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It's such a long time, isn't it? Longer than I've been alive.
[He's quiet for a moment, watching Chariot eat, and then leans towards him again with a grin.]
Pami pami — you know, my Gold Experience has been with me a long time, but not forever. Did I tell you that?
[He's quiet for a moment, watching Chariot eat, and then leans towards him again with a grin.]
Pami pami — you know, my Gold Experience has been with me a long time, but not forever. Did I tell you that?
No.
[Chariot leans into him, his yellow eyes staring, curious and pleased at the proximity. The pudding is all gone, thankfully, and so he can focus his entire attention on Giorno.]
When did you get him?
[Chariot leans into him, his yellow eyes staring, curious and pleased at the proximity. The pudding is all gone, thankfully, and so he can focus his entire attention on Giorno.]
When did you get him?
Mm . . . I was about six. It's a good story, I suppose.
[He puts his other hand on top of Chariot's and hums quietly for a moment, just thinking about it.]
I was walking home, and I found a man hurt. He was afraid . . . and there were people looking for him. I didn't like the look of them, or the way they walked — they looked like men who would hurt people weaker than themselves. So when they asked me if I'd seen that man, I said no, I hadn't seen anyone like that.
And my Gold Experience came to me and grew grasses up over him, so that no one would find him until I came back to make sure he was safe.
[He puts his other hand on top of Chariot's and hums quietly for a moment, just thinking about it.]
I was walking home, and I found a man hurt. He was afraid . . . and there were people looking for him. I didn't like the look of them, or the way they walked — they looked like men who would hurt people weaker than themselves. So when they asked me if I'd seen that man, I said no, I hadn't seen anyone like that.
And my Gold Experience came to me and grew grasses up over him, so that no one would find him until I came back to make sure he was safe.
[Oh. Pami, Chariot echoes, and Polnareff smiles.]
You protected him, and that's why he came out.
[And isn't that an indication of character. The sort of person who would protect someone hurt, just because they seemed to need it; precisely the same sort of person who would take something so corrupt as the mafia and try to make it a force for good.]
They're pretty similar, Chariot and Gold Experience. Protectors, hm?
You protected him, and that's why he came out.
[And isn't that an indication of character. The sort of person who would protect someone hurt, just because they seemed to need it; precisely the same sort of person who would take something so corrupt as the mafia and try to make it a force for good.]
They're pretty similar, Chariot and Gold Experience. Protectors, hm?
Edited 2016-04-03 20:50 (UTC)
Of course, yes! It would be mean not to. I just have the cages for convenience of getting them back here for study. I miiiight keep some tadpoles, if we find any, but only until they grow a bit more! It's not an intrusive experiment at all.
So, are you in?
So, are you in?
Oh.
[It's clear he hasn't thought about it in quite those terms before, and equally clear that doing so overwhelms him a little. That he and Polnareff could be in any way alike . . . He loves his Gold Experience, some parts more than others but all of him at least a little bit. But he always thinks of Polnareff as a hero, a knight in shining armor, and that is not what he is.]
[A protector, though. Isn't he that? Not in the same way that Bruno is, but that's all he wants, to take care of the people who can't take care of themselves.]
[He smiles softly at Polnareff and nods, a little shy.]
I suppose they are.
[It's clear he hasn't thought about it in quite those terms before, and equally clear that doing so overwhelms him a little. That he and Polnareff could be in any way alike . . . He loves his Gold Experience, some parts more than others but all of him at least a little bit. But he always thinks of Polnareff as a hero, a knight in shining armor, and that is not what he is.]
[A protector, though. Isn't he that? Not in the same way that Bruno is, but that's all he wants, to take care of the people who can't take care of themselves.]
[He smiles softly at Polnareff and nods, a little shy.]
I suppose they are.
[There's that shyness again, odd and a little out of place. Surely Polnareff could make no one shy or uncomfortable; what on earth is there to be nervous about?]
Only you can make things come to life-- not that Chariot isn't great, because he is, but that's amazing.
[Chariot scoots closer to Giorno, bending so he can peer at him, eyes wide and entreating. No more uncertainty, please.]
