it to go digging. 

This gave Bucciarati and his team the benefit of the doubt. Passione had no clue that the Boss position was currently in a temporary limbo between Bruno and Giorno. Also, Fugo didn’t know that they succeeded, or who was even still alive. Fugo was too concerned keeping his mouth shut, hiding away, playing it safe. It was dangerous to look for potential traitors for no reason. 

So that meant they had to find Fugo and integrate him back into the team at some point. 

Bruno leaned back in his desk chair, thinking again of his current team. 

Like he said, they all worked together breathlessly. Their combined skills were practically unmatched, and they got along swell. 

For the most part. 

...Abbacchio needed work, there was no denying it. 

The stubborn ex-cop still didn’t trust Giorno completely. Not to mention, he constantly bashes Giorno and refuses to give him a chance. Giorno feels lost, and he wants to find a way to make amends, but he doesn’t know how. The teenager doesn’t know why Abbacchio has such a large distaste for him, but he still wants to fix it if possible. 

Another sigh. 

Giorno isn’t aware of Abbacchio’s past. He doesn’t know about Abbacchio’s guilt—His hatred of letting people close, just in case they get torn away. Abbacchio’s skepticism towards confident workers who get cocky, or people with a naive sense of justice that haven’t had a reality check. 

Giorno reminds Abbacchio of that, without realizing it—all while Abbacchio’s thoughts of Giorno are a first-glance misinterpretation of what the boy is actually like. It’s a frustrating cycle, and it needs to be fixed. 

This is why Bucciarati sent them to investigate the recent tip he received on his laptop. The mission was simple, and shouldn’t be dangerous. Abbacchio has been on countless missions with the same objective, and they’ve never developed into a larger conflict. Bruno hoped with all of his heart that they’d work together smoothly, and maybe even learn from each other. Who knows, maybe one day Abbacchio might end up enjoying the boy’s company—

—He was interrupted from his thoughts by his cellphone. Mista was calling him. 

Bucciarati’s eyes crinkled with confusion. Mista and Narancia should be at the rest-house for the night if he remembered correctly. Perhaps they were bored? He picked up the phone. 

“Hello? Mista?” Bruno asked carefully. 

“Bucciarati!” Mista’s half-panicking voice shouted over the line. Narancia could also be heard shuffling in the background. 

“Mista? What’s wrong?” Bucciarati asked, getting suspicious. 

“Giorno! Where is he? Do you know where he is?!” 

Narancia’s shouting voice was also heard.

“Damn it! Abbacchio isn’t answering either!”

“...Mista?”

A distorted Crash was heard across the line. Narancia’s voice came through again. 

“Shit! We lost another one! That’s number five! Something is wrong!!” 

“Mista! Narancia! What’s happening? Tell me what’s wrong! What do you need?” His voice became more serious with the growing pit at the bottom of his stomach. 

“It’s Giorno! The cactus plants on the window sill—They’re breaking! Where is he?!”

“He’s in a forest 20 kilometers away with Abbacchio. I sent them on an intelligence gathering mission. It shouldn’t be dangerous!” He tried to reassure them, along with himself. 

“Neither of them are answering their phones!—“

*Crash*

“—Mista! That’s six! He’s unconscious! There’s gotta be something we can do!”

Mista didn’t attempt to hide the panic anymore. 

“Bucciarati! Six of the seven cactus plants have reverted back to marbles and shattered against the floor! Giorno’s in danger! We have to help him!”

Bruno had already notified his personal medical team just in case, right after hearing about the marbles. Since he was an important figure in Passione, he had a small team ready to provide medical assistance to whoever and whenever he deemed necessary. (Being a Capo comes with its perks). 

He focused away from his laptop and back towards the phone, trying to get the two other gangsters to stop panicking. 

“Mista! I sent you coordinates! I will meet you there with my personal medical team; Grab Coco Jumbo and get there now!” 

“Narancia! Grab Coco Jumbo, and get in the car! — Narancia?”

Invisible to Bruno, Narancia was on his knees by the window, fingers pulling at his hair in stress. His eyes were glued to the window sill in horror. 

“MISTA!—” 

“ What is it?!—oh. Oh Shit—“

“No..nononono no! GIORNO—“

“ —uck, nono no NO—“

*Crash.*

“ ... ”

Bucciarati’s blood went cold. This heart felt like it weighed a thousand tons. 

“Mista...” Narancia’s voice sobbed over the line. Mista was quiet. 

Bruno couldn’t take it anymore. The Capo slammed his fist on the table, hard enough for it to be audible through the phone. 

“MISTA. NARANCIA.”

Obedient, sorrowful silence filled the line. He took a deep breath, hiding his true emotions away. He spoke with a deafening restraint in volume. 

“Go to the coordinates. Now. We aren’t completely sure about it yet. So go.” 

Bruno didn’t say the specifics of “it”. They knew what he meant. And they knew that he couldn’t bring himself to say it. 

About the seventh cactus. And what it means. 

The line cut off, the two gangsters following their orders. 

Now that his team members left his presence, he allowed himself to break. Bucciarati briefly rested his head in his hands, tensing in frustration and grief. 

‘No! He can’t be dead! Giorno…’

But he didn’t have time for this now. 

Even if the cactus plants were inaccurate, Abbacchio and Giorno are still most likely in danger. Bucciarati forced himself to stand, and walk out the door. 

‘We made it this far, so please.’ Bruno prayed. 

As he geared up and headed towards the forest, he focused his mind on one thing. 

He prepared for the worst, and hoped for the best. 

————————

He was back. The dark was back. Static filled every sense. 

Red, black and gold chased each other in his head. 

Red filled his skin, coming out of everything. Some red was good, some was bad. That’s what the gold said. 

Black remained silent, swirling in his mind. 

Dizzy, dizzy, spinning.

Exhaustion. The black offered a hug. 

The gold warned him. 

The black was dangerous, more dangerous than the bad red. 

He didn’t let the black get too close. He chose the red instead. 

A gasp. 

Vibrations against his head, a voice?

He felt pressure from all around, but nowhere. 

The pressure wasn’t here, it was somewhere else. 

More red came out of him, bad red. 

The good red came towards him, filling up, following the gold. The bad red came out, disobeying. 

More vibrations somewhere else, strongly this time. 

Gray started to chase him away. Gold didn’t warm him. He let himself drift back to wherever he came before. 

——

The forest was cold.

Giorno was cold too. 

His blood was warm. 

Abbacchio kneeled in the grass, cradling an unconscious and bloody Giorno in his arms. 

God, he was so small. And cold. 

Abbacchio had organized some thoughts in his head shortly after mentally replaying Giorno’s undying efforts to revive himself. He still didn’t completely understand it, to be honest—mainly because it wasn’t important. 

What was important, was making sure Giorno stayed alive long enough to fully regenerate himself with Gold Experience. 

This was harder than it sounded. 

The sun had set minutes ago. The forest was now growing cold and dark. Abbacchio cradled Giorno closer against his form, thinking. 

Giorno had lost a lot of blood.

Blood helps regulate temperature. 

The night air was cold. 

Which means he had to keep Giorno warm. 

At first glance, going back to the car seemed like the best option. But it was unrealistic for several reasons:

-Giorno was unconsciously yet slowly healing himself, yes, but that doesn’t mean he was healing himself correctly. 

-Moving him too much would be dangerous. It could put more strain on his body, or the Stand desperately trying to fix it. 

-Since Giorno wasn’t fully healed, that meant he was still suffering from intense blood loss. 

-Giorno’s leg was still broken, and it wasn’t exactly a wound that Gold Experience could ‘fix’ with its ability. At least not as much as the…. other wound. Once again, moving Giorno would only put more strain on his body. 

So Abbacchio’s best option was to wait. Find a way to reach the rest of the group, if they weren’t suspicious already. 

While trying to share his body warmth with the limp boy in the arms, he looked for his phone. It wasn’t in his pocket. He must have dropped it. 

Purple and yellow met red and green as his eyes scanned the bloody grass. He luckily caught the sight of his phone a few feet away. It must have fallen out of his pocket while running. Right next to it, was an oddly shaped—

Oh fuck. He nearly forgot. Giorno’s original heart was still here. 

The organ that brought life to the life-giver of the team. It was cruelly ironic. 

It was a gleaming hunk of flesh, the size of Abbacchio’s fist. The most vital human organ, besides the brain. Now here it was, after spending 15 years pumping life into the fragile boy in his arms. The very heart he was born with. The very heart that probably clenched when he thought nobody would care if he—

Distracted. Abbacchio was getting distracted. He needed to focus. 

He ignored the nauseous sight and grabbed his phone. 

His device pitifully flickered between “No Service”, and the teasingly occasional sight of a 1-bar connection. 

Not nearly enough to make a call, nor send a text in time. He did have a notification however. 

A missed call from Narancia.

The connection must have been too bad for him to actually receive the call, the only thing coming through being the notice that he missed one. 

He sighed, and placed his phone back in his pocket, before returning his arm back to supporting Giorno’s body. 

The boy’s breathing sounded more labored than before, his body also more restless than earlier. His frame occasionally shook and tensed against Abbacchio’s front. 

Abbacchio held him even closer, blood squeezing from Giorno’s shirt to his own. His eyes darkened. 

Giorno’s head rested facing Abbacchio’s shoulder/neck. The body tensed once more. 

“...Giorno?”

Giorno’s body weakly clenched again, his breath attempting to pick up. His eyes cracked open. 

“Giorno!” Abbacchio’s voice rumbled through his chest. He almost tried to shake Giorno more awake before realizing what that could do. Instead, his begging purple eyes met dulled green. 

Giorno didn’t look right. His eyes were half lidded, with no tension present in his face. His eyes didn’t move, forced to stare blankly towards Abbacchio’s red stained chest. He rasped weakly, shivering. 

“Giorno! Can you hear me?” Abbacchio interrogated.

 He felt Giorno shiver again, his neck tensing with quiet, wet gasps. 

Something was wrong. 

The tension in Giorno’s neck vanished, his head pressing back against Abbacchio. Red liquid dribbled from his lips. The older gangster’s face reflected pure horror as he pieced everything together. The blood, the wet gasps, the muscle twitches. 

‘Shit! He must have been forced to wake up because he’s choking! There’s blood in his airways!’

Abbacchio stifled his panic while quickly rotating Giorno more to his side. The boy let out a long, muffled, pain-filled groan against Abbacchio’s chest. The movement had jostled his bad leg. 

“Fuck! Sorry—“ Abbacchio apologized without thinking. 

Giorno dribbled up the offending blood in response. 

God, this was fucking miserable. What did either of them do to deserve this? Abbacchio knew that he probably deserved it, but did Giorno?

The ex-cop looked back at the boy. Giorno’s body relaxed slightly, his airways now less blocked than before, allowing him to get a more satiable amount of oxygen. His unseeing green eyes slipped back closed. Abbacchio would almost call it a peaceful expression if it weren’t for the current situation. 

In reality, Giorno’s body had dragged his weak, pain-laced, and screaming mind back down into the black abyss of unconsciousness. 

The man shuddered, shielding the limp, small boy from the cold wind. 

Abbacchio nervously checked his pulse for the umpteenth time, as blood cleared from the boy’s throat and dripped from Giorno’s cold lips. A beat. He huddled closer with the bloody teen in the center of the clearing, begging that backup would be here soon. He prayed that this would all be fine and over before he knew it. 

———

The longest hour of Abbacchio’s life had passed.

Not far away, a Capo, a gunman, a messy-haired teenager, and a turtle full of medical personnel ran towards his direction. 

“Bucciarati! I can see a signature up ahead!” 

“We're coming up on the clearing! Almost there!” 

They all begged together. 

Chapter Text

Mista always appreciated the durability of Coco Jumbo. The turtle— “tortoise”, Giorno would always correct— had endured and helped them through many close calls. 

A notable detail would also be the physics of the turtle’s room. The inside wasn’t affected by the physics applied to the turtle itself, which was a blessing. Especially in times like this. If forces applied to the turtle affected the room inside, Mista is sure that the room would be an utter wreck right now. Especially at the speed he was running. 

Narancia ran close to him, Aerosmith’s tracker masking his face. A strong signal ahead, he just declared. 

Bucciarati had met up with them on their panicking drive to the forest, along with the medical team. The medics were now waiting inside the turtle, cradled in his pumping arms. 

“We’re close!” Their Capo yelled, breathing heavily. Short white clouds huffed into the night air. 

The cold wind blew past their ears as they rushed towards the clearing. A metallic scent invaded their noses. 

Blood. 

Mista ran harder, not far ahead of the other two gangsters. 

Leg after leg, breath after breath, he got closer to the final line of trees. 

Closer and closer. 

Dark trunks passed by like an evil curtain as the scent of blood got stronger. He shivered. 

They broke the tree line, a flat grass clearing now occupying their vision. 

In the center, was Abbacchio. 

Red was everywhere, the grass, the air, and the smell…

They ran closer. 

Abbacchio was shaking, and his coat was off. He kneeled in the center of the clearing, his back facing them. He was hunched over a small figure, cradling it in his arms.

‘No…’

They ran closer. The smell of blood was so strong, the approaching gang could almost feel it sticking to their skin. 

Bucciarati was the first to speak. 

“Abbacchio!” He yelled hoarsely.

Abbacchio tensed, but didn’t move otherwise. 

They got closer. The smell was nearly unbearable now. 

A few more steps and they now stood behind Abbacchio, who still refused to turn around. Others still couldn’t completely see what he was cradling. Or rather, who.

Mista and Narancia stood in solemn silence. Bucciarati swallowed, forcing himself to speak. 

“Abbacchio. Can you turn around?”

A moderate pause. 

“No.” The man shivered. 

Bucciarati bit his lip. Defeat flooded through his body—he was prepared to accept that their worst case scenario had come true. 

‘We didn’t make it in time.’

He had failed. Abbacchio looked like he was grieving. There was no doubt that it was Giorno being cradled in his shaking arms. 

Bucciarati and the two others behind him stared solemnly. After a few depressing moments, he spoke softly.

“Can we come around you and see for ourselves?”

Another short pause. A set of unexpected words. 

“Please, help us.” Abbacchio whispered weakly.

Absorbing the shift in tone, the three ran around as quickly as possible, perplexed. 

The sight was not exactly what they expected. 

Abbacchio held a limp Giorno in his bare arms, shielding him from the cold, with nothing but his own coat and body. Giorno’s face was hidden against Abbacchio’s chest and they were both shivering from the cold. 

Bucciarati, Mista, and Narancia’s minds short-circuited at the view. Their prayers had been answered. 

Giorno was shivering. Which meant he was alive. 

“Shit! Giorno!” Narancia screamed. 

Bucciarati’s brain kicked into protective overdrive. 

“Mista! Grab the turtle!—Abbacchio! We’re gonna move you two into the turtle! Hold still alright? We have medical staff.” 

Their thoughts raced in panicked unison. 

Mista handed over Coco Jumbo. 

Bucciarati kneeled down to the weakened Abbacchio, wrapped an assuring arm around his back, before reaching towards the turtle and having them both disappear inside. 

Abbacchio was beyond exhausted. He’d spent the past hour without a coat in the freezing cold forest, sharing any warmth he had to the frail boy in his arms, begging for backup to arrive. 

He knew he was risking his safety by removing his coat—But Giorno needed it more. The boy’s body couldn’t risk spending any more energy. Giorno needed to stay warm, so his Stand could focus on healing him—it was of utmost priority. 

Abbacchio’s own shivers grew, his breathing growing shallow and his pulse feeling weaker. Each of his senses were dulled from the cold. After that long, cold, incoherent hour had finally passed, he heard something new. Something he had been hoping to hear for what felt like eternity.

He heard Bucciarati’s voice asking him if he could turn around. 

“No.” He replied shortly. 

He was too tired to turn around. It was too dangerous for Giorno. Last time he turned around, his ears were assaulted with an incoherent moan of pain. He seemed to hurt Giorno every time he turned around. 

He hurt Giorno when he turned around to walk away, abandoning him in the clearing. He hurt Giorno when he gave the boy every reason to think Abbacchio wouldn’t care if he lost his life. He hurt Giorno and when he turned around to lay the boy on his side and clear his airways. 

He would never turn around again. 

Abbacchio was interrupted from his struggling thoughts when he heard Bucciarati’s voice from behind once more. 

“Can we come around you and see for ourselves?”

Would that hurt Giorno? 

No. 

Bucciarati, Mista, and Narancia never hurt Giorno. 

Abbacchio was the only one who’s ever hurt him. 

It felt like all he ever did was hurt Giorno. He needed to make up for it. He needed to get Giorno to safety. 

“Please, help us.” Abbacchio whispered weakly. 

The other gangsters shuffled around him, but he wasn’t paying attention. He felt a bit floaty, to be honest. Narancia exclaimed something, before Bucciarati wrapped a warm arm over his shivering side, and they vanished into the turtle. 

People with white coats took Giorno from his arms, out of his pitiful grasp. His slow mind felt irritated towards himself for letting go, but Bucciarati was telling him it’s okay. If Bucciarati said it was okay, then it was okay.

His vision started to get blurry, his mind drifting. He felt numbly cold—gentle hands guided him to the other couch, something soft being tossed over his body, before he finally gave in to the grayness infecting the corners of his vision. 

Mista and Narancia were currently running as fast as they could back the car, leaving the clearing behind. 

No words were spoken, the tension saying it all. 

Giorno was alive. For now. 

That’s what they saw right?

—No time to think now, they were following orders. 

Trees passed their vision. Mista sprinted while carrying the turtle as if it were a newborn child. The stench of blood seemed to cling to his clothes from the clearing. Narancia’s footsteps echoed next to him. No words were spoken as they raced against the clock.

***

Five minutes passed slowly but surely. They were out of the forest, and back to the car. Narancia sat quietly in the passenger seat as Mista handed him the turtle, and sat behind the wheel. 

Mista quickly turned the keys, and sped off. 

They sat in concentrated silence, thoughts distracted. 

The two gangsters were perfectly fine, all while Giorno was unconsciously fighting for his life inside the turtle. 

Narancia could see the turtle’s room in the reflection of the key. Abbacchio and Giorno were both unconscious on separate couches. Medical staff swarmed around the room, setting up equipment and examining them both, while Bucciarati paced by the wall. 

Guilt swelled within Narancia’s stomach, Mista likely experiencing something similar. If Bucciarati were in the car with them, he would surely convince them that they have no reason to feel guilty. But the parasitic emotion infected them regardless. 

A broken promise echoed within their heads. 

“We will never let that happen, Giorno.”

“Yeah! No way!”

“We’ve already made it this far. I doubt we’ll have to worry about that!” 

It’s their job as a team to protect each other. And they failed. 

—But they still had a chance. Giorno hasn’t given up yet, so neither would they. 

Mista pressed the gas harder. 

Bruno paced inside the turtle. 

He watched as the medical team wiped down the two unconscious gangsters, cleaning the blood that painted their skin. 

Giorno’s blood. 

The doctors removed the coat that Abbacchio had covered Giorno with to preserve his temperature. Underneath, Giorno’s uniform was a stark red. 

Bruno hesitantly opened his lips. 

“What’s wrong with them? How badly is Giorno injured?” 

The lead medical employee was a tall man with a long lab coat. He gave a tense look, facing Bruno before opening his lips.

