[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.]
[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.]
[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.]
[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 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.
[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.]
[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.
[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?
[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.
[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 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 really doesn't. He's not just trying to be stubborn; he doesn't comprehend it, why Polnareff, who was so much happier living in ignorance, is pushing this now even though he's let it drop. His perfectly-shaped, slightly-sharp nails graze over the bear's ankle, and he looks at Polnareff with the most minute of frowns.]
Whatever it is you see, it makes you happy. Why do you want to see something that would make you sad?
[He says it too roughly, but Giorno isn't trying to be passive-aggressive-- and so he takes in a breath and sighs, sits back. Tugs his cigarettes out of his pocket and puts one in his mouth, though he waits for Giorno's go-ahead before he lights up.]
The point is to know you. To-- to be a person you can rely on. I'm not-- who you know. I know I'm not. I'm not good at advice and I don't know you, not like you know me. But I want to. And this is part of it.
[He waves his hand vaguely. It doesn't matter if Polnareff smokes. Bruno might give him an earful about it later, but it doesn't bother him.]
[Besides, it's something to look at, to think about. He watches Polnareff light up and sighs quietly, trying to figure out how to explain.]
I would consume people if there was no one there to stop me. Not because I want to hurt people, so maybe that's enough for you to think that it's different. But back home, I pull people into my orbit until all they want to do is give me exactly what I want. I surround myself with people who help me attend to myself so that I don't become what Dio was, but the potential is there.
That's part of your job. Yours and Mista's and Trish's jobs. To keep me human. Because if I wanted to, I could reach out and take anything I wanted, and I know that.
Good intentions don't make me any less dangerous. That's part of it.
The other part is that I'm just . . . not like Jotaro. Not like Jotaro, or like Jonathan, who are good people who must occasionally make the decision to eliminate someone for the greater good. I'm not like Dio, either, who killed people simply because they get in his way. But I'm more like him than I am like Jotaro.
[He lights up, inhaling eagerly. He really needs to cut back, he's smoked half a pack already-- but it's been a stressful few days.]
No. I just know he dies. That he was the don before you, that he was . . . corrupt, in some ways, that you don't want to be.
[The future is hazy and vague, and that's all right-- he doesn't need to know all the details. But it's starting to come into focus a little more. I would consume people, and what an apt word, because isn't that what Dio did? And he would still argue the point that Giorno isn't like that, except for what he adds next: all they want to do is give me exactly what I want.
The last few weeks . . . well. Hadn't he fallen for Giorno, in his own way? He's known him for less than a month, and yet he's been focused entirely on making him smile, making him happy, because he'd found him nothing less than charming. And it isn't that Polnareff thinks it's a false charm, or a manipulation-- he wouldn't be here if he thought Giorno was secretly some spoilt brat, manipulating people to get attention and praise. But . . .
He was. He was an awful man. Trish's father — he wanted to kill her. That's why we picked her up in the first place; he said he wanted us to guard her, when really he wanted us to kill her later. He wanted the last loose end to his identity tied up, so no one would ever knock him off his throne. So no one would ever be able to stop him from hurting all of the small, broken people he could get his hands on.
[Which is another point. When it all started, right at the beginning, none of them meant anything to him. He didn't view them as friends, barely even as people. As allies, perhaps; pawns, if not that. Trish — an obstacle, then a crowbar. Only later a friend, famiglia. He came to love all of his people in their own startlingly bright moments.]
[But that isn't something he wants to share. Not right now, anyway.]
I know how to kill people with my hands, you know. I'm not physically very strong, but I haven't needed to be past a certain point, because I'm clever. I know how to slit a man's throat in one economical movement. Hell, Mista could've shot Diavolo if I'd maneuvered the situation so that he had the opportunity. Which I could've.
But I didn't. Because Diavolo's greatest fear was death, and I wanted to torture him.
There's something Gold Experience can do that I haven't told you yet. It's called Reset. It means that he can set any action back to zero, no matter what it is, and allow it to start again. It also means I can create loops if I want to — of action, not time.
I started to kill Diavolo, and then I reset him, so that he'll die forever and ever, over and over and over again, until the world ends.
[He listens. He's not very good at listening sometimes, but this is important-- and so he bites on his cigarette, inhales and exhales too deeply, and listens.