Only you can make things come to life-- not that Chariot isn't great, because he is, but that's amazing.
[Chariot scoots closer to Giorno, bending so he can peer at him, eyes wide and entreating. No more uncertainty, please.]
Nooo, no, he's too skinny, he's too little--
[He keeps him close, though, laughing as he does.]
He needs to be bigger to impress the lady bears!
[He keeps him close, though, laughing as he does.]
He needs to be bigger to impress the lady bears!
[How long has Giorno been waiting for the other shoe to drop?
Since Polnareff got here, most likely. Waiting and watching, knowing the inevitable was coming. Knowing that Polnareff would eventually find out and-- what? Surely they've gone over this in the future; surely Giorno knows that Polnareff has already accepted this fact. But--
He thinks about that shy expression, eyes big and face looking far too young. There'd been no question, no question for assurance-- but he'd looked so worried that Polnareff might not like his Stand. And perhaps this is along the same lines: that while a Polnareff in the future has accepted him, this one, younger, different, more impulsive and less wise, might not.
Well. He'd learn soon enough. He knocks at his door a day after he and Jotaro had talked-- unfair, maybe, to make Giorno wait another day, but he'd needed the time to clear his head. He still smells of too many cigarettes, but he can't help that; there's only so many ways he can calm down. It's late, but not so late that he thinks there's any chance his don is asleep.]
Giorno?
Since Polnareff got here, most likely. Waiting and watching, knowing the inevitable was coming. Knowing that Polnareff would eventually find out and-- what? Surely they've gone over this in the future; surely Giorno knows that Polnareff has already accepted this fact. But--
He thinks about that shy expression, eyes big and face looking far too young. There'd been no question, no question for assurance-- but he'd looked so worried that Polnareff might not like his Stand. And perhaps this is along the same lines: that while a Polnareff in the future has accepted him, this one, younger, different, more impulsive and less wise, might not.
Well. He'd learn soon enough. He knocks at his door a day after he and Jotaro had talked-- unfair, maybe, to make Giorno wait another day, but he'd needed the time to clear his head. He still smells of too many cigarettes, but he can't help that; there's only so many ways he can calm down. It's late, but not so late that he thinks there's any chance his don is asleep.]
Giorno?
[What he thinks first and foremost when he opens the door is that Polnareff smells like Jotaro. Jotaro on a hard day, moreover; Jotaro after chainsmoking his way through half a pack of cigarettes, Jotaro with his eyes averted and his cap pulled low, Jotaro hiding behind his collar, Jotaro with his voice as low and quiet as he can manage. Jotaro when he's sad.]
[Scent makes powerful emotional connections. This scent engenders sorrow, but also empathy, the desire to reach for the sadness of his famiglia and smother it in his clenched fist, heal it away until the nicotine in the air is the scent of crocuses.]
[But it's not Jotaro standing in his doorway, looking at him as he cranes his neck in the process of pulling his hair down. It's not Jotaro; it's Polnareff.]
[(He looks more like Dio with his hair down. More still when his hair is down in the wind, with Gold Experience out behind him, ready and willing to fight. But even now, there's something there.)]
. . . Are you all right?
[Soft, tentative, but not afraid. Just a little worried, that's all. He turns from the mirror, expression uncertain.]
Come here, come in.
[Scent makes powerful emotional connections. This scent engenders sorrow, but also empathy, the desire to reach for the sadness of his famiglia and smother it in his clenched fist, heal it away until the nicotine in the air is the scent of crocuses.]
[But it's not Jotaro standing in his doorway, looking at him as he cranes his neck in the process of pulling his hair down. It's not Jotaro; it's Polnareff.]
[(He looks more like Dio with his hair down. More still when his hair is down in the wind, with Gold Experience out behind him, ready and willing to fight. But even now, there's something there.)]
. . . Are you all right?
[Soft, tentative, but not afraid. Just a little worried, that's all. He turns from the mirror, expression uncertain.]
Come here, come in.
Yeah.
[He can see it now, in the curve of his smile, the way his hair tumbles around his head. Soft, softer than Dio ever was-- but the similarities are there, blatant now that he knows what to look for. But whereas Dio's face was always contorted-- in rage, in smug superiority, in awful desperate triumph-- Giorno's never looks like that.]
