Chapter Text
It was just barely noon when Giorno got the news.
Blue eyes darted out the glass window. Outside the sun shone clear, evaporating the last morning dew and flowers bloomed. It was a beautiful day, really, but that wasn’t what Giorno was looking at.
Below there were two people in very recognizable uniforms. Speedwagon Foundation employees, and across from them was a familiar man. With olive skin and chocolate hair, Mista conversed with them.
Giorno could probably expect the trio in this room; his office, in a few minutes. He should probably get ready. Giorno’s eyes swept over the small bit of mess that littered the room.
The office was a strange thing. The walls were half covered in bookshelves, and the remaining space by plants. Flowers, small trees, a Venus fly trap and a few pitcher plants. The center of the room was covered in a scarlet rug, and atop sat a low table with a couch residing beside it.
His desk was also a green tinted olive wood. On it rested a lamp, and far more paperwork than any normal person should have. Trish once told Giorno that from looking at his desk one might think he was addicted to doing boring and dull tasks. He had laughed it off and said perhaps they’d be right. But Trish had only been half joking.
Honestly, it was only his desk that needed a bit of tidying, with papers strewn about, and a cup of half-drunk coffee, it was the one place that looked the least bit lived in.
So, Giorno set about neatening up the papers into straight stacks, all the while contemplating what could’ve lead to this.
When the two SPW Foundation workers had shown up he had been surprised. Giorno did not think he had done anything to earn a visit. Like they asked, Giorno had been staying away from the stone masks, and the friction between Passione being well…the mafia, and the Speedwagon Foundation being just…themselves, had been sorted out a while ago.
The only cause for concern that he could think of was when, a little over two months ago, Passione had destroyed a stone mask without seeking the foundation’s counsel. However, it had been a while since then, and Giorno saw no reason for the Foundation to bring it up this late.
Which brings it back to the original question; why? Why were there two employees right outside his front door?
He supposes he’ll find out soon enough—Mista had been sent to bring the two in, of his own request. Now Giorno just waited.
Sitting down on a cushioned chair, and waiting with only a slight nervousness in his gut. There was just something off; a feeling of unease that was telling Giorno this wasn’t normal.
The door creaked open; slow and steady. Mista was first to enter, quickly strode back to Giorno’s side with far less of his normal casual attitude. To keep up appearances was probably some of it, but Giorno knew there was a bit more.
Mista, in all sincerity, didn’t particularly like the foundation and Giorno knew that, but couldn’t change it.
With Mista by his side, Giorno paints his face over with a gloss of tranquility; eyes are sharpened, lips are curved, brows are unwound—all is done with expert and experienced brushes.
A saccharine smile is on his face when Giorno speaks to the pair. The younger is nervous, his hands clamped tightly around a white wax-sealed letter. Giorno figures he’ll be seeing it soon. The older is stone faced with stiff muscles. Neither is at ease. Giorno figures he should fix that.
“Welcome, please,” he gestures them onto the opposing couch. “take a seat.”
In no time, guided by his honeyed voice—the pair is sitting down and there’s a somewhat awkward silence in the air.
“Right so…” The older one clears his throat, “We came here to tell you something, but…” His eyes wander to Mista. “He can’t be present.”
Giorno’s smile is light, and his eyes are far darker—when he kindly responds: “I apologize if this makes trouble, but Mista is staying.”
“Right, right.” The man responds, a small nervousness in his eyes. “Okay.”
A few more moments pass with no sound to fill them—Giorno speaks again. “So? What’s your business?”
The younger, who hadn’t spoken till then, finally opens his mouth. “This.” There’s a tremble in his tone, a stutter to his words as he hands over the ruby wax sealed letter to Giorno’s outstretched hand.
Sapphire eyes look it over with interest. On the bottom corner, in shaky Italian, it was signed Holly Kujo. For just a second Giorno’s fingers hesitated to break open the wax seal.
Holly, Holly Kujo. The name came up clear from his memory; she was the one his fath-Dio had nearly killed, wasn’t she?
