Archive of Our Own ^beta

Giorno was seven when his mother left.

A neighbour had been so tired of the constant noises because of his stepfather punishing Giorno that they called the police on them, none of the adults having the money to pay them and have them go away and look to the other side from what was happening in that house. So the man was taken to prison for life for beating a child almost to death — Giorno didn’t remember being taken to the hospital, only that, at some point, he woke up there, had to stay for a few days and then he was discharged with a pat on the head — and his mother had been given the chance to keep raising him since she claimed she was unaware of the brutal beatings going on.

Only that, his mother had fled the country, and the police didn’t care enough to follow through with the case, leaving Giorno to live on the streets while only being a child.

It was fine. Giorno knew how to survive: he had to learn while living with the man who would beat him for the simple act of breathing; so staying on the streets, stealing food when needed and finding a place to sleep was all easy compared to learning to read the emotions on his “parents” faces — ability that came in handy to know who he had to avoid and who he could steal from.

That was until he was found by an old lady looking through a trash bin late at night. She looked at him for barely a couple of seconds before asking him if he wanted to eat dinner with her, offering her hand towards him, not making a move and waiting for Giorno to decide. He didn’t know what to do, but he was hungry, and there wasn’t anything on her face that told Giorno the old lady was lying to him. Hesitant, he took her wrinkled hand, and let her guide him inside what looked like a flower shop, opening a door for him that led to stairs, with the old woman not turning around to close the door at any moment, making sure to keep guiding Giorno.

He ate the most delicious zuppa di pomodoro that night, unable to hold back his tears while eating, the old lady looking at him with the kindest smile he had ever seen. He had been allowed to take a bath, given clean clothes — that were too big for him, but it was fine, he was used to big clothes and this time the clothes were soft — and a warm bed to spend the night. And when he woke up, the same old lady had made breakfast for him, and told him he could stay for as long as he wished.

Giorno didn’t have the words to thank her, looking for the trick, for the moment the lady would turn against him and hit him like his mom’s husband had done. But she never did; she never asked him to speak either, reading him like an open book and giving him everything he needed — food, clothes, a place to sleep and a way to stay clean; that was everything he needed, and for some reason she was more than happy to give him all that and more.

A week in and Giorno started calling her “Nana” — he accidentally called her that instead of Nonna as he wanted to, but she liked it, so Giorno stuck with that —, helping her tend to her flowers in her big garden — it was at the back of the shop, and it was huge, several flowers growing there it was no wonder how Nana got the flowers for her shop. He had always liked plants: they never judged him, and they were pretty, so learning to work on a garden was the best gift Nana gave him — besides letting him stay with her for as long as he wanted to.

So Nana taught him how to tend to her — their — garden, how to arrange flowers and their meanings, how a colour change could also make the symbolism be completely different, how to be around customers and helping them… But the most important thing Nana taught him was that he didn't have to force himself to speak, that he could use the flowers to communicate.

Nana also taught him sign language, saying she had learnt it during the war, when his husband had been forced to go fight for a country he didn't believe in and she was too scared to speak, learning other ways of communication without spoken words. She was a great teacher, patient with him, his Italian becoming better — but he didn't give up on his Japanese; Nana insisted it was good for him to know more languages, that he could use one without having to lose the other.

And so, what Giorno thought would only last a few days turned into weeks, then into months and then into years. Years of spending time with Nana, discovering that he had a weird power that made plants grow faster and stronger, years in which his hair slowly turned from straight-black to curly-blond, learning what it was like to have someone who cared for him, who wanted to spend time with him, who would teach him to cook and what school would give him even though he never went.

With Nana, he discovered what it feels like to be loved for the first time, and Giorno never wanted that to end, wishing that he could stay with her forever if needed. Because with Nana he didn’t have to speak; even when helping her in the shop he could just smile and the customers wouldn’t ask him to talk, so words became something Giorno didn’t force himself to use anymore, and it was fine. It was perfect.

Until not long after he turned thirteen, Nana fell sick.

Giorno knew it was her time. She had told him from time to time that she wouldn’t always be there for him, that one day she would be gone and the shop would be his to keep. But he had foolishly thought he would have more time, he was just a teen, he had only spent six years with Nana and he didn’t want her to go, to leave him alone again — he knew he wasn’t alone, that Gold was there for him, but manifesting Gold to take a physical form took too much of his energy, and who would take care of the shop if he was passed out?

On her deathbed, Nana gave him a smile and some documents his way, asking him if he wanted to officially become her grandchild, that he could take her surname and that everything in her will would go to him — she didn’t have any family left, they had all died years ago, either during the war or because of age before she had met Giorno —, and Giorno didn’t give it a second thought: he signed, and Nana gave him one last smile before she was gone.

He didn’t cry at the hospital, nor did he do it while walking back home. His tears refused to break free during her funeral, with him being the last one to stay right in front of her tomb, holding an umbrella to shield himself from the rain, throwing it away and letting the rain soak him whole. That was what his body needed for him to break down crying for the first time in so many years. He had learnt that crying was useless thanks to his mother and her husband, and at some point he had forgotten how to cry. But kneeling right in front of the memorial of the first person to love him, Giorno cried and screamed until his throat was raw and his eyes couldn’t stay open from the overflow of tears, until he was so tired he could not cry anymore, trembling under the rain until his umbrella was picked up and used to shield him, Gold Experience having taken form and trying their best to protect him from the rain.

Nana had taught Giorno so many things, but she never taught him how to deal with grief.

— ○ ☼ ○ —

Giorno first encountered a mafioso on the first of May.

He knew that Napoli was full of them, but so far he had never had an encounter with any — it might be because he rarely left the shop before Nana was gone, only going out of home when they went grocery shopping —, and before Giorno could wonder why an older teenager with a white suit with black dots was there on the only day they were closed, his mind provided him something he always found weird, but that he never asked Nana about.