Nothing's about to attack.
[Not that he minds Gold Experience out and about-- but this isn't that kind of wrong. Just a talk, long overdue.
Polnareff sits-- not the easy sprawl he'd collapsed in three weeks ago, but tighter, legs curled under him. In that moment, he looks more like the man he'll become in thirteen years-- tired and somber, ready to deal with whatever crisis comes up next.]
Come sit.
[They need to be equals for this.]
[He can see it now, in the curve of his smile, the way his hair tumbles around his head. Soft, softer than Dio ever was-- but the similarities are there, blatant now that he knows what to look for. But whereas Dio's face was always contorted-- in rage, in smug superiority, in awful desperate triumph-- Giorno's never looks like that.]
Nothing's about to attack.
[Not that he minds Gold Experience out and about-- but this isn't that kind of wrong. Just a talk, long overdue.
Polnareff sits-- not the easy sprawl he'd collapsed in three weeks ago, but tighter, legs curled under him. In that moment, he looks more like the man he'll become in thirteen years-- tired and somber, ready to deal with whatever crisis comes up next.]
Come sit.
[They need to be equals for this.]
Edited 2016-04-04 22:07 (UTC)
[Oh.]
[Nothing's about to attack, but something bad has clearly happened. The wariness with which he conducts the vast majority of his relationships blooms in him, readying him to assess the situation in an instant before he moves. Polnareff is easy to read, at least. Easier even than Kakyoin and Jotaro, who are very easy indeed.]
[He isn't angry. Giorno is pretty sure of that. If he were angry, he would have come in differently, moved differently, sit differently. He would have phrased his statement as an order, not a request. He would have stood, not sat — used his height to his advantage.]
[So, not angry. Just sad. Tired.]
[After a brief moment, he obeys, crosses the floor and sits next to Polnareff on the bed. He doesn't like this look on his consigliere, the one that reminds him of the man who's lost his Chariot, his fighting spirit. He feels unbalanced, confused, and tucks himself in as small as he can manage.]
Please tell me what's wrong.
[Nothing's about to attack, but something bad has clearly happened. The wariness with which he conducts the vast majority of his relationships blooms in him, readying him to assess the situation in an instant before he moves. Polnareff is easy to read, at least. Easier even than Kakyoin and Jotaro, who are very easy indeed.]
[He isn't angry. Giorno is pretty sure of that. If he were angry, he would have come in differently, moved differently, sit differently. He would have phrased his statement as an order, not a request. He would have stood, not sat — used his height to his advantage.]
[So, not angry. Just sad. Tired.]
[After a brief moment, he obeys, crosses the floor and sits next to Polnareff on the bed. He doesn't like this look on his consigliere, the one that reminds him of the man who's lost his Chariot, his fighting spirit. He feels unbalanced, confused, and tucks himself in as small as he can manage.]
Please tell me what's wrong.
[It was easy, last night, to be upset with Giorno. To think why didn't you tell me, to rail against the fact that he is family and yet not. But now-- faced with this boy, this terribly empathetic child, his Giorno-- how can he be upset?
He really does look like his father. Polnareff doesn't know how he didn't see it before, but maybe he didn't want to see it.]
There's . . . I think it's three months, maybe more, of my life that I can't remember.
[He keeps his gaze steady on Giorno.]
I get flashes, sometimes, if I try hard to remember-- and the flashes are myself doing things I'd never want to do. Luring people to their deaths, charming them into following me and then leaving them to die-- or just attacking, cutting down anyone who came too close, who figured out too much or didn't want to cooperate.
[He thinks. Maybe. Maybe, maybe not, and the worst part is he'll never actually know.]
Dio . . . I told him my first day here that I'm one of his murderers. Because I'm proud of it, and because I'd do it again in half a second, if I found him here grown. Because there's three months of my life I can't remember, and that's his fault. But--
[A moment's pause.]
Did you think I'd hate you, if I found out you were his son?
He really does look like his father. Polnareff doesn't know how he didn't see it before, but maybe he didn't want to see it.]
