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Giorno enjoys the mornings, at the rise of dawn before Italy is in need of its recently crowned mafia Don.
Like always, breakfast is served for an intimate group in the dining room, the long table spread with a feast of fresh pastries, meats, dairy, pure juice and hot drinks along the tablecloth. As the sun ascends and drops warmth and light over easy conversation and good company, the day begins anew before the routine of seeing to business as usual.
During these moments is when Giorno can exist as himself. He helps himself to food and watches over his family—appreciates that they're alive still.
Panacotta peruses the morning newspaper as usual to keep his mind sharp and himself updated with current affairs, stock markets etcetera. He used to dog-ear the joke pages for Narancia to save him from asking for it later, and if he had time he would finish a puzzle, or five, in minutes. He started reading the newspaper when he realised two things: one, that he never wanted to be unarmed with valuable information, and two, that it was one of the normal parts of living he could retain despite being in Italy's most powerful underworld organisation.
Today in the section for discoveries and newsworthy accolades is something familiar.
Pannacotta leans sideways to his boss in the neighbouring chair. "Hey, Giogio," he calls. He flattens the page down and smooths the creases out of the greyed photo. "Isn't this your school?"
Leaning over as well to see the photo, Giorno hums with polite interest, his lips occupied around a chocolate filled croissant. On his plate is another next to a drop of cream, and beside that a cup of thick, dark hot chocolate. Tooth-rottingly sweet that only a child can tolerate.
In the photo is a smiling student Giorno doesn't recognise from any classes and in their arms a large cheque for a hefty amount. He recognises the building in the back as the science department, and tip of the rooftop of dorm housing.
Giorno feels estranged from it all like it's from a hundred years ago. Memories of it in his mind are greyed out and silent like the photo. He replies, “Oh, so it is.”
“Says this student won a science fair project and was awarded funds towards a college scholarship."
"How wonderful for them."
"Do you think of ever going back?"
"No."
"But...did you let your teachers know? I mean, you just left."
"I suppose I did."
'What?' Panacotta stares at him. There's no supposition, Giorno literally took a week long unexplained absence and it's been several months since. Indifferently, he polishes off the chocolatey pastry, sips from his syrupy hot chocolate, then grabs the second croissant and bites eagerly.
He's portraying the age he is but is hardly perceived as: a youth plunging into sugar overdosage. Passione will be lucky if its Boss doesn't retire from early diabetes. Just imagine what recruits old and new will think, the judgement and rumours they'll feed into the already circulating doubt. Especially if they hear that their new boss is less educated than even their grandchildren.
Pannacotta sits back in his seat properly. He turns the page, back to his perusing. "I'm just saying you might want to consider the kind of impression you'll make on your associates as a high school drop out."
And as someone with such a sweet tooth. 'Is that his third chocolate croissant?' Panacotta ponders with a grimace.
"I understand," Giorno replies, holding what is indeed his third chocolate-filled croissant. "But I'm not too concerned about that. My dream takes priority."
“Alright," Panacotta says.
Across the table from him and on Giorno's other side, Mista butters his sandwich and hums the tune of Beauty School Drop Out. He can't carry the notes in the same dreamlike way as Frankie Avalon but has just the right deep baritone to try and he knows the song by heart from numerous watches of GREASE—a movie classic! Around his plate, Sex Pistols disperse to plunder slices of meat and juggle cherry tomatoes from the salad.
Mista bites into his sandwich (which is now down a slice of meat), then says after swallowing, "I bet Giorno was the student who never studied and still came out on top for tests."
"Something like that," Giorno supports cryptically.
He studied when he felt like it and knew enough general knowledge to sustain his academic position. Maintaining the crafted persona of an ordinary student with no particular reason to stand out—like a sudden graceless fall in school rankings—was paramount.
“School wasn't for me," Mista includes. "Too many rules for this and that, and the lessons were so boring I couldn't keep my eyes open for long."
Pannacotta says, "Yeah, I'm sure sitting still and shutting the fuck up to pay even a fraction of attention was quite difficult for you."
"Fuck you, I wasn't stupid or lazy or nothing!"
“Actually, I'm wondering if maybe you have a hint of ADHD." Like Narancia, whose energy and personality was about the most obvious tell there ever was. A giant, glowing sign couldn't have made it more obvious. “But if the shoe fits, I guess.”