“Well, we’re still examining them both, but I’ll say what I can,” the man sighed. 

“We’re lucky to have reached them when we did. The older one over there—“ He pointed to Abbacchio, “—he should be fine. He’s not injured, other than suffering from primary hypothermia. That should explain any strange behavior he may have expressed when you encountered him. Now that he’s under care, his breathing and pulse should return to normal soon enough. Provide a warm drink periodically, after he wakes up.” 

The medics had moved away from Abbacchio while he spoke, shifting focus to Giorno. 

Now that the view was more clear, he saw Abbacchio resting on the couch, covered in warm, dry, soft blankets. His bloody and cold clothes had been quickly replaced during Bruno’s conversation.

‘They really do work fast, no wonder they work for people in such high ranks of Passione.’

Bucciarati shifted his gaze towards the other couch before the head medic resumed his report. 

He actually couldn’t see Giorno well—the boy’s form was being completely swarmed with doctors. Bucciarati saw a handful of them setting up an IV drip and a portable oxygen tank near the couch. Most of the doctors had positioned themselves either by the unconscious boy’s legs or his now shirtless chest—a doctor walked by with a pile of bloody clothes in his arms. 

“Ah, now that one…”

Bruno bit his lip. 

“...we aren’t sure of all the details yet. What we do know for sure is that he suffers from an oblique fracture on his right tibia. He also shows minor symptoms of primary hypothermia, although they aren’t as serious. His heartbeat was weaker than average, but it’s steadily rising to normal strength. He has a large bruise on his upper torso, chest, and back. The sheer volume of blood he’s lost doesn’t reflect as much as it should in his symptoms, but I’m not here to go digging. The physical injury isn’t life-threatening despite its oddity. As my position on a specialized medical team for this high in the rankings of Passione, I have been trained to not ask questions when feats out of the ordinary come across my line of profession. It’s part of the job.” 

Bruno gave a curt nod in understanding, urging the doctor to continue. 

“He doesn’t require surgery on his leg, but a cast will be placed. We will also supply a brace, as well as some crutches. There was blood in his airways, but the doctors should be finishing up with it, and it shouldn’t cause problems. We’re putting him on oxygen just in case, and you can decide to keep him on it, if you’d like. We’ll leave the oxygen tank here for you. With the speed he seems to be healing, he should wake up in a day or two. We have him on pain meds for the fracture. That’s all I know as of now.” The doctor finished. 

“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your work and your time.” 

…

The medical team finished an hour later. Mista and Narancia had taken the turtle back to the rest house, confirming that nobody had followed them. Bruno assured them that everything was fine, and ordered them to sleep. 

“There haven’t been any complications, and the doctors said he’s healing well. I’ll have to ask Abbacchio for the full story, but it seems that Giorno was able to keep himself alive with his Stand. Whatever he suffered from, I don’t know. We won’t learn anything until one of them wakes up.”

After confirming that the two had gone to bed, Bucciarati let himself back into the turtle. With the doctors gone, he had a clear view of tonight’s victims. 

Abbacchio was still sound asleep on his couch. Blankets covered his deeply breathing chest, and color had noticeably returned to his face. His face and skin were no longer decorated with Giorno’s blood. He would most likely wake up sometime tomorrow.

And that left tonight’s biggest victim. Bucciarati felt his body grow heavy as he moved his head to look. 

Giorno rested on his separate couch. Blankets also covered his form, joined by a bloodless, fresh pair of sweatpants. A clean shirt was placed on the table nearby, but for now the shirt had been left off, so that the gang could monitor Giorno’s mysterious bruise. 

His expressionless face was partially covered with an oxygen mask, while the IV’s needle resided in his forearm. 

Under the blankets, Giorno’s chest slowly rose up and down, almost peacefully. His chest tightened occasionally. A large bulking mass towards the end of the blankets gave away the location of his cast. Crutches and a brace rested against the wall until their use would be needed. 

The room’s only sound was of soft breathing, and the hum of Giorno’s oxygen tank. 

Bucciarati slowly sank into his chair. The doctors had done all they could, and were only a phone call away if complications were to arise. Gray started to corrupt his vision. He passed out in his own seat before long, tonight's stress taking its toll. 

His team was safe, for now. 

Chapter Text

Purple and yellow eyes opened suddenly, his vision full of grass and trees. The familiar smell of nature drifted into his nose, carried by the cool breeze. He was standing in the clearing, again. 

Abbacchio’s mind spun with dizzying confusion.

‘What? When did I— Giorno! ’ He exclaimed in surprise, his eyes falling upon the golden teen standing next to him.

The boy was fine. Perfect. His hair was flawless, along with the condition of his pristine lavender suit. His bright green eyes shined dutifully, as bright as could be. There was no gushing wound, no gleaming organs, no dull irises, no wet gasps. Abbacchio gaped, his knees almost collapsing from the mental whiplash.

Giorno looked at Abbacchio with concern, backing away from the loud ex-cop. He seemed confused, hesitant to speak as the silent forest rustled in the cool air.

“...Abbacchio? Why are you yelling? Is something wrong?” Giorno spoke softly with concern. 

Abbacchio continued to stare at him with disbelief, swallowing.

“Giorno, y-you’re alright! But I—but I s-saw y-you…?” I saw you nearly dead. Abbacchio’s head throbbed at the memory, prompting his shaking hands to rub at his temples. 

“Abbacchio, are you feeling alright? You don’t look so good…” said Giorno, standing tall and powerful. His bright eyes sparkling full of life, his skin untouched, his uniform spotless and clean. Face full of clear emotion, concern. Not a hair out of place. Abbacchio couldn’t help but count every detail a second time.

Did I imagine it all? Was it all just a mind trick? This doesn’t seem right.

The older gangster stepped back in shock, mind racing. He could still easily remember cradling a cold body against himself, the sight of lifeless green eyes, the feeling of fresh blood caking to his skin. It had felt so, utterly real. But the feeling in Abbacchio’s gut refused to settle down— This doesn’t seem right.

“Oh, this is right alright.” Spoke a deep, amused voice from behind him. Giorno stared past Abbacchio’s head in terror.

“—Abbacchio! Behind you! There's someone—!”

He tore himself from his mind and turned his back to Giorno, searching for the familiar deep voice he had just heard from behind his head. As soon as Abbacchio had turned around, a gargling scream tore itself out of Giorno’s throat.

‘Giorno!’

He instantly spun back around, his body going cold at the sight. The man was no longer where he was just facing, but behind Giorno instead. 

‘How did he get here so fast?! What is happening?!’

It was the same man from Moody Blues’ replay. The same black top, the same gray pants, the same silver hair, the same cold brown eyes. The same infuriatingly smug grin.

“A-abba…. cc hio….aab…. ba...” Giorno gurgled, blood dribbling from his mouth, eyes staring pleadingly. The only support now holding up the golden teen was the bloody arm that sheathed itself through Giorno’s upper body.

The man laughed, before wrenching his hand back out from the boy’s chest.

Not again. Not again. This can't be real.

The man dropped Giorno ungracefully onto the grass. Giorno twitched and gasped on the ground, blood steadily pouring from his mouth and chest. He looked at Abbacchio with desperate eyes, a look that didn’t belong on Giorno’s face.

The smug man walked past the suffering boy like he was a piece of trash on the sidewalk, barely even acknowledging the wet gasps and weakening breaths. His feet crunched casually against the ground, alongside the whimpers of pain not even three feet away. Abbacchio was frozen in shock, while the man simply smirked.

“See what happens when you turn around? ”

The gangster started to shake. This can’t be real, this can’t be real, this can’t be r —

“—But it is real. You did this. You turned your back on him.” 

“—I-I d-didn’t-t, nono I-I—” 

He rambled like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. How pathetic.

The man walked closer and closer, eventually face-to-face with Abbacchio, slipping something warm and damp into his hands.

“If it’s not your fault, then who's fault is it? Look at the poor boy, he wants it back so badly, so why don’t you give it to him?” The man pointed at Giorno.

The teen was a mess, so different from what felt like 20 seconds ago. He was crumpled on the ground, eyes growing lifeless and dull with every passing second. His right arm was extended towards Abbacchio’s direction, pathetically reaching out. Giorno’s green eyes briskly flickered between Abbacchio’s own eyes and the warm, squirming object in Abbacchio’s hand. He felt forced to take a look.

Oh my God . 

Abbacchio felt like throwing up, but he couldn’t. He was completely paralyzed. His legs felt stiff, and he couldn’t move no matter how hard he tried. The man grinned at his despair.

In his own hand, was Giorno’s heart.

The man’s voice reverberated within Abbacchio’s skull.

“...he wants it back so badly, so why don’t you give it to him?” 

It felt hot, sticky, and wet in his hand, twitching in his palm. He could feel Giorno’s strongest muscle trying to beat, expanding and contracting while gushing hot fluid. It squirmed and pulsed desperately. 

Giorno’s eyes were reflecting the same desperation, accompanied with a weak, reaching hand. He needed it back, he needed Abbacchio to give it back, so he could put it back and fill his wound with Gold Experience’s power. Abbacchio had to do something. He had to move.

Abbacchio tried with all his might to thrust the organ into Giorno’s grasp, to scream, to run, to stop standing still. But he couldn’t. 

All he could do is feel the gleaming organ begin to slow its pulsing within his clutches, as he tried desperately to give it back to Giorno. His arms refused to budge. Abbacchio felt his eyes unwillingly meet back with the other man’s.

“See? You’re the only one who can help him. But you’re so selfish, Abbacchio. Always letting your partners die, when their deaths are so easily preventable. When will you learn?” The man shook his head.

Abbacchio’s eyes and throat burned. Giorno was right there, Abbacchio could still save him, he was r ight THERE —

The heart stopped. Giorno relaxed into the grass, his reaching hand now limp. The boy’s eyes remained open, staring lifelessly at Abbacchio, a ghost of desperation still visible. The scene looked achingly familiar.

“And now you’ve done it. I gave you a chance to see if you’ve changed, but I guess I was right. You really must hate him, don’t you? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have just stood there and watched him die.” The man let out a disappointed tch. 

Abbacchio let out a violent scream in his head. He cried, yelled, bellowed Giorno’s name in grief. His eyes burned with tears that wouldn’t shed. He felt sick, this was all happening too fast for him to process. The thick, bloody mass in his hand no longer felt warm. He tried to run to Giorno, he tried to sprint towards Giorno’s murderer and beat the shit out of him. But he couldn’t.

Not because he couldn’t move, but because what the man said was right. Abbacchio was the one who killed Giorno.

And deep inside, for just a moment, he believed those words.

***

Abbacchio woke up with a start. He was in a dim room, on a couch. His throat was dry with thirst, while his body was covered with clothes that weren’t his. A blurry fog resided in his head, while his heart raced steadily.

‘Where am I?’

His thoughts scrambled desperately as he desperately tried to remember what happened. He should know, something in his head screamed. Purple eyes scanned the room. Nearby, he heard the dull whine of some machine. His eyes were quickly magnetized towards the noise, suspicious of any—

“Giorno!” He exclaimed, his eyes meeting the other couch. 

Abbacchio threw off his blankets, getting up from the couch, rushing frantically to the—

—His face and nose were suddenly full of carpet. He felt dizzy, and the air felt fuzzy. Carefully pushing himself up, he shakily stood back up and rushed to the teen asleep on the couch. 

“...Abbacchio?” A sleepy, familiar voice called from behind him.

He was tempted to turn towards the voice, but— 

“See what happens when you turn around?”

“You turned your back on him.”

“If it’s not your fault, then who's fault is it?”

“You really must hate him, don’t you?”

“When will you learn?”

His pupils widened, his breath picking up. Oh God, he remembers. 

“—cchio... Abbacchio! —”

The lifeless eyes, the reaching hand, the weight in his palm. The guilt in his chest.

He gasped as tight hands suddenly gripped the sides of his face, tearing him from his thoughts. Deep blue eyes stared into his own. Bucciarati.

“—Abbacchio! You’re okay! You’re safe, I promise.”

His labored breath continued, his mind racing. He turned his head back to Giorno—

“—Giorno’s alright too. It’s over, I promise. Please calm down, Abbacchio.” Bruno pleaded with concern.

Abbacchio nodded and took deep breaths, Bruno carefully removing his hands from the previously panicking gangster. 

“Are you alright now?”

Abbacchio swallowed, refusing to remove his eyes from the sleeping teenager. Giorno looked much better than he last remembered. His eyes were peacefully shut, his shirtless chest moving up and down evenly. Abbacchio observed with careful eyes.

He’ll be okay?

Abbacchio frowned at the odd bruise on Giorno’s chest. He also noticed the cast, and the IV running through Giorno’s arm. He took a second to rediscover the oxygen tank, its mask covering the boy’s mouth. Despite the shame running through his body, Abbacchio recognized that Giorno was alive and recovering. There was nothing he could do to help, until the boy eventually woke up.

“...Abb—”

“Yes,” He replied quietly, before Bucciarati could repeat himself, “I’m alright. For now.” 

He tried to stand up abruptly.

—Static returned to his vision, the world feeling lopsided before realizing he was suddenly being supported by Bucciarati. Unwavering arms supported him from hitting the floor. 

“...It’s alright if you’re not, you know.” Bucciarati spoke softly, guiding Abbacchio back towards the empty couch. “...It's late. We can talk in the morning. You clearly need rest.”

“But Giorn—”

“Abbacchio.” Bruno whispered with intensity.

Giorno’s brow twitched.

They rested in silence.

“You’ve both been through a lot. It's the middle of the night. Please, just rest. We can talk in the morning.” Bucciarati left no room for argument.

Abbacchio let himself sink into the couch, giving a reluctant nod. Now that he thought about it, fatigue was aching in his bones. He shivered, and his throat felt dry.

Bucciarati rested a tall glass of warm water on the table beside the couch.

Abbacchio shakily picked up the glass, took a sip, and rested it back onto the table. Bucciarati searched his face with an unreadable look.

“We’ll all be here when you wake up. Things will be okay. But you have to rest, alright?”

Abbacchio hummed in response, his eyelids beginning to feel heavy. Before he could notice the Capo walking away, he sank back into darkness.

Chapter Text

When Abbacchio woke up, it wasn’t morning. He felt distanced from the last memories in his mind, like his body was vaguely aware of how the world continued to spin without him, time passing steadily.. As it turns out, he slept for 14 more hours after his jarring awakening. The gangster still felt weak though, which he hated. 

He heard a shuffle to his left.

“Oh, hey! Look who’s awake!” 

Mista.

“We were worried! Bucciarati was here earlier, but he had to leave for something. He said something about doing some research on his own. Seemed super reluctant to leave, though.”

Abbacchio blinked the sleep from his eyes, propping himself to lean up. He slowly turned his head to avoid getting dizzy.

Mista didn’t look all that great. The usually optimistic gunslinger had dark circles under his eyes, and his smile looked stressed. Mista opened his mouth to speak with genuine curiosity.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Abbacchio said bluntly. He saw no use in lying. Mista laughed shyly and rubbed his neck.

“Hahaha, yeah…” Mista trailed off. His eyes found their way to the other couch.

Giorno was still asleep. His oxygen tank hummed, his pale body uncomfortably too still, at least for them. His bare chest moved up and down evenly, his mysterious bruise visible against pale skin.

An uncomfortable tension appeared in the air. Mista’s eyes glazed over in Giorno’s direction.

“Mista.” Abbacchio started. 

Mista’s eyes widened, startled out of fatigue. “Y-yeah?” His tired eyes met Abbacchio’s, “...What’s up?”

“When was the last time you slept?” Abbacchio questioned bluntly. 

Mista squirmed guiltily. 

“Uh, is that important? I’m fine, see!” Mista showed off a pitiful attempt at a smile. It looked more like a grimace. His eyes looked bruised and puffy, his skin looked slightly pale, and his breath wasn’t relaxed. He slumped in his chair, The Pistols nowhere to be seen — Mista probably too exhausted to have them summoned.

“Clearly.” Abbacchio said sarcastically, processing the sight. “Look, I know that you’re tired, so why don’t you go—“

“I can’t.” Mista cut him off, his face hidden by a shadow. 

“...” 

“Sleep, I mean. I can’t sleep. Whatever lecture you were about to give me, Bucciarati already did. As much as I appreciate the gesture, I still can’t sleep. At least not now. Not yet. Not while…”

Both of their gazes drifted to Giorno, asleep. Mista opened his dry mouth, slowly. 

“......I-I didn’t think it’d happen, you know.” Mista spoke softly, “...That he’d make it. When you….w-when you were holding him in the clearing, with your back facing us, I already t-thought he was…”

“Well he’s not.” Abbacchio rumbled, his stomach feeling heavy. He’s not dead. 

“But he was.” Mista spoke without doubt. His eyes seemed dim with sorrowful acceptance, like a student realizing they had horribly failed a test. Mista’s posture stiffened, as he almost seemed to curl on himself.

Abbacchio tensed as well. The certainty in Mista’s voice felt off. “...What do you mean?” He asked carefully. 

Mista trembled slightly. A small pause, before Mista whispered, with sharp clarity.

“...The cactus plants.”

Oh fuck. Abbacchio completely forgot. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for Mista to elaborate, but it was already too late.

“N-Narancia and I w-were getting ready to watch a movie, w-when, you k-know…” Mista gulped, “One fell. It turned back into a glass marble, rolled down the dirt slope, and shattered against the floor. Nothing unusual, right? That one b-breaks all the time…” Mista shook harder. 

Abbacchio was starting to tremble too. Mista continued. 

“I told Narancia to clean it up, and as he g-grabbed the b-broom….” Mista took a breath, “Another broke, the s-second.”

Abbacchio gulped. He knew where this was going, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Recent dark memories he had been suppressing were whispering in the back of his mind.

“This was when I r-really started feeling nervous. Like a bad feeling. Narancia felt it too. Giorno had left the house a while ago, and we didn’t ask where he was going. We called him, and he—he didn’t pick up. Then, we were wondering if we should call Bucciarati—we thought he’d know what’s up, right?” Mista looked up at Abbacchio again, exposing his dark eye circles. 

“We were about to blow it off as no big deal, when…” 

The crashes echoed in Mista’s mind. 

“Two more marbles broke right in front of us, back to back. We s-scrambled to call Bucciarati, certain that something bad was happening to Giorno.”

Abbacchio slowly adjusted himself into a sitting position, the stress in his body making it uncomfortable to lay down anymore. He mirrored Mista’s sitting position. 

Mista gulped once more between continuing. 

“We got Bucciarati on the phone, while another marble broke.The fifth—it was the fifth one. The fifth one broke. Narancia and I panicked as we d-desperately tried to t-talk over the phone. Another c-crash. They wouldn’t stop, and it was terrifying. We knew—Giorno was unconscious somewhere, and most likely severely injured.”

“...” Abbacchio waited. 

“T-then…..then w-we—damn, it was—“

*

“MISTA!—“

“What is it?!—oh. Oh Shit—”

“No..nononono no! GIORNO—”

“—uck, nono no NO—”

Crash —

*

“...Narancia started s-screaming. It was ear-bursting. I-I d-didnt-t k-know what was w-wrong, u-until I s-saw — the marble. The s-seventh—the seventh cactus was t-turning back into a marble — We both screamed, helpless as we saw our worst fear in front of our eyes — I started to feel sick, our bodies feeling f-frozen, as we could do n-nothing but — nothing but just watch— the final marble s-shatter onto the f-floor —! ”

Mista started shaking heavily now. He was a stuttering mess, breaths uneven and labored. The sight didn’t sit right in Abbacchio’s gut. Mista pathetically attempted to continue, despite the emotional pain it was clearly causing him.