There's . . . I think it's three months, maybe more, of my life that I can't remember.
[He keeps his gaze steady on Giorno.]
I get flashes, sometimes, if I try hard to remember-- and the flashes are myself doing things I'd never want to do. Luring people to their deaths, charming them into following me and then leaving them to die-- or just attacking, cutting down anyone who came too close, who figured out too much or didn't want to cooperate.
[He thinks. Maybe. Maybe, maybe not, and the worst part is he'll never actually know.]
Dio . . . I told him my first day here that I'm one of his murderers. Because I'm proud of it, and because I'd do it again in half a second, if I found him here grown. Because there's three months of my life I can't remember, and that's his fault. But--
[A moment's pause.]
Did you think I'd hate you, if I found out you were his son?
[Oh. That's . . . what it is, then.]
[He feels ice in his veins, just for a moment, but it's chased quickly by relief. There's a weight gone. And that would be why he smells like Jotaro — god, how much he loves Jotaro right now, saving him from his own promises, his own beautiful and burdensome conflicting loyalties. It seems sometimes like he can't win, and then Jotaro clutches out a win for him anyway.]
[He'll have to talk to Dio. Dio will be upset, afraid. Mostly afraid. But now he has to atone for his half-truths, which in the end are the same as lies.]
[He looks down at his hands.]
Mm. The thought crossed my mind.
. . . I used to be good at it. Being hated. I still am, with some people; it doesn't touch me, with some people, it doesn't affect me, it doesn't frighten me, it doesn't make me sad. But being loved the way people love me here, it's made me weaker.
[Weakness is not always bad. But in this . . . he is someone whose family legacy is hatred. So he must be used to being hated if he's to survive.]
[Blue eyes blink up at Polnareff, his gaze steady and clear.]
I'm sorry. You can ask me whatever you want, now. If you want. Or if you want to . . . not have anything to do with me for a while, I'd understand that.
[He feels ice in his veins, just for a moment, but it's chased quickly by relief. There's a weight gone. And that would be why he smells like Jotaro — god, how much he loves Jotaro right now, saving him from his own promises, his own beautiful and burdensome conflicting loyalties. It seems sometimes like he can't win, and then Jotaro clutches out a win for him anyway.]
[He'll have to talk to Dio. Dio will be upset, afraid. Mostly afraid. But now he has to atone for his half-truths, which in the end are the same as lies.]
[He looks down at his hands.]
Mm. The thought crossed my mind.
. . . I used to be good at it. Being hated. I still am, with some people; it doesn't touch me, with some people, it doesn't affect me, it doesn't frighten me, it doesn't make me sad. But being loved the way people love me here, it's made me weaker.
[Weakness is not always bad. But in this . . . he is someone whose family legacy is hatred. So he must be used to being hated if he's to survive.]
[Blue eyes blink up at Polnareff, his gaze steady and clear.]
I'm sorry. You can ask me whatever you want, now. If you want. Or if you want to . . . not have anything to do with me for a while, I'd understand that.
Edited 2016-04-04 22:33 (UTC)
[It would be a lie to say he hadn't considered it. That to see Giorno-- Dio's legacy, Dio's mouth, Dio's hair, Dio, manifested in another-- would be too much for a while. But sitting here, facing him-- it's easy. It's not Dio, but simply Giorno-- a person unto himself, radiating none of the menace or terror his father had.]
You . . . must be been about five, when we killed him. And then I came along ten years later, your father's killer, and somehow became important to you. What happened? Did you know, when he died-- did you know him at all?
[The questions are steady, not softened at all-- but he makes no move to leave.]
You . . . must be been about five, when we killed him. And then I came along ten years later, your father's killer, and somehow became important to you. What happened? Did you know, when he died-- did you know him at all?
[The questions are steady, not softened at all-- but he makes no move to leave.]
[That's that question answered, then — and another brought up. It's a difficult one, but all of the potential questions are difficult. Nothing about Dio is ever easy. Nothing about any of their lives is ever easy, except a few sparse details in the aftermath: coffee on the beach on Sundays with Trish, stolen moments with Mista, the feeling of the sun haloing his hair and beating warm on a turtle shell.]