He doesn't know if he could think of a worse hell. Dying, and never having relief or rest-- just to relieve those last agonizing moments, over and over, caught in the worst kind of pain, tortured and yet never being allowed any kind of relief. Polnareff's been close enough to death to know that kind of pain; he remembers the faltering dimness of his vision, the roaring terror in his brain, the thought that at least it will all be over soon.
Would he have done that to Dio, if he'd had the ability? Probably. But it would have haunted him, eaten at his mind no matter what-- and yet Giorno tells him this steadily, uneffected by anything approaching guilt.
He can't say I take it back, because he will always, always regard similarities to Dio as an insult. It will never, ever be anything Giorno ought to take pride in, and Polnareff isn't about to encourage that line of thinking.]
And you'd do it again.
[It's not a question, nor is it any kind of condemnation. He says it to himself, simply to confirm it; a quiet acknowledgement of the fact.]
When did you first start fighting?
[Maybe they should have started with this. Hardship, and then softness. Getting to know the man before the boy.]
[That's all he says — just confirmation. He doesn't try to justify it. He doesn't want to; he doesn't feel the need to. And he doesn't take pride in it, not really. It was something that he needed to do, something that felt good to do, and it's done. It doesn't haunt him now. He would do it again, as many times as it took.]
[The question is a surprise, though. He was half expecting Polnareff to get up and walk out now. He wouldn't blame him. The surprise registers briefly, his eyebrows raising, and then he lowers his eyes to think.]
Before then.
The man I told you I saved. He was from Passione. After I saved him, he repaid his debt to me by stopping my stepfather and everyone else from hurting me. That's when I started, mm, learning to be . . . less scared. Part of that was learning to fight.
It was a very cold time. Here.
[He knocks his knuckles against his chest, over his heart.]
I didn't start fights for the sake of starting them, but I went looking for trouble sometimes. Just to see if I was the type of person who could protect people the way that that gangster did — protect people with fear and power. And then at some point I realized that if I stayed with my mother and stepfather, if I stayed with them and continued to stand up for myself, I might have to kill them.
I didn't want to, so I left. And then I started working towards Passione.
[They're very different people, he and Giorno. There's never been a moment in Polnareff's life where he worried about losing himself-- about becoming cold and detached, some kind of killing machine. He knows enough to know it's possible, and perhaps in the right set of circumstanes it could be achieved. But it's never been a worry for him, because he's never fought anyone or anything that didn't deserve it.
The words they use are a little similar, though. Protecting people, but Giorno goes about it so differently. With fear and power, not through sheer muscle, but through manipulation, though pointed gestures and moves. And he can see that coldness shining through, in the simple way he says he might have killed his mother and stepfather-- not with any real cruelty or enjoyment, but simply a fact. I might have, and god, but Polnareff can't understand that level of detachment.]
I was nineteen.
[He tips his head.]
I don't know how much you know about me-- about all of that. But I think enough, yes? [He'd looked terribly upset at the mention of Sherry, anyway, which is the confirmation Polnareff needs.] That was my introduction to all of it. Before . . . Chariot and I, we'd never really done much in terms of fighting. Certainly not to that kind of level. I'd stand up to schoolyard bullies, but . . . it wasn't anything dangerous, not at all.
But after . . . once I hit nineteen, once Sherry died, I knew. I knew I'd kill Geil, and I knew I'd kill anyone who helped him. And I did. I beat the hell out of people to get a lead, I followed every clue I could-- he wasn't subtle, so it wasn't hard. And along the way, I fought and fought and fought, because it was easier to do that than think.
[He's rambling, he thinks, and shakes his head.]
I think . . . I looked at you and I saw someone who didn't fight, who doesn't need to fight to live here, not the way we do at home. And I was . . . stupid enough, maybe, to think that was all there was to it.
[That's it, really. Not that he thinks he will become that, because he knows he will make sure to take care of himself, to surround himself with people who will help him take care. But to know that the possibility is there and very real —]
[That's why he is so insistent on this. That's why he needs for Polnareff to know, not just in his head but in his heart, that he is like his father. It makes his heart feel cold again, cold and dead and aching, but it's what has to be done.]
[He's very, very sad. Because Polnareff is disappointed in him. And that's when he knows . . .]
[He listens, first. Because he must. Because Polnareff deserves that, and more than that, and everything. But afterwards, he has to bow his head and breathe for a moment, because all his cold heart and cold mind can think of are Bruno's cold fingertips under his warm, warm hands. His failure.]