She would always tell him to either stay home upstairs or back in the garden, forbidding him to come out to the shop whenever it was the first day of a month. Giorno never questioned it, knowing better than to break rules — Nana was nice, but he knew that breaking a rule meant punishment, and he didn’t want to lose her kindness. He remembers them having a safe at the back of the shop, right beside the door that leads towards their — his, now it’s only his — garden.

So he smiled at the older teen, going towards the back and straight to the safe, putting in the code that Nana left him on a note in her nightstand and noticing several envelopes in there, all of them labeled with dates enough to pay for the next couple of years. Tears gathered in his eyes, but he wiped them away, unwilling to cry again for Nana: she would have wanted him to keep on living, to keep smiling and to keep their — now only his — shop flourishing like the flowers they cultivated.

Curiosity won, and he checked how much money was in there, eyes wide when he saw the amount was a lot, but not as high as he had expected from mafiosos asking for protection money — it also made sense why neither the police nor social services had come for Giorno after Nana’s death if she was paying the mafia to protect her store and Giorno. His mind started to calculate how much he would have to set aside from what they got through sales so that he could start saving for the moment Nana’s stash was finished — he had her inheritance money, but that had been taken out of the bank as soon as he could, safe inside Nana’s room, hidden in a place only he could ever find, but he wouldn’t use that money to pay for protection, deciding to keep it hidden for emergencies only.

Sealing the envelope, he went back to the front. The older teen looked at him with questioning blue eyes, but Giorno didn’t say a word — he couldn’t, not today, not since the day Nana died —, sliding the envelope towards the mafioso and waiting for him to count his money and then leave, surprised when, instead of doing that, he pocketed what Giorno slid his way without checking, smiling at him with softness he never expected from someone who was a part of a mafia, and then left without uttering a single word nor forcing Giorno to speak at all.

Giorno blinked several times after he had left, still rooted to his spot at the counter, looking at the closed door as if that would make the mafioso turn back and interact with him. But minutes passed, and he didn’t come back, Gold Experience manifesting at his right, picking a piece of paper he had forgotten to throw away the previous day and turning it into a ladybug, their way of saying “everything will be okay”, bringing a smile back to his face.

He stayed there, staring at the ladybug Gold made for him until his stomach protested that he needed to eat something, forcing himself to move, to leave the shop now that there was no one else that would come in here — he only knew the mafioso had been there because he had been on his way back from the garden, about to arrange the flowers he knew would sell the next day, startling him since he hadn’t been expecting anyone to enter while the “closed” sign was up.

Though if Giorno was honest, this would be the first time the shop would be open since Nana’s death. He hadn’t had the energy to go through the usual routine without Nana around, and no one seemed to care: their usual customers had attended the funeral, so they knew Giorno to be grieving. But he thought it had been enough time, that he needed to keep Nana’s legacy going, so with Gold’s help he had been growing different flowers, some of them were even out of season — as long as he had Gold, he could make them grow and stay alive, his fingers giving the flowers more life, as if he had been born to be a florist with the strange powers he had.

Making Nana’s zuppa di pomodoro for dinner was bittersweet, almost letting his tears fall since something was lacking: he had followed the recipe like in the past, but making it on his own, without Nana being there to watch and help him made the soup lack the warmth and love he got whenever he ate that dish.

It was his favourite soup, but Giorno decided that would be the last time that he would eat it, white lilies blooming all over the too big table for only one person to use, wishing that Nana could see them and for her to share one last meal with him in spirit. After all, lilies had always been Nana’s favourite flower.

And if Giorno kept a vase full of white lilies on Nana’s windowsill in her room, making sure to keep them full of life in the otherwise empty room, then that was Giorno’s secret, and no one would be privy to that.

— ○ ☼ ○ —

Every month, Giorno kept seeing the same black-haired mafioso in a white suit.

Their interactions never changed: the older teen would come on the first, Giorno would smile at him, go to the safe at the back, get the envelope with the money, give it to the mafioso who would pocket it and then smile at him before leaving, then repeat the exact same process the next month.

He liked the older teen, feeling some kind of bond forming between them in their silent exchanges, wishing that he could have the will to speak, to try to know who the mafioso was and why he would never check if all the money was there before leaving. But he couldn’t, his throat closed completely unless it was to help customers with flower language — it wasn’t usual for them to ask Giorno what a flower meant, but when they did, it was the only moment he could speak without feeling tired —, and he knew he would had to conform himself to keep those silent exchanges with the older teen — or maybe he was already a young adult, Giorno wasn’t sure but he seemed to be eighteen at most.

That was until January came, and with it a different person.

Giorno had been so used to the sight of black hair and kind blue eyes that when a teenager that should have been his age — if not a little older — with white hair and purple-red eyes appeared, he had to blink twice for his brain to process the information. The teen was dressed in a turquoise suit with circular stamps — which looked as if holes would be cut where they were placed —, an orange shirt and a yellow tie; his skin was very pale, and that’s when Giorno understood the person in front of him was an albino and a mafioso who had come for the money instead of the other one.

He could feel the other teen looking at him, and the intensity of his gaze was so much he almost ran to the back, trying to calm his heart who was beating like crazy — he thought it was because the other teen had intimidated him, and how could he not with such an intense gaze? But there was… something about the other, something surrounding the albino that Giorno didn’t notice at first, but that was obvious to him as soon as he was out with the money.

Barely visible, the teen was surrounded by a soft purple aura, similar to the one the black-haired mafioso had — only that his was blue like his eyes — but different at the same time, more dangerous if there was a way to describe it with only looking. Giorno didn’t know why only a small amount of people had those auras surrounding them, nor what they meant, but there was also a pull towards them he didn’t feel with others, and the way the albino’s purple aura was calling for him was also different from what he had experienced in the past.

The albino, just like the black-haired mafioso, pocketed what Giorno gave him without counting, nodding his way and then leaving, Gold appearing by his side a second after the new person left, looking at him with an intensity that wasn’t proper to them, as if they wanted him to follow the albino, to make an effort and speak with him.