[He doesn't look away. The hard questions are the ones that are most important to answer; this is something he knows.]
I didn't know him. I never met him. Even my mother only met him once.
[No, he doesn't look away, but he retreats, just a little, the light behind his eyes flickering into something more sedate and detached. He hates talking about Haruno, even now — except to Kakyoin, who understands, who was Haruno in his own way back when he was Tenmei.]
I don't really know what he did to her. She didn't love him, she wasn't devoted to him the way I know some people were. My mother is the sort of person who wanted what she wanted and didn't mind much about the consequences — so I suppose in that way they weren't so different, my mother and my father.
All I knew of him up until a certain point was what she told me. What he looked and acted like, and what he said she had to do. I still don't know why he did it. I wonder sometimes if it was a whim or if it was something about her that told him that any child of hers would . . .
[He pauses, and begins to unpin his curls, slowly and carefully.]
Would form in a crucible. Just like he did. If he wanted to see what would happen with his child, from that body, and this woman . . .
There's no way to know. But he told her to have the child, and keep it, and if she didn't he'd know.
I was her curse, standing in her way. No fun.
[It almost sounds like he's quoting someone. He shrugs.]
She didn't hate him or anything like that. But we never knew him. She wasn't interested in knowing him, or knowing any man like that, until later. So I grew up in Japan for a while until she met my stepfather, and then we moved to Italy and she changed my name, and she never talked to me about him again unless we were home together alone, which was hardly ever. Just because she got married didn't mean she wanted to be around me any more than before. She'd go out for days at a time . . . and my stepfather would be angry.
That's not the point.
[He clears his throat.]
I had a photograph, and I had stories. When I left home — I was just turning fourteen — I went looking for as many stories as I could find about him. There weren't many. But what I knew, I tried to sift out the truth as well as I could, and I treated most of it as a cautionary tale. The kind of leader I wanted not to be.
[And then he's quiet for a moment, and his gaze drifts past Polnareff's face to the far wall; his fingers come up to brush his ear, running along the torn cartilage. He licks his lips.]
But there was always a hope . . . when I was so young. Especially when I was sick, and I didn't know where she was. I thought, maybe he wanted me because he thought I could be something special. Maybe someday he'd come and find me, and take me away. Like in a fairy tale.
. . . I got over it. Life isn't like that.
[Happy endings don't exist, after all.]
[He doesn't look away. The hard questions are the ones that are most important to answer; this is something he knows.]
I didn't know him. I never met him. Even my mother only met him once.
[No, he doesn't look away, but he retreats, just a little, the light behind his eyes flickering into something more sedate and detached. He hates talking about Haruno, even now — except to Kakyoin, who understands, who was Haruno in his own way back when he was Tenmei.]
I don't really know what he did to her. She didn't love him, she wasn't devoted to him the way I know some people were. My mother is the sort of person who wanted what she wanted and didn't mind much about the consequences — so I suppose in that way they weren't so different, my mother and my father.
All I knew of him up until a certain point was what she told me. What he looked and acted like, and what he said she had to do. I still don't know why he did it. I wonder sometimes if it was a whim or if it was something about her that told him that any child of hers would . . .
[He pauses, and begins to unpin his curls, slowly and carefully.]
Would form in a crucible. Just like he did. If he wanted to see what would happen with his child, from that body, and this woman . . .
There's no way to know. But he told her to have the child, and keep it, and if she didn't he'd know.
I was her curse, standing in her way. No fun.
[It almost sounds like he's quoting someone. He shrugs.]
She didn't hate him or anything like that. But we never knew him. She wasn't interested in knowing him, or knowing any man like that, until later. So I grew up in Japan for a while until she met my stepfather, and then we moved to Italy and she changed my name, and she never talked to me about him again unless we were home together alone, which was hardly ever. Just because she got married didn't mean she wanted to be around me any more than before. She'd go out for days at a time . . . and my stepfather would be angry.
That's not the point.
[He clears his throat.]