Shortly after Giorno’s rise to the throne of Passione; a man from the Speedwagon foundation had visited him. He wasn’t particularly high ranking—nor did he have a stand. But he had knowledge—and maybe that’s what mattered. He told Giorno of his father Dio, and he told Giorno of the crusade to Egypt. And Giorno never got the full story but he did get the full picture.
In turn—that meant that he knew ….Dio had nearly killed the woman known as Holly Kujo.
(Haruno hesitates.)
Quickly, decisively, Giorno’s fingers peeled off the wax and pulled out a handwritten letter.
Blue eyes moved rapidly.
Blue eyes stopped.
And widened.
For a second Giorno wondered just what he was reading, and if this letter had been meant for someone else. But it clearly, clearly, as clear as day, was meant for him and only him. Or else the words wouldn’t have been so painstakingly written in a foreign language, and it wouldn’t have Giorno’s name plastered all over it.
All at once someone had run their hand over Giorno’s painted face and smeared his smile downward and creased his eyebrows—because by all-the-gods-Giorno-didn’t-believe-in, he was not expecting this. Not at all.
His eyes ran over the last sentence, again. And even as Giorno went deeper into turmoil his mouth went back to its same curve and the crease on his forehead faded out of existence.
--So after quite a bit of contemplation we decided to invite you. You don’t have to come or anything, but you are certainly invited! Gifts definitely are not required by the way. And while, once again, if you aren’t comfortable, coming is not compulsory. Otherwise, I do look forward to seeing you there!
It felt too personal for a formal invitation. As if you could feel the sunny rays of whoever wrote it (‘Holly’, probably, judged by whom it was signed form.) shining through.
And really…why in the name of everything pure and good, had Giorno even gotten this letter in the first place?
Honestly, a family reunion, Giorno had never heard something like that in his life; had never been to one either. It was strange, really strange—for Giorno to get this now. And from the Joestars of all people… A small, nervous, bead of sweat clung to Giorno’s face.
Mista craned his neck to read the letter, and Giorno wordlessly handed it over. (Ignoring the SWF foundation employee’s protests.)
Finally Giorno spoke. The words were heavy, and lay thick on his tongue, the left him slow and paced, like syrup or molasses.
“We’ll….” Steady, steady, pace yourself, this is not the time to be in turmoil. Don’t crack. “Think about it.”
The men nod, and thank him for considering it. Giorno is hardly—sorry—not at all listening to the pleasantries. His mind is occupied. Giorno is working on auto-pilot when he calls out to Fugo in the neighboring room.
Giorno’s brows only furrow when everyone is gone. The two men have left with Fugo to a lavish guest room. Mista is…Mista is there, but he can’t see Giorno’s face, so it’s fine.
“So!” Mista begins, holding up the letter like some strange exotic bird. “What are we doing about this?”
For once, Giorno doesn’t know.
-
Giorno waits to consult them—there’s a whole lot of sitting trying to do work but ultimately only achieving the action of staring at the letter—before he even thinks of asking his companions for help. But when he finally does, the answers are all contradicting.
By his side, Mista is neutral. ‘I dunno, ‘your decision, ‘not really my business either way.’ Giorno finds this entirely unhelpful, but definitely something Mista would say.
Fugo takes, as always, the most logical stance. He is against it; and…Fugo begins with his usual; ‘Please, GioGio it’s only my opinion, I mean, so…’ Giorno cuts off the self-deprecation. ‘too dangerous’, Fugo says. ‘And there are too many risks involved. That kind of position would be a good place for an ambush, or assassination.’ Giorno knows this, yet he’s still conflicted.
(There’s something in Giorno that wants him to go.)
Polnareff is in the affirmative. Go, go, go. Polnareff says Giorno doesn’t have to, but gently adds that: ‘I know these people, Giorno.’ Pol states. ‘Holly is a very kind woman; she wouldn’t ever do something to bring you any harm.’ And, just as Fugo begins to protest— ‘Jotaro and Joseph, I also know. Sure, they aren’t the gentlest people in the world. But they have no reason to incite aggression.’ Giorno trusts Polnareff, he does, yet he has not made a clear decision.