"Keep dissin' me and I'll put holes in your body like your outfit!"
From around the door at ground level, the remaining member of the close circle waddles in, Coco Jumbo moving slowly. Climbing the mini staircase to the tall stool between Giorno and Mista, Coco Jumbo settles and extends its neck to the awaiting saucer of fresh greens and bowl of water in front.
Polnareff's ghost hovers above with a salute near his regrettable expression. “Désolé, désolé, gentlemen! I didn't mean to be so late! The business call got a little sidetracked."
"No problem, Polnareff," Giorno returns the greeting with a satisfied nod. "Good morning."
"Morning! What have I missed?"
"I was just about to load Fugo's sorry ass with bullets," Mista smirks.
Panacotta scoffs. He answers Polnareff, "We were discussing Giorno's education and about to guess what kind of student he was."
Polnareff studies Giorno.
At first glance, he is a young, beautiful boy, eating more sugar than nutritionally valued, quiet and unbothered. No hint of the power and ambition he holds and has dominated Passione with. It hasn't been that long since they met, so he has yet to see all the points of the shining bright star that is Giorno Giovanna.
“You strike me as the studious type." Polnareff scratches his holographic chin in reflection. “With maybe a bit of a mischievous side? Ohh, but nothing like Jotaro. Mon dieu, the stories I can tell! Imagine cussing out your sweet mother and being sent to prison at just seventeen!"
Mista whistles, surprised but impressed, and just as sure as Polnareff that Giorno couldn't have been that bad.
"I hear Mr Joestar was quite a handful in his youth also," Polnareff adds in reflection of the older gentleman he traveled with. "I'm starting to believe it runs in the family."
Pannacotta jokes, "Giorno must be so proud of his nephews." A weird sentence—to think his teenage boss is also an uncle to two very much older men.
The Joestar family, the way their stories are told by Polnareff, is really bizarre.
“I'm still not convinced that Giorno wasn't a bit of a troublemaker," Mista says with a curious eye on the young boss. “He's got another hidden side, I can tell!"
"Who, me?" Giorno puts a hand over his heart. "I assure you I'm just your average Stand user slash teenage mafia boss."
“Okay, since you're so open and honest, tell us how you drank Abbacchio's piss!”
"A real gentleman puts dinner on the table first."
"Mista's no gentleman," Panacotta mocks.
Mista chucks a cherry tomato and Sex Pistols have fun kicking it between them on its way between Pannacotta's eyes. Bullseye! Pannacotta shouts curses at him while dabbing at the mess with a napkin.
“Come on, Giorno!" Ignoring one raging blonde, Mista keeps focused on the other. "You're so secretive with everything! Even your name sounded made up when we met.”
“I'm not that mysterious.”
“So spill! Sharing is caring! Tell us what kinda student you were, the classes you took!"
“I took all the compulsory classes. Outside of that, I didn't have any particular curriculars or interests.”
Aside from scamming tourists, but that wouldn't look so impressive on a college application—as if he was even aspiring that far ahead before he met Bucciarati.
“Really? No hobbies? Dates? Juicy stories?!"
Giorno shakes his head. "I was a pretty ordinary student who kept to himself a lot of the time." A sip from his hot chocolate later, he adds with a small shoulder lift. "Sorry to disappoint."
'Nah, no way!', Mista isn't buying it. There's no way Giorno Giovanna and the word ordinary belong next to each other! That's like putting the sun next to a candle flame or the moon next to a flashlight! Mista is about to tell him he's not disappointed, and apologise if he's asking too much, and admit he's never been so obsessed with the idea of someone like this before—
A piano melody comes from Giorno's phone on the table. Everyone knows better than to disturb The Don at breakfast unless it's an emergency, so it usually goes unanswered and the person gets questioned later.
But Giorno sees the caller's name and accepts. He speaks kindly with a slight lift to his pitch while another language rolls off his tongue. “九条さん、おはようございます. 久しぶりです. ちょうど朝食を食べているところです— ああ、はい. はい. すみません？今すぐ？ポルナレフもここにいるよ.”
The other side disconnects.
Giorno stands with a look at Coco Jumbo. “Polnareff, Dr Kujo would like to speak with us.” Sensing two pairs of eyes on him from the other side of the table, he adds “Privately” to deter any follow up questions.