You told me. Not at first, because there was so much cleaning up to do. So much mess, so many funerals. Right about now . . . but after all of that was over, we talked a lot. You told me about her, your Sherry. What you had to do. And I thought —
I thought what I always think. That if I was a little bit stronger, a little bit better, I could bring her back. Like I thought I brought Bruno back. I thought that if I was just a little more perfect, I could break all the rules for you. But I wasn't good enough.
I'm sorry. I really —
[He covers his mouth with his hand for a moment, just a moment, until his lips stop shaking.]
I'm sorry that I'm not what you hoped I would be. And that I can't fix things. I want to fix everything, even the things I know I shouldn't.
[He puts his hand over his mouth, but not before Polnareff catches the way his mouth trembles. And the entire situation is absurd, really-- I'm sorry that I'm not what you hoped I would be, and he could say those exact same words to Giorno. He's not wise enough, clever enough, quick enough; he's not the man he'll become, someone who can advise Giorno, who understands in ways that Polnareff, now, is too stupid to.
He doesn't think; he just reaches, tugging Giorno forward, manhandling him into a hug.]
You don't have anything to be sorry for.
[Firm and rough, not something that can be argued against. An indisputable fact. He says it as firmly as he can to the top of Giorno's head-- and it's good they're like this, because he doesn't want to have to worry about how he looks for the next part of it.]
Sherry is dead. She's dead and she will not come back, no matter what I do or who I meet. I tried once to bring her back, and it taught me that-- and so there is nothing you could have done, and I wouldn't have wanted you to try. She's dead and gone and you can't fix that, and neither can I.
[He would sell the world to get her back. He'd happily trade his own life for hers, even now, in this moment, he would. But he can't. The price isn't too high; it simply doesn't exist, and that's all there is to it.]
Giorno-- you are exactly what I hoped you'd be, because you're you. I'm the one who doesn't know, the one who-- who isn't who he should be. And I'll get there, I promise I will, but-- you have to understand, Giorno, I don't know you. Not yet. Not all of it. I'm going to be stupid and make mistakes and not understand, because I'm not who I become.
[So bear with me, that's what his words convey, but what really lies beneath that is: don't be too disappointed in me. Polnareff always shoots his mouth off, says stupid things, makes errors and blunders his way through life-- and god, he doesn't want to do that here. He wants to get it all right, and he knows he can't and he won't.]
[Oh, oh no, he thinks, oh no, I messed up, oh no, he saw me, that's what he thinks as Polnareff pulls him into a crushing hug. He can't breathe and it dizzies him for a moment before he understands, remembers every touch he's ever had these last few months and how much each one means. How touch is good and safe and okay, and Polnareff will never hurt him, because he is not his father.]
[It makes him want to cry. He doesn't, though, because he thinks that if he starts so will Polnareff, and then neither of them will ever stop. So he bites his lip hard until it hurts and presses his face to Polnareff's shoulder and listens, he listens, he has to always listen, always always always — for Polnareff, his consigliere, who gave up everything for him, or will.]
[He shudders, one deep breath in and one out, and shakes his head. Not a no, but a modification.]
You're not stupid. You're perfect. I missed you so much, and — even if you don't remember, that's not what I missed about you, not the memories. I missed you.
[Fuck, don't, don't cry — he makes a quiet sound of grief and bites it back and wraps his arms around Polnareff's neck.]
I missed you because I love you and you make me feel safe. I like you how you are, however that is. Don't say should, when you're everything you should be.
[He bites his own lip, trying hard not to allow himself to cry-- not because he's ashamed, but because they need to still muddle through this, and tears won't help. But it's hard, because all of this is very nearly too much-- disappointment and assurance and I love you, so freely given that it's dizzying.]
We all fight. All of us, Kakyoin and Jotaro and Joseph and you and I-- and I forgot that.
[That they're all battle hardened, no matter how they might present themselves in their off moments. Jotaro is a deadly force of nature, even as he plays with his otter and gets flustered over Kakyoin. Giorno deliberately chose to doom a man to an eternity of agony, and yet he's crying against Polnareff's shoulder; and yet he'd leapt into Polnareff's arms the first day, chattering in Italian, so obvious in his delight to see him.