But Giorno couldn’t do that: he was now broken; how could he speak when it didn’t involve flower language? No, it was fine; he could bond with the new mafioso. Silent exchanges were what he could and would keep doing for now. It was pointless to trouble the other teen; perhaps it was just a one-time thing and the one with kind blue eyes would come back next month.

Gold looked as if they were judging him, picking a piece of paper and turning it into a purple snapdragon — the same shade of purple as Gold’s bug-like eyes, which was similar to the one surrounding the albino —, giving it to him with their version of a pointed glare, and Giorno knew which one of the two meanings related to the flower they were communicating him, glaring back at Gold as if that way they would take back their implication, but they were as stubborn as him, refusing to back down for even a second.

In the end, he let out a deep sigh, looking at the flower that was screaming “deception” his way, and in a sense, Gold was right: Giorno could speak, he wanted to, but his words refused to come out unless it was related to flowers, and it was frustrating. Yes, in the past he would have given anything to avoid speaking, finding delight in learning sign language and using it as his main way of communicating with Nana. But not everyone knew sign language, and his other favourite way of speaking without words was through flowers, but even fewer people knew their language, so he was stuck with writing down what he wanted to say or forcing himself to speak out loud.

And with his second option gone, what could he do? There had to be a way for him to get his voice back in control, but what if he never found it? What if he was stuck as a defective human being who could only speak when it came to flowers and nothing else?

Gold hugged him tightly, their presence enough to soothe his racing thoughts, his mouth opening and, to his surprise, he whispered:

“… Grazie…”

Just one word. One simple word, but it was the first non-flower related word he had said since Nana’s death. Giorno beamed at Gold, and they smiled at him, tightening their hug a little more before disappearing.

But it was fine. Giorno knew that Gold was still there; he could feel them thrumming beneath his skin, filling him with warmth he learnt to relate to their presence, always a constant in his life, and the only one who would never leave him.

Looking back at the purple snapdragon, he smiled, thinking that maybe the next time he saw the albino he could speak, to have a conversation with someone the same way he did with Nana, wishing to know more about the kind mafiosos who came to collect protection money from him the first day of every month.

For the first time in his life, Giorno was excited to speak with someone.

— ○ ☼ ○ —

The albino kept coming every month, and Giorno kept failing to speak to him.

Instead, he had formed a new silent bond with this mafioso, learning his moods and his body language, deciding to do something different for him, a way to try to bring a smile to the other teen, hoping that maybe the next time they saw each other it would be the mafioso who spoke to him, giving him the chance to speak.

Golden flowers inside the protection money envelope was his way of cheering the albino. The first time had been an impulse: he had looked so exhausted he wanted to bring a smile to him, to ask what was wrong and if he could lend him an ear, that no secret would escape him — and how could it when he only spoke about flowers? —; but instead of doing that, Giorno ran to the back, picking up a spare piece of paper and turning it into a yellow daffodil, carefully opening the safe he had in there and putting the flower alongside the protection money, smiling softly once the envelope was closed, hoping it would bring a smile to the stressed-looking albino.

The mafioso took it without checking — as he always did —, nodding at him before leaving. Giorno waved until the albino wasn’t on sight, Gold manifesting at his side and looking at him with their purple bug-like eyes that reminded him so much of the soft purple aura surrounding the mafioso, wishing a month could go by faster to see the albino again.

He didn’t know why, nor how to explain it, but his visits became the most precious moment of each month for him. Their only interaction was the exchange of money, so the connection he felt, that pull that wanted to make him speak with the other, was something he had never experienced before; not with Nana, and not with anyone else.

It wasn’t until an entire year after their first meeting that Giorno would speak to him.

Giorno was worried that day: it was nighttime, and the albino hadn’t come. Yes, it was the first of January, but he had come that day when they met for the first time, so it couldn’t be because he had been so busy celebrating the new year that he forgot to come for the money. Giorno kept trying to distract himself from thinking about the worst-case scenarios, working on his garden — even though it was winter, his garden was thriving thanks to Gold Experience and Napoli’s weather not being cold enough for it to snow and mess with his flowers — all day, having Gold trying to pick up the albino’s life energy — an ability he discovered by accident thanks to an almost rat infestation — so that he could run back to the shop to interact with him, knowing that today was the day he would speak to the mafioso.

But he never came, and Gold kept hugging him through the day, trying to bring him a sense of comfort, dismissing them as soon as night came, gathering all the trash bags he had around to take them out, pushing the mafioso to the back of his mind since he would have to come out towards an alleyway that was extremely dangerous during the night. He was about to turn the doorknob to get out when he heard gunshots, flinching and staying as still as possible, trying his best to pinpoint if there would be more, going out with caution after five minutes of pure silence to find a horrifying sight not too far from the trash containers.

There, lying in a puddle of his own blood, was the albino teen. It was dark, so Giorno couldn’t see him well, throwing the trash somewhere in the alley and running towards the mafioso, sighing when he saw him breathing but still looking for a pulse: it was there, steady but slightly slow, and with the lack of light he couldn’t see well all of his injuries but he could tell the teen was unconscious.

With Gold’s help he dragged the albino to the back of the shop, running to get the first aid kit he had upstairs in the bathroom and then back as fast as he could, trying his best to assess all the injuries he had, letting out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding when he saw the worst was three bullet wounds on the teen’s left shoulder, two more close to his right knee, and a possible concussion from a bump in the back of his head — probably what knocked him out cold.

He apologised in his mind for having to remove the teen’s shirt and to roll up one side of his pants so that he could clean the wounds, grimacing when he noticed some bullets hadn’t gone through, signalling they were still inside the albino’s shoulder. Giorno didn’t know what to do; he didn’t know how to extract a bullet from a person, and going to a hospital was out of the question knowing the teen’s job, so with determination running through his veins, he manifested Gold, looking at them with pleading eyes, willing to try something they had only done once before.