“Oh, that was Jotaro?! Sure, let's go to your office then." Polnareff suggests enthusiastically and gets picked up in cradling arms. “See you later, Mista, Fugo."
Giorno stops at the door to look back at the table. At the curious and lost faces of his two companions who no doubt have a hundred more questions. He almost feels like he's running away. “Please don't feel like you have to rush. Enjoy your breakfast, I should be back shortly.”
As he leaves and for a short while when he's gone, the dining room is empty of sound. Silent sympathy for the arrival of questions going unaddressed and unanswered like whispers in the wind.
Mista's not a polyglot but what he heard sounded a lot like the foreign cartoons Narancia used to watch back to back in his free time. He would beg Mista to join him—"It's so good, a thousand episodes goes by real quick!" "Hold up, a thousand?!"—then talk through the entire episodes, knowing the scenes by heart but still hyped all the same.
"You heard Giorno speaking Japanese just then too, right? Like, I didn't hallucinate that."
"I heard," Pannacotta confirms.
"So he knows Japanese."
"Apparently."
"Since when?!"
“Maybe he learned it at school."
Mista stares at the ceiling, feeling lost and unsure about everything he thought he knew. "...I feel like I just got told the sky isn't blue."
"It's not technically. There's a phenomenon that causes light to—"
"I need you to not be the smart guy right now. Okay? Great, thanks."
Pannacotta holds up a middle finger.
Mista leans back in his chair to a slow rock on its back legs. Back, forth, back, overthinking to an eventual upright stop with a conclusion that makes him sad. "We really don't know nothing about Giorno."
"We don't know anything."
"I just said that."
"You used a double negative when the proper way to say it is 'we don't know anything' about him.”
"Literally who gives a shit?"
'Don't do it', Pannacotta tells himself soothingly over and over. 'Don't. Don't. He's not even fucking worth it', he repeats, calming the rage that wants to burn and shove his fork into Mista's brainless skull. He breathes in, out, restoring his peace of mind the way his therapy book from Bucciarati instructs.
"What's your point?"
"Just saying it's funny how our new boss is just as mysterious as the last boss."
Pannacotta blinks his eyes to their widest. "...What? Seriously, what did you just say?"
He never met the previous boss but the story was enough. Giorno left very little out when asked. So Pannacotta knows of Diavolo's obsession with keeping himself hidden to the point of killing in excess and with torture. His own selfish agenda was all he cared about when he murdered Bucciarati, Abbacchio, Narancia!
Giorno played a part as well and yet...
Pannacotta's hand, shaking, turns into itself.
And yet he will always know better. Be so sure that Giorno is nothing like the Devil.
"You're fucking joking, right?!"
"Fugo, look—"
"NO! are you—are you actually comparing Giorno to that bastard?!"
"Hear me out—"
"Get fucked!"
"Do it yourself, unless you're still a coward."
Pannacotta flips, everything blurs. He snatches Mista by a fistful of his jumper and yanks him closer across the table. His other hand raises, fisted, shaking.
Mista, calm, unshaken, doesn't feel compelled to look away from him, their eyes meeting in challenge.
"Take. It. Back..." Pannacotta demands, venom lacing his delivery. "
"I got nothing against Giorno but he doesn't give us much about himself."
"He's a private person, so what?!"
"Sure, yeah. I just thought we were past living like strangers, with everything we've been through. Is it just me?"
Pannacotta's chest rises and falls to the settling of his rage. He eventually drops his fist and grip on Mista, who sits back easily like nothing happened. 'So that's what he's getting at? Idiot. He could've worded it better'.
"You and I have been teammates for years and still don't know everything about each other."
"We know enough."
"What's my favourite colour?"
"Nice try but you probably think having a favourite colour is childish."
"It's green."
"You just picked a random colour to mess with me!"
"Did I? Huh. It's actually orange. Or maybe it's red. Brown's not bad either." Pannacotta isn't baited by the bitter smile and middle finger he gets in retaliation. "So what now? Are you saying you can't work with Giorno because you don't know his favourite colour? Just go ask."
"You just wanna see me get rejected!”
Pannacotta has to admit that would be funny. He shrugs. "Then what do you want?"