I had a photograph, and I had stories. When I left home — I was just turning fourteen — I went looking for as many stories as I could find about him. There weren't many. But what I knew, I tried to sift out the truth as well as I could, and I treated most of it as a cautionary tale. The kind of leader I wanted not to be.
[And then he's quiet for a moment, and his gaze drifts past Polnareff's face to the far wall; his fingers come up to brush his ear, running along the torn cartilage. He licks his lips.]
But there was always a hope . . . when I was so young. Especially when I was sick, and I didn't know where she was. I thought, maybe he wanted me because he thought I could be something special. Maybe someday he'd come and find me, and take me away. Like in a fairy tale.
. . . I got over it. Life isn't like that.
[Happy endings don't exist, after all.]
[It doesn't fit in with the narrative he'd started to build for himself. Dio does not get to be something so human as a father; he doesn't get to let a woman escape, knowing she bore his child. It's an act of mercy, or maybe just an experiment-- but it sits badly in Polnareff's mind.
There are things he wants to ask. What was your name before, and what did your stepfather do-- because he can hear the words unspoken, knows how to fill in the blanks. And there's anger, too, hot and too late, because--
Giorno, age five, too small to understand, abused and neglected and just another life that Dio had ruined by coming near. They were around. They could have saved him, if they'd known. If they'd looked around a bit more, investigated more deeply, swept through Dio's mansion more thoroughly. Go home and rest, Jotaro had said; they'd come back later and go through the remains of the mansion. Jotaro and Joseph had wanted to see Holly; he'd wanted to go back to France. He'd wanted it all to be over. But if he hadn't--
He's not blaming himself, because there's nothing he's done that he ought to take blame for. But there's-- regret, maybe. If only you'd known, and he would have taken Giorno in an instant. Swept in and made it right, like the knight he tries so hard to be.
Very gently, he reaches out, two fingers brushing against Giorno's cheek.]
I didn't understand, when Jotaro told me to get toys. I thought you'd hate it, that a seventeen year old would want things like-- god, I don't know. For teenagers. For adults. But--
[God, he wants to make this right.]
Jotaro acted-- surprised, I think, that I considered him family. That he was the one I'd call to first, but I told him-- who else is there? I don't have any blood relatives, but I'm not alone-- and neither are you. Blood doesn't mean shit around here-- you know that, right?
There are things he wants to ask. What was your name before, and what did your stepfather do-- because he can hear the words unspoken, knows how to fill in the blanks. And there's anger, too, hot and too late, because--
Giorno, age five, too small to understand, abused and neglected and just another life that Dio had ruined by coming near. They were around. They could have saved him, if they'd known. If they'd looked around a bit more, investigated more deeply, swept through Dio's mansion more thoroughly. Go home and rest, Jotaro had said; they'd come back later and go through the remains of the mansion. Jotaro and Joseph had wanted to see Holly; he'd wanted to go back to France. He'd wanted it all to be over. But if he hadn't--
He's not blaming himself, because there's nothing he's done that he ought to take blame for. But there's-- regret, maybe. If only you'd known, and he would have taken Giorno in an instant. Swept in and made it right, like the knight he tries so hard to be.
Very gently, he reaches out, two fingers brushing against Giorno's cheek.]
I didn't understand, when Jotaro told me to get toys. I thought you'd hate it, that a seventeen year old would want things like-- god, I don't know. For teenagers. For adults. But--
[God, he wants to make this right.]
Jotaro acted-- surprised, I think, that I considered him family. That he was the one I'd call to first, but I told him-- who else is there? I don't have any blood relatives, but I'm not alone-- and neither are you. Blood doesn't mean shit around here-- you know that, right?
[Polnareff's fingers brush his cheek — and it's not that, it's the words, those are what make him flinch away.]
Don't. Don't, don't do that, don't say that. It's not true.
[It's not. Blood matters. Everything else matters, too, but that doesn't make legacy meaningless.]
[Now he looks away, at the opposite wall, reaches his hand out sideways until the tips of his fingers touch the bear's feet where it rests against his pillow. It's been a comfort to him, in a way that would embarrass someone who knew to be embarrassed about that. But Giorno doesn't.]