Back in the middle of last summer, he had found a cat with its hind legs broken and tail cut off out of pure cruelty. Giorno was coming back from grocery shopping and the cat had been trying to crawl its way to a safe place, the sight moving Giorno to walk closer, taking out a can of tuna from his bags and opening it to distract the cat, which was watching him with weary green eyes. Gold chose that moment to appear, taking his hand and moving it to pick a piece of trash that was around the cat and to put it on top of the cut-off tail. Gold, the cat and his hand all shone with a beautiful golden light, the cat letting out a loud shriek as Giorno saw how the trash slowly merged with the cat to become a new tail, feeling tissue and bone and reconnecting it to the best of his abilities, healing the cat in a matter of minutes.

The feline looked at him, then at its tail and went back to the food Giorno had given it. Gold looked at him with a smile before disappearing, and Giorno went back home, leaving the cat with its can of tuna.

So, Giorno knew he could heal in some way with Gold — he wasn’t sure how it worked exactly, but knowing his ability of turning non-living stuff into living things, he guessed that what Gold was doing was transforming the objects into living tissue and connecting it to the already existing one — and that it was painful, but he had to try for the sake of the other teen.

With both his and Gold’s hands hovering over the injured shoulder, Giorno concentrated and let Gold do their job, flinching when the albino woke up with a startled scream, looking at him first with panic, then with recognition, and then with something akin to fear once he — somehow — noticed Gold.

“It’s okay, please hold still. I’m trying to heal you.” He didn’t know how nor why, but the words came out of his mouth, and the mafioso looked at him with shock evident in his purple-red eyes. “You’re injured; I can help. Please, let me help.”

“… Okay.”

His voice made his heart jump, but he didn’t dwell on that, concentrating again on the injured shoulder: one healed, two more to go. After taking a deep breath, Gold’s power thrummer through his hand, the mafioso flinching when the second wound had been taken care of, looking at him for confirmation that it was okay to work on the last one, getting back to it once he got a nod, another flinch and then all three bullet wounds had been healed, as if nothing had ever graced the mafioso. He looked at the clean wounds close to the teen’s right knee, looking back up to ask silently if it was okay to try to heal those too. The albino looked at him, looking for something on his face, nodding with the softest gaze he had ever seen on him, receiving the towel that Gold passed him to put around the last injuries so that they could properly heal them.

Giorno stood up, running again up to the kitchen to get the mafioso a glass of water, going back as fast as he could without spilling it, getting some painkillers on his way and handing both things to the albino, Gold still hovering behind him as he sat down on the wall facing the other, observing the teen who could see them — no one had been able to before, so knowing that Gold could be seen by others brought both a sense of relief and anxiousness simultaneously: relief because that meant he wasn’t crazy and Gold was as real as he had thought for the past few years, and anxiousness that he didn’t know how to explain, only that having Gold being seen felt as if he was baring his soul towards the other teen.

“So, you’re not mute.” After minutes of heavy silence, the albino broke it, starting some kind of conversation between them. “Or is it more like- selective mutism?”

He didn’t know what “selective mutism” was, but it resonated with him, making his mind think if he could answer. Gold nudged him on, so Giorno didn’t think and let the words flow as they could.

“My voice works, but most of the time words are hard, so staying silent is… better. It helps that others don’t expect me to speak, but sometimes I want to, but I just can’t.”

“So, selective mutism, yeah. That… does make sense.” His eyes kept going between him and Gold, who was now hugging Giorno while observing the albino. “And you have a stand; how did you get it?”

Giorno blinked. Once, then twice, tilting his head slightly to the left. Was that what Gold was called? A stand? Or was the other teen referring to something else? His confusion must have been too obvious if the way the albino blushed and looked away was to go by.

“The golden humanoid that’s hugging you. That’s called a stand, a physical manifestation of your soul; you didn’t know that?” Giorno shook his head, though a lot started to make sense even with such a vague explanation. “Were you stabbed with an arrow by accident at some point?”

“No, Gold has always been with me.” Gold nodded, agreeing with his words. “Maybe not always, but for as long as I remember.”

“That would make you a natural-born user, and your stand… It heals?”

“Not exactly? It gives life energy, so it’s more like turning what’s not alive into something that is, for example…” He picked up some cotton he had in the first aid kit, Gold’s hand hovering over it and turning it into a yellow daffodil, similar to the one he had gifted the mafioso many months ago. “Like this. I can also turn stuff into animals, but I think there’s a size limit.”

“Fascinating…” The albino was staring at Gold with unreadable eyes, making his stand — his soul, his first and only friend — smile and wave at him, breaking whatever daze the other teen had been in. “Shit, we've known each other for a year and I never told you my name. I’m Fugo, Pannacotta Fugo.”

“Giorno Giovanna, but just Giorno is fine.” He smiled, feeling warmth running through his veins not only from learning the other teen’s name, but because he was having an actual conversation after such a long time, something he thought he would never have again, not after Nana’s death. “So, how can you see Gold? I never… uh…”

He cursed in his mind, his words getting stuck again. He should have known; everything was going too well for him not to fuck it up, and now he had left Fugo with a half-assed sentence, ruining whatever was forming between them. Gold’s embrace became tighter, their attention back on him and away from the other teen, making it obvious that they could feel his distress — and how could they not, when they were a part of him? He had been right when he had thought of Gold as something related to his soul, and having the confirmation explained the anxiousness he felt when he noticed that Fugo could see Gold, his soul.

“You’ve never met another stand user before, right?” Giorno shook his head, eyes looking anywhere but at Fugo. “But you have, remember Buccellati?” He wanted to ask who, but everything that came out of his throat was a horrible whine. “Don’t force yourself, uh… do you know sign language?”

Giorno nodded, looking expectantly into the albino’s eyes.