He doesn't know how to ask what he truly wants to know: is this version of me truly all right? Giorno says it is, that he's everything he ought to be, but he knows he's not-- not yet. He's not, because he saw the way Giorno's face closed, that slight nod, that acceptance that meant you messed up.
But he's something. Some rough version of himself, unpolished but getting there. And maybe that's enough, for now.
He sniffs, trying to steady himself, and smiles over at what he can see of Giorno.]
Mm, any other confessions we want to cover while we're here?
[Someday in the future, your body will die, and Chariot will die with it.]
[He doesn't say it. He can't. Sometimes he doesn't even like thinking about it, even though that's the Polnareff they're used to — and besides, they all promised, didn't they? Him and Jotaro and Kakyoin, the three of them, with their sostegno.]
[A circle has an infinite number of points. Polnareff is one of them now. Thank God.]
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[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.
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[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.]
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[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.
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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?
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[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.
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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.]
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[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.]
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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?
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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.
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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.
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[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.
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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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[He really doesn't. He's not just trying to be stubborn; he doesn't comprehend it, why Polnareff, who was so much happier living in ignorance, is pushing this now even though he's let it drop. His perfectly-shaped, slightly-sharp nails graze over the bear's ankle, and he looks at Polnareff with the most minute of frowns.]
Whatever it is you see, it makes you happy. Why do you want to see something that would make you sad?
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[He says it too roughly, but Giorno isn't trying to be passive-aggressive-- and so he takes in a breath and sighs, sits back. Tugs his cigarettes out of his pocket and puts one in his mouth, though he waits for Giorno's go-ahead before he lights up.]
The point is to know you. To-- to be a person you can rely on. I'm not-- who you know. I know I'm not. I'm not good at advice and I don't know you, not like you know me. But I want to. And this is part of it.
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[Besides, it's something to look at, to think about. He watches Polnareff light up and sighs quietly, trying to figure out how to explain.]
I would consume people if there was no one there to stop me. Not because I want to hurt people, so maybe that's enough for you to think that it's different. But back home, I pull people into my orbit until all they want to do is give me exactly what I want. I surround myself with people who help me attend to myself so that I don't become what Dio was, but the potential is there.
That's part of your job. Yours and Mista's and Trish's jobs. To keep me human. Because if I wanted to, I could reach out and take anything I wanted, and I know that.
Good intentions don't make me any less dangerous. That's part of it.
The other part is that I'm just . . . not like Jotaro. Not like Jotaro, or like Jonathan, who are good people who must occasionally make the decision to eliminate someone for the greater good. I'm not like Dio, either, who killed people simply because they get in his way. But I'm more like him than I am like Jotaro.
Did he tell you what I did to Diavolo?
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No. I just know he dies. That he was the don before you, that he was . . . corrupt, in some ways, that you don't want to be.
[The future is hazy and vague, and that's all right-- he doesn't need to know all the details. But it's starting to come into focus a little more. I would consume people, and what an apt word, because isn't that what Dio did? And he would still argue the point that Giorno isn't like that, except for what he adds next: all they want to do is give me exactly what I want.
The last few weeks . . . well. Hadn't he fallen for Giorno, in his own way? He's known him for less than a month, and yet he's been focused entirely on making him smile, making him happy, because he'd found him nothing less than charming. And it isn't that Polnareff thinks it's a false charm, or a manipulation-- he wouldn't be here if he thought Giorno was secretly some spoilt brat, manipulating people to get attention and praise. But . . .
It's starting to make a little more sense.]
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[Which is another point. When it all started, right at the beginning, none of them meant anything to him. He didn't view them as friends, barely even as people. As allies, perhaps; pawns, if not that. Trish — an obstacle, then a crowbar. Only later a friend, famiglia. He came to love all of his people in their own startlingly bright moments.]
[But that isn't something he wants to share. Not right now, anyway.]
I know how to kill people with my hands, you know. I'm not physically very strong, but I haven't needed to be past a certain point, because I'm clever. I know how to slit a man's throat in one economical movement. Hell, Mista could've shot Diavolo if I'd maneuvered the situation so that he had the opportunity. Which I could've.
But I didn't. Because Diavolo's greatest fear was death, and I wanted to torture him.
There's something Gold Experience can do that I haven't told you yet. It's called Reset. It means that he can set any action back to zero, no matter what it is, and allow it to start again. It also means I can create loops if I want to — of action, not time.