"Just...I mean," Mista sighs. Waves a hand as if to paint articulation to his lack of verbal finesse. "Look. It'd sure be nice to know the guy I'm always putting my life on the line for. I'm sure the others would’ve liked to as well."
Polnareff immediately notices that Giorno comes back with a stiffness to him that he didn't possess when he left the inside of Coco Jumbo's Stand. His hands are free also. "Oh, you ate it on your way back?"
"What?"
"The croissant. You left to grab another—your fourth—before the call."
"Oh. I..." Giorno shakes his head. "I changed my mind. Four is unlucky afterall, isn't it?"
"So I hear." Polnareff is aware he handed him that excuse to use. Whatever's wrong, Giorno obviously doesn't want to say right now. "Well it's for the best! Those things have way too much sugar anyway and we can't have our Boss getting cavities now. Trust me!"
"Of course. I trust you." Giorno smiles but it doesn't pair well with the distant look in his eyes.
"Giorno, did someth—"
"I'm fine." Giorno moves to sit beside Polnareff's hazy form on the couch before a video screen. "Let's start the call."
Polnareff watches him a moment longer then leans forward to press a button on the device in front.
Jotaro Kujo appears in full quality in his white suit and matching hat.
There's no small talk and barely even a proper greeting past grunts and single word answers. Giorno expected as much but it's still disappointing. Jotaro cuts to the chase and displays archaeological pictures of stone masks that he explicitly tells Giorno he isn't allowed to look for or research about if he wants to stay on the Speedwagon Foundation's good side. At least for now.
Giorno's age shows by challenging being told what to do without proper reason. "Classified" is all he gets and Jotaro isn't sorry about it. Not even Polnareff can vouch for him when he's a soul inside a turtle—a consequence, the Speedwagon Foundation reminds them all, of aiding the son of DIO.
And that's the moniker they feel obligated to force on Giorno until he proves he's good. On top of the back and forth in a quest for understanding, the entire conversation was spoken in Japanese; words and tones his tongue and vocal chords haven't used for awhile. The Joeststar family roots are spread across the glove and Passione could really do with the connections they have.
"We'll see," Jotaro says, then clicks something and goes away.
By the end of the call, Giorno is tired, pressing himself deep into the couch with a weighted sigh.
"Jotaro is as no-nonsense as usual," Polnareff comments, as if that's meant to be helpful—which it isn't. "But I think that went well, considering."
"Considering I'm the son of Jotaro's arch nemesis, you mean."
"Well, I didn't want to phrase it like that."
Giorno sighs again, the weight of it bearing sympathy for uncles with troublesome nephews worldwide. "Jotaro-san made one thing clear. That his word is the deciding factor on if The Speedwagon Foundation will ally with us."
Giorno can't say he isn't a little sour over the complete trust Jotaro and The Foundation have for each other either. It's admirable, powerful and comforting. Their partnership has strengthened over decades versus the few months Giorno has spent as the Boss. The issue of time is a luxury Giorno can't rely on—the imbalance in power witnessed in King Crimson and Requiem prove that.
“Polnareff-san, can you trust someone you hardly know?”
“Giorno, my boy, as you know I followed a great party of men—and a dog. Barely an entire season passed but we became thicker than thieves! Like brothers!"
Giorno hums, contemplating. He drums fingers on the couch's arm and stares off again.
"Giorno, please. I may not have known you for as long as I've known Jotaro but I'm well acquainted with you by now and can tell you're worrying over something."
"I said I'm fine."
"It's about what Mista and Fugo said at breakfast, isn't it? The questions. You like to keep personal matters to yourself so naturally you wouldn't like—"
"Am I wrong to be so private?"
“They were joking!"
"Still. Does it make me untrustworthy?"
"It shouldn't. We're all entitled to our privacy. But," Polnareff leans sideways, seeing another perspective. "I understand why they would be curious given our line of work."
"I see."
"If you're feeling some way about it, why not talk with them?"
Giorno nods. There's a thickness in his throat like cooling, bitter chocolate mixed with the essence of his negative feelings. He swallows it all rather than expose him further. "Okay, I will."
"Just...I mean. Look. It'd sure be nice to know the guy I'm always putting my life on the line for. I'm sure the others would’ve liked to as well."