“Okay, okay… You can use it. I’ve been… learning it, for a while. I’m still not good at it, but I can understand as long as you don’t sign too fast.” Giorno gave him a smile, and Giorno didn’t know if it was his imagination, but he saw Fugo blush. “I’ll try my best to explain. Only those who have a stand can see other people’s stands, and as far as I know there are two ways to get it: either you’re born with it, or you’re stabbed with a special arrow that forces it to materialise. Each stand has a special ability, and depending on what it is and the user’s way of thinking, it can be used in a way or another, like the life-giving of your… was its name ‘Gold’?”

He nodded, but then he shook his head. It had been over a year since the last time he had used sign language, not since Nana… But he didn’t let his mind wander there, slowly conveying his stand’s full name. “Gold Experience,” he wanted to say out loud, but with his voice once again lost he used his main way of communication, getting a smile from Fugo.

“Gold Experience, then, but you only call it-” A pause, the albino was looking between him and Gold, as if his mind was deciphering something. “-them, you call them Gold, and they seem very affectionate with you.” Giorno nodded, and Gold nuzzled into his shoulder, as if they were shy to show how clingy they were. “Well, you said Gold’s ability is to infuse non-living things with life energy and transform them, but you found a way to heal with that, and it seems as if there’s more versatility you could get from them.”

「 Is there? 」 He knew he could also sense life energy, but he didn’t know how to explain that.

“I don’t know; that’s for you to discover. Oh, right, I didn’t- thank you, for… helping and healing me. I wasn’t expecting to be found until Buccellati had driven himself into mother-hen mode and, right, I didn’t tell you who he was. The one who came before me to collect protection money? That’s Bruno Buccellati, and he’s my… friend, and team leader.”

「 I couldn’t leave you to die out there. 」He paused, thinking how to sign what was on his mind in a way that made sense. 「 You and Buccellati had been kind when coming for the protection money. Never have any of you forced me to speak, and for some reason you trust me to put all the money without checking it, so how could I ignore you? 」

Fugo seemed to need a moment to understand all of what he had just “said”, and that’s when Giorno noticed he was hungry. He had forgotten about dinner until now and using Gold’s abilities always drained his energy — even more when Gold refused to go back to… wherever they go when they’re not out —, and with Fugo being out and attacked, he doubted the albino had eaten dinner.

“We never check,” Fugo said, startling him, “because Buccellati told me about Signora Giovanna and her story. Do you know why she pays the protection money?” Giorno shook his head. “It’s so that you can keep this shop. You’re underage; the cops could barge in here any day, take you to social services and close this place forever. Buccellati told me that, when he got the job from a different team, the leader told him to speak directly with Signora Giovanna and that he would understand.

“When I joined him, he gave me a briefing of all the places we go to collect protection money from and the dates we do so. The first time I came here? It was my first day collecting protection money, and Buccellati told me to start with your shop, that once I was here, I would understand the huge difference between you and the other people we deal with. He also told me he wasn’t sure, but that you were probably mute and that all the money would always be there so there would be no need to check it.

“I didn’t believe it at first, you know? I thought he was joking, but when I saw you that day… I don’t know how to explain it, I just knew that Buccellati was right, so I did as he told me and didn’t check the envelope when you gave it to me, not until… Well, I only checked once I was far away, convinced that you would scam me since I was a new person, but all the money was there, so I kept doing the same thing of not checking while around and- oh, right, did you start putting flowers to cheer me up or something?”

Gold picked up the yellow daffodil they had made earlier from Giorno’s hand, letting go of the embrace and going closer to Fugo, offering the flower to the albino, who took it with a soft smile on his face while looking at the flower.

“Yes.” He somehow managed to say that out loud, knowing that signing would be useless when Fugo was busy admiring the flower. “I should… probably pay you now?”

“After you saved my ass not even thirty minutes ago? Yeah, there’s no way I can take the money this time.”

“I insist.” Gold had already gone for the envelope — which he had left on the desk at the back right beside the safe, hoping that if he kept it there, the albino would come for it at some point —, forcing it into Fugo’s hand alongside a golden marigold they created from a spare piece of paper. “Gold also insists.”

“… Okay.” Fugo pocketed the money envelope, staring at the new flower. “So, which one of all the meanings is for this flower?”

Giorno looked at Gold, and they tilted their head playfully, as if daring him to lie and tell the albino it was anything but what he, deep down, already knew.

“I… want us to be friends. But, uh, only if- if that’s fine with you?”

When Fugo looked at him, it was as if the albino was searching his face for something — deception, he thought —, smiling at him with so much warmth his heart went crazy and his cheeks started to burn.

“I’d like that, Giorno.”

— ○ ☼ ○ —

Speaking with Fugo became a monthly thing.

Having someone who wasn’t Gold that Giorno could call a friend was both new and nice. He didn’t know that having a friend could make him feel so much warmth; it was similar to how he felt around Nana, but different in its own way. 

There were days when Giorno could use his words, and while Fugo couldn’t tell him about mafia stuff, the topics seemed endless between them. But there were days when his voice would refuse to come out, and Fugo knew, his eyes softening when looking at him, telling him that it was fine, that there was no need to force himself to speak and that he could sign that day, that Fugo didn’t mind speaking for the two of them.

He didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense to him that Fugo was so nice and understanding with his issue. Only Nana understood, and having another person who got it, someone who had the patience to let him sign… Whenever Fugo was gone, Gold would make sakura petals scatter over the front desk, alongside white, yellow and red camellias; violets, blue and pink hydrangeas, Japanese primrose and morning glories; red roses and tulips; red and pink cosmos; pink, red, purple and orange sweet peas… So many flowers, and all of them with the same meaning, something he wanted to deny, to keep buried in the deepest part of his soul, begging Gold time and time again to stop showing him feelings he was aware of, but that he didn’t want to dwell in.

Not if it meant that he might lose the first friend he had ever made. Not if the love that was blossoming every time he saw Fugo again would make the albino go away forever, to leave him alone just like Nana did.