(There’s something in Haruno that does not want him to go.)
Trish is strong. Her mind is strong, her will is strong. Her opinions are strong—so it comes as no surprise that her stance is strong. Trish does not pad her words with the gentle ‘your choice’ and ‘if you want’, that Polnareff and Fugo use. Of course she doesn’t, after all; this is Trish who joined them in Rome.
Emerald eyes stare into Giorno’s blue ones. Her eyes are brimming with exasperation as Trish, for the fourth time in the past hour, talks to Giorno.
“Giorno, if you want to go then just go!”
Giorno’s eyebrows are twitching with irritation when he responds. “I never said I wanted to go.” All Trish gives is a sigh, and a look of near disappointment.
“Right,” Trish breaths. “and that’s why you’ve been glancing at that paper every five minutes, and why you’re coffee is cold, and why you still have those two guys just down the hall waiting for a response.”
Giorno nearly flinches.
Honestly, why was Giorno being like this…this…difficult? It was obvious. And Trish knew exactly why. But that didn’t stop her for being exasperated.
“Trish.” Giorno states.
“Giorno.” Trish responds.
This has been going on for an entire day.
At first Trish didn’t go this far. She respectfully gave her opinion and trusted Giorno to do what he wanted.
To do what he wanted.
The only thing that accomplished was what amounted to practical torture. It was almost painful for Trish to see. Every single fucking time that she visited Giorno he’d have his eyes glued on the letter. Every single time he’d calmly tell her that no, nothing was bothering him.
This was, as she would so eloquently put it, ‘bullshit’.
At this point, Trish is reminded of her days before the mafia—when she was volunteering at a local children’s theater, for her mandatory community service hours that were required for Trish to pass high school.
Trish is reminded of huddling backstage in the dark, where bright stage lights couldn’t reach. She is reminded of children curling next to her, and her having to nudge, encourage, and urge the nervous kids onto the stage. They wanted to do the play; of course they did…they were just nervous to get on stage. They needed a little push.
Who knew that trying to push a full-fledged mafia boss to go to a goddamn family reunion would be so hard?
But Trish would do it, because she was Giorno’s friend. And as Giorno’s friend, Trish knew it fell onto her to prevent a future where all she would see for the next month was Giorno irritably picking at pencil erasers while he stared out the window thinking about all the reasons he should’ve gone. Trish, as Giorno’s friend, did not want to see that.
Of course Trish understood that Giorno had reasons he might prefer not to attend. But Trish also knew that not only would Giorno stress over this for months---she knew that chances are chances.
There’s a chance that Giorno’s fears will come to reality.
There’s also a chance that this will turn into an opportunity Giorno will forever be thankful for. It’s a chance that Giorno will be able to expand his family to encompass more than just four people.
Okay…okay, think. Think, what would convince Giorno to go? Being called out on his bullshit probably wouldn’t do shit, it actually might make it worse. What else?
Trish`s nose scrunches up in distaste when she comes to a conclusion. She had really, really hoped she wouldn’t have to take this angle. But, Trish suspected, this would be the only way to convince him.
“Giorno, this is business.”
For the first time, Giorno seems to actually listen.
-
A large sigh leaves Giorno’s mouth and he flicks his own eyes to the person who has, once again, disturbed him. Bright midday light trickles in from his window as Giorno sits at his desk.
“Trish.” It’s tiring, how she insists so much. Giorno is thinking; he doesn’t need help. Actually, he’s thinking a lot—almost more than usual.
“Yeah?” Trish asks as if she doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
“What have you come to say?” The words are quick, snappy. Giorno dislikes being treated like he can’t decide on his own.
Trish walks over to the velvet couch that Giorno was resting on. She is now towering above him. He does not back down in the slightest, his back is straight and he wears the façade of complete calm like a crown adorning his head.
"Honestly Giorno, I think you should go.”
