[It's actually a little heartbreaking how hard Steve is trying right now. He's trying so hard to make this easier, and that's something that Giorno's simply never experienced. Not that the few people he's spoken to about this were cruel, because they weren't — but they were present for him, listening. Not trying to help. Not trying to lighten the burden.]
[He thinks about saying you don't have to, but the thing is . . . even if he did, he doesn't think it would make a difference. There's something conscious about the way Steve is approaching the situation, but if he tried to stop, it would continue by default. In everything, he tries to make the world around him better, gentler, easier to cope with.]
[Another tiny marvel. So Giorno doesn't say anything. He's just quietly, warmly grateful.]
[There's a paw in his face, then. Hand, paw, something. He's surprised, simply because Steve has seemed self-conscious about the change so far, but he doesn't hesitate to take it in his own, or to examine it with fascination. It doesn't occur to him that that might be strange, curious as he is; instead he pokes at the fur between the fingers, runs his thumb carefully across the padded palm. And then he smiles, because — it is warm, and it's still Steve, of course. Takes it in his own properly and feels a little more secure. Another one of a dozen little things Steve is doing for him to make this easier.]
Hm. He sounds like a pain.
[It comes out more self-deprecating than he intends or realizes. It's just what he thinks. Squeezing lightly on Steve's hand, he glances skyward for a moment. It really is a nice day for all of this, which might be ironic.]
. . . So I'm not Italian, [he offers, seemingly apropos of nothing, looking back at Steve with a general air of sarcastic ta-da.] The name I had in that other place is my real — my birth name. My father was . . . it's complicated [and he doesn't want to get into it right now], so let's say European. My mother was Japanese. I looked a lot more like her when I was younger.
[Though as ever, Haruno is the key — or maybe cipher is a better word. When seen through the lens of Haruno, he can't entirely hide between the facade he's built for himself. He can't just be Giorno, no questions asked. As much as he looks like his fathers, he looks like his mother, too. That's part of why he hates people knowing as much as he does. There's no undoing it. It's uncomfortable.]
[Then again, it's . . . of all the things he's worried about sharing, that's the least of them. The worst is ahead. Unconsciously, he squeezes Steve's hand again, just to feel the pressure.]
She didn't want me. She didn't want kids at all. I don't know if she was pressured to keep me or if it was a snap decision or something, but she kept me, and then . . . [How to put it. It was so normal for him, but he knows abstractly it shouldn't have been.] I suppose she kept on living as though she hadn't? She'd leave for a long time to go live how she deserved to. She'd say she was young, so she wasn't going to be . . . tied to some kid.
[He frowns slightly, trying to remember the exact words. Dozens of individual instances blur together to form a mass of dismissal. They're so hard to separate from one another.]
The first thing I remember is being by myself in the apartment, looking for her. It's . . . it was always dirty, and there wasn't a lot of food. [And he couldn't cook, of course; but he doesn't say that. Again, it doesn't occur to him.] I tried to save things sometimes. Food that wouldn't go bad.
cw child neglect/abuse, internalized racism, food shortage
[He thinks about saying you don't have to, but the thing is . . . even if he did, he doesn't think it would make a difference. There's something conscious about the way Steve is approaching the situation, but if he tried to stop, it would continue by default. In everything, he tries to make the world around him better, gentler, easier to cope with.]
[Another tiny marvel. So Giorno doesn't say anything. He's just quietly, warmly grateful.]
[There's a paw in his face, then. Hand, paw, something. He's surprised, simply because Steve has seemed self-conscious about the change so far, but he doesn't hesitate to take it in his own, or to examine it with fascination. It doesn't occur to him that that might be strange, curious as he is; instead he pokes at the fur between the fingers, runs his thumb carefully across the padded palm. And then he smiles, because — it is warm, and it's still Steve, of course. Takes it in his own properly and feels a little more secure. Another one of a dozen little things Steve is doing for him to make this easier.]
Hm. He sounds like a pain.
[It comes out more self-deprecating than he intends or realizes. It's just what he thinks. Squeezing lightly on Steve's hand, he glances skyward for a moment. It really is a nice day for all of this, which might be ironic.]
. . . So I'm not Italian, [he offers, seemingly apropos of nothing, looking back at Steve with a general air of sarcastic ta-da.] The name I had in that other place is my real — my birth name. My father was . . . it's complicated [and he doesn't want to get into it right now], so let's say European. My mother was Japanese. I looked a lot more like her when I was younger.
[Though as ever, Haruno is the key — or maybe cipher is a better word. When seen through the lens of Haruno, he can't entirely hide between the facade he's built for himself. He can't just be Giorno, no questions asked. As much as he looks like his fathers, he looks like his mother, too. That's part of why he hates people knowing as much as he does. There's no undoing it. It's uncomfortable.]
[Then again, it's . . . of all the things he's worried about sharing, that's the least of them. The worst is ahead. Unconsciously, he squeezes Steve's hand again, just to feel the pressure.]
She didn't want me. She didn't want kids at all. I don't know if she was pressured to keep me or if it was a snap decision or something, but she kept me, and then . . . [How to put it. It was so normal for him, but he knows abstractly it shouldn't have been.] I suppose she kept on living as though she hadn't? She'd leave for a long time to go live how she deserved to. She'd say she was young, so she wasn't going to be . . . tied to some kid.
[He frowns slightly, trying to remember the exact words. Dozens of individual instances blur together to form a mass of dismissal. They're so hard to separate from one another.]
The first thing I remember is being by myself in the apartment, looking for her. It's . . . it was always dirty, and there wasn't a lot of food. [And he couldn't cook, of course; but he doesn't say that. Again, it doesn't occur to him.] I tried to save things sometimes. Food that wouldn't go bad.