It was by the end of summer that Fugo didn’t come. Instead, a tall and intimidating man came into his shop with an unreadable expression. His hair was long, with a pale lavender colour; his eyes were extravagant, looking like a sunset in that purple and gold gradient that they had; his face was decorated with dark make-up, and the way he was dressed made it obvious the man was a goth. He wondered if he would be the new one, if he would never see Fugo again, but before he could nod towards the newcomer and go to the back, the man slammed several lira on the desk, looking at him with such an intensity Giorno wanted to run away and hide.

“How do I passive-aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flower?”

Giorno perked up at that, ignoring the money that was slammed on the counter and walking towards the flowers he would need, motioning the goth to follow him.

“Geraniums, foxglove, meadowsweet, yellow carnations and orange lilies.”

“So it’s true that you speak when it’s about flowers…” The goth muttered before his attention was back on Giorno. “What does each mean?”

“Geraniums would be for ‘stupidity’; foxglove for ‘insincerity’; meadowsweet for ‘uselessness’; yellow carnations would say a clear ‘you’ve disappointed me’; and the orange lilies stand for ‘hatred’. It would be a striking bouquet and full of loathing.”

“Would it still mean the same if you don’t put the foxglove?” Giorno nodded. “Okay, and I want four of each flower in the bouquet. Let’s see if that way Mista learns not to mess with my stuff.”

Giorno didn’t know who “Mista” was, only that whoever they were, they had pissed off the goth enough for him to want to purchase such an arrangement. With care, he picked the flowers he mentioned, arranging them so they would make each other stand out and also making it obvious there were four of each — he didn’t know why the goth had asked for that specific number, but it must mean something, so Giorno made sure to highlight that little fact.

He gave the goth the bouquet once it was done, sliding back some of the money he slammed on the counter earlier — it was too much; less than half was what such an arrangement would cost —, but the man looked at him and slid it back.

“Keep it all, take it as extra payment for the help. Oh, yeah, I’m the one collecting the protection money; Fugo’ll be back next month. I only came because I needed this ‘fuck you’ thing.”

He shouldn’t have felt as relieved as he did when the mafioso — he should be, only they would come the first of each month, and he knew Fugo — said his friend would be back next month, and it was then when he noticed the soft green aura surrounding the man, mentally slapping himself for not noticing that earlier: he was a stand user too, and if he knew Fugo, then both he and the “Mista” person were a part of Buccellati’s team. 

Not wanting to make him wait for too long, he ran to the back to get the money and gave the envelope to the goth. Just like the other two, he didn’t open to count, pocketing it before nodding once more his way, walking towards the exit before stopping. He turned around and looked at Giorno as if he were debating ‌something in his mind.

“Thank you for the help, kid. Hope business goes well this month.”

After saying that, he left. Giorno couldn’t help but wonder if he would keep meeting the members of Buccellati’s team that way or if Fugo would be the only one who would keep coming and talking with him. In a way, he was curious about the team; the way Fugo talked about them — without giving out too much information — made it seem as if they were some kind of family. Giorno was curious about what it was like to still have people you could call family.

Nana had been his family, but Nana wasn’t with him anymore, so he didn’t have anyone else — he had Gold, but Gold was his soul so, in a sense, they didn’t count as family.

When Fugo came by next month, Giorno felt relieved that the goth had said the truth: he had nothing against the albino’s teammates, but he was his friends and he barely knew the others — he had only had silent exchanges with Buccellati before Fugo, and the goth had only come by once so far. So, when his friend asked him if he had a phone and if they could exchange numbers, Giorno beamed, running to fetch it alongside the protection money and then having a conversation about what happened with the goth and the “Mista” person — apparently he was terrified of the number four, so when the goth, whose name was Abbacchio, shoved the bouquet in his hands without explaining, Mista thought at first the goth was being nice to him, only to scream like a little girl upon seeing how many flowers there were on the bouquet, his shrieks of terror becoming indignation once Fugo explained what each flower meant.

Listening to Fugo talk about his team — his family — made his heart ache with want, wishing nothing more than to, one day, be able to have people he could call, once again, family.

— ○ ☼ ○ —

He received a call on April first.

Giorno was having a bad day, so he almost didn’t pick up — he had gone out grocery shopping because he had forgotten about it, and there had been too many rude people he was forced to interact to that he was too tired to even try to speak —, but he forced himself to do so, humming as a greeting and hoping that Fugo — because no one else would think of calling him — would understand even if the albino wasn’t looking at him.

“Ah, shit, Giorno, is it a bad day?” Five seconds of silence, and he heard a sigh coming from the other side of the line. “Sorry, sorry. But, uh- we kind of need your help. Do you… Could you hide me and my team for a couple of days? No one would think of checking with you, and it’s only until we can secure a proper safe house.”

Giorno gave a long hum before he made an agreeing sound. How could he deny Fugo and his family a safe haven? He would have to be a heartless asshole for that, and there was a way to sneak them into his home without them having to use the front door, and Fugo knew it was the dark alleyway Giorno found him bleeding last year.

“ Thank you so much , Giorno. We’ll take the alleyway and be there in an hour or so. See you then.”

The call ended with that, and Giorno made sure to have everything ready for when the gangsters arrived — he got rid of the dust in the spare room they had upstairs, getting out a couple of extra mattresses Nana had in the attic both into the spare bedroom and his room. Blankets, pillows and everything he could think of to give them a comfortable stay, debating if he should also get the couple of air mattresses Nana bought on an impulse ready just in case when Gold felt people coming closer from the alleyway.

Running down and into the back door, he shoved it open and squinted in the direction he could feel people coming from, sighing with relief when he saw Fugo and a short black-haired boy coming his way.

“Are we in the clear, Narancia?”

“Yup, only your boy- uh, your friend, yeah. Only your friend besides us, so it’s safe for Buccellati and the others to come closer.”

Fugo turned around and motioned for more people to come — Gold could feel four others —, and Giorno ushered them all inside and told Fugo with his eyes to take them upstairs, not bothering to glance twice at the dangerous people coming into his home, checking the alleyway with Gold for a few minutes before closing the door and locking it once he knew no one else was coming.