Pannacotta can't go to sleep hours later into the evening, even when staring into the total abyss of the darkness in his room becomes tiresome. Mista's words haven't left his mind, replying like a terribly catchy song.
He tosses and turns, sheets kicked and unrumpled are no longer comfortable to lay in. The looseness of his pyjamas suffocates with the heat of his perpetuating irritation.
He turns to see his bedside clock—four-something in the morning.
Pannacotta screams his frustration into his pillow along with Mista's name.
Before yesterday, he could always be certain that he was right. About practically everything, otherwise he didn't have much reason to weigh in. Intelligent, realistic, pragmatic, reliable, he was hardly opposed with these strong traits. But the haunting words from breakfast were clearly debating that.
Pannacotta's lack of sleep and frustration are the result of a horrifying conclusion:
...Mista has a point.
Pannacotta shoots up from his bed. He could hurl, the realisation is so nauseating. Buried under it along with irritability and a hot flash is impossible to leave alone. But will a glass of water be enough?
'Wait, there's also..'.
There was a time when Narancia used to dare to shove Pannacotta's head in freezers. 'Maybe this'll cool you off!' he would declare like emotional turmoil and anger were tangible and could be cooled. Pannacotta would beat him with whatever frozen food was easiest to reach.
It was so stupid. Narancia was stupid. Always getting basic math wrong and blasting music and...
And...fuck, he was here. Always riling Pannacotta up in crazy ways so he could focus on anything but hating himself.
Remembering leads Pannacotta to the kitchen’s walk-in freezer downstairs as if gravitationally pulled.
It's the size of a small office with rows of frozen foods. Maybe a hot tea or warm milk is the healthier, better option but right now, he's standing next to a shelf of ice cream.
He picks a flavour randomly—it's Pistachio.
He's a few scoops into it when creaks come from the door, a large metal and heavy thing with a lock.
Pannacotta's grip tightens around the spoon as he turns to face the noise. Someone followed him—someone choosing not to make themselves known, taking advantage of being hidden and with intent.
The door creaks again, widening slowly with metallic groans. A tall shadow of a body slants across the wall.
“Mista?” Pannacotta calls. “Tch. You call me a coward yet sneak around to corner me? Here to pay me back for this morning?”
The leaning shadow doesn't answer. It shifts, the person it belongs to coming in.
Pannacotta raises the pistachio ice cream tub to throw. It's not heavy like a dictionary but, if thrown hard enough, can still leave an ugly bruise—or a concussion. “Try locking me in here again and I mean it, I'll fucking kill y—”
A young face pokes into the room, a head of blonde hair rolling down in waves around and down the face—a lot like Pannacotta when he wakes up.
Pannacotta chokes and swallows the rest of his threat. 'Fuckfuckfuck—you absolute fucking idiot!' A blush floods across his face. He hurriedly shoves down his spoon. "Giogio! I-I thought you were Mista!"
Giorno blinks. "Really? I wasn't aware that he and I look anything alike."
"Obviously I mean before you came in!"
Giorno picks odd times and even odder ways to present his style of humour—the fake confusion and serious delivery. He explains, "I saw the freezer door was open and wondered who was in here."
"Oh. Yeah."
Pannacotta watches as Giorno walks over to him for a shelf nearby, browsing. Where a fashionable suit and set of iconic brooches usually are is a pair of loose pants and an oversized shirt with Kermit The Frog's face massively in the middle. Pannacotta remembers listening to Mists loudly goad Giorno into buying that shirt—as a joke, but also because they didn't have time to shop for anything fancier when Giorno was at the end of his tether of missed sleep.
From the shelf, Giorno takes two single packets of ice cream sandwiches: dark, chunky cookies with chocolate chips and thick cream between them.
Pannacotta says, "I didn't expect you to have a sweet tooth."
Giorno eagerly opens one and eats a chunk as he stares back. "Are mafia bosses not allowed sweet treats now and then?"
"'Now and then', you say, like you didn't have three chocolate croissants and hot chocolate for breakfast."
"I'm a growing boy."
"You're sixteen."
Giorno takes another bite. "Still growing. The prefrontal lobe doesn't fully develop until age twenty-five."
