Chapter Text
It was a strange thing, to have all you’d ever wanted. Strange, both because of the inevitable dissatisfaction that came with facing the reality of a long-held dream, and because of the equally inevitable sense of being lost that arose from it. What now? Having ambition was a wonderful thing, but when ambition becomes the sole driving force of an individual for an extended period of time, the sudden loss of that ambition upon achieving success is akin to yanking that individual’s feet out from under them without warning.
Giorno Giovanna had been a creature of pure ambition for as long as he could remember. He had become such a creature in large part out of necessity- without a goal to strive for, it became far too easy to fall victim to despair. His ambition, his dream, had been the life buoy he clung to, keeping him afloat amidst a turbulent sea, determined to drag him into its depths.
And now, here he stood, the captain of his very own, very grand ship. Here, the tides could not touch him. Here, he no longer choked on the salt that forced its way into his lungs and burned his eyes. Here, he was safe.
Except it wasn’t that simple. It wasn’t that simple, because he was the captain of this ship now, and that meant people expected things from him. People expected him to navigate the treacherous waters below, to keep the peace among those aboard, to watch for other ships, to be in charge of it all. And there was no map, no equipment, nothing to aid or guide him in his confusion, and his second in command was just as lost as he was.
Power was a great and terrible thing. This was what he had wanted, yes, but it also wasn’t really. What he’d wanted was to be untouchable. Loved or feared, he hadn’t cared, so long as it meant he would have some semblance of control over his life. He’d wanted to stand above it all, to be at the top of the food chain instead of the bottom. But now that he was there, it just felt hollow.
All of this is just a long way of saying that Giorno Giovanna was unsatisfied- deeply so- with the way that things had all worked out. He considered himself a pragmatist, so he’d always known it was just plain unrealistic to expect everything to work out perfectly, but he hadn’t expected it to… hurt this much.
He’d tried to deny that at first, somewhat ashamed of himself for even thinking of it. He’d made his way to the head of the mafia for fuck’s sake- the lives of a few gangsters he barely knew being lost in the process shouldn’t have that much of an effect on him, and yet it had. All his life he’d been distant and aloof and the one group of people who managed to make a dent in that armor, who managed to actually make him feel at home, turned out to be a small, dysfunctional squadron of young criminals who had tried to make him consume urine within 2 minutes of meeting them. Bruno Buccellati and his gang had wormed their way into Giorno’s heart in a way that no other person had ever managed to. They were a family to him. He’d loved them.
And then every single one of them except Mista had left him, and that hurt worse than anything he ever could’ve imagined.
He had forgotten how to cry a very long time ago, but there was a not insignificant part of him that wished he hadn’t, because maybe, if he could allow himself to cry, it would do something to abate the utter emptiness left in his chest by their loss, would loosen the tightness in his throat that made him struggle for breath on the daily. But he didn’t know how, so instead, he continued on to the best of his ability, trying to pretend he didn’t feel like he was suffocating almost every hour of every day.
And he knew that if it hurt for him, it must’ve hurt so much worse for Mista.
The gunman would never say anything. No, he was far too loyal to ever say anything, but he didn’t have to. Giorno knew very well how to read people. He saw how Mista barely laughed anymore, how he twitched in the silence, how his face fell whenever he turned to look for somebody who wasn’t there. He saw the look in his eyes when the two of them ate alone together, how they always flitted towards the empty seats at the table, then to his boss, then quickly back down to his food again. He answered questions when asked, and he gave reports when prompted, but he did not joke, and he did not smile, and rarely did he ever look Giorno in the eye.
Mista would never say anything, but he didn’t have to.
And yet, in spite of that unspoken tension between them, in spite of the ever present sobriety that came with being the last men standing, the two of them made it work. Giorno may have been the newest addition to Buccellati’s team before it all went south, but even during just that fateful week, he and Mista had gotten very close. They had been willing to fight for each other, to die for each other, and that bond had held, even in the wake of the tragedy that befell them.
It hadn’t been easy, of course. There was a great deal of distance between the two of them in the initial fall out. To the outside observer, that wouldn’t have seemed to be the case, as Mista remained glued to Giorno’s side, but the rift was definitely present.