I started to kill Diavolo, and then I reset him, so that he'll die forever and ever, over and over and over again, until the world ends.
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He doesn't know if he could think of a worse hell. Dying, and never having relief or rest-- just to relieve those last agonizing moments, over and over, caught in the worst kind of pain, tortured and yet never being allowed any kind of relief. Polnareff's been close enough to death to know that kind of pain; he remembers the faltering dimness of his vision, the roaring terror in his brain, the thought that at least it will all be over soon.
Would he have done that to Dio, if he'd had the ability? Probably. But it would have haunted him, eaten at his mind no matter what-- and yet Giorno tells him this steadily, uneffected by anything approaching guilt.
He can't say I take it back, because he will always, always regard similarities to Dio as an insult. It will never, ever be anything Giorno ought to take pride in, and Polnareff isn't about to encourage that line of thinking.]
And you'd do it again.
[It's not a question, nor is it any kind of condemnation. He says it to himself, simply to confirm it; a quiet acknowledgement of the fact.]
When did you first start fighting?
[Maybe they should have started with this. Hardship, and then softness. Getting to know the man before the boy.]
Fourteen, you left home. Around then?
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[That's all he says — just confirmation. He doesn't try to justify it. He doesn't want to; he doesn't feel the need to. And he doesn't take pride in it, not really. It was something that he needed to do, something that felt good to do, and it's done. It doesn't haunt him now. He would do it again, as many times as it took.]
[The question is a surprise, though. He was half expecting Polnareff to get up and walk out now. He wouldn't blame him. The surprise registers briefly, his eyebrows raising, and then he lowers his eyes to think.]
Before then.
The man I told you I saved. He was from Passione. After I saved him, he repaid his debt to me by stopping my stepfather and everyone else from hurting me. That's when I started, mm, learning to be . . . less scared. Part of that was learning to fight.
It was a very cold time. Here.
[He knocks his knuckles against his chest, over his heart.]
I didn't start fights for the sake of starting them, but I went looking for trouble sometimes. Just to see if I was the type of person who could protect people the way that that gangster did — protect people with fear and power. And then at some point I realized that if I stayed with my mother and stepfather, if I stayed with them and continued to stand up for myself, I might have to kill them.
I didn't want to, so I left. And then I started working towards Passione.
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The words they use are a little similar, though. Protecting people, but Giorno goes about it so differently. With fear and power, not through sheer muscle, but through manipulation, though pointed gestures and moves. And he can see that coldness shining through, in the simple way he says he might have killed his mother and stepfather-- not with any real cruelty or enjoyment, but simply a fact. I might have, and god, but Polnareff can't understand that level of detachment.]
I was nineteen.
[He tips his head.]
I don't know how much you know about me-- about all of that. But I think enough, yes? [He'd looked terribly upset at the mention of Sherry, anyway, which is the confirmation Polnareff needs.] That was my introduction to all of it. Before . . . Chariot and I, we'd never really done much in terms of fighting. Certainly not to that kind of level. I'd stand up to schoolyard bullies, but . . . it wasn't anything dangerous, not at all.
But after . . . once I hit nineteen, once Sherry died, I knew. I knew I'd kill Geil, and I knew I'd kill anyone who helped him. And I did. I beat the hell out of people to get a lead, I followed every clue I could-- he wasn't subtle, so it wasn't hard. And along the way, I fought and fought and fought, because it was easier to do that than think.
[He's rambling, he thinks, and shakes his head.]
I think . . . I looked at you and I saw someone who didn't fight, who doesn't need to fight to live here, not the way we do at home. And I was . . . stupid enough, maybe, to think that was all there was to it.
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[That's why he is so insistent on this. That's why he needs for Polnareff to know, not just in his head but in his heart, that he is like his father. It makes his heart feel cold again, cold and dead and aching, but it's what has to be done.]
[He's very, very sad. Because Polnareff is disappointed in him. And that's when he knows . . .]
[He listens, first. Because he must. Because Polnareff deserves that, and more than that, and everything. But afterwards, he has to bow his head and breathe for a moment, because all his cold heart and cold mind can think of are Bruno's cold fingertips under his warm, warm hands. His failure.]