Because Pannacotta's trivial knowledge has never been challenged, let alone corrected, there was absolutely no way he could have foreseen how...attractive it would be. Plus Giorno didn't correct him for argument's sake, but because he was objectively correct.
Giorno notices the tub in Pannacotta's hand. "Similarly, you didn't strike me as the type to eat late at night."
"I'm not. Sometimes I'd catch Narancia eating tons of ice cream after dark. I would lecture him about oral hygiene, then he would say 'oral? sounds gay' and I'd beat him with his spoon. It was so stupid."
Simpler times. He can hear Narancia's laughter so vividly in his ears. His eyes start watering with a sting.
Pannacotta rubs at them. "What do you need, Giogio?"
Giorno looks down at the half eaten ice cream sandwich in hand as if it's obvious. But no. Both of them know he doesn't say or do anything randomly. "...I overheard you and Mista in the dining room at breakfast."
"Before you left?"
"I was on my way back."
'Fuck’, Pannacotta thinks guiltily. He saw a mafia movie once where the boss felt disrespected over gossip among his men, and as a recompense made them cut off their pink fingers. Giorno will definitely be more creative and frightening.
“Giogio—listen, Mista wasn't thinking. Never does, frankly. Don't take him seriously."
"I'm not angry with either of you."
"Oh. So then...?"
"I appreciate that you defended me, Fugo. But I'm sure you're curious as well. About who exactly you're swearing your life to."
Pannacotta swallows, feeling cornered. "Actually, I really don't care all that much about what kind of student you were. Can't have been any worse than me."
The so-called delinquent who beat up a Professor and tarnished his family's social standing. The prodigy whose skill and talent were wasted and got swallowed by his temper like a violent storm, thrashing and loud, breaking apart everything without selection.
Meanwhile, Giorno is an ocean. Still and calm atop but vast and deep and unknown below. A shining reflection on top layering over the dark that sinks below and shrouds secrets.
"How would you know I wasn't a worse student?"
"Because you're Giorno."
"I wasn't always."
"What do you mean?"
"You called me a private person, which is true, but it's not out of secrecy. It's more appropriate to say I'm not fully secure in myself. I didn't grow up with a kind opinion of myself, so I don't see myself as particularly special. But I started to see it differently. I asked myself 'if I think lowly of myself then what about people who look up to me? Are they even lower?' I don't want to spread that kind of message—it's insulting to my family, you, Mista, and Mr Polnareff. So I've learned to see worth in myself and understand that people might want to know me for good reasons."
Pannacotta is in awe. He would have never suspected that the boy who carries himself so confidently and mightily felt lacking in any way. Everyone looked up to him as an unreachable brightness—the sun shining down on their futures and leading the way.
"Fugo, I'll ask once more. Aren't you curious about me?"
Pannacotta sighs. "...Mista was out of line—way fucking out, comparing you to him. But...I do see his point. I really don't know much about you."
"So ask me anything. I'll do my best to answer."
Pannacotta blinks—still in the present, but this isn't dejavu. They've done this song and dance before months ago in a restaurant.
Giorno breaks his second ice cream sandwich in half and holds one out for Pannacotta.
Pannacotta takes it—at this point, it's instinctive for him to accept whatever comes from Giorno's hands. A way forward. Courage to take half a step. Hope. And now a chocolate ice cream sandwich.
They settle on the floor with their backs against the almost full shelf of more ice cream, other flavours lined up and down. The floor beneath is cool. Giorno reaches for a third sandwich and Pannacotta surveys a spread of goosebumps all over his arm.
He's cold but has already resolved to stay.
Pannacotta finally takes the first bite into his ice cream sandwich.
Like this, they appear not as mafia members but two people bordering adulthood eating ice cream on the floor.
"Why now, Giogio? I'm already working for you.”
“Because you still have doubts. And because I don't want you and Mista fighting.”
"We always fight."
"Over me?"
"Giorno," Pannacotta says exhaustedly.
"Go ahead, ask me anything."
'Anything?' Pannacotta all of a sudden feels like he has immense power, or keys to valuable treasure. "How do you know Japanese?"
"I'm Japanese. My mother moved us to Italy when I was very young after she married an abusive man, who then became my step-father. I forgot most of what I knew and have had to relearn to become fluent again."
"Do you miss it?"
"No."
"Not even the sights?"