I understand what you're trying to do. Everyone tries to do that, especially at the beginning when they first find out. "Just because you're Dio's son doesn't make you a bad person, don't worry, you're not like him at all. You're good, you're a good person, I wouldn't believe you were the child of a monster if you hadn't told me."
That's not true.
[His fingers clench into fists, one on his lap and one on the bedspread. God, he never knows how to explain this, it seems so simple in his head and so bafflingly complicated to everyone else —]
When I said I treated him as a cautionary tale, I meant it. There are things he did that I would never do. But there were things he did that he simply did poorly. He was a bad leader. He was sloppy. He let emotion get the better of him, and that's why he lost.
We were both the same children. Just alike. One pushed one way, the other a different way. Some of it was chance and luck, but some of it was blood. And him and I — ambition comes from somewhere. You must know. The urge for power comes from the need to never be powerless again. Ambition is born from fear.
[Now he looks at Polnareff again, and his eyes are steel even though he smells like flowers and looks like a boy carved out of stone and given life. He doesn't look angry. He doesn't look like he has enough feeling in him to be angry.]
I'm not a bad person. I'm not a good person, either. I want things to be how I want them — people, too — and I'm willing to go quite a long way to make that happen. I'm a liar. I'm manipulative. I'm shockingly vain. And I'm not ashamed of any of that. It's who I am. But there's no reason to act as though those parts of me don't come from somewhere, just the same way the brighter parts of me don't come from somewhere, too.
I'm my fathers' son. Both of them. I want none of that erased. I want to be known for what I am, not just the parts of me that people want to see.
Don't. Don't, don't do that, don't say that. It's not true.
[It's not. Blood matters. Everything else matters, too, but that doesn't make legacy meaningless.]
[Now he looks away, at the opposite wall, reaches his hand out sideways until the tips of his fingers touch the bear's feet where it rests against his pillow. It's been a comfort to him, in a way that would embarrass someone who knew to be embarrassed about that. But Giorno doesn't.]
I understand what you're trying to do. Everyone tries to do that, especially at the beginning when they first find out. "Just because you're Dio's son doesn't make you a bad person, don't worry, you're not like him at all. You're good, you're a good person, I wouldn't believe you were the child of a monster if you hadn't told me."
That's not true.
[His fingers clench into fists, one on his lap and one on the bedspread. God, he never knows how to explain this, it seems so simple in his head and so bafflingly complicated to everyone else —]
When I said I treated him as a cautionary tale, I meant it. There are things he did that I would never do. But there were things he did that he simply did poorly. He was a bad leader. He was sloppy. He let emotion get the better of him, and that's why he lost.
We were both the same children. Just alike. One pushed one way, the other a different way. Some of it was chance and luck, but some of it was blood. And him and I — ambition comes from somewhere. You must know. The urge for power comes from the need to never be powerless again. Ambition is born from fear.
[Now he looks at Polnareff again, and his eyes are steel even though he smells like flowers and looks like a boy carved out of stone and given life. He doesn't look angry. He doesn't look like he has enough feeling in him to be angry.]
I'm not a bad person. I'm not a good person, either. I want things to be how I want them — people, too — and I'm willing to go quite a long way to make that happen. I'm a liar. I'm manipulative. I'm shockingly vain. And I'm not ashamed of any of that. It's who I am. But there's no reason to act as though those parts of me don't come from somewhere, just the same way the brighter parts of me don't come from somewhere, too.
I'm my fathers' son. Both of them. I want none of that erased. I want to be known for what I am, not just the parts of me that people want to see.
[No, he thinks again. No, because nothing Dio ever was or did was worthy of claiming. His ambition was to see the world in flames, to establish order over a world just to say he could; his manipulation was charm or slavery, depending on what would be faster. He took people and gave them what they wanted-- friendship, or money, or power, or anything at all-- and then when they were of no more use, he threw them away. And those were the ones who were sentient-- sometimes he very simply enslaved them, because it was far easier.
He has to bite back his answer, because he knows it wouldn't go over well. But the frustration is clearly there-- and he can never bite his thoughts back entirely, not ever, it's his worst trait--]
I've never seen it. And maybe I will, but I spend ages with Dio-- three months with him-- and I still haven't seen him in you. What he does, what he did-- you might be a gangster, and I know that's bloody work, but I can't imagine myself working with you if I had an inkling you were anything like him.