“It broke —the last one, the one he s-said was supposed to be nearly permanent, t-the one — I p-promised him, that I — that we w-would never!— and I —we—”

Warm arms enveloped Mista. He continued to shake, his tired voice continuing to speak softly into Abbacchio’s close ear.

“You guys are like f-family to me, ya know? We w-were so lucky—so f-fucking lucky— to make it through Diavolo. But even t-then, that fact that he got so d-damn close. I was so s-scared, Abbacchio. I was s-sure that he had—that Giorno…”

Abbacchio forced his tired arms to squeeze Mista harder. He could feel the trembles traveling up his arms and through his own body. Abbacchio thought carefully of what to say.

“...Listen, Mista. I understand how you feel — But we’re past it now. Giorno is right here,” The oxygen tank hummed as a reminder, “and we’ll help him back on his feet. It was scary, I know. But we are through the worst of it. I —” Abbacchio hesitated, “I was in a similar train of thought as you, just last night. But you know what happened? Bucciarati told me something similar to what I’m telling you, right now — We’re all together now. You’ve done your part.” Abbacchio pushed Mista back to sitting straight with his shoulders, their eyes locking. Strong purple/yellow met conflicted black/brown. “So why don't you rest now, okay? At least until Bucciarati comes back.” Abbacchio finished, leaning back into the couch.

Mista let out a sigh, and forced himself to stand up. He stared into Giorno’s eyes, hidden under slightly twitching lids.

“...Yeah, you’re right.” Mista admitted, standing towards Giorno’s sleeping form. “I’ll head to bed—But so should you, Abbacchio. You were still acting delirious not too long ago.”

“...?” Abbacchio’s eyebrows raised. But I don't remember?

Mista’s eyes hardened. “The most recent time you woke up— it wasn’t in the middle of the night with Bucciarati. You woke up several times before and after that, although you weren’t very coherent. It explains why you don’t remember.”

“Several...times?”

Shadows hid Mista’s eyes. “...Yeah. There were a few times,” he explained, taking a breath. “Bucciarati, Narancia and I all took shifts watching you two, just in case either of you woke up. I volunteered since I couldn’t sleep anyways, and neither could Bucciarati. Luckily, we somehow forced Narancia to go sleep in his room. Whether or not he actually did, I’m not sure. Regardless, yeah—you woke up a few times. It wasn’t pretty.”

“Interesting…” It was all Abbacchio could offer. “What did I….do?”

“Well…” Mista seemed reluctant to share, “The first time, it was Bucciarati and I both. We were talking about whatever random filler conversation we could, to distract ourselves and stay awake, when—you opened your eyes. You were shivering, and your eyes looked dull; you clearly weren’t entirely awake. We called your name, and you didn’t answer…”

*
Abbacchio’s eyes opened. Mista walked over to the couch.

“...Abbacchio?” Mista questioned.

Abbacchio continued to stare at the ceiling. His fingers twitched, and he brought his hands to his chest before opening his dry mouth.

“...where……..no, nonono….I can’t….l-let go….—”

“Abbacchio!”

“— Giorno! Giorno, Giorno, giorno…...giorno….gio….rn...o…”

“Abbacchio! It’s alright! We’ve got you!”

“Get….him, he’s b-b—he’s b-bleeding, gotta stop it...keep him warm, close—alive, or else it's m-my f-fault, mm...my….”

Abbacchio’s eyes slipped back closed. 

*

“... You seemed so sad, like the world was slipping between your fingers…” Mista admitted. 

Abbacchio said nothing. He didn’t know what he could say. 

Mista understood, leaving Abbacchio to himself. The gunslinger wished him well before disappearing from the room, likely in search of Bucciarati.

Giving a sigh, Abbacchio sunk back into the couch.  He snuck another irresistible peek at the boy who resting only a few feet away from him, before closing his eyes—not wanting to be stuck with his thoughts while he waited for his Capo to get return.  

Sooner than expected, he slipped away, his breath sinking into a matching rhythm with Coco’s only other occupant. 

The gray seeped away. Gold greeted him with strain, weakness. His own weakness, form using strength.

Strength? His strength? His chest….

Is he weak? Gold breathed hard with effort.

He had used strength, which now made him weak.

Was he always weak?

…

He did not know. 

He felt light, weightless. His eyes twitched. 

He heard...sounds. Voices. Old and new.

He was cold, then warm, now warmer.

He was hurt, then numb, now static.

His chest pulled away his efforts to think. This...felt wrong. 

Red trees, red grass, a shivering man. Prayers.

The man radiated carefulness, but also guilt. That was earlier, but not now. 

Now he felt held by nothing alive. Just an inanimate force, cradling his body.

Dumbness spread throughout his mind, from his chest and his wrist. He didn't want to be here anymore. Please, gold. I don't wanna be here anymore. 

…

…

…

His eyes opened.

Bucciarati was perplexed. He couldn’t find out what had happened. His thoughts raced sloppily, multiple ideas and observations racing across his brain at the same time.

He had just torn himself from the view of his injured team only an hour or so ago, in search to find a more productive use instead of the time. Mista had been feeling the same guilt, so Bruno decided let him keep watch instead. Mista had accepted without question.

So now, here the Capo was. In his office, his head in his hands. 

The ‘anonymous tip’ had nothing. There was nothing to trace. Similar to when the previous boss sent messages, the one in question was completely untraceable. Not through words, and not through code. He wouldn’t learn anything here.

He sighed.

He needed to talk to Abbacchio. Abbacchio was his best chance at figuring out what happened in the clearing. Someone clearly wanted Giorno dead. Otherwise, they would have attacked Abbacchio more directly as well. Why would the enemy only incapacitate one target, and abandon the other?

Simple— he must have only had one target.

But that was only one half of the current issue. The other being about Giorno’s condition. 

What happened to him? Why wasn’t Abbacchio with him? Were they seperated? How? What happened to Giorno’s chest? Why does he have that bruise? How did he let the enemy get so close? When will he—

Enough. None of these could be answered yet. 

He needs to ask Abbacchio when he wakes up, and preferably coherently this time. 

But what if Abbacchio doesn't know?

Then they’re back at square one. He needs Giorno to wake up.

He looked at the clock. He’d been here a while, and Mista definitely hadn’t slept yet.

(Not that Bucciarati did either.)

Bruno closed his laptop, and left his room. Afternoon light flooded into his eyes. Never before had the afternoon still felt like a frozen midnight. He began to travel back to the rest house. 

Now that he thought about it, Trish should be back home soon too. 

He would have to tell her. Another messy item on the list. 

Bucciarati wasn’t sure what was gonna be more difficult. Helping the entire team through this horrible reality check, or finding and punishing the one responsible in a fitting way.

Regardless, he prayed that both would come soon.

Chapter Text

Trish was finally home. 

She had gone out with her friends last night, and it was fun. Returning to a normal lifestyle felt refreshing, especially after the mess that happened a couple months ago. But despite having the freedom to interact with other people, she still loved the gang, and was happy to be on her way back to the Rest House.

Trish waved her friends goodbye after they dropped her off on the sidewalk, a safe distance from her destination. Even if things were better, she could never be too cautious. 

The afternoon sun bathed on her skin as she walked beside the familiar street. After a few minutes of strolling, she removed her jingling keys from her purse, and unlocked the door. 

Softly opening the door, she was greeted with an atmosphere that was extremely uncharacteristic.

It felt...quiet. The rest house was never quiet. She would usually hear Mista or Narancia goofing around by now, or the TV blaring. Observing cautiously and listening, there was nothing to be heard. 

Her eyebrows crinkled as she closed the door behind her, slowly stepping inside. 

“...Hello? Mista? Narancia?” Trish questioned. There was no reply.

The air felt still, and heavy. All the lights were off. She walked over to the living room, and flipped them back on. 

If anyone was here, they weren’t in the living room. The remnants of someone’s popcorn remained on the carpet. Yellow puffs littered the floor, some pieces glittering in the newly introduced light.

‘Wait... glittering? ’

Surely enough, small particles shimmered in the light against the carpet, amongst the popcorn. Trish kneeled down and took a closer look. Her bright green eyes focused on a small group of the glimmering shards resting close to her, on the carpet.. The shining particles were clear, almost like glass. Trish reached out to examine one.

“Ah!” Trish quickly gasped, more from shock than pain. She had pricked her finger. It was glass.

‘Wow, Trish. You just grabbed something that looked like glass, and got surprised when it cut you. You think you'd be more careful after living with gangsters this long,’ Trish scoffed at herself, ‘Where did this glass come from? Why did nobody pick it up?’ She thought to herself. 

Her eyes followed the shards along the carpet, eventually reaching along the wall. More and more gathered shards laid upon the floor, below the window. ‘

Weird, the shards almost look like they…

...

Oh no.

Trish’s heart began to beat in her chest, as she forced her eyes to scale up the wall. Slowly, more slowly, her eyes dragged up along the stale white wall, closer and closer to the window. Her legs shook with fearful anticipation as her eyes narrowed with panic-driven focus. They finally reached the window sill, confirming her fears.

Giorno’s cactus plants were gone. As if they were never planted in their small orange pots. No, they were now on the floor — she knew. The cactus plants had turned back into the glass marbles, which then rolled onto the floor, shards littering all over the carpet. Every single one. Not a single cactus left. 

Trish’s heart raced. Her blood pumped to her head, panic spreading faster. The house’s silence reintroduced itself to her ringing ears. She gasped as the sight in front of her sank in. She knew what it meant, oh, she knew, but she refused to believe it. There was no way. No way, nowaynowaynoway—

Trish couldn’t hear anything through her heavy breathing. Where was everyone? She stepped back, frantic with worry. Her eyes blindly looked over every corner of the room. 

“...Giorno? Giorno! ” She asked nobody in particular.

Where was he? Was he okay? Clearly not—the marbles are broken. All of them.

 Oh god, what happened? Every single marble was on the floor. 

She tried not to think too hard of what it meant, but failed miserably. 

She trembled in place, afraid of her own thoughts. 

A hand suddenly clasped itself onto her shoulder. She gasped again, terrified, before hearing a familiar deep voice. 

“Take a deep breath alright? You’re okay, Trish. I can explain.”

Bucciarati.

She spun around, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Her lip trembled, along with her fearful voice. 

“What h-happened— where is he? Giorno, he—“

“—He’s okay. He’s safe. Things were bad, but they’re alright now,” He looked into her wet eyes. “Are you okay, Trish?”

Trish bit her lip harder, a speck of a metallic taste appearing on the tip of her tongue. Her fists clenched at her sides, and she wasn’t sure what to say in response. So she didn’t. 

Bucciarati was slightly startled when Trish closed the distance between them in a blink, and squeezed her arms around his body. Regardless, he returned the gesture. His warm hands rested over her shoulders and on her back, holding her close. He breathed deeply, with Trish’s head pressed against his chest. Her shivers eventually died down, but he refused to pull away until she was ready. 

…

For a few more accepted moments, they stayed there, absorbing comfort from each other’s warmth and support. Trish eventually slid out of the embrace, reluctantly looking at the floor. Her Capo softly rested his hand in her fluffy hair, before speaking softly. 

“I’m actually back to see him now. He’s in the turtle. Would you feel better if you joined me?” 

Trish nodded. Her hair tickled his palm. 

He smiled, a sad smile.

“Good. I think it’s about time we all get properly informed on the situation, anyways. I also told Abbacchio that we’d have a talk.”

“...Abbacchio?” Trish’s brow crinkled with more confusion. 

“I’ll—We’ll explain everything. You can go ahead and get in the turtle—He’s in his habitat. If you’ll excuse me, I forgot to mention that I have to wake up Narancia and Mista. I’ll be right back, Trish.” Bruno carefully removed his comforting hand from her plush hair, and walked off towards the staircase. 

The creak of each step echoed in her ears as Bucciarati continued up the stairs. 

Trish was alone again. At least she was here, in the living room. She sighed and walked towards Coco Jumbo’s containment habitat. Pushing away the dark, distracting thoughts in her head, she tried to grasp any happy memory she could. 

The turtle was crucial for the team. Coco Jumbo. Their Trojan horse. 

Narancia always joked about his silly name, sometimes calling him “CJ”. 

Every member appreciated his use, but no one as much as Giorno. Giorno was especially concerned with CJ after the rest house was established. He saw CJ as a crucial ‘key’ to their success, and wanted to show his appreciation. So he built a habitat for the little animal. 

It rested against the wall in the living room, to the right of the TV and the window. It was nearly self-sufficient, only needing occasional tweaking from Gold Experience’s power. Complete with healthy plant life, a stone accompanied with an expensive sun-light, and a water source. The habitat was a few feet long—Giorno insisted that it had to be luxurious enough for Coco Jumbo. 

It was one of the first things put into the rest house. It was the first step for turning the rest house into home. And they all loved it. A framed photograph rested above the habitat. It was one of the first weeks after they moved in together—right after the habitat was installed. 

The picture was of all of them in front of the habitat itself. Bucciarati stood tall in the back, a warm smile tugging at his lips. Mista was in front of him, along with Trish and Narancia. The happy gunslinger’s arms looped around each of their shoulders, each of their faces mid-laugh. Abbacchio stood off to the side, arms crossed, looking away from the camera. A reluctant smile was visible, his eyes seemed light. He couldn’t pretend to be grumpy as much as usual in the happy photo. Finally, Giorno was in the center of all of them. An effortless smile dawned on his face as he held Coco Jumbo in his arms. The pride of both the team and the habitat shone in his eyes. 

... Giorno.

Trish took a deep breath and opened her eyes, now exposed to a familiar room. A low hum vibrated in the air, accompanied by the sound of even breathing. Her eyes met the couches. 

Abbacchio rested quietly in one, covered in blankets. He looked the tiniest bit paler than usual, but fine other than that. 

The other couch. Giorno. 

His skin was paler than Abbacchio’s, but still not horrible. It was probably worse earlier. Before…?

Before what? What happened?

Trish remembered that despite the teenager seeming okay now, she had no idea what actually happened to him. Her eyes surveyed his form once more. 

An oxygen mask partially covered his face. He seemed to be breathing okay.

He was breathing. He was alive. 

Her eyes moved away from his head, towards the rest of his body. 

An IV with unknown fluid flowed into his wrist. His chest was bare, no shirt or blankets high enough to cover it. His soft, fair skin had a brutal, colorful mark right in the center of it. A gross, dark blotch of angry purples, reds, and browns. A bruise?

One of his legs also had a thick cast. A brace and crutches leaned against the wall. She processed the sight in front of her. 

A long inhale and the creaking of one of the couches interrupted her thoughts. 

“... Trish.” Abbacchio leaned forward, scooting himself into a sitting position. He sounded tired. 

“Are you alright, Abbacchio?” She asked without hesitation. 

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” 

They stared at each other. Trish thought hard about how to respond. 

“I’m glad...that you’re both okay.” She settled on. 

They looked over at Giorno. 

“Do you know what happened?” She couldn’t stop herself. 

“...”

A breath. 

“...”

They stared longer. Trish waited patiently; a part of her almost didn’t want him to answer. Abbachio eventually opened his lips. 

“I—“

They were interrupted by a new presence—two presences. 

Narancia and Bucciarati. 

“Abbacchio.” Bucciarati cut in, interrupting the tense “conversation”. Neither of them were offended. 

Another presence appeared. Mista. They all stood together and faced him. 

Abbacchio nodded, understanding. Now that they were all gathered, it was time to share everything he knew. 

—————

They were all staring at him, expectantly. Tired eyes stared into his own with hidden fire. The elephant in the room hung in the air. 

What happened to Giorno?

He pulled himself together, and began. 

“I wanna start by saying that I’m not entirely sure what happened to Giorno. I wasn’t there when he was attacked,” Abbacchio started, a splash of guilt hidden in his tone. He gathered the best of his mental strength, and told the dark tale. 

“I was searching for replays with Moody Blues. In the forest, there was a clearing—a reported hot spot for drug deals, we were told. I told Giorno to stay in the clearing as I followed a particular replay that was walking away, deeper into the forest.” 

“—Did he suddenly call for help?”

“—Why didn’t he come with you?”

“— Enough.” Bruno strongly cut off their barrage of questions. “Let him continue.” He nodded to Abbacchio. 

“... Right. I never heard him call for help. I told him to stay in the clearing, in case someone showed up.”

Liar. You didn’t want him near you. 

“I followed the suspicious man deeper and deeper into the forest. I was starting to feel uneasy when he suddenly stopped.—“Abbacchio shivered and took a breath. “—he turned to me, and said,” 

“You’ve left your friend alone back there, haven’t you?”

“You should probably go help him out.”

Bucciarati’s fists clenched. Mista looked away. Narancia and Trish took a quick glimpse at Giorno, assuring themselves that he was indeed right next to them, asleep. 

Abbacchio swallowed before continuing.

“I ran as fast as I could. When I got there, the smell, it—it was thick. B-Blood. It was everywhere. I saw him on the ground, a h-heap. I ran closer, and the smell got stronger.”

Mista’s eye twitched. They all stared at him, swallowing every word. 

“I yelled at him to w-wake the hell up.” Damn, why was his voice shaking? “I saw that his leg was broken, but didn’t see what else was wrong until I turned him over.” Abbacchio swallowed. 

He snuck his own glance at Giorno, assuring himself, before starting again. 

“A hole. G-Gaping— right through his chest.”

Trish gasped. Bruno averted his eyes towards Giorno’s mysterious bruise again. The puzzle pieces shifted in his head, visible in his deep blue eyes. 

“Blood coated his entire suit—I couldn't see any lavender left. He was curled on his side, his arm limply r-reaching out, his eyes still open. T-They were—t-they…. dead. His eyes were dead.”

“...Guys?” Narancia asked nervously. They ignored him, focused on Abbacchio. 

“I froze. I had already feared the worst, but then I paid more attention to his arm. It was stretched out, weakly resting on top of something. I moved his hand to see for myself—“

Abbacchio started to pale again, the memory getting to him. 

Abbacchio forced down a gulp, reaching to move Giorno’s hand. The young fingers limply fell to the side into the grass, exposing—

“His heart. He was holding his own heart.” Abbacchio somehow said steadily. 

Mista looked ill. Trish covered her mouth with her hands, trembling. Bucciarati was also shaking, but with something akin to guilt rather than fear. Narancia tugged at his sleeve, trying to get his attention. 

“I thought he was dead. He was dead. His heart was out of his body, in his own bloody h-hands. But then I saw—“ He gulped, “A glow. A light that wasn’t from the sun.” 

A faint, barely-visible golden glow was painted on the inside of Giorno’s arm, where his bloody back should have been casting a shadow. 

Abbacchio turned Giorno onto his back, with the care of a mother treating a sick child. He could see it. 

“Holy fuck...Giorno!!” Abbacchio yelled. 

“...Gold Experience. I saw it.” 

Narancia tugged at Bruno’s sleeve again. 