Giorno closes his eyes. He wonders if he can persuade Trish with logic. “Trish, Fugo is right when he says that is the perfect place for an assassination. I have never even met a single one of that family before.”
(Haruno is scared.)
Giorno provides the logic to back up that creeping and nervous feeling in his gut. That sickly haze that curls and coils and forces p the sludge of past familial encounters.
Trish frowns at him. “Are you really that concerned about assassination?”
No, Giorno has never been afraid of attempts on his life; not at all. He’s concerned about attempts on his friend’s lives—but Giorno won’t even entertain the thought of him allowing Mista to Trish to be hurt in his company. Everything begins with a thought, and Giorno will never allow that outcome.
“No, not really.”
One line of logic has been torn down stone by stone.
“Good.” Trish begins. “It’s good that you aren’t scared for that reason.”
Giorno almost frowns. “That reason? Trish, I’m not scared at all.” Being scared was not a Giorno thing. It was weak, and useless, completely useless. No one has ever accomplished anything by hiding in a closet cowering away from the world.
Being scared was a Haruno thing.
So, Giorno was not scared, not nervous, not even the tiniest bit.
Trish raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. “Uh-huh. Right.” Trish waves the subject away. “So, have you decided yet?”
Giorno pauses. “No.”
Because there was this little part of him that was curious. The Joestars—who were they really? As of now they were blank slates with star-shaped birthmarks, but they must be so much more. Curious.
He wondered if any of them were like his mother.
(Haruno didn’t want to take the risk to find out.)
Maybe they wouldn’t be. Maybe they all had big wide smiles and cooked food at home. Maybe they were kind; better. The small hope glistened in his eyes and skittered in and out of the front of his mind. It would often retire backstage—but was never truly gone.
Giorno thought he rid himself of such silly thoughts a long time ago.
“You sure you aren’t even a bit nervous?”
“Yes, Trish. Not even a bit.” Giorno says, the second half more than a bit strained.
It is at that moment that the door slides open on well-oiled hinges, and Mista enters. He seems a bit on edge, perhaps he head the strain in Giorno’s tone from the other room? Mista’s dark murky eyes quickly survey the room. His shoulders relax. “Are you guys still debating that?”
“…”
“Seriously!?” Mista exclaimed. He let out a quiet ‘whoa…’ Mista sighs, and come over, sitting on the couch and pulling Trish down with him. “I mean,” Mista makes a vague motion with his hand. “I already said I don’t really care either way. I kinda just want you to stop stress’in ‘bout it, Gio.”
“I’m not stressed about it.”
Trish scoffs.
“Um. Right…Well what I just wanna say it that, Giorno,” Mista looks right at him. Giorno feels slightly uncomfortable. “Either way,” Mista makes a large motion with his arms, nearly hitting Giorno in the face. “whether you go or not, nothing will really change right?”
“…What do you mean, Mista?” Giorno questions while having a vague idea of where this was going—but wanted to get straight to the point.
“Well…” Mista looked lost for a second, before he regained his composure and hardened. “Whatever happens you still have Passione. Nothing changes here. And even in the worst case scenario you still have all of us, Trish, Fugo, and I’m sure Pol would stay as well.”
Giorno blinks. Sighs. Smiles. A real smile this time—nothing fake. “That’s…true.” It’s true, but Haruno is scared. And that just says that everything stays the same no matter what, right? “That doesn’t mean anything good will happen if I go.”
He might, might, might want to find out what these new star-marked people are…who they are. He just needs…he needs—some logic—a reason—something more.
“Hey.” Trish starts. “Giorno, this is business.”
And Trish explains how maybe this is business. And it’s a test of how much trust Giorno has for the foundation. And perhaps this is another step for Giorno to overcome in the business world.
Leave it to them—to his…family, to give him the reason he really needs. It has flaws, of course. But Giorno doesn’t mind. Because he doesn’t really care much for business. Not really.
It’s one month later when a small jet marked with a ladybug insignia leaves form Italy to Japan.