"You're stalling." Giorno knows trivial matters aren't what Pannacotta's really inquisitive about.
"Sorry." 'God. Why am I so nervous?!'
Giorno sticks a part of his chocolate ice cream sandwich into Pannacotta's tub. Pistachio flavours the round edge and the next bite is next level. He gives a pleased hum and nod.
Pannacotta stares, speechless.
"Oh, about my favourite colour," Giorno begins, "I like deep shades. I'm not particular about the base so long as it compliments me. I suppose I tend to favour blue, black, and pink, if I think about it. In Korea there are specialists who match people to their most suitable colours. I'm thinking about having that done also just to see."
"Good to know...?"
'What the actual hell is even going on right now?' Pannacotta wonders.
Instead of sleeping, he's sitting on the floor of a walk-in freezer, eating ice cream past midnight with his boss who is presenting hints of something that was previously masked.
When he dips his sandwich into the tub of Pistachio again, Pannacotta feels inclined to follow just to see what the fuss is about. He scrapes a little on to a corner of his sandwich half and bravely takes a full bite, expecting a mess of combinations.
It's actually not bad. Still too sweet.
As they eat, Pannacotta internalises the facts in preparation for another question. Giorno was a high school student—intelligent enough that he would have definitely graduated and aimed for a decent college, then a decent career. It didn't seem like his narrative was already misjudged by a jury of his past.
"Why did you join the mafia and want to take over?"
Giorno is quiet for a moment, chewing on a way to summarise his story. "As a child, I was neglected, beaten, and bullied, for reasons I, to this day, don't know. One day, I saved the life of a mafioso because it felt right and he repaid me with kindness. I admired him for it. He cared enough about one kid, but so many didn't care about the kids' being lost to drugs. So I decided to change that myself."
Giorno didn't often, if ever, talk so much in one, or waffle on when a short answer would suffice.
"Is your name really Giorno Giovanna, or is it an alias like John Doe?"
"My name was legally changed when my mother remarried. It used to be Haruno Shiobana."
"Haruno." Pannacotta tries it on the tongue and it feels softly intimate. He holds the tub out to Giorno so he has easier access to steal more pistachio ice cream. "Did you kill Luca and Polpo?"
"It was a result of their own actions."
"That's not a straight answer."
"Luca died from an automatic counter attack. I turned Polpo's gun into a banana but he pulled the trigger."
Ruthless. Pannacotta swallows, ashamedly impressed by it. "I didn't believe you for a second when you told us you were an ordinary student."
It sounded blatantly facetious. Calling Giorno Giovanna ordinary doesn't feel right. At first glance, it's obvious there's something about him. Then he walks, talks, behaves with a flair and resolution so strong it can crumble mighty powers. How he leads and everyone falls in line without even realising, like falling to sleep and then waking up to the sun the next day.
"What was your average placement in school?"
"Not so high that I could have been an honour student, and not so low that I would have been on academic probation."
Intentionally, and it must've been twice the struggle to maintain rather than being the best or worst in class. Narancia would've been lucky just to place in the top hundred. Pannacotta groans into his hand, troubled at the memory of many wrong questions and Narancia flinging math books, saying it was all bullshit because why do letters need to be involved?
Oh, Narancia. He's...
He was...
Pannacotta doesn't even register his tears until they drop and sink into his pyjama trousers. "How did Narancia...was it quick? Did he suffer?"
"I don't know. We had switched bodies. I'd like to think he didn't."
Pannacotta's teeth are tight together, biting back a sound reaction. A cry, a curse, a choked sob. To think he could've been there with him! Maybe not as a fighter but at least he wouldn't have been so alone.
"I hope you made Diavolo suffer."
"I did."
"Good. What was your first impression of Naracia—of all of us when we met?"
"I thought Bucciarati must be amazing to have gathered so many different personalities together."
"Yeah, he is. Was."' Fuck,' Pannacotta curses at himself with a souring expression.
"All of you were quite interesting to meet."
"I was surprised to see you gravitate to Mista first."
"He was the only one willing to trust me at the time."
"I understand but you seemed sane and smart. I thought we would, you know, be close."
"You and I are alike in a few ways, it's true. I think that's why you're easy to talk to."
"Mista doesn't think so. He still sees me as a traitor."
"You know that you don't believe you are."