“I d-don’t know how, but he—Giorno, h-he—I saw flesh f-filling the hole in his chest. Slowly, another heart was f-forming inside. You could see the f-flesh growing together, hot, dark, wet, pulsing. I p-panicked, realizing he wasn’t dead—It was getting cold out, and I realized t-that—I h-had to put everything I had into keeping him alive, s-so—so I did.” Abbacchio finished, shakier than he desired. 

“And we found you next, right? You took your jacket off to keep him warm from the forest.” Mista added solemnly. 

“...Yes.”

Narancia poked Bucciarati yet again. “Bucc—“

“So his heart was... ripped out, and he replaced it?” Bruno asked, his attention fully on Abbacchio. 

“He must have.” Abbacchio didn’t blink. 

Trish moved her hand into Bucciarati’s, squeezing it. 

“Do you think that explains the bruise? It must be the bleeding—“

“—Bucciarati!—”

“He didn’t have that at first, it must of happened while he was still healing—“

“...Uhh, guys?” Mista interjected. 

“—We need to investigate as soon as possible, the culprit can’t go unpunished—“ 

“Bucciarati!! ” Narancia's voice echoed in the small room, silencing everyone. 

...

Bruno stared at him in shock, startled at the loud voice. 

“What is it, Narancia?”

Narancia only pointed. Bruno’s eyes followed the raised arm, eventually coming across—

Giorno. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Chapter Text

Green eyes were aimed dully at the ceiling. Five other pairs of concerned eyes watched him closely, like a water glass about to tip over and spill, until Bucciarati stepped forward. 

“...Giorno?” He asked cautiously. He kneeled down to the boy’s face, careful not to make too much noise. Bruno got no direct response besides an eyelid twitch, and an indecipherable mumble from the boy’s throat. The room filled with a near-silence, only accompanied by Giorno’s humming oxygen tank. Narancia looked between Bucciarati and the sleeping teenager with worry, visible with the tense and quick movements of his purple eyes. 

“H-Hey! Giorno, can you hear us?” Narancia said, his voice having a hint of plea. 

Weak mumbles continued to escape from Giorno’s weighted lips, soft and jumbled, fogging the plastic covering his face. 

The gang tried to decipher the words, but the already small sound was muffled through the oxygen mask. Desperation filled the air, every mind in the room universally begging to hear the voice they missed so, so much. The voice they got very close to never hearing again. Abbacchio shivered at the thought, biting his lip, while deciding to get to his feet and walk closer. His feet scuffed along the soft carpet. 

“Bucciarati. Can we remove the mask?” He asked eagerly. Bucciarati hummed in consideration, a deep noise filling the room. 

“The oxygen mask was originally applied to counterbalance the blockage in his airways. If they’re clear, then the mask should be safe to remove. Mista?” An unspoken order. 

The gunslinger nodded, small yellow humanoids appearing by his side. 

“Got it.—Hey Pistols! You know what to do.” Mista ordered with no-nonsense, the yellow figures appearing instantly. They painlessly phased into Giorno’s neck and chest, before quickly returning. 

Giorno’s lungs and airways were indeed clear, they confirmed. Immediately, Bruno’s fingers gently swept across Giorno’s soft face, before gripping the mask and removing it carefully. He grabbed the string around the back of Giorno’s head, pulled it out from the back of his head, and set the mask to the side. After placing the mask and its tank against the pale wall, wall near the crutches, IV stand, and other medical equipment resting by the wall, Bucciarati looked back at Giorno’s now-naked face. 

The young pair of green eyes still appeared unfocused. Giorno continued to mumble incoherently, his usually stoic and brave expression currently weakly slack, with a look that didn’t belong on him. It seemed too vulnerable, especially for Giorno. Mista made a concerned face of his own. 

“Oi, is he alright? I mean, should he be this loopy from the pain meds?” He doesn’t look right. 

Giorno blinked unevenly. 

Bucciarati shook his head, wordlessly agreeing with Mista’s statement, his brow furrowing with confusion. “No. Assassination completions are common to victims who survived the first attempt, but remained incapacitated in the hospital from pain drugs. My medical team has access to very special concoctions that shouldn’t have such side effects. This is the mafia, after all. Any pain medications given to him for his broken leg shouldn’t be rendering him mentally incapacitated—in caution that his attacker would attempt to finish the job.” Bucciarati swallowed, his mind scrambling to find an explanation for Giorno’s odd behavior. Why was he acting like this?

Trish stepped forward and softly pressed her palm to Giorno’s forehead. Abbacchio, Narancia, Mista, and Bruno all gazed at Trish in anticipation, initially not-sure of her motive, before realizing she was only taking his temperature. 

His skin twitched under her touch, but there was no further reaction. Giorno’s eyes continued to stare through Trish as she leaned over him, as if she weren’t even there. She searched his pupils with her own, finding no recognition within them. They were uncomfortably empty. Nearly emotionless. Disconnected, almost. She spoke softly, with curiosity also decorating her tone. 

“He feels a bit warm, but definitely nothing extreme—It probably wouldn’t even qualify as a fever. His body is nowhere close to a temperature that’s high enough for him to be this delusional, so why—“

Another mumble—a louder one—cut her off. Giorno’s eyes widened, the smallest phantom of distant awareness shining dimly within them. He tensed on top of the couch, mumbling slightly louder. “m...io…..cchh….”

“...Giorno?” Trish waved in front of his face. He didn’t see her, and continued mumbling louder. The group felt unsettled at the pitiful, incoherent speech. 

“abb...acc-c…..ccchio…”

Abbacchio stiffened, inching closer. What did he just say?

“... me...Abb’...cchio…chhh..abb’cch io...” Giorno repeated, beginning to appear distressed. He mumbled the syllables over and over, his voice laced with urgency. Green, unseeing eyes began to panic. The gang watched, Narancia shifting uncomfortably. 

“I don’t like this Bucciarati.” He twiddled his fingers anxiously. This feels wrong. Like we shouldn’t be watching. 

Giorno continued to mumble in slowly increasing volume and clarity. 

“I know.” Bruno said shortly, thinking. It was hard to keep track of his thoughts with the increasing noise, as the sound of shifting limbs from the couch made itself more and more present in the room. 

Giorno’s restlessness grew by the second. The teen was shaking on the couch, his dull eyes scrambling as if to beg for help. It was painful to watch—it felt as if solid, contagious distress was leaking from the injured boy himself. Bruno but his bottom lip, tearing his eyes away, before bringing himself to speak. 

“Forget looking for an explanation, we need to find a way to calm him d—!“

“abb’.. chio….hear me?.....abbacchio. Abbacchio.” Giorno’s raspy voice found itself. Did they hear him right?

“Giorno?” Abbacchio tried hesitantly, damning the pitiful thoughts currently squirming in the back of his head. ( Are you alright? Please calm down. I’m here now. I’m sorry.) 

“…”

Giorno lunged. Quickly rising from the couch, the IV tugged at his wrist. The gang reflexively stepped back in shock—

“—Abbacchio. Abbacchio! Can you hear me?! Abbacchio!”

Giorno’s raspy voice screamed desperately over and over again. It echoed violently against the walls, startling every living thing currently observing the scene. He hobbled forward in semi-awareness of his injured leg, as his dull eyes scrambled around the room in a panic. 

“Oi! Giorno!—”

“Abbacchio! I’m right here! Abbacchio, Abbacchio, Abbacchio!” His voice tore out of his throat ruthlessly, unnerving everyone even further. 

“Giorno! Calm down!” Abbacchio yelled. His own body visibly panicked at the volume and tension of the room. The rest of the gang stood still, at a loss while trying to process the scene in front of them. What the hell was going on? What the hell was he screaming about?

As if on queue, Giorno ceased his repetitive incoherent cries, ignoring the others, while taking a wobbly defensive stance. Sweat beaded from his skin, as his oddly-bruised chest heaved up and down in desperation. He looked around blindly, before clenching his eyes shut, opening his mouth again—

“...Gold Experie— cghh — !” His scratchy yell cut off with a wet choke, his knees buckling as he quickly collapsed toward the floor. Bucciarati was already there, catching him before he could hit the ground. 

“Giorno!”

“Giorno!”

“Oi!”

Giorno’s arms grasped at the bruise on his chest, deaf to the other’s panic. A long, pained groan crawled out from his throat while in Bruno’s hold. The others quickly gathered around, worry and confusion painting each of their faces.  

“What the hell is going on!?”

“He just started screaming out of nowhere! Buccia—!”

“Quiet down! All of you!” Bucciarati hissed. 

The room was suddenly sucked into silence, with the exception of Giorno’s pained gasps. Bucciarati took a deep breath, leaned forward, and took a long look into the golden teen’s eyes. 

His pupils remained unreactive, as his eyelids began to droop heavily. No recognition. Bucciarati let out a frustrated breath, stood back up, and walked towards the recently-abandoned couch. He carefully set the trembling, delusional, half-lidded teenager back onto the cushions. 

———————

Abbacchio was completely lost. Giorno was peacefully asleep, just a few moments ago. Until he wasn’t. What the hell happened?

One second, the teen was just mumbling to himself. Odd, but nothing uncalled for. That was, until he understood what Giorno was actually mumbling. 

It was his name. Abbacchio. Like a desperate prayer. A last-ditch attempt of comfort. A pained beg. Over and over. For way too long. 

Even when staring right at him, just for a moment, Giorno continued to scream his name, unaware that he had been looking right at the subject of his begs. 

What was the reason? Why was he begging? Why would the boy be begging for him of all people? The very same person who abandoned him in the clearing? The one who was directly responsible for his current condition? It didn’t make sense. Would it ever make sense? He almost felt hopeless after this pitiful display. Like there was no chance of fixing it. 

...No. These were useless thoughts. 

He had already promised to be better. He would figure this out, and make things right. No matter how Giorno felt, Abbacchio would never turn around. If Giorno hated him, then so be it. He deserved the hatred, after all. 

A shaky exhale from Giorno’s nose pulled Abbacchio back out from his sloppy and unorganized thoughts. The kid looked awful. His body was tense with distress, his eyes still shining with panic despite the drooping lids. Giorno may have been awake, but he definitely wasn’t all there—and it was frustrating, to be honest. But Life is never that easy. Especially not for Abbacchio. 

Bruno hovered over Giorno with a calculating look on his face. The boy stared through him. Observing the bruise on his chest, the Capo carefully held Giorno’s clenched fists away from his front, and back towards his sides. Too weak to move them back, Giorno made another struggling sound from the back of his throat, before his arms relaxed. The heaving chest slowed down to a less panicked pace, but still not an entirely calm one either. Bucciarati watched the quick events unfold closely, his eyes filled with deep thought. 

“...I think I might know the issue.” Bruno sighed, leaning back. 

Everyone stared, waiting. The silence was stronger than before, now that the oxygen tank wasn’t being used. The silence was not only stronger, it was deafening. Like the forest. Abbacchio gulped in anticipation, mind racing. Bucciarati opened his lips, sparing him. 

“As I already explained, his behavior can’t be from the drugs. His temperature is too normal to cause delusion, or be warning us of an infection. He also wasn’t initially in any pain, since he was able to get up from the couch relatively fast, even with his broken leg. No other random complications would make sense, so that rules out any physical factor.” Bucciarati explained. 

Abbacchio was lost. What non-physical factor could possibly make Giorno act like this? What else could it possibly be? 

Mista seemed to share the thought, Abbacchio noticed, as the other gangster was visibly jugging the words in his head, before getting himself to speak. 

“If there isn’t something wrong with him, then why isn’t he okay? Why—“

“—Physically wrong, Mista. There isn’t anything intensely and physically wrong with him enough to cause this amount of delusion. Which means it’s something else. Narancia,” Bruno paused, seemingly off topic, “How large was the span of time in which all the marbles broke?”

Everyone’s head turned. 

“Huh? Me?” Narancia was caught off guard by the sudden question. He stuttered, before answering. “Well, after the first one, they...broke pretty f-fast. Um, l-like probably a little over or under a minute. A few of them broke at the s-same time.”

“As I thought.” The capo hummed. 

“Wait a minute,” Mista interjected, “What are you suggesting? If there isn’t anything physically wrong with him, does that mean you think there’s something... mentally wrong? You think he’s insane? —And w-why’d you ask about the plants?”

Insane? Was Giorno insane? Would he never be okay again? Stuck with a wound he could never heal—a mental one? Abbacchio paled at the possibility. The fast-paced conversation made it hard for him to calm the intense sudden thoughts running though his mind, even when they were cut off from new interjections. Bucciarati’s voice pushed through the tense air once more. 

“Although that’s a possibility, that’s not exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking something more...Stand related.”

Mista quirked an eyebrow. 

“Stand related? But nobody else is around us.”

Narancia already had Aerosmith’s tracker out at the word Stand.

“Yeah! There are no suspicious signatures in or outside the turtle.” He added. There couldn’t be any users nearby. 

Trish shifted. “I-If there’s nobody else around us, then w-who’s stand—?” Who’s stand could be doing this?

“His.” Bruno cut her off, causing everyone turning back towards him. “Gold Experience.”

... what?

“Gold Experience? Why would Giorno’s own stand be causing him to act like this?” Abbacchio finally brought himself to speak. 

The speed of the conversation had nearly slowed to a halt, just for a moment, after the Capo’s utterance of Giorno’s Stand name. It was such an odd answer. Gold Experience? Uncertainty filled the room, and the others vocally joined in with their own confusion. 

“I still don’t understand…”

“What about the culprit? We can’t forget about him…”

“What can we do to help this?”

“Bucciarati, can you please expl—“

“—Listen. I know it’s confusing, but let me elaborate.” 

Bruno waited for them to quiet down. Each voice extinguished softy like a flame, with minimal protest. They looked at him with preparation, queuing him to begin. 

“The Stand is a part of one's soul. It’s a spiritual extension of your body and mind—not unlike a muscle. If you overuse a muscle suddenly or unexpectedly—you strain yourself. There are cases of people who’ve broken limbs and torn ligaments, doing nearly-impossible feats for their survival. The Stand can be similar. If you push your Stand too far...you strain your own soul.”

Oh. Oh fuck. 

Realization invaded their faces. Their voices overlapped. 

“—Giorno—“

“—he pushed himself—”

“—kept himself alive—”

“—Gold Experience—“

“—Replaced his heart—“

Bruno raised his hand—they all silenced, voices seamlessly extinguishing once more. 

“So you understand. I believe this to be the most likely hypothesis for his current state.” He finished. The room was filled with a somber mood, hurt at the idea that Giorno was still suffering, and would continue to until he healed. His body, and his soul. They glanced at the teenager. 

Giorno’s eyes were closed.

“H-Hey! He fell asleep again…” Narancia whined, his voice leaking with concern. Despite being on the couch, Giorno still appeared visibly uncomfortable in his sleep, with his eyes moving frantically behind their lids. Bucciarati walked up to him, kneeling down. 

“That's okay.” Bucciarati sighed, running his right hand through the boy’s hair, trying to calm him. It’s better he sleeps, for now. Giorno hummed at the contact unconsciously, relaxing slightly at the gesture of comfort. 

“He exhausted himself, getting up like that. He’ll probably wake back up again soon.”

Bruno continued trailing his hand down the sleeping teen’s head while talking, tracing his scalp with his fingers, until he felt a little bump at the nape of Giorno’s neck. 

“Hmm?”  

Bucciarati adjusted Giorno on the couch, using Sticky Fingers to carefully lean him forward. 

“Oi, what's wrong?” Mista cut in. What are you looking at?

Abbacchio watched as Bruno examined the boy’s neck cautiously. Giorno limply slumped forward, carefully being supported by Sticky Fingers. 

“What is it?” Abbacchio said shortly. What else was wrong?

“His neck. There’s a small puncture wound.”

Shit. 

“A tranquilizer.” Abbacchio hissed. That explains some things. 

“Likely.” Bruno agreed solemnly. 

This type of cheap tactic wasn’t uncommon for honorless assassins. Filthy pricks. 

“Is that why Giorno didn’t call for help?” Narancia scratched his head. 

Abbacchio’s gut twisted at the reminder. 

“I’m not sure—Which reminds me of my next topic.” Bucciarati leaned Giorno back into the couch, his soft skin sinking back into the cushions. Careful hands pulled the blanket up to cover the top of Giorno’s abdomen, right below the sickly bruise. The capo sighed and turned to the rest of them, eyes grim. 

“We need to investigate. To find out what exactly happened to Giorno, where his culprit went, and how to take him down.” Bruno’s voice burned with determination, fierce and strong. The mood was contagious. 

“...Well where do we start?” Mista said with a smirk, the Pistols at his side. 

Trish smiled, clenching her fist in agreement. 

“Just tell us what to do, Bucciarati!” Narancia declared.

Abbacchio nodded to Bucciarati. He was going to fix things. For Giorno. 

The previously tense air lifted from the room, determination and justice filling its place. 

Bruno fought the smile that was currently threatening to infect his professional face, but it was hard. The strong loyalty visible in each of them was a truly heartwarming sight to the Capo. He really did love his team. Finally cracking a smile after losing the internal battle, Bruno spoke with solidarity. 

“Well, we need two seperate groups. Both of these groups will have tasks of great importance. One will stay here and care for Giorno. The other will accompany Abbacchio and I, to the forest.” No nonsense, and straight to the point. 

Bucciarati paused in thought, choosing carefully in his head. The others waited for their assigned roles. After a few moments, the words were finally spoken, like a teacher choosing partners. 

“Trish, Mista—you will stay here with Giorno. Narancia, you will come with Abbacchio and I.”

“Yes sir!” Narancia shouted. 

“You have my word, I’ll keep him safe.” Trish promised. Spice Girl manifested, already tucking Giorno in under his blanket. 

Abbacchio stood and walked towards Bucciarati, no words needed. 

...

Mista said nothing, his eyes conflicted.

Abbacchio understood. Mista wanted revenge just as much as the lavender-haired gangster himself. He was probably the first one aware of Giorno’s life being in danger, along with Narancia. The gunman had spent many hours watching over both of them, sitting in the dim, quiet room of the turtle, bearing guilt the entire time. 

Bucciarati walked towards the confused gunslinger. He placed a warm, solid hand on his shoulder, and looked deep into the conflicted dark eyes. 

“Mista. I know you want to help find the culprit, but I need you to help Trish. This isn’t a combat mission, just an investigation. The culprit would be stupid to return to the clearing, since his only target was Giorno. This is why I need you here, alright? To protect him.”

Mista sighed, not able to argue with Bruno’s fair point. He would still be protecting Giorno, no matter where he went. 

“...Alright. I understand.”

“Thank you, Mista. Whenever we find the culprit, I promise— you will get a piece of him, too.” 

Mista smiled at Bucciarati, before moving his gaze to Giorno. “Sure thing, Capo.”

Abbacchio scoffed. It seems that they were all eager to fix things. Their eyes burned together with fiery passion. Abbacchio’s own thoughts weren’t very different from anyone else’s. 

We’re going to find who did this. The asshole who made Giorno like this. And I will help make them pay. 

Chapter Text

Bucciarati, Abbacchio, and Narancia left about an hour ago. 

Trish and Mista sat on the couch next to Giorno, watching carefully. At first, they watched in intense silence. Minutes passed agonizingly slow, within Coco Jumbo’s room. It became unbearable and lonely, so the two eventually started a small conversation—Bucciarati said that Giorno should wake up again soon, after all. They w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ needed the minutes to feel fast, so they continued to talk together, passing the time, eager to see green eyes reappear from the heavy lids. 