When he walked upstairs, he was met with six pairs of eyes looking at him with so much intensity he wanted nothing more than to run away and hide, looking at Fugo who gave him a small smile, feeling his body relax with such a small gesture from his friend.

「 Is anyone injured? 」He signed while still looking at the albino, still feeling the others staring at him.

“Mista, but you don’t have to-”

「 I want to. 」

“Uh, Fugo? What is he saying? And why the hell did you mention me?”

Giorno didn’t turn to look at who spoke, going straight to the bathroom to get his first aid kit and walking towards Mista — he was tall and had a… questionable fashion sense, but he must admit the hat was somewhat cool — with intent, staring into his sharp and deep dark eyes before he looked at what he was working with, turning to glare at Fugo with a clear frown when he saw the way the injury had been stapled shut and then covered with plastic wrap instead of proper bandages.

“What? We had nothing else! It was either that or letting him bleed out.”

His frown deepened, and when Fugo looked away, Giorno could only sigh, carefully removing the plastic wrap and cleaning the stapled wound, summoning Gold’s energy only on his hand and hovering it over the injury, not moving even when the mafioso cried out in pain as he used the staples and part of the plastic wrap to turn back into healthy tissue so the injury was properly dealt with.

As soon as that was over, he put everything back in place. He stood up and walked to the bathroom to put his first aid kit back in its place, ignoring the loud conversation that broke as soon as he was away from the team of gangsters. Giorno knew they were talking about him and what he had just done, but he didn’t have the energy to explain about Gold, hoping that Fugo would do it for him.

When he heard footsteps coming his way, he turned around to see it was Buccellati, looking at him with the same kind blue eyes and smile he remembered from almost three years ago.

“Thank you for hiding us and for healing Mista. You didn’t have to do either of those.”

He almost answered with signs, so used to it when it was a bad day and Fugo was with him, stopping himself because he didn’t know if the man could understand him that way. He was trying to convince himself to use his voice when the man interrupted his thoughts.

“I was with Fugo when he was learning sign language, so I can understand it if you need to use it.”

「 Thank you. 」He signed, receiving a soft smile from Buccellati.「 There’s no need to thank me. I did it because I owe you and Fugo a lot, so I couldn't say ‘no’ when he asked me. 」

“Still, you’re just a civilian, and a kid too. You’re putting yourself in unnecessary danger to help us.”

「 I can defend myself. I have Gold with me. 」

“Your stand, right?” He answered with a nod, and Buccellati hummed. “Fugo mentioned it to me last year- ah, right, thank you for healing him back then; I don’t know what I would have done if his injuries had gotten worse without proper treatment.”

「 It was the least I could do. 」

“Still, thank you, Giorno. You’re doing a lot for my famiglia , I don’t know how we could repay you.”

「 You can repay me by staying alive and coming to visit from time to time. 」

Buccellati laughed at his answer, and it was such a warm sound he felt his heart fill with it.

“Sure thing, Giorno. We can try.”

「 Do any of you need something from a store? If you’re in hiding for whatever reason, I can go out and get it for you. 」

“Ah- there’s no need-”

「 I insist. You and your team are under my care, Buccellati, so let me help with this since I can’t help with whatever mafia stuff you are dealing with. 」

Buccellati’s eyes softened so much when he looked at him, it hurt. There were so many feelings in those sea-blue eyes he couldn’t stand to look at them for much longer. He couldn’t get too attached to them; they were mafia, and he was only a florist. There was no way he could be part of their tight-knit family, not now, nor ever.

So he listened and noted down what the mafioso told him they needed, crossing out stuff he already had at home and that they could use from his kitchen, refusing to accept the money Buccellati insisted of giving him, but it was no use: he ended with extra money, a list of groceries he could get but that would take him an hour or so to get, and strange feelings he didn’t want to think about after talking with the kind mafioso and seeing how his team looked at him with gratitude.

Giorno didn’t know if he would be able to survive the few days the gangsters would stay with him, not if his heart and soul kept screaming at him that they could be his new family when, deep down, he knew that was not possible for someone like him.

— ○ ☼ ○ —

Housing the mafiosos wasn’t a problem, but Giorno must admit that spending time around them made his heart hurt.

Fugo’s family was… something he had never seen before. Buccellati was stern but caring, Abbacchio was gruff and had a terrifying aura, but he knew the goth had kindness under all that; Narancia was a ball of energy, asking him so many questions Giorno found himself hiding behind Fugo or Buccellati more often than not to avoid the older teen; Mista… he looked like a single mother taking care of six annoying kids — his stand, Sex Pistols, was so loud and talkative it took him by surprise when he saw them bothering Mista and begging for food — with an obvious fear of the number four. As for Trish… 

The only girl in the group was, surprisingly, not a part of the team — though Giorno had thought she was; she had a faint and barely present soft pink aura around her that meant she was also a stand user, so learning that she wasn’t a member of the team made him sympathise with the pink-haired teen. She was quiet, and there was something in her green eyes he recognised, not knowing how to breach the subject.

It was obvious that she was grieving. He didn’t know who she had recently lost, but if Giorno had to guess, it must have been someone extremely close to the girl. When he gave her the French mineral water she had asked the group of gangsters, she looked at him with so much gratitude and nostalgia his heart clenched, wanting to find a way to cheer her up if only a little.

Giorno offered to cook dinner for them, but both Fugo and Narancia dragged him away from the kitchen, saying that he had done enough. Mista and Abbacchio walked into the kitchen, the goth glaring at him with a clear message of “you better stay put” while the other smiled at him, saying that they wouldn’t burn down his kitchen and that dinner was the least they could do to thank him for his hospitality.

Sharing a meal with other people was something Giorno never thought he would ever experience again. He never went out to eat, always having his meals alone with Gold since Nana’s death, not having anyone who would want to spend their time with him while they ate.

But when, for the first time ever, the big table Nana had was filled with both food and people, Giorno felt as if he would break down crying, having the most delicious carbonara he had ever had, hoping that maybe, one day, he could share a meal again with the group of gangsters after they left.