He has to bite back his answer, because he knows it wouldn't go over well. But the frustration is clearly there-- and he can never bite his thoughts back entirely, not ever, it's his worst trait--]
I've never seen it. And maybe I will, but I spend ages with Dio-- three months with him-- and I still haven't seen him in you. What he does, what he did-- you might be a gangster, and I know that's bloody work, but I can't imagine myself working with you if I had an inkling you were anything like him.
[. . . He's sad.]
[He realizes this too slowly. Usually he's better at recognizing his own emotion and putting a name to it than this. But it's always in situations like this one, when he's too close, that he fails to see what's right in front of him until it's too late.]
[He's sad now, because he misses his Polnareff. His consigliere, who sees him, who knows him. The man before him now is someone he loves very much, but not the same. And maybe that's for the best — it probably is, because his consigliere is a broken, sad, dead man. But still he misses him with all his heart.]
[There are other people he misses in this moment. Kakyoin, who is just down the hall, probably. Mista, who isn't. Dio, which is sort of awful of him, considering, but he does miss Dio, wants to go find him and make sure he's asleep and safe and pet his hair out of his face so it doesn't itch him.]
[He wants to cry, or disappear, or push the issue, or scream. But he just nods instead, and resolves to remain unseen.]
Even so. It matters. If it didn't matter, this conversation wouldn't be happening. Things would be different, very different, with everyone in this house.
Except Bruno, I suppose. He wouldn't think of me any differently either way.
[He realizes this too slowly. Usually he's better at recognizing his own emotion and putting a name to it than this. But it's always in situations like this one, when he's too close, that he fails to see what's right in front of him until it's too late.]
[He's sad now, because he misses his Polnareff. His consigliere, who sees him, who knows him. The man before him now is someone he loves very much, but not the same. And maybe that's for the best — it probably is, because his consigliere is a broken, sad, dead man. But still he misses him with all his heart.]
[There are other people he misses in this moment. Kakyoin, who is just down the hall, probably. Mista, who isn't. Dio, which is sort of awful of him, considering, but he does miss Dio, wants to go find him and make sure he's asleep and safe and pet his hair out of his face so it doesn't itch him.]
[He wants to cry, or disappear, or push the issue, or scream. But he just nods instead, and resolves to remain unseen.]
Even so. It matters. If it didn't matter, this conversation wouldn't be happening. Things would be different, very different, with everyone in this house.
Except Bruno, I suppose. He wouldn't think of me any differently either way.
[He's missed something, he knows. Something he shouldn't have missed, but he doesn't know what, not yet. But he'd expected an argument, a fight-- no you aren't, yes I am, but there's . . . nothing. Just a slight nod, a cool acceptance, which means: this is not worth arguing. He won, not because he convinced Giorno, but because Giorno is so convinced of his rightness that doesn't think the point worth arguing.
The truth is, he cannot imagine Giorno as a don. He can't even imagine him fighting, not really-- Gold Experience is a delight, but how can you weaponize life? He can't imagine this young boy killing anyone, and yet he must have-- he has, Diavolo, and he knows it, but he doesn't know it. He accepts it factually, but he cannot imagine it, cannot think of Giorno, bloody and triumphant.]
Show me.
[He says it roughly, because he doesn't want it, he doesn't want to see this--]
Or tell me. Whatever. You say you're like him? How. Because I look at you, and I see--
[He shakes his head.]
Tell me.
The truth is, he cannot imagine Giorno as a don. He can't even imagine him fighting, not really-- Gold Experience is a delight, but how can you weaponize life? He can't imagine this young boy killing anyone, and yet he must have-- he has, Diavolo, and he knows it, but he doesn't know it. He accepts it factually, but he cannot imagine it, cannot think of Giorno, bloody and triumphant.]
Show me.
[He says it roughly, because he doesn't want it, he doesn't want to see this--]
Or tell me. Whatever. You say you're like him? How. Because I look at you, and I see--
[He shakes his head.]
Tell me.
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