It had only been a day or two, but they missed Giorno. The awake, coherent, real Giorno. They hadn’t seen that Giorno since he left for Bucciarati’s mission, with Abbacchio. 

The best they could do is tell stories about that Giorno to each other, while eagerly waiting for the boy to wake up again. 

...

“Did I ever tell you about the bully story?” Mista asked, nudging Trish’s leg with his knee. They sat shoulder to shoulder, facing Giorno, watching him closely. Mista’s deep voice vibrated through the contact of their touching sides, in a comforting way. Trish’s soft voice had a mutual effect. 

“No, I don't think you have,” Trish said quietly.  “I think I’ve heard pieces of it, but never the full story.”

Mista chuckled s̶a̶d̶l̶y̶ to himself, beginning the short tale. 

“Well, it started when we were walking back from lunch. There’s a great sandwich shop, a block away from the plaza. It was my treat, since I bet Giorno that he couldn’t pull a scarier prank on Narancia than I could.”

Another soft laugh. 

“I lost, horribly. I never expected the kid to replace every piece of furniture in Narancia’s room into human limbs, you know?”

Trish giggled too. “He’s so unexpected sometimes.”

Mista smiled at the sleeping boy. “Yeah. I asked him what made him come up with the idea. He said he needed to practice making human limbs anyway. That damn kid.” The gunslinger wiped his d̶a̶m̶p̶e̶n̶e̶d̶ eyes. 

“Mista. The story?”

“Right, right. We were walking back, when we passed a group of kids. They were all picking flowers they found in the park, and comparing them with each other. Handfuls of different colored flowers, trading and sharing them. Each of them clutched their own gathered flowers to their chest. It must have been for some school activity, or something.”

Trish hummed. 

“Anyway, there was this one other kid. He was alone from the others, he seemed shy—but he had a special eye for the flowers. He could find the prettiest ones with ease, having a small gathering of his own. But the other kids noticed this, and…”

Trish frowned. “Did they take them?” Why did kids have to be so cruel sometimes?

“Yeah. The mean kids would grab every flower the shy kid would notice, before he could get it. The teacher didn’t care, either. I said something about it to Giorno, and he got really quiet, and stopped walking. I asked him what the problem was, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up a small handful of gravel from the road, and started walking towards the kids himself. Cussing, I followed him discreetly as he walked further into the park.”

“What did he do? What happened?” Trish asked, curious. 

Mista chuckled again. “Next thing I knew, the shy, bullied kid had a handful of exotic, beautiful flowers. They were some of the prettiest flowers I’ve ever seen in my life—I got super worried when I saw the other bullies come up to him yet again. The brats walked angrily, shouting horrible insults.  They were about to take the other kid’s flowers for themselves again , when Giorno laughed and simply said “Watch.” —Suddenly, spiders were crawling from each of the bullies’ handful of flowers, all over their bodies. They screamed, launching their flowers away, running all over the park, while the shy kid smiled at the karma. Giorno smiled too.” 

They hummed s̶a̶d̶l̶y̶ in amusement at the story. 

“I wonder what Giorno was like. As a kid, I mean.” Trish pondered. 

“I could never guess either. He doesn’t talk about it much.” Mista said with thought. 

Giorno shifted in his sleep, eyes clenching. 

“It’s weird. This is the first time I’ve even seen him like this. I mean yeah, everyone has their vulnerable moments. It’s natural. But this…”

“I know what you mean.” Trish spared him, “It’s hard to imagine him as a kid. Giorno’s always been so strong. Seeing him like this is jarring. Like a wake-up call.” Her voice failed at containing the desperate longing tone hidden within it. 

Mista gulped, “Yeah.” He moved his eye up from the floor, meeting a bright green pair staring back at him. Wait, green?

“Giorno?”

———————————

It was happening again. The same thing as last time. 

Last time felt like a lie. Last time, he opened his eyes, but didn’t see what he wanted to. 

Giorno. Gold Experience. That’s who he was. Not some poor consciousness floating in a void, assaulted by different colors and senses. At least not as much. 

Last time, when he opened his eyes, he could feel them open, but he couldn’t truly see. He could feel the life force of others around him, faintly. 

Not as strongly as he usually could. 

He didn’t know where he was, and he was scared. 

His thoughts still didn’t feel right. They were loose. Disconnected. 

The same for his limbs. His chest. His heart. Were they there? Those were this-time questions. He needed to remember last time. Last time…

That’s right. He opened his eyes, but felt lost. He could feel his last words still formed on his lips. He tried to repeat them, to clear them out of his mouth. They felt heavy in his jaw. 

Abbacchio, Abbacchio, Abbachio. Can you hear me? I’m right here. He’s right here. 

He felt hot, dense. He felt cornered. He lunged from where he originally was, away from the static and vibrations that were aimed at his direction. He didn’t need them. He needed to find out why those words were on his lips. Why they made him feel this way. 

He repeated them more. Louder. Maybe it would help him remember?

Again, and again. Each syllable brought him closer to the ground, more stabilized. And then—

The forest. His chest. His heart. The mission. Abbacchio. His heart. His heart. 

The golden comfort was nowhere to be seen, but he needed it. His mouth, his thoughts—they called for it. It knew what to do before, it kept him safe, he trusted it. He searched his lips again, looking around the sightless place (he couldn’t feel his eyes). His mind searched for the golden feeling and it’s summoning words, as he felt it faintly within his chest. He grabbed it, needing it, pulling it as hard as he could, reaching, grasping, yanking—

Gold Experience! 

Pain pain pain pain pain pain pain

His chest his chest his chest his chest

It burns, HELP M̵̳̳͛̆E̴̩̯̔

S̸̨͔͕͉̬̙̹̔̂̎̾Ȯ̵̝̮̳͚̰̆̉̓̓̐̈́̋͌̌͋̐͘͝M̵͇͕̰̞͕̱̺̎͝E̶̙̦͕̦̟͚̹͙̗͚͇̹̹͐͒̔̑̈̈̚͠ͅͅO̷͙̼̐̅͛͘ͅN̸̹̤͂̂́̒̃̑͌͆̕͠͝Ȩ̸̧̫̺̤͚̪̻͇̜̥͔̈́͐̽

His body toppled, something holding him steady, before he was forced back towards the direction his body originally rested. B̶u̶c̶c̶i̶a̶r̶a̶t̶i̶?̶

He felt more and more, more connected. Less loose. His mind felt the pain, but his body didn’t. He still didn’t feel right though. If he had more control, he would feel more frustrated at the looseness of his soul. That was last time. 

This time, he was more connected. It was less loose, he could feel himself. His eyes opened, and he could see more. Feel more. But feeling more, he felt less—he was aware of less. The lessness of his chest—his heart? His heart. Where was it? Was it here? It felt far away, he couldn’t feel it. It scared him. When he called for Gold Experience last time, it hurt. It was there, faintly, but it refused his call. What about now? 

He was scared, and panicked. He needed someone. He was tired and scared of himself, he was empty. His soul cried at the anguish, his chest aching. More and more connection led to more coherent thoughts. Coherence was scary. 

The more he could think, could reason, the more he could be afraid. 

And he was afraid. 

————————————

“...Giorno? Can you hear me?” Trish asked gently. 

The teenager's eyes were wide open. They were less dull than before, but not as sharp as they should be.

They slowly moved to meet her own eyes. 

“Giorno?” She tried again. 

No recognition. His eyes instead moved to observe himself. 

“Oi, Giorno? Are you okay? Can you...talk?” Mista attempted. 

Giorno mumbled, but they could briefly make it out. 

“... mmm …..c-chest…”

“Your chest? Does it hurt?” Mista attempted. Trish elaborated beside him.  

“Giorno, I know it’s hard to talk, but if you need to tell us if something hurts, alright? We wanna help you.” Trish begged. 

Giorno showed minimal understanding, only continuing to babble to himself like a helpless child. 

“—m mhh ….ch...est, h-h…. heart...feel…”

God, this was miserable. 

Trish felt a pull at her soul as Spice Girl summoned herself, unexpectedly. 

Mista and Trish’s eyes watched in pleading awe as her own stand hovered over the struggling teenager. She hummed out loud, a deep, static-like vibration that resonated in each of their chests. 

“His soul is in anguish… ” the Stand spoke smoothly, solemnly. She gently pressed her hand to Giorno’s bruise. 

He reacted. 

Eyes widening, he slurred his speech—

 “T-Tri...s-sh…? I-I...I..c-can...t…”

“Giorno!” She gasped. Mista observed in awe, as they both tensed at the drastic change of atmosphere in the room. 

“..tr’sh…tri.. sh..are...y-you.. t-there? Trish...I c-can...f-feel, your life-f-force….m-my che….st… please...” He was talking so much now, trying so hard to get a grip. Too hard. 

He coughed, tensing as a wet groan left his throat. 

“He is straining himself…” Spice Girl lamented, quickly removing her white hand from his bare chest. 

Mista looked back and forth between the two, processing the painful scene. 

 “We need to calm him down, before he hurts himself or something!” The gunslinger panicked. We can’t have Giorno hurt himself anymore than he already has, he thought. 

Giorno continued to repeat his words over and over, his voice becoming more fluid as he practiced the sounds on his tongue.

“c-chest...m-my chest , I c-can’t... feel— “ 

Giorno leaned forward abruptly, startling even Spice Girl, the usually calm-and-collected Stand hovering backwards in shock. 

His bright green eyes stared forward, blindly. Shaking arms untangled themselves from the confines of the previously tucked-in blanket, feeling their way to his own chest. He pressed his clenching fingers right over the center of the mysterious bruise, breathing heavily. 

“..m-my c-chest, my—hghh—m-my heart—“

“Giorno!” Trish begged, trying to lead his attention back towards her. He had completely forgotten about her presence, now focusing on himself instead. He released pathetic words from his mouth, over and over, in an utterly heartbreaking tone. Weak, pale hands felt the murky, bruised skin. 

“I c-can’t feel them….p-pulse, m-my pulse...w-where…?”

Mista tensed. 

What the hell. What the hell. This was so fucked. 

He moves close in an instant, pressing his fingers to Giorno’s neck. Sure enough, there was a panicking pulse. Giorno’s pulse. Which meant—

“nononono, I c-can’t— where —“ The terrified teen’s breathing picked up, interrupting his previous thought. Mista could feel the pulse quicken under his fingers. Giorno continued to panic, repeatedly begging to know where his pulse— his heart was, while trying to find it himself with his shivering hands.  

He was hallucinating. Badly. 

“Oi, Giorno! You’re okay! You replaced your heart, remember? It’s beating!” Mista pulled himself close to Giorno’s face, desperately trying to get any sort of direct reaction. Nothing. 

“Listen to me!”

“no-nonono, m’ dying, i’m d-dying— “

No matter how hard he tried to establish eye contact, it wouldn’t connect. Giorno rambled louder and louder, ignoring Mista’s attempts. The gunslinger hissed desperately. 

He pulled away, facing Trish instead. “It’s no use! He won’t listen to us!”

Trish bit her lip, as Spice Girl floated down to Giorno once more. Mista watched closely, watching the Stand as Giorno continued to thrash. She gently held his wrists, letting out a soft shush. 

“It’s alright. Gold Experience, Giorno,—you’re alright.” She comforted him. 

“... Trish? ” He rasped, stopping in disbelief. 

Giorno’s shaking slightly settled down, not resisting when Spice Girl moved his arms back to his sides. His eyes floated to the general direction of Spice Girl, shimmering. 

“...T-Trish…”

“Hush, Giorno. Rest.” Spice Girl repeated. 

Giorno slowly relaxed, his tremors reducing. 

Watching the scene, Mista’s own mind buzzed at the interaction. The Pistols asked to help, an uncharacteristically quiet plea in the back of his mind, as he wordlessly set them free. 

The small, yellow Stands floated down around Giorno’s head, softly encouraging him to stay strong. It was odd seeing the Sex Pistols act so gentle and with concern, but their actions did the trick. 

“... M-Mista… you... ?” Giorno’s eyes relaxed now, no longer painfully squinting nor startlingly wide. His body visibly eased completely, tension fading due to the supportive presence of the Stands. 

“You’re okay. We have you.” Spice Girl hummed. The Pistols swirled around his head, offering similar encouragement. 

Finally, Giorno’s eyes closed. He limply sank into the couch. 

Spice Girl hovered away, as the Pistols dismissed themselves on their own. Trish gazed at her Stand, as the graceful figure opened her lips. 

“His mind is lost between his aching body and struggling soul. He will realign with time, but only with proper support.”

With that, Spice Girl promptly phased back into Trish. 

They both processed the words, as the tension vanished in the room—instead replaced with a quiet, lonely mood once more. 

Mista let his head fall into his hands, letting out a lousy sigh, as Trish leaned back into her seat beside him, gaze downcast. 

“So he can sense our Stands, but not us?” Mista scratched his head. 

Trish’s voice was incredibly sad. “Spice Girl said that his soul was in anguish, and that his mind was lost somewhere with it...so maybe…?” The small voice raised with a questioning tone, too emotionally exhausted to spell out the answer herself. 

A small pause. 

Trish was visibly lost, not even searching for an explanation anymore. What did it matter? Giorno was asleep again. There’s nothing for them to do anymore, until he wakes up again. She pressed herself deeper against Mista’s side. 

“He’s hurting so bad, Mista.” Her voice shook quietly. “Why did this have to happen to him?” 

Mista took a deep breath. Trish needed his support. He gathered his characteristic optimism before speaking. “I don’t know, Trish. But we’ll help him through it. There’s always ups and downs—we just gotta learn from them.” Whether he believed his own words fully, he didn’t know. But it’s what Trish needed to hear. 

She sniffled, leaning in to him. “We can help him, right? Like Spice Girl said?”

…

He hummed deeply, thinking. “...Yeah. We will. I promise.” 

And this time, I’m gonna keep that promise. 

Chapter Text

Abbacchio gulped as he traced his path back to the clearing, accompanied by both Narancia, and Bucciarati. 

“No suspicious signals.” Narancia reported, his voice hushed. 

It was like deja vu. 

Just a few days ago, he walked this same exact trail with Giorno. Giorno, who was trying his best to make Abbacchio happy, at the time. To not be a burden. The reward? Giorno’s most vital organ being torn from his body, tossed aside like trash, the broken boy likely choking on his own fluids, gagging, as pitiful pleas gurgled out of his bloody throat. That’s what the ex-cop imagined.

But there was one problem—Abbacchio didn’t fucking know that. He had no clue what actually happened to Giorno. That’s why the guilty gangster was here now, with two other oblivious mafia members. They needed to figure out what happened. 

All he really knew was that Giorno had been ambushed with a tranquilizer, didn’t scream for help, and had his heart ripped out. That was it. Just thinking about it made Abbacchio’s pulse quicken.  

Giorno was okay. He’s okay. He’s in the turtle with Mista and Trish. He’s okay. He’s okay.

Part of Abbacchio wished he already knew what happened. Without that knowledge, the best he could do was divulge in the predictions and guesses that his sick, guilty mind created in the darkest corners of his thoughts. 

The endless torrent of predictions assaulted him as they all marched through the woods.

*

They walked and walked, finally arriving at the clearing. Bucciarati turned to Narancia, quickly ordering him to walk around the clearing with Aerosmith’s tracker. 

“Show us anything you find that appears suspicious.” He ordered swiftly.

“Yes, Bucciarati.”

 After the rowdy boy marched off farther ahead, the Capo turned to Abbacchio, his tone strong.

“We need any info we can use in order to locate the culprit.” Bucciarati said seriously, “First off, remind me of any knowledge we already have.”

Abbacchio clicked his tongue in distaste. A wisp of dread weighed down his chest.

“Well, we know that the culprit had brown eyes and silver hair. He was here at the clearing a few hours before us, setting up a trap for Moody Blues. It worked, and I—Giorno was alone.” The ex-cop gulped, the guilt constricting his throat. 

Bucciarati eyed him with concern, nodding a signal to continue. 

“There was no cry for help. When I ran back, Giorno was...incapacitated.” Abbacchio found himself stopping, shooting a quick begging look to Bucciarati. The Capo nodded in understanding. 

“Yes, you don’t need to elaborate Abbacchio, I am aware of the other... details. ” Bruno said softly, sparing the other gangster from an unknown amount of emotional turmoil. 

There was no use in talking about something they would be seeing for themselves, in time.

Abbacchio nodded in thanks as they continued walking towards the edge of the clearing. While strolling toward their destination, the guilty gangster subconsciously stayed as far from the center of the small field as possible. No, he’d much rather trace among the outskirts, against the tree line. He refused to traverse that cursed center until he absolutely had to. 

The grass was probably still stained. 

He shuddered. Those were thoughts for a later time. The present was what mattered most, right here, right now. 

Abbacchio walked towards the far edge of the clearing with Bucciarati. The very same edge that held the footprints of an awful trap, a trap that Abbacchio continued to hate himself for becoming prey for. 

His reluctant footsteps stopped, Bucciarati stopping shortly after him. 

“Moody Blues.” 

The faceless Stand appeared in front of them, assembling its purple form into the pull of a familiar replay. 

Bucciarati watched intently as the Stand shifted into the shape previously described. Purple seeped away, molding and shifting into a completely new face.

So this was the man who had to be found, and punished?

Gray hair and brown eyes stared emotionlessly, frozen in time. Moody Blues’ timestamp flashed on its head, ready to continue at any moment.

“Play it—but we should fast forward until the part where he speaks to you.” The Capo said.

Abbacchio nods. “Fast forward.” He commanded his Stand.

Moody Blues quickly sped off at his words, walking at an extremely fast pace away from them. They quickly followed. Trees gradually passed beside them, leaves waving at them as they gradually moved away from the clearing. It only took a minute or two until Moody Blues eventually stopped walking.

“Pause.” the Stand user uttered. They observed the sight in front of them.

Young lips were pressed in an sly smirk. The taunting expression irritated both of the observing gangsters, a trickle of fury heating up within their chests. The figure stood perfectly still, numbers flashing on its forehead.

“—This is right before he talked. After that, I cut off the replay and ran back to the clearing.” Abbacchio said, his jaw clenched.

Bucciarati hummed. “Play it, but keep it playing. If he knew your ability, he likely anticipated you running away immediately after he spoke. Let’s see what he did afterwards.”

Abbacchio nodded, commanding Moody Blues. “Resume.”

A dreadful voice drifted through their ears.

“Leone Abbacchio...if you’re seeing this, I’m sorry to say that you are pathetically gullible.” The man’s head lifted from his hunch as he stared forward, eyes crinkled with cold amusement, a second time from Abbacchio’s perspective. “...You’ve left your friend all alone back there, haven’t you?” The man laughed again.

The repeated words made Abbacchio tense, a swirl of emotions twisting in his gut. Guilt, shame, regret. They all weighed on him.

It really was his fault, wasn't it?

“You should probably go help him.” The ruthless man sneered, as if adding to his thoughts.

Giorno fine. This is the past. He’s fine. Giorno’s fine. Giorno’s alive. He’s in the turtle. He’s fine.

“ —Abbacchio?” Bucciarati’s voice interrupted his internal struggle, causing the ex-cop to look over quizzically. 

“Can you continue the replay?” Bruno looked at him with patient confusion. 