He didn’t know why they needed to hide — his intuition told him it was related to Trish, but he didn’t ask; he was just a civilian, so that was information he wasn’t allowed to know —, and their loud conversation was about anything but the reasons for them to stay with Giorno. But it was fine; it had to be fine. Fugo was trusting him to house them until they could secure a proper safe house, so Giorno couldn’t fail his friend.

When night came, he offered his room and the spare bedroom for them to rest, saying that the attic had a couple of air mattresses if someone preferred to sleep up there and that he was fine taking the couch, that he didn’t mind and that it wouldn’t be the first time he sleeps there.

Buccellati and Abbacchio were the ones who argued the most with that arrangement, and there was something in the way the two of them acted that told Giorno their relationship differed from the one they had with the rest of the team. In the end, none of them could convince Giorno to sleep in his own room, and they retired for the night, leaving him alone in the living room, with silence as his only company.

It must have been around two in the morning when Giorno woke up, seeing Fugo silently walking towards the kitchen, the albino stopping once he saw that he was awake.

“Did I wake you up?” Fugo spoke almost in a whisper since everyone else was asleep.

“It’s not your fault; I’m a light sleeper.” He didn’t know why, but his voice would struggle less with Fugo — he did know the reason, but he had decided to bury his feelings, so he pretended to be unaware of why that happened.

“Still, sorry. I just wanted a glass of water.”

Giorno gave him a simple nod, sitting down on the couch while Fugo went to get his water, walking back into the living room with a glass and sitting down to his left, a comfortable silence surrounding them.

“Thank you again for letting us stay today. We couldn’t find anywhere that would be safe enough, and running around Napoli didn’t sound like the best thing to do.”

“When are you leaving?” Giorno didn’t want to know, but he knew they wouldn’t stay for long, and if Fugo’s body language was to go by, then they would be gone by morning.

“Before dawn. Buccellati got new orders, and we must follow them, but…” Fugo paused, hesitating if telling Giorno was the right thing to do. “We also received some intel, and Buccellati is in a tough spot right now if that’s true. I can’t tell you what it is; it would put you in danger, but I’m… worried. I don’t want anything bad to happen, and all this? It screams of us being killed in the next few days or, hell, probably we’ll be no more than fish fodder by the end of the day.”

“… Maybe I could-”

“Giorno, please, no.” Fugo looked at him with pleading eyes, taking one of his hands in his — Fugo didn’t like physical contact, so the fact that he started it was a surprise — and squeezing as if wanting to make sure that Giorno was still there with him. “You can’t. You’re… you’re not part of the mafia like us, and I know you want to help us, but this is too much. You have a life here with your flower shop, and you like running this place, so I can’t let you offer your help for this, not when it means that you could die trying to help us.”

“… Okay, but you have to promise me one thing.” Giorno looked straight into those purple-red eyes he had fallen in love with. “My birthday is on the sixteenth. If you survive, I want you to come in here that day so that I can know everything went well. If you don’t come, I’ll know things went south, and I’ll accept that… that I lost my first and only friend so, please, try to survive… I… I don’t know what I would do if-”

Giorno couldn’t finish his sentence, his brain needing a couple of seconds to process why, closing his eyes and melting when he noticed that Fugo had kissed him. It was clumsy and soft, but it relayed so many unspoken feelings Giorno felt overwhelmed, opening his eyes to look at the albino once the contact was over, tugging him to hug his friend — the one he loved, who owned his heart and his soul if Gold’s happy thrumming under his skin was to go by — wanting to melt against to other, for Fugo to never let go and stay with him in his home, safe and far away from whatever danger they would be facing once he and his family left in the morning.

He didn’t know when he fell asleep, but when he woke up, Giorno was alone. There wasn’t a single sign of the gangsters' stay, and as Giorno reminisced last night, he let his tears flow freely, praying to every god out there for his friend — his love — and his family to stay safe and sound. 

— ○ ☼ ○ —

When his sixteenth birthday came, Giorno didn’t expect a lot.

The last time he celebrated it was before Nana got sick, before she died and left him alone. After that, his birthday was just another workday, another day of helping people choose what flowers to buy, of being surrounded by the flora he has loved so much since he was a kid.

But this time was different. Giorno was waiting for a specific person to come by, to make himself known so that Giorno could finally be at ease — he hadn’t been able to sleep properly since they left, worried about their safety and survival, letting Gold cling to him as long as there was no one around them.

As the day went by, his hope was dying. He wanted to believe in Fugo and his team — his family; they were a family, Buccellati had confirmed that fact —, that they could overcome whatever task they had to do, that they would live another day and would come back to see him. He wanted to believe he could have another meal with them, surrounded by playful banter and loud noises that didn’t make him uncomfortable. Giorno wanted to see them again, if only to say goodbye to them properly, so that he could put flowers in their honour if they were gone the same way he had one for Nana in her old room.

But night was approaching, and there was no sign of the albino and the rest of Buccellati’s team.

He was about to close his shop and give up when Gold perked up, his body freezing when he felt familiar presences close by, a smile forming as tears full of happiness and relief flowed from his eyes, turning around and running towards a familiar figure with white hair, throwing the two of them to the floor from the inertia, hugging Fugo tightly as he cried with the comfort of knowing that he was fine, that he had come back to him and that the others had come too — he didn’t know why they came, but Giorno felt his heart fill with warmth and love at the thought that they wanted to confirm they were alive, that they wanted to tell Giorno they had survived whatever they had to go through.

His friend — or whatever they were after that first kiss they shared days ago — cupped his face, tenderly wiping away his tears.

“I’m back, Giorno.”

And Giorno laughed, kissing the person he had fallen in love with, wishing for him to stay by his side so that he could keep that warmth. He could feel the familiar purple aura surrounding him, feeling Fugo’s stand — that he had yet to meet — trying to tell him something, relaying all the love Fugo had for him, and that Giorno was more than happy to give back.