You told me. Not at first, because there was so much cleaning up to do. So much mess, so many funerals. Right about now . . . but after all of that was over, we talked a lot. You told me about her, your Sherry. What you had to do. And I thought —
I thought what I always think. That if I was a little bit stronger, a little bit better, I could bring her back. Like I thought I brought Bruno back. I thought that if I was just a little more perfect, I could break all the rules for you. But I wasn't good enough.
I'm sorry. I really —
[He covers his mouth with his hand for a moment, just a moment, until his lips stop shaking.]
I'm sorry that I'm not what you hoped I would be. And that I can't fix things. I want to fix everything, even the things I know I shouldn't.
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He doesn't think; he just reaches, tugging Giorno forward, manhandling him into a hug.]
You don't have anything to be sorry for.
[Firm and rough, not something that can be argued against. An indisputable fact. He says it as firmly as he can to the top of Giorno's head-- and it's good they're like this, because he doesn't want to have to worry about how he looks for the next part of it.]
Sherry is dead. She's dead and she will not come back, no matter what I do or who I meet. I tried once to bring her back, and it taught me that-- and so there is nothing you could have done, and I wouldn't have wanted you to try. She's dead and gone and you can't fix that, and neither can I.
[He would sell the world to get her back. He'd happily trade his own life for hers, even now, in this moment, he would. But he can't. The price isn't too high; it simply doesn't exist, and that's all there is to it.]
Giorno-- you are exactly what I hoped you'd be, because you're you. I'm the one who doesn't know, the one who-- who isn't who he should be. And I'll get there, I promise I will, but-- you have to understand, Giorno, I don't know you. Not yet. Not all of it. I'm going to be stupid and make mistakes and not understand, because I'm not who I become.
[So bear with me, that's what his words convey, but what really lies beneath that is: don't be too disappointed in me. Polnareff always shoots his mouth off, says stupid things, makes errors and blunders his way through life-- and god, he doesn't want to do that here. He wants to get it all right, and he knows he can't and he won't.]
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[Oh, oh no, he thinks, oh no, I messed up, oh no, he saw me, that's what he thinks as Polnareff pulls him into a crushing hug. He can't breathe and it dizzies him for a moment before he understands, remembers every touch he's ever had these last few months and how much each one means. How touch is good and safe and okay, and Polnareff will never hurt him, because he is not his father.]
[It makes him want to cry. He doesn't, though, because he thinks that if he starts so will Polnareff, and then neither of them will ever stop. So he bites his lip hard until it hurts and presses his face to Polnareff's shoulder and listens, he listens, he has to always listen, always always always — for Polnareff, his consigliere, who gave up everything for him, or will.]
[He shudders, one deep breath in and one out, and shakes his head. Not a no, but a modification.]
You're not stupid. You're perfect. I missed you so much, and — even if you don't remember, that's not what I missed about you, not the memories. I missed you.
[Fuck, don't, don't cry — he makes a quiet sound of grief and bites it back and wraps his arms around Polnareff's neck.]
I missed you because I love you and you make me feel safe. I like you how you are, however that is. Don't say should, when you're everything you should be.
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We all fight. All of us, Kakyoin and Jotaro and Joseph and you and I-- and I forgot that.
[That they're all battle hardened, no matter how they might present themselves in their off moments. Jotaro is a deadly force of nature, even as he plays with his otter and gets flustered over Kakyoin. Giorno deliberately chose to doom a man to an eternity of agony, and yet he's crying against Polnareff's shoulder; and yet he'd leapt into Polnareff's arms the first day, chattering in Italian, so obvious in his delight to see him.
He doesn't know how to ask what he truly wants to know: is this version of me truly all right? Giorno says it is, that he's everything he ought to be, but he knows he's not-- not yet. He's not, because he saw the way Giorno's face closed, that slight nod, that acceptance that meant you messed up.
But he's something. Some rough version of himself, unpolished but getting there. And maybe that's enough, for now.
He sniffs, trying to steady himself, and smiles over at what he can see of Giorno.]
Mm, any other confessions we want to cover while we're here?
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[He doesn't say it. He can't. Sometimes he doesn't even like thinking about it, even though that's the Polnareff they're used to — and besides, they all promised, didn't they? Him and Jotaro and Kakyoin, the three of them, with their sostegno.]
[A circle has an infinite number of points. Polnareff is one of them now. Thank God.]
[He sighs, and shakes his head.]
No. I think that's dramatic enough, don't you?
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