A brief silence filled the scenery, until Abbacchio noticed that the Capo was talking to him about his Stand.

‘...What? But Moody Blues is already—’

His Stand stood still, frozen. His soul could feel the end of the replay, like he was facing the edge of a cliff. There was nowhere left to go. No matter how much he pushed at Moody Blues to continue the replay, it just...couldn't.

Abbacchio’s eyes widened, trying again. Play. Resume. Continue. Each time, nothing happened. He pushed with all of his mental energy, but the Stand refused to budge. His brow furrowed in confusion, looking over to the other gangster beside him.

“I-I can’t continue the replay. It’s like it just stops —but it doesn’t at the same time. This doesn’t make sense.”

A beat.

“You can't continue the replay?” Bucciarati asked, just as confused. His tone wasn’t angry or disappointed at Abbacchio, but definitely frustrated towards the situation. The silence of the forest filled each gap between their words.

“This is as far as I can make it go. The replay definitely keeps going from here, but for some reason I can’t access it—just like that shark Stand who attacked Narancia.” He explained, crossing his arms.

“Maybe that’s why.”

...

“Huh?”

“His Stand. We still don’t know what it does. Perhaps his Stand is affecting your ability to replay, just like you explained with the shark Stand?” Bucciarati guessed.

Abbacchio hummed, thinking. The frozen replay of the culprit continued to grin at them.

“It makes sense, but now what? If we can't continue here, where do we go next?” Abbacchio asked, gulping. 

He knew the answer.

“Let’s head back to the clearing.”

Fuck.

“—I’m sorry Abbacchio. This entire situation is dreadful, I know. But we need to head back to the clearing and see what happened.” Bucciarati said solemnly.

Abbacchio gave a shaky gulp. “Yes, Bucciarati.”

Taking a deep breath and recalling Moody Blues, they walked at a brisk pace back from where they came. Each step brought further dread, his stomach sinking as they got closer and closer to the small field.

Hearing a shuffling noise against the grass, the two gangsters looked up to see Narancia running towards them. 

“Hey guys! I know you asked me to report anything suspicious, and found this on the ground by itself. At first I thought it was a weird rock, but when I picked it up it felt stiff, yet still kinda...squishy? It didn’t seem natural and I just wanted to know—“ 

Abbacchio’s entire body froze as he stared at the object in Narancia’s hand. Noticing the sudden tension thickening in the air, Bucciarati’s brow furrowed with concern. 

“Abbacchio? What’s the matter?” 

Abbacchio could barely hear him through the blood pumping in his ears. 

Oh my God. Jesus Christ—

A sudden gag tore up Abbacchio’s throat, the pale man shaking horribly now. 

Calm down calm down calm down— 

Giorno’s okay, he’s okay, oh God—

“—cchio! Calm down! Hey—It’s okay!” Bucciarati pleaded, shaking his shoulders, “What's wrong?!”

Abbacchio took a moment to catch his breath and gulp. After a few seconds, he rose a trembling arm to point at the object in Narancia’s grasp. 

“That-” He took a long, shaky breath—

“—is Giorno’s original heart.”

Bucciarati and Narancia’s faces blanched in horror, the latter quickly dropping the dried organ as if it burned him. 

You’d think they’d be on the lookout for Giorno’s original heart, but none of them actually expected it to still be here. The thought hadn’t even crossed Abbacchio’s mind, he expected the organ to have been carried off by some animal, or something. But there it was, on the ground, untouched by even a single bug.

“Oh my god, oh my god…” Narancia mumbled to himself over and over, staring at his hands. 

Bucciarati continuously stood in shock, before his eyes quickly hardened in cold fury. Sticky Fingers briefly formed, zipping a hole in the ground directly below the dead organ, causing it to quickly disappear. The heart was now gone from sight, hidden beneath the dirt.

“Enough!” He ordered, trying to get them focused. “We need to pay attention to the task at hand!”

Narancia hesitantly nodded, his hands still shaking with disbelief. Abbacchio did the same, his eyes clenched shut instead. He shivered.

Giorno’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay.

After a few deep breaths, their Capo spoke with a low, serious tone.

“Come on, guys. We have to get it together, and we have to stay strong. Giorno needs us, and we need to do this to help him. So lets do it, alright? The quicker we get this over with, the quicker we can get back home.” He stated, trying to push through the shake in his own voice. “What happened to Giorno was awful. I know it, you know it. He went through something unfathomable, something that hurt him, hurt all of us. But now it's up to us to help him. So let's give it our best effort. For him, and for the team as a whole.” He finished.

Abbacchio and Narancia stared at the ground, absorbing the speech. Each word passed through them like a ripple, growing stronger and more absolute. They were here to finish a mission, and they needed to stay focused. Bucciarati was right. There was no time for fear, no time for guilt, no time for regret. What happened, already happened. It’s in the past—no possibility of changing it, regardless of how much the thought makes Abbacchio’s mouth water. 

The youngest gangster let out a shivering sigh, before finding the strength in his voice.

“—I understand, Bucciarati. No matter what happens in what we’re about to see, I pledge to remain focused. For Giorno.” Narancia said, clutching his fist. “Let’s get through this.”

Bucciarati’s eyes burned hot with pride. Abbacchio nodded, expressing his agreement with Narancia. 

Inside, however, he didn’t know what to feel. The ex-cop held a desire for nothing more than to fix his mistake, to analyse what happened, to catch the culprit. However, he was afraid. So, so afraid. Moody Blues squirmed inside of him, and the pit in his gut grew heavy with anticipation. 

He was about to see what happened to Giorno. What really happened. Not some random guess, not some nightmare in his brain, but what genuinely, truly happened. He was terrified, and the others were too.

Bucciarati’s speech was completely true, but Abbacchio knew that the man was struggling just as much as they were. He could hear it in the miniscule shake of his voice. But Bruno was their leader, and he had no choice but to put on a brave face, in hope that it would spread to the both of them, too. 

“Abbacchio. Are you ready?” The Capo said, his voice low. 

The ex-cop released a sigh, accepting his fate.

Time to get to work. 

Moody Blues appeared before the gangsters, letting out a solemn hum as it searched for Giorno’s past. He knew it was here, in this exact spot. The exact spot where Abbacchio told the kid to stay put. By himself. Alone.

Abbacchio clenched his jaw.

With another dial up tone, Moody Blues slowly took on the form of Giorno Giovanna. 

They each stood in silence, watching the flawless image of the teenager stand frozen, flinking numbers on his forehead. Giorno’s strong, sparkling emerald eyes, his bloodless attire, his flawless golden hair. All of his characteristic details were shown exactly as they remembered, pictured perfectly in front of them. 

They missed it.

...

A deep breath. 

...

“Play.”

The golden teen let out a huff of frustration, turning away from the trees and walking among the outskirts of the clearing. The three gangsters watched closely, following Moody Blues as its perfect depiction of Giorno walked in front of them. 

“This is immediately after—after I left. I told him to watch over the clearing, and to stay alert for anyone suspicious.” Abbacchio swallowed, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible.

‘How long until Giorno was suddenly ambushed? I wasn’t gone long, so it has to be sooner rather than later. How long until we all have to watch what would’ve been his last breath? His final words?’ The thoughts were restless.

They watched quietly as Giorno continued to walk around, his bright eyes appearing deep in intense thought. The boy seemed conflicted, his irises reflecting a confused and regretful look.

“I wonder what he’s thinking about…?” Narancia sighed. The young gangster's remaining eye unhidden behind the radar giving a look of longing. 

Nobody responded, continuing to follow Moody Blues’ replay instead. 

—When suddenly, A quick snapping noise came from nearby.

Each of their heads snapped towards the noise, towards the center of the clearing.

“—Narancia?” Bucciarati said shortly.

“—No suspicious signals.” The boy relayed, viewing his radar.

Bucciarati noticed that the replay of Giorno had also snapped his gaze towards the noise, and that Gold Experience had been summoned.

“Guys, look.” Bucciarati called, “It’s part of Giorno’s perspective. He’s the one who heard it, and Moody Blues replicated the noise.”

The tension eased at that, and the gang returned their attention to the replay.

Abbacchio watched closely as Giorno scanned the clearing with the assistance of his golden Stand. They both cautiously moved towards the sound, Gold Experience floating and ready to attack at a moment’s notice. The other gangsters immediately followed, walking with him. The teenager himself blinked harshly several times, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His gaze was aimed at the ground. 

Giorno knelt down closer, his eyes narrowed in calculation, brow furrowed. 

Abbacchio’s own gaze followed Giorno’s when he realized where they were currently standing—in the center of the clearing. The grass was not nearly as bloody as it had been then, but the ex-cop swears he could still see flecks of crimson among the dirt and grass. He gulped, dread growing. 

Several long and agonizing seconds passed as Giorno observed a small patch of dirt beneath them.

“—So this is the newbie who nearly runs the show of Passione now, huh?” A new voice suddenly startled them, emanating directly behind the kneeling Giorno. They all stiffened. “—You should really learn how to examine things more closely.” The familiar voice said. 

The gangsters watched with widened eyes as Giorno tried to stand up, before his knees immediately buckled as he fell to the grass, the rest of his body following clumsily behind him. The boy continued to strain and struggle on the ground, his limbs weighed down by an unknown force.

“Tranquilizer.” Bucciarati growled. 

The three gangsters continued to watch as Giorno pitifully squirmed on the ground before the young green eyes suddenly shrank, and a horrifying crunch sound came from his leg.

Narancia turned white as the depiction of Giorno hollered in pain, the golden boy’s labored breath growing even heavier.

A scoff was heard beside them, above Giorno. “How pathetic. Were you really the one to defeat the previous boss? Perhaps I was misinformed,” The mocking voice hissed. Bucciarati’s fists clenched at the remark. “Although my abilities are quite formidable, this was just too easy.”

Abbacchio felt completely sick, and they weren’t even through the worst of it. This was only the beginning.

Giorno continued to struggle on the ground, his breath uneven, sweat dripping from his face. His eyes seemed to look around, scheming something, worried. They watched as the pained teenager drew in a quick breath—

“—Abbacchio!! He’s here!! Abba—!”

Giorno’s call for help grated against their ears, an ache-inducing sound they weren’t expecting to hear. Abbacchio stood motionless as the sound of his own name echoed in his ears.

‘Giorno called for help. Giorno called for me. He called for me. I didn’t hear it. I didn’t help him. I was too late. It’s my fault. I wasn’t fast enough. Why didn’t I hear it?’

Another young, pained groan stole his attention. The replay of Giorno had suddenly been pulled forward by an invisible grip, nearly floating in front of them. The motion dragged the teenager’s broken leg across the grassy floor, agony traceable in his verbal reaction. 

Abbacchio stood in horror as Giorno twitched weakly, before rapidly falling limp within the invisible hold of his collar. Green eyes remained open, duller than before.

“—Naive brat. He can’t hear you.” The malicious voice hissed.

Wait, can’t hear —?

“Pause it, Abbacchio.” Bucciarati’s voice suddenly ordered.

The image of Gioro froze, numbers blinking above his dull eyes. 

A temporary mercy.

Bucciarati took a deep breath, trying to calm himself before speaking. “You said you never heard him yell for help, correct?”

Abbacchio tore his guilty eyes away from his Stand, focusing on the new conversation instead.

“Not a word. Not even a suspicious sound.” He affirmed, voice low. 

“Interesting.” The Capo stated.

“—It's probably his Stand ability. Isn’t that obvious?” Narancia suddenly offered, scratching his head in confusion.

“—That’s what I’m trying to wrap my head around. When Abbacchio and I followed the other replay, it abruptly cut off at one point. Abbacchio couldn’t push it any further, just like when he tried to replay the shark Stand that attacked you a few months ago.” Bruno explained.

“—Because Moody Blues can't replicate a Stand ability. That shark Stand could teleport, and Moody Blues can’t follow stuff like that.” Abbacchio added.

“—So you’re sayin’ that this guy has some sort of Stand that can teleport, just like Clash could? What are the odds of that?”

A moment of thought.

“Low, yet possible.” Bucciarati sighed, “—But it still doesn't add up. If his ability was something like teleportation, Giorno would have noticed him sooner. Giorno’s ability to sense lifeforce is nearly inescapable, even through teleportation. And besides, we're talking about the culprit disappearing, not his Stand. The culprit would have to have the ability to teleport in order for the replay to cut off the way it did, in the forest. That, or his Stand would have to have the ability to teleport both of them simultaneously. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

A scratch of the chin. 

“Uhhh, I think. So what you're basically saying, is that his ability isn't teleportation, but something else that prevented Moody Blues from tracking him?” Narancia guessed.

“—Yes, but I’m still not completely sure what it could be.” The Capo turned to Narancia, “However, we just heard another clue. The man told Giorno the fact that ‘ Abbacchio couldn’t hear him’ with such utter certainty, it just has to be related to his Stand ability. But how?” Bucciarati growled, mild frustration seeping into his tone.

Another moment of thought. The trees rustled.

“...Maybe we should keep watching? Knowing how cocky this douchebag is—based off of what we’ve already seen—he’ll probably spill the beans about his ability. Especially if the asshole was skeptical of Giorno’s survival.”

More thoughtful silence. Bucciarati let out another sigh.

“Perhaps you’re right. We can pause it again later if we must.” The Capo turned back to the frozen form of Giorno. “Abbacchio?”

‘Back to work,’ his mind taunted. 

“Resume.”

Giorno was forced back into motion, hanging limply from an non-existent grasp. Rasps whispered out of his mouth as his eyes slowly worked towards the invisible figure holding him. He struggled to move the heavy tongue in his mouth, ruthlessly fighting against the reflex to breathe.

“....A...bba….cchio oo… ..a..bbb—”

Each of them instantly paled yet again, a horrible tightness constricting their chests at the familiar utterance.

It was the exact same cry, the exact same beg that they heard inside the turtle. The exact same hopeless plea, the exact same broken name. 

Abbacchio.

“—Would you quit trying already? Dumb brat. Even if the drug wasn’t suppressing your ability to move or scream, your friend isn't coming. My Stand assures that. Since you won’t live to tell the tale, I’ll spell it out for you—”

Abbacchio watched stiffly as Narancia said nothing, not even a typical “I told you so!” he’d expect to hear. No, this was too wrong, too horrible to watch, too painful for any attempt to brighten the mood. The horrible syllables spilling from Giorno’s mouth were just too much.

“..no..nono..Abb...acc..hiooo.. hgh ...abba...ch...io—”

Jesus Christ —

Giorno’s weight suddenly shifted, his drooping form brought up even higher than before. From the way his legs dangled, as well as the way his neck no longer lolled, the group could assume that the boy was now being held by his neck. 

Giorno choked quietly, his voice severely struggling to escape his tight throat. The nearby voice ignored it, continuing to monologue.

“My Stand is called The Sound of Silence, brat. It can nullify the effect of use of any senses of its victim. In your case, the sound you’re producing.” Bucciarati’s eyes widened. “The Sound of Silence has taken hold of your sound. You could scream, struggle—and as long as I’m here, nobody will ever hear you.”

Abbacchio manages to tear away his gaze, quickly peaking at his Capo. Deep blue eyes scrambled, calculating something. Bucciarati absorbed every word from the voice, letting it pour into his own thoughts as he desperately tried to get a grasp on the enemy Stand. Despite all of the clear work radiating from Bruno’s mind, the man did not order for Abbacchio to pause. 

“Shhhh...it’s alright. Poor kid.” The voice hissed, stealing the ex-cop’s attention once more.

Giorno’s gargles refused to stop, his body occasionally twitching in protest.

“How pitiful.” The voice continued to mock. An invisible appendage lifted Giorno higher, everyone’s stomach sinking deeper with dread. “As interesting as it was to meet someone who killed the boss, I think I should really start wrapping this up, so—”

A disgusting squelsh. The noise of tearing flesh, dripping blood. Abbacchio could almost smell it again. 

Giorno’s dull eyes were stuck in a widened state. His head finally lolled forward, no longer supported, yet still hanging in the air. 

That wasn’t the worst part though.

An interesting detail about Moody Blues is that it can replicate anything from its subject’s form. That includes blood. Even if the replicated blood falls from Moody Blues, it doesn’t disappear. Just like each breath, pulse, and detail, it remained visible.

Right in front of them, dangling behind the teen’s gaping back, was his heart.

The same heart that had pumped life though the teenager since birth, the same heart that resided below the Earth they currently stood upon. The same heart that Abbacchio has seen too many times.

The dying heart suddenly wrenched back through Giorno’s chest, the offending invisible appendage retracting along with it. The boy fell into a boneless heap in the ground, eyes still open. An appalling wet thud, and the gleaming organ had been tossed to the grassy floor, right within Giorno’s reach.

A dark chuckle.

“Rumor has it that you can still persist after losing certain parts, my boy. So I decided to raise the stakes,” The man’s voice seemed to fade away, getting farther and farther away. “I’ll be beyond impressed if you can make it past this one….but I don't count on it.”

Giorno’s hand pathetically reached out to his heart, his palm going limp over top of it. Dying eyes gradually lost their light, dimly-sparkling emerald reduced to bottomless pits of muddy green. Dark crimson blood spread beneath his body, achingly familiar.

Abbacchio’s heart was racing in his chest.

—It’s not real, not real—

But it is real. This happened.

—Giorno’s okay, hes safe, he survived, he’s healing—

But he isn’t completely okay. He’s hurt. He’s probably traumatized—and the culprit is still out there.

“—P-Pause. Abbacchio—pause it. Please—please p-pause it. T-That’s enough.” Bucciarati’s voice wavered, saving him from the mental spiral.

Abbacchio was shocked that he still had the focus to follow his Capo’s orders, let alone control his Stand. The ex-cop’s mind was still spinning, absolutely traumatized. 

They knew it would happen. They saw the aftermath. Abbacchio knew Giorno had his heart ripped out. He had been preparing to replay it the whole night. But actually seeing it? Oh God—

“Stop the replay.” The deep voice of Bruno said, somewhere.

Abbacchio looked over. Bucciarati was completely pale, his Adam’s apple bobbing intermittently. Narancia stood next to him, covering his eyes with his palms. Soft shiveres wracked each of their bodies.

The lifeless form of Giorno slowly transformed back into Moody Blues. A sad electronic tone emanated from the Stand as it stood back on its feet.

A few more moments of horrifying silence, before Bucciarati somehow had the strength to speak.

“T-The culprit. Replay him, right after he—after Giorno—”

Abbacchio said nothing, taking several deep breaths. In, out. In, out. He held onto the breathing exercise like a lifeline.

Moody Blue floated a few yards away from them, before resuming the shape of the Culprit. He was covered in blood, and his cold, grey eyes glinted with sadistic glee.

“Play.” Abbacchio barely whispered.

The man did nothing, his chest moving slightly. Short breaths escaped the evil mouth, each puff creating a noise. Small chuckles, dissolving into terrifying, hysterical laughter. It felt like hours until the laughter eventually died, followed by a short, cold sentence.

“I hope you enjoyed the show.” The man smiled.

Moody Blues froze without permission.

Fuck.

Abbacchio collapsed to his knees, unable to take it anymore. Soundless sobs trembled through his chest, his breath escaping in silenced spurts. He desperately tried to continue his breathing exercises, the same ones Bucciarati had taught him so long ago, but utterly failed. Each breath wisped in and out of his throat pitifully, unable to remain stable.