"Do you, Giogio?"
"I answered this before and would prefer not to repeat myself."
Pannacotta glares a little, the bitterness in him remaining like what's left of a hard drink clinging to a glass. 'What about the others? You think they all prefer being gone?' He keeps it as a thought to rid himself of at a more sober time; saying it out loud would be picking a fight. He can pass blame all day but he always resets back to the focal point: he walked away from them. 'Because I...didn't get on that damn boat!' and his choice haunts him at night.
Giorno, always good at reading people, says this as he watches. "It will take time, I know. But I believe in staying loyal to yourself first. So if you stayed true to your own morals then no. No one should judge you."
Giorno touches his shoulder.
"I'll meet you halfway and carry half the weight."
Pannacotta sucks in a breath, wipes his eyes, and lifts his head. "It's enough. Really. I'm just...I'm tired."
"It's late," Giorno says, getting up from the floor. He might not be certain of the time but it was already after three when he came here, then they talked for a while. "And I can't stand the cold any longer."
Pannacotta stands as well. knows exactly why he endured the cold for so long. To give him an advantage, should he feel it was necessary. "You can't make life in cold temperatures but that mind of yours might be the deadliest thing around."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't entirely meant as a compliment. Anyway, I bet Mista asked you a bunch of weird questions."
"We had a nice conversation," Giorno says for the sake of not completely throwing Mista under the bus when he's not here to defend himself. Wouldn't be much of a defence either way. "But he did ask for my preference between having two heads or a tail, and meeting my past self or aliens."
"Aliens aren't real."
"I agree, but he was insistent."
"Fucking Mista," Pannacotta sighs, pained from affiliation.
"He also asked what I like the most about him."
"What did you say?"
"That I like his unchanging optimism even when things seem difficult."
"What about me?"
"You, Fugo," Giorno gives it proper thought. He doesn't worry, like Pannacotta is agonizing over, that the question sounded needy. "...You gave up on yourself but still you made the decision to stay with me. The fight left in you that's like a flame in a hurricane, fighting to exist even if you feel it's fruitless. You and I are like that."
"Giogio..." Pannacotta's voice is a whisper, his heart swept up by the invasion into his soul. Giorno reads people like glass, and his words can shatter them just as easily too as they become fragile from exposure to the truth.
At least, if Pannacotta deems himself as only a monster, there is someone who sees his beauty within the beast.
"We all have our quirks and issues but it can be hard to trust someone when you don't know theirs. That's why I wanted to talk with you. And to know if you'll stick with me after I tell you everything."
He considered and was prepared for rejection. Even though he's already the boss and no one can order him to say anything.
Giorno still wanted to be honest rather than save his own skin.
"Listen, Giogio, I want to know about you but not because you tell me. I want to know it all from being with you."
His favourite colour will be how well he wears it, the way it compliments him. His favourite foods will be the one that makes his cheeks glow and he licks his lips to savour it. His favourite flower will be the one he cares for like a precious child. His favourite song will soothe and give him peace.
"I want to know you in pieces and moments—real ones," Pannacotta says.
Giorno smiles. "I promise to show as much of myself as possible."
"Good," Pannacotta feels his face reheat, so he turns away. "Makes sticking around worth it."
Giorno hums and looks behind Pannacotta's head at the shelves of frozen products. "I think the large quantity of ice cream I keep in the walk-in freezer has a lot to do with it."
"And the generous pay."
"Not the boss?"
"He's beautiful but can be a bit of a brat with a sweet tooth."
"Careful or you might be stuck in a freezer with him."
"The horror."
"I didn't consider this during its assembly," Giorno says, eyeing the walls, shelves and space around. "But this would be convenient for hiding a body and the shelves are quite strong and sturdy." He looks back at Pannacotta. "Plus you don't look heavy."
"Forget when I said I trust you. I'm reporting you to HR."
"Then who will eat ice cream late at night with you? Or play scrabble without eating the pieces?"
"Please. You cheat in other ways. The pieces don't turn into flying bugs all by themselves."
"Oh dear, my secret's out."
'Not all of them yet,' Pannacotta reminds himself. "There's plenty for me to uncover about you, Giogio." He lifts his hand and stamps a kiss to the back in promise and devotion. "I'm not going anywhere."