He recalled his frozen Stand, unable to push the replay any further. A weight of utter failure hung in the air, dragging them down completely.

Silence filled the forest, yet again. 

Minutes passed until dry lips opened. 

…

“Let’s go home.” Bucciarati whispered.  

Wordlessly, they walked back to the car, nothing but the sound of silence following them. 

Chapter Text

Bruno Bucciarati was infuriated.

Inside the car was dead silent, everyone else either too exhausted, or too defeated to speak.

Abbacchio slouched in the passenger seat, his eyes dulled with a revived surge of guilt and shame. In the back, Narancia clenched his hands, staring at them with utter disgust and disappointment. 

Driving, the Capo seethed, his knuckles turning white against the firm leather of the steering wheel.

They had found nearly nothing. Nothing.

All that time spent in the clearing, only to be mocked by a man who wasn’t actually there. Just to see the torture of his youngest teammate, and have the oppressor laugh, knowing that the gang would be watching in pure horror.

“I hope you enjoyed the show.” 

Bruno clenched his teeth, reasonably sure that Sticky Fingers’ form was overlapping his own. 

A deep breath.

He’s okay. Giorno is okay.

It had only been a few hours since seeing the boy in the turtle, but now, that felt far too long ago. Everyone in the car silently begged to get back as soon as possible, so that they could comfort themselves with visual proof that Giorno was okay. 

Proof that Gioro wasn’t lying in a crumpled heap, his blood staining the grass. That he wasn’t dead, his heart thrown to the side.

That his eyes weren’t completely lifeless, staring open with expired hope.

Bucciarati shuddered, pressing the gas a little harder. As he did, the Capo snuck a look towards the defeated goth in the next seat over.

Abbacchio looked utterly broken.

The sight was reminiscent of the times when Bruno would comfort the man from a nightmare, assuring him that his mistakes while being a cop didn’t define who he was now.

Sunset yellow and violet eyes shimmered with an ashamed wetness, glassy and unfocused.

He must be taking this extremely hard.

Abbacchio clearly felt at fault, as he was a man to easily blame himself. Bruno knew that the gruff exterior was merely a facade, a self-defense mechanism. A tactic to prevent attachment, and protect himself from more pain.

He reserved his gentle side for only those he truly cared about. And now, it seemed that the events of the past 2 days had led to the ex-cop to realize that he was indeed attached. 

—And that he was beating himself up for not realizing it sooner.

The car remained silent for the rest of the ride, nothing but the sound of the tires rumbling against the road. Country paths slowly transformed into familiar streets, the gloomy sky reflecting the way they each felt inside.

When they returned home, Abbacchio took the lead, heading straight for the front door. The man swiftly unlocked it, entering immediately, his pace unfaltering. 

Bruno and Narancia followed not-too-far behind, the former being careful to lock both the car, and the front entrance.

The disastrous living room presented itself, a mess of spilled popcorn and shattered glass. Bucciarati made a note to clean it up later, as they all walked towards Coco Jumbo’s comfortable enclosure.

Giorno felt tired. 

He felt like he had a fever. Not like he was actually sick, but like he was dreaming. A fever dream. Everything seemed in total focus yet no focus at the same time, awareness mixed with a toxic blindness that only made everything dizzy.

Gold Experience was off somewhere, in the distance. Pulling at the ability to summon it only made his mind threaten more delirium.

He could feel himself blink, but didn’t receive anything in return. It was like he had rubbed his eyes too hard for centuries, being hit with the dizzying clouds of nothingness for an undetermined amount of time.

“—woken up—”

...

“—kept mumbling—”

...

“—alm down? Did—”

…

Bits and pieces of audio danced in the shallow waters of his awareness, but it was still too distant to piece together.

The words sounded concerned, worrisome. 

Sad, frustrated. 

Irritated, disappointed.

The tones spun in his head tauntingly, not unlike the colors from earlier.

The black, the red, the gray, the Gold.

Gold. 

Gold Experience?

Life. Lifeforce.

Ugh, what was happening? Something twinged in his mind, making him uncomfortable.

He was no longer alone in this nothingness, feeling an assortment of new colors. 

(He thought he was past this. Why were they back? The colors…)

They were faint, but they were there.

He recalled the Pink and Yellow. Those two were a constant acquaintance in the area just outside the void. They were gentle, colors that the Gold had softened into, making him soften as well.

Originally, he couldn’t feel them. All he had been able to feel was the red, the gray, the black, and the Gold. Constantly swirling in his head, everywhere. It had started to become unbearable, the Gold screaming in anguish, until the Pink and the Yellow had quelled the rising static.

Would these new colors do the same? They were still too distant to decipher.

— The Pink presented itself again, but it didn’t come as close as before, like it had with the Yellow.

“T̵̨̼̚r̵͚͇͊̽í̷̛̞ŝ̴̟̦̽h̸̡̲͂̑ ?̷̘͠ͅ ” his brain called out.

The Pink kept its distance, but still provided a comforting aura. He was intrigued by its second appearance, curious about why it has returned.

The color White suddenly sharpened, blooming in his mind, distracting him from the Pink.

The presence was achingly familiar, a name echoing all around. His brain called out again.

“ ̴͇̈́ͅḄ̷͆͘ù̷͉͂c̶̗͌͐c̴̝̊͜i̵̯͐̐ä̵̪́̒ř̶͔̔ͅả̴͍̞̓t̴̳͊ͅḯ̸͔̺ ?̴̱̭̄ ”

His awareness grew, Gold radiating throughout his mind.

White. Pink.

They were radiating a soft concern, reaching out.

He tried to reach back, but Gold was too weak. It was too soon.

The colors both disappeared, and he felt a wave of sadness add to the swirl.

W̶̭̒ͅh̵͎̐̓e̵̹͛̕r̴̳̚e̵͇̱̐ ̶̧̺̍̄ḋ̴̼i̴̦͛d̷̘̮̔ ̴͇̺̅ȳ̵̹̱o̷̯̽ȗ̷̻̠ ̴͕̬̔g̸̡̙̈̈ö̵̲́?̶̝̘͒̄  His mind echoed.

He waited.

Waited.

Asked again.

Waited.

…

He felt disappointed. The two colors had made him feel pleasant, if only for a moment. The emotions that flew from their aura had put him at ease, as if he was as safe as he’d ever been. But they weren’t here anymore. Why?

Why did they leave? 

P̷̤̙̓̓l̸̘̒̂ē̸͖͒ͅả̸̧s̵̯͌̈ḙ̵͔̎͠,̴̲̆ ̶̧̈́̄d̷͓͜͝͠ȏ̸̧̱n̵͇̦̈́'̶͕̭͑͂ť̸̢ ̴̗̰̊l̶̰̖͌͂e̷̺̓̾a̴̼̒̆v̵̗͝ẻ̸̙ ̵̧̈m̸̞̔e̴̗̙̐.̴̗͗͆

There was no answer, but a different color suddenly presented itself.

Presented itself? That didn’t feel right. It had already been here, he just hadn’t noticed it before.

The color did not reach to him. It did not radiate concern, and his brain didn’t call out to it.

It felt like nothing, not much different from the static that’s been haunting him for an immeasurable amount of time. He didn’t know what to think of it.

It still felt familiar though, remaining just outside the void.

It was...Silver?

— nononoNo nOnONONON̷̡̪̤̙͖͔͎̗͚̺̓̆͘O̷̘̤̟̻̩̗͕͖̅̆̂̉͋͑̐ͅǸ̶̢̫̻̼͖͍̫̠̃͆͛͠ͅƠ̴̖͈͎̟̩͍̩̂͆͊̃̑̂̍́͐̅͋͝ͅN̵͈̟͚̘̳̩̘͓̜̪̈̄̈̔͘̚Ő̷̢̢̯̣͇͔̗̪̰͕̺̻

Gold suddenly screamed, thrashing in panic. 

H̴̩̄̆Ḛ̷͍͋'̶̰͇̌͝S̷̗͇͑͌ ̵̦͌͝H̴̦̉͝Ȩ̵̳̂̌Ŗ̴̝̓͂E̴͑͜.̶̦͈͊͐ ̷̜̗̾I̶͔̓Ṱ̴͍̿'̸̨͌S̶̠̗̃͛ ̶̬̉̚H̷̨͚͂͂Ẹ̸͂R̵̟͂Ȅ̸̇ͅ.̶̼͎̾

He cried out, the sudden fear and confusion making everything blur in agony. His mind spun in a feverish torrent, everything feeling hot and disconnected again. Gold wouldn’t stop, incessantly begging in an endless, desperate frenzy. It repeated the same phrase over and over, desperate for someone to hear. Desperate for the White, or the Pink to come back. Even the Yellow. 

Someone.

Anyone.

H̶̼͝E̶̖̔L̷̪̂Ṕ̸̜͎ ̵̺͆̕Ṃ̴̀̈́E̶͇̓

H̶̨̛̖̞͖̯͓̺̜͙̱̝̙̜̏͆̇̎̏̀͝͝͝Ę̴̡̧̛̛͈̘̟̝̰̲́̌͠L̸̡̢̛̳̺͚̮͓͚̘̙̪͇͂͐͊͐̈̑̈̃̈́̐̕͝P̸̡̢̙̹̤͙̳͕̭̫̗̞͇̓̄ ̶̡̡͍͖̭͇͇͓̹̘̅̒̌́̀̓̋̾̓̓͜͝͝͠U̸̱̠͍̦͖͗̀͒S̴̛̙̍͋̈̅̾̉̌̾͘

Trish had fallen asleep on Mista’s shoulder. 

It was a casual detail she had realized after cracking her eyes open, sensing a new presence within the turtle. The warm shoulder against her cheek shifted, a solid breath audibly shuttering through the contact against her face.

Maybe she would’ve been embarrassed three months ago, but now, it was nothing worth a thought. The entire gang had fallen asleep against each other on countless occasions—car rides, movie nights, etc—so she straightened up without any major amount of fluster.

“Bucciarati?” She guessed, a sleepy slur invading her voice.

“Trish.” A deep voice answered, confirming.

The man stood with an exhausted smile on his face, while Narancia and Abbacchio quickly focused their attention towards the sleeping boy on the couch.

“—Welcome back.” Mista’s loud voice greeted with a serious tone, also straightening up.

Although Trish wasn’t embarrassed about falling asleep on Mista’s shoulder, she did feel rather guilty about having it happen while watching over Giorno.

They were supposed to be monitoring him, so what the hell was she thinking?

“Oi, stop that.” The gunslinger’s voice rumbled against Trish’s side, already reading her thoughts. “I see that look in your eye. Don’t worry about falling asleep, alright? You’ve done plenty—and besides, I was watching him while you were knocked out.”

“—Has he woken up?” Abbacchio cut in rather quickly.

Trish and Mista shared an odd, conflicted look, before the girl started speaking first.

“He woke up, but he still wasn’t... there,” She tried to convey, her eyes sparkling with minor frustration. “...Giorno kept mumbling, and it—it was— God, Bucciarati,” A choked pause, “—it was just s-so hard to watch, I d-don’t think I can…” The pink-haired girl shook her head, eyes pressing shut. 

“He was hallucinating.” Mista cut in for her, repeating his thoughts from before. “Badly.”

“Again?” Bruno asked, walking to the couch with a worried look.

The girl swallowed, nodding up and down. The gunslinger resumed.

“Trish and I were talking, when we noticed that Giorno had opened his eyes. The irises were still all fogged up, and he looked conflicted about something.” Mista explained, thinking back to a few hours ago. “He was mumbling stuff about his chest, and he seemed kinda urgent and upset, so we tried to ask him what was wrong.”

The gangster rubbed at his arm nervously. Abbacchio looked similarly uncomfortable, turning his attention to the current conversation.

“—He was panicking about his pulse, and how he couldn’t feel it. We tried to get him to calm down, but I don’t think he could actually hear us. Instead, he leaned forward abruptly while pressing his hand against his chest, begging us to know where his own heart was.” Mista’s voice shook slightly.

Narancia tensed.

“It was awful…” Trish lamented, her voice overflowing with sorrow as she looked up to the Capo.

“...” Mista remained silent, unable to add any more detail.

“...I see.” Bruno said simply, his voice forcefully even. “How did you calm him down? Did he tire himself out?” He asked.

Trish’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s actually something I wanted to—”

The girl was interrupted from her comment with a pink glow, Spice Girl gracefully phasing into existence.

“His mind is lost between his aching body and struggling soul.” Her voice said smoothly, repeating the same explanation from just a few hours ago.

Bruno’s eyes widened at the Stand’s appearance, before their attention was caught by a shuffle on the couch.

Giorno shifted, his eyes cracking open.

“...Trish?” The boy asked with a whisper.

His irises were fogged, just as before, but they seemed more anxious this time. More aware.

Bruno’s own eyes widened, kneeling down to the couch’s level.

 “Giorno?” The man waved his palm in front of Giorno’s face, frowning at the lack of reaction.

“—His vision is stuck within the imbalance of his soul.” Spice Girl hummed, floating with a solemn look.

“What do you mean?” Bruno questioned, looking over.

“He can’t see or hear us, at least not completely.” Mista explained. “Spice Girl can get through to him, unlike us for some reason.”

“Is that how you calmed him down?” The Capo asked with immense interest.

Trish nodded. “She summoned herself when Giorno started hallucinating, and he immediately called out, thinking she was me. It was the most recognition I’ve seen in his eyes, since…”

Bruno nodded, before Mista spoke up.

“—The Pistols helped too. Giorno mumbled my name when I let them out.”

Bucciarati’s eyes moved in calculation, before turning to the couch. Giorno was still staring aimlessly at the ceiling, but his gaze held a tiny, refreshing pinch of awareness. 

A small wisp of hope curled into the Capo’s chest, pleased at the development.

He seems to become more mentally aware each time he wakes up.

Before, even when Bruno had used his Stand to stop the boy from making his condition any worse, there hadn’t been a single speck of familiarity in those dull green irises. But now, the teen’s condition has clearly been making positive progress. Progress that Bucciarati was eager to test.

After a moment of consideration, Sticky Fingers phases into existence, hovering protectively towards Giorno.

In an instant, the boy’s eyes widened with slight recognition.

“...Bucciarati?” Giorno rasped again, his voice shockingly steady.

The room went silent in awe, Sticky Fingers and Spice Girl hovering silently.

Everyone carefully observed the sight of their awakened teammate, until Spice Girl addressed them yet again.

“Even when thrown into a horrible torrent between the body and mind, the soul will attempt to seek assistance.” The elegant Stand hummed.

Bucciarati’s attention was then caught by a sudden movement in his peripheral. Narancia.

The dark-haired boy swiftly and abruptly marched over, his speed rivaled only by a determined Abbacchio. The two gangsters rushed towards the couch with a steadfast pace, the glow of their Stand energy hastily enveloping their forms.

“—Wait,” Bruno declared, raising a hand. 

They paused, glimmering violet irises snapping over to meet his own pair of deep blue ones.

“While this is indeed a remarkable discovery, we need to let him rest.”

He felt awful for saying it, but it was the truth. Giorno needed to rest more than anything else, along with avoiding using anything related to Stand energy. If his condition was indeed related to straining his soul, then they needed to make sure that his rest wasn’t just physical, but mental as well. It didn’t matter how badly they craved the recent recognition that had been sparking in his eyes.

Narancia’s serious expression turned apologetic, the orange glow around his body quickly dying out. Abbacchio followed shortly behind, his face radiating a sense of frustrated acceptance.

Watching as the two recalled their energy, Bucciarati and Trish routinely followed. Sticky Fingers and Spice Girl vanished in an instant, their disappearance sending a lost look onto Giorno’s face.

The boy visibly deflated.

“...Where...did you...go…?” The young voice mumbled raspily. 

His eyes looked so deeply hurt, his brow crinkling with confused sadness. The group felt their hearts ache in response.

“Please…” The boy begged, pupils glistening, ”...D-Don’t...leave me…”

Abbacchio flinched hard, his reaction felt throughout the entire room.

Bucciarati’s face radiated extreme sorrow as he slid his hand into Giorno’s hair, fingers soothingly slipping through the limp golden locks. 

“It’s okay, you’re not alone.” He looked deep into the dull emerald irises. “We’ll never leave you, Giorno.” The Capo whispered strongly, praying that his words would be heard.

Regardless, Giorno’s eyelids grew heavy, eventually slipping back shut. Bucciarati let out an exhausted sigh. The room remained quiet, before Mista shyly cleared his throat. 

“...Did you have any luck in the clearing?” Mista piped up nervously.

Narancia and Abbacchio immediately looked away, causing the gunslinger to gulp.

“We have no leads on the culprit’s whereabouts.” Bruno admitted, standing back up. “The bastard seems to have some sort of sense-cancelling ability, and it interfered with Moody Blues.”

“Sense-cancelling?” Mista echoed in confusion.

The Capo nodded. “During the replay, the culprit said something about nullifying senses.” Bucciarati spoke. “His Stand is called The Sound of Silence, and it was the reason why Abbacchio didn’t hear the actual attack. Apparently, the Stand made it so that Giorno’s voice was inaudible to anyone other than the Stand’s user.”

“—Giorno did call for help. I just didn’t hear it.” Abbacchio summarized, clenching his fists.

Mista went silent for a moment as Trish looked up to Bucciarati with desperation.

“What about the attack itself? You replayed it, right? Was there anything helpful—”

“Nothing we didn’t already infer.” Bucciarati cut her off swiftly, biting his lip. “Giorno had his...he was injured, but was able to use Gold Experience to heal himself. Nothing we viewed at the clearing will help any more than what we’ve already been doing. Giorno simply needs rest, and time.”

His tone begged for no further questions, which Trish sadly obeyed. 

They must have seen something awful.

Trish observed the gang’s demeanor, feeling more and more hopeless with each detail she came across.

Abbacchio looked defeated and guilty, as if he had been the one to do this to Giorno himself. Narancia kept studying his own hands in disgust, constantly wiping them against his pants. Bucciarati had dark circles underneath his eyes, clearly the least-rested out of anyone in this room—and that was quite the accomplishment.

It really showed how much the team had connected, after all this time. The whole group was like a physics toy, balancing each other perfectly. Now that one of the pieces had been taken out, everyone else crumpled to the ground, affected by the blow, as if it were their own.

They just wanted Giorno to be okay. They wanted to see him back to his normal self.

The whole group sat in an impatient silence, unknowingly sharing that desire, until a noise cut through their thoughts.

A mumble from the couch.

The gang looked over.

"..."

Giorno’s eyes cracked open, drawing everyone’s attention. 

“Oi, he’s awake again.” Mista spoke in surprise, eyebrows crinkling.

“It’s only been a few minutes.” Bucciarati said with concern. He walked closer. 

Young, sluggish lips moved with growing panic, the mumbles transitioning into whimpers.

“...no, nonono….no. N-Nono, nonono...” 

A chill went down Abbacchio's spine.

“—What’s he saying?” Narancia asked, feeling uncomfortable.

“He keeps repeating ‘no’ over and over.” Mista replied, reading the boy’s lips.

Never a good sign.

Bruno frowned. “Giorno, are you in pain? What’s wrong?”

The teen didn’t answer, continuing to mumble with increasing speed. “—He’s here, oh god, nononono, nono—He’s here, h-he’s here, he’s here—“

Trish shifted uncomfortably, the sight reminding her of earlier. “What is he talking about? Who’s here?”

“Is he talking about Abbacchio, maybe? That’s what he was freaking out about last time.” Narancia guessed.

“So he’s hallucinating again?” Abbacchio questioned quickly.

Bucciarati cut in with a serious tone. “If he’s hallucinating, then we need to calm him down.” He stepped closer, and Giorno shrunk back against the cushions.

“Nonononono, don’t leave me alone, please, he’s here, he’s coming, oh god—”

“—Giorno, you’re not alone! We’re all here!” Trish tried to encourage.

Narancia’s eyes widened, “—He must be hallucinating about the culprit—!”

“Sticky Fingers!” Bucciarati bellowed, his white and blue Stand appearing in an instant. The other gangsters cut themselves off, watching as Bruno’s soul reached out and put his hands on Giorno’s bare chest.

“—nONONONO—!” Giorno panicked even more, thrashing on the couch, his weak arms desperately trying to grasp at the Stand and push it away.

It wasn’t working.

The boy was lashing out as fiercely as his injured body would allow, making everyone in the room even more on edge.

Bucciarati cursed, intensely frustrated. “Why doesn’t he recognize that it's me? I don’t understand!” Why can’t I calm him down?

“He’s panicking too much!”

“Please, please—” The fearful begs continued.

The room’s air was filled with a stressful frenzy, each gang member’s mind racing to think of how to calm their delirious teammate.

Bucciarati continued to flare Sticky Finger’s energy, trying to get through Giorno’s panic. Trish stood in complete awe beside Mista, who felt similarly helpless. Narancia’s palms itched as he rubbed them against his pants, keenly watching as his Capo struggled to calm Giorno.

Nothing was working. No amount of yelling, shaking, or Sticky Finger’s attempts at interaction were sending a single spark of recognition to Giorno’s eyes.

Bucciarati bit his lip as the broken teenager let out a silent sob, the Capo still trying his best to ease the panic. They needed to do something and fast, or else Giorno could hurt himself—

“Moody Blues!”

A new figure hovered in front of them all, it’s solemn aura accompanied with a dial-up tone. The room went completely silent, including the incapacitated teenager.

Slowly, Abbacchio strode over to the couch.

Giorno’s eyes were clouded in awe as the ex-cop stepped closer, and gently knelt down to the boy’s level. The rest of the group watched closely, utterly speechless.

“...You’re okay, kid.” The man spoke softly, Moody Blues placing a palm on the teen’s head.

Green pupils completely cleared for a moment, scanning every single person in the room. There was no fog, no delirium, no confusion. Nothing but bright perception, the eyes they haven't seen since before the mission.

They group drank in the sight like a long lost treasure, each of them being blessed with a short instant of eye contact, until bright emerald met sharp amethyst. They gazed into each other for several seconds, until the ex-cop's gently tone started again.

“I’m gonna protect you this time,” Abbacchio promised, his voice stubbornly even. “—we all will.”

"..."

And with that, the eyes slipped back shut, and a breath was let go.

Chapter Text

When Giorno’s eyes fluttered shut, a numb silence enveloped the room. The gang watched the boy let out a soft sigh, his limp body further relaxing into the cushions. 

Nobody moved, and nobody spoke. Instead, they stood completely still—terrified that a single noise or movement would ruin the moment of peace. 

But yet, Abbacchio had found his hand still entangled within Giorno’s hair—and he wasn’t sure why.

It was done. Giorno had calmed down. The screams had stopped. There was no reason for him to still be in this position.

So why couldn’t he just remove his damn hand?

He could feel time slowly trudging past his awareness, along with some shuffles from behind him. 

A single pair of footsteps hesitantly dragged against the carpet, getting closer and closer, until there was a gentle hand placed against his shoulder.

“—Abbacchio.” Bruno whispered quietly.

The goth stiffened, but didn’t answer. He didn’t even know if he could speak. 

“We’re...gonna go clean up the mess. In the living room.” Bucciarati continued regardless, seeming to understand. “Would you like to help us? Or...would you rather stay here? In the turtle.” he asked.

Abbacchio’s mind buzzed.

The living room. The cacti. The glass.  

The glass shards and dirt were probably still everywhere. 

Everyone had been so busy, that there was no time to clean it. Instead, all of the focus had been on making sure Giorno would survive. 

Making sure that they wouldn’t lose their youngest member. 

Making sure the boy wouldn’t die alone in the turtle, like he almost did in that damn forest. 

Until now. They finally had the time—since all they could do was wait, and be on the lookout.

The goth took in a deep breath. Air huffed from his nose in a short exhale, before he slumped slightly. 

“...I’ll...be up in a moment.” Abbacchio spoke quietly. He leaned forward, hiding his face from the rest of the group. Their concerned gaze could still be felt on the back of his head.

Bucciarati nodded, his voice containing a sad tone. “I understand. Please, take your time.” The Capo removed his hand from his teammate’s shoulder.

Abbacchio gave a miniscule nod as he heard the others hesitate towards the center of the turtle. 

He could tell from their pace that they didn’t want to leave, and wondered if Bruno was giving them some sort of solemn look. Abbacchio pictured their torn expressions, and their cautious eyes that were terrified of leaving the boy they had almost lost. But, they moved regardless—and after a few moments, each presence had vanished from the room completely.

All except for two.

It was quiet—quieter than before. The silence was reminiscent. Beneath its deafening grasp, Abbacchio could feel each of his other senses, as if they were heightened. His breathing felt loud, and his mouth felt dry. In addition, although it was late, he didn’t feel tired.

The room buzzed with the sound of the fridge by the other wall. Coco Jumbo’s gem provided minimal additional lighting, nothing but the dim glow of the living room above them—light from the outside world. 

Under his palm, Abbacchio could feel the warmth of Giorno’s head, and the softness of his hair. 

The goth noted how the golden locks were clean of any blood, dirt, or even grease.

The doctors must have cleaned it, he noted.

Giorno’s doctors.

(Your fault.)

The thought stung, making him feel rejected. Giving a sigh, Abbacchio finally began to retract his touch. 

Giorno’s soft curls glided against his rough hands, tickling his palm. Abbacchio was mid-way through pulling away, when he felt a twitch under the tips of his fingers. 

He stiffened, eyes flicking towards the source.

Giorno’s forehead was scrunched slightly, a clear sign of discomfort. It was a tiny detail, one that caused Abbacchio’s heart to race. 

His throat tightened. 

Not again.

“Giorno?” He croaked with dry lips.

As expected, the boy didn’t give any acknowledgement, his face continuing to tense instead.  

Abbacchio hesitated. 

Slowly, the man returned his hand, slipping it back to the top of the unconscious teenager’s scalp.

“....mm…” Giorno let out a relieved sound from the back of his throat, relaxing his facial expression. The vibration buzzed against Abbacchio’s palm, while the pinch of Giorno’s brows smoothed over. 

The boy’s head shifted slightly, adjusting.

Abbacchio remained still. He felt a light pressure introduced itself against his fingers. The sensation caused him to freeze.

—Giorno was leaning into Abbacchio’s hand.

It was such a childish thing, something that the ex-cop would have ruthlessly mocked, if the circumstances had been different. 

But not now. 

Now, all he could do was watch—unable to pull away as his palm burned at the touch he didn’t feel permitted to give.

Giorno Giovanna was only a child, after all.

“...”

Abbacchio remained with his hand on Giorno’s head until the small pressure slowly dissipated, becoming more weak as the boy sank further into his sleep. 

Several times, when Abbacchio had tried to pull away, the boy had unconsciously cringed—forcing Abbacchio to reapply his hand out of concerned fear.

After a few more minutes, the man was eventually able to remove his palm without any reaction from Giorno—and put it against his own face with a sigh, instead.

I don’t deserve to be doing this.

There was no voice to convince Abbacchio otherwise, no Bucciarati to read his mind the way the man always seemed to do.

The only noise to distract him from the thought was the low growl that had suddenly come from the boy in front of him—Giorno’s stomach had grumbled with a quiet groan, hard to ignore within the silence of Coco Jumbo’s room.

Abbacchio’s eyebrows pinched in consideration, forgetting about his previous train of thought. 

How long has it been since the kid ate, anyway?

He stood up, releasing a breath.

Bucciarati probably knows.

Filing the internal conversation into the back of his mind, the ex-cop moved to go grab a bottle of water from the fridge. He noticed that his steps were slightly less shaky than before, but that he still felt weak—physically and emotionally. As he closed the fridge door, he cursed himself for the weakness—his frustration leaking into the force of his shove.

Well, whatever. 

Abbacchio unscrewed the cap, and took a long sip of the refreshing liquid. 

I’ll just give myself a few more minutes to hide it.

Narancia, Mista, Trish, and Bucciarati felt a deep pull at their bodies, before finding themselves back outside of the turtle.

“—Did we really have to leave so soon?” Narancia whined quietly, while scratching his arm.

“Yes,” Bucciarati sighed, turning to the boy. “You know how Abbacchio gets. And besides—we have to clean up this mess.” he said, flicking on the lights.

Narancia bit his lip, before dipping his head in understanding.

They stood in the dim living room, absorbing the remnants of a previously panicked atmosphere.

The glass shards remained scattered among the floor, along with some pieces of popcorn, long forgotten.

Mista’s stare towards the scattered puffs was broken when Bucciarati suddenly addressed him.

“—Would you mind getting a bucket, and the vacuum?” the Capo asked.

“Yeah! R-Right.” the gunslinger stuttered in response, pulling himself away from the scene.

Mista returned in no time, placing the bucket on the floor as he plugged in the small cleaning machine. 

On the other side of the room, Narancia seamlessly moved to pull out the couch by the window, exposing even more shards beneath it.

“—Spice Girl.”

Trish summoned her Stand, softening the glass shards on the ground. Carefully, she started to pick them up one by one, placing them into the bucket.

Bruno watched as each of the three moved like a machine, swiftly and wordlessly working to clean up the mess. It served as a productive distraction, but also a heavy reminder of all that had happened in the past couple of days.

As Narancia and Trish hunched on the floor, Bucciarati moved towards the window. He took in the sight of the cactus pots. 

No longer did the pots contain strong sprouts of independent life. Instead, each remained completely empty, holding nothing but an oddly shaped slope of dry dirt.

Bruno’s eyes crinkled. He took a breath and looked away. 

“—Ow!” Narancia suddenly cried out, grasping his finger. 

Everyone looked over.

“What? What is it?” Mista asked, confused.

“I pricked my finger!” Narancia groaned before turning to the girl next to him, “Trish, I thought you softened all the glass!” he accused with a hiss.

Trish’s eyebrows pinched in confusion. “...I did soften all the glass, Narancia.” she countered.

“Clearly.” the boy grumbled.

“—Are you bleeding?” Bucciarati asked, stepping closer.

Narancia brought up his pointer finger, glancing at it. “...No, I don’t see any blood.” the boy said, poking at his fingertip. “But I definit— Ow!”  

“Let me see.” Bucciarati commanded with an odd tone of urgency, stepping over. He had a weight in his gut, telling him that he was forgetting something important. 

Narancia didn’t pull away as Bruno gently grabbed his wrist, observing the finger with a closer look. 

“It has to be just a small piece of glass.” Narancia reassured. “I can feel my heartbeat in my finger.” the boy rambled, watching as deep blue eyes examined his hand with concerned precision. 

Bucciarati went quiet, taking in a tense breath.

Narancia laughed nervously at the awkward silence.

“...”

The tense atmosphere spread as Bucciarati didn’t move, continuing to state deeply into Narancia’s hand. 

“Uh, is something wrong? What’s the deal?” Mista asked with worry.

“—Yeah, Bucciarati, uh—w-why are you s-so qu— ah!”  

Bucciarati interrupted the question, quickly plucking something from Narancia’s finger, before observing what he had captured.

The boy yelped, pulling his hands away from the sudden pain. He looked to his Capo in confusion. 

“Wh—?!”

“—It wasn’t glass.” Bucciarati revealed quietly, looking at the object in his palm. His eyes held a sad glimmer.

“...It... wasn’t?” Narancia said slowly, clueless to what else it possibly could have been. 

Bucciarati shook his head. His other arm moved to pinch the object in his palm, carefully holding it between his thumb and pointer finger. 

The others moved to get a closer look.

Between Bucciarati’s fingers was a small pointy object, not even half of a centimeter in length. It had a yellowish tint, and was slightly thicker than a strand of hair—like a needle.

A cactus needle.

Narancia went pale. “...B-Bucciarati..is—is th- that—?”

“...G-Gold Experience…” Trish gasped quietly, beginning to shake.

Mista said nothing, drawing in a quick breath while staring at the small piece of plant.

“...This must be from the seventh cactus.” Buccarati noted quietly. “...It never fully transformed.”

The four of them stared, drinking in the sight of the small needle within Bucciarati’s grasp.

“...He held on...” Mista whispered in disbelief.

Narancia gaped. “...B-But, I—I th-thought…” he trailed off, in a whisper.

Bucciarati nodded, before putting the needle in his coat pocket. Narancia, Mista, and Trish closely watched, until it finally disappeared from their vision.

“—Come on, we should wrap this up quickly.” the Capo uttered seriously, standing back up. “Let's not waste time.”

Narancia bit his lip, scratching at his hands again.

Mista kept his eyes locked on Bucciarati's pocket, before eventually turning all the way back around, and getting to work. 

Trish flashed Bruno a pleading look before sadly moving her gaze back to the floor, to pick up more softened shards. 

Despite being forced to brush over the recent discovery so quickly, their thoughts continued to run rampant as they finished up cleaning the living room. 

Especially Mista and Narancia’s.

They had thought Giorno’s life was over. 

They were the ones who were here, in this very room when it happened. 

They had seen it with their own eyes—each cactus had transformed into glass, and shattered right in front of them—signifying the end of Giorno’s life.

Except it wasn’t true.

The newbie—the one that always had a trick up his sleeve— he had caught them off guard yet again, with nothing but a small detail that was effortlessly missed behind the careless flick of the eye. They had been fooled, just like the tourists that Giorno had told so many stories about.

Giorno…

They shook the thoughts away, focusing back on their task. 

Slowly, the bucket began to grow a layer of limp glass—the group working to get it filled as much as possible. 

Just as the carpet was finished being cleaned up, a new presence joined them.

They looked over. 

Abbacchio stood tall by the other side of the room. His eyes seemed distracted as he gathered himself from the sudden change of location, and his stance was weary. 

“Abbacchio.” Bucciarati spoke, taking a step. “How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

“...Fine.” The other man huffed, stepping away from Coco Jumbo’s habitat. He looked around the room, observing its condition. “...Is there anything I’m not too late to help with?” Abbacchio asked quietly.

Bucciarati looked over to Narancia, who jumped at the awkward silence directed towards him.

“Oh! Uh, yeah—the couch just needs pushed back to its usual spot. I think that's the only thing left.” the boy rambled.

“Hmph.” Abbacchio acknowledged, walking over to the piece of furniture. Carefully, he pushed it back into place, completing the room, finally restoring it to its normal state.

The gang looked around in a tense silence. Their task was finally done, filling the atmosphere with a revived feeling of stressed urgency.  

“...Well what do we do now?” Mista asked with eager concern. What’s our next objective?

“—Nothing new.” Bucciarati answered shortly. “We take care of Giorno.”

It stung like an insult, despite that it was a known fact—one that they saw coming.

Abbacchio stiffened in remembrance, his eyebrows flicking upwards for a quick moment as he faced his Capo. “—That reminds me. When was the last time he ate? His stomach was growling while he slept.” 

Bucciarati hummed. “Not soon enough. While his IV helped for a short while, we should feed him soon. With real food.” he clarified.

“—How do we do that? We’re not gonna have to chew up his food for him like he’s some sort of grandma, are we?” Narancia worried.

Bucciarati shook his head. “No. We’ll just have to wake him up so that he can eat, then have him go back to sleep.”

“Oh.” the younger boy said.

Bruno took a breath. “Now that we know how to calm him down—”  

His eyes flickered to Abbacchio. 

“—from this point forward, it shouldn’t be much of a problem to get Giorno to cooperate when he’s awake.” Bucciarati finished.

The gang nodded in understanding.  

Satisfied, Bucciarati then moved towards the kitchen. 

The others watched as he maneuvered around the cooking area—pulling out a pot, a knife, and several ingredients. After a few moments, the counter presented a cutting board, a can of broth, some carrots, celery, and leftover noodles.

“I’m going to make some soup. Would any of you like to help?” Bucciarati asked.

The others didn’t hesitate to rush over. 

Inside the turtle, Giorno cracked open his eyes. 

He found himself alone, laying against something soft. A gentle pressure laid against his skin from the abdomen down, and his right leg felt especially heavy. 

A dull throb of concern echoed in his head.

The exhausted teenager tried to think of how he got here, but his memory returned nothing. It felt fuzzy and disconnected, and something told him that it’s felt that way for a while now.

Trying to push himself up, he noticed that his arms were incredibly shaky, and that he was shirtless. He felt the urge to catch his breath after performing a movement so minimal, and it made him disappointed. 

Disappointed in what, he didn’t know. 

Giorno’s vision swam, and he felt a bit of sweat start to form on his forehead. 

Taking a moment to let the uncomfortable sensations pass, he stared at the ceiling.

It was blurry, like he was underwater. His ears quietly rang with a low tone, and he swallowed the heavy puddle of spit that was settling in his mouth.

His stomach growled, sending a tickling vibration to his skin. He guessed it was because of the warm smell drifting into the room from somewhere.

Peeking down, Giorno noticed that a blanket was draped from his feet to his waist. It seemed to be the source responsible for the gentle pressure he felt on the lower half of his body. 

Looking closer, he noticed that a big lump was disturbing the smooth position of the blanket by his leg. It was confusing to him, but Giorno’s head was too busy fighting with the dizziness to question it.

The dizziness. 

The sensation was something familiar. 

Something he had been feeling a lot recently. 

Maybe even a long time ago too, deep in his memory.

(Gold flashed in his mind.)

Yes, it had been a very long time ago.

…

He felt heavy.

Giorno blinked slowly, moving his gaze to the wall.

It was pale, and moved like water. Well, it didn’t actually move...at least, he didn’t think it did. It just seemed like it.

Movement…

He observed the wall again, scanning it loosely. It was bland and the same, from what he could see.

Plain. Boring. 

Pale, except for the corner. The corner was oddly dark.

The corner was observing him, too.

He stared at the corner, watching the wall swim from behind it. The corner watched back, and he suddenly didn’t feel so alone anymore.

(Silver flashed in his mind.)

Giorno blinked, and the dark in the corner grew.

It was no longer in the corner. 

It was in front of him, watching him.

Close to him.

Touching him.

Squeezing him.

Choking him.

(Silver flashed in his mind.)

He couldn’t yell. He couldn’t move. Everything was too heavy.

…

He was sinking.

...

Then, a loud noise from beside him.

(White flashed in his mind.)

(Yellow flashed in his mind.)

(Orange flashed in his mind.)

(Pink flashed in his mind.)

(Purple flashed in his mind.)

“G̷͔̈́i̸̜͌̚o̶͚͌̀r̸̦̎̉n̴̺̬͊o̴̖͛?̵̲͗̃”

...

And reluctantly, the Silver let go—going back into hiding.