Before, their relationship had been… difficult to put into words. Calling them friends didn’t exactly convey the whole of it. He and Narancia had been friends, he and Mista were… something else. Giorno wasn’t very good at emotions, but he understood that the way he grew to feel about Mista was different than the way he grew to feel about the rest of the group. The weird jitteriness he felt whenever Mista decided to lean against him or grab hold of him, as well as the disappointment that came when he moved away, was something he did not have a name for.
It wasn’t until Rome, in the aftermath of the battle against that crazy doctor, that Giorno was actually able to pin down what it was. It wasn’t until a newly healed Mista gently pressed their lips together that Giorno was able to put a name to emotion that soared in his chest at the contact. It was the same emotion that prompted him to lean in further to that kiss, to intwine one of his hands with Mista’s, to hum happily when the other squeezed that hand in return.
Mista hadn’t kissed him since, and Giorno understood. His feelings hadn’t faded in the slightest, and if the way he caught Mista looking at him from time to time was any indication, neither had the gunslinger’s, but it was unlikely they’d ever be able to get back to where they used to be.
But that was fine. No one could ever be expected to fully recover from something like what they went through, but it in the year following that tragedy, the two of them had begun the long, painful process of healing. The loss of their team left deep wounds in both of them, but they could work through it together. They kept each other steady, and that was all Giorno could ever ask for.
As is so often the case, when everything fell apart, it did so in a matter of seconds.
It was supposed to have been a simple diplomatic mission- or rather, as diplomatic as anything ever could be when dealing with the mafia. He was just supposed to be meeting with the head of one of the narcotics teams to discuss that squad’s potential reassignment, as well as severance payment for those who could not or would not be reassigned. It was supposed to be just another in and out case of organization politics, but of course; that wasn’t what it ended up being.
One moment he was arguing with yet another disgruntled narcotics squad leader in yet another seedy warehouse, and the next he was being forced to the ground, the air filled with shouts and screams and the rapid firing of what sounded like a machine gun.
And then there was blood. So, so much blood, and that wasn’t unusual, because there was always blood around him these days, but it didn’t usually get all over him like this. There was blood stinging his eyes, stuffing his nose, slipping past his lips to coat his tongue with copper. And there was a body on him- heavy and limp- pinning him to the cool concrete beneath and drooling gore all over him from the countless, gaping holes in its form.
He didn’t know much of what happened after that. He felt Gold Experience Requiem come to his side, and he heard the shouting grow louder before rather abruptly stopping, but he couldn’t be bothered to try and piece together the context clues on that one because he’d finally managed to roll the body off of him, finally managed to sit up, and finally managed to get a look at what had been holding him down.
Seeing Mista full of bullet holes was not an uncommon experience. For a guy whose power was literally deflecting bullets, he somehow managed to get shot with incredible frequency. But never like this.
When Mista got shot, he’d shoot right back. He’d snark at his opponent, reload, and command the pistols to attack again. He’d gripe about the pain, groaning theatrically to whoever would listen as he got patched up.
He would never lie still like this, completely silent and unmoving. He would never slump heavily to the side as Giorno nudged him with uncharacteristically shaky hands. He was never cold to the touch, growing colder with each passing second. His face was never that vacant, and his eyes…
Giorno’s hands were always steady, even when facing certain doom or pushing through agonizing injury, but they trembled now, wobbly and uncertain as he pulled Mista’s head into his lap. The gunman’s head was unusually heavy, and when it slipped from the teenager’s blood-slicked hands it fell quickly, hanging limply from a neck that no longer seemed to support it, moving in a way that no living or natural thing should ever move.
His eyes were open- wide open.
Except they weren’t his eyes anymore.
Giorno had been living with Mista for over a year now. They ate meals together, worked together, spent a good deal of time in each other’s company. Giorno knew what Mista’s eyes looked like. They were a shade of brown so dark they looked black, reflecting light like a pair of polished stones. Sometimes, when the sunbeams came in just right, you could actually see the difference between pupil and iris. The left one got visibly bloodshot faster than the right when he hadn’t been sleeping. They looked at Giorno with admiration and trust and what could maybe have even been love.
The thing in Giorno’s lap wasn’t Mista.
It had his clothing, (even when doused in blood, those tiger print pants were hard to miss), and it had his body, and his hair, and it even had his face- right down to the tiny mole at the very edge of his left cheek. But it wasn’t Mista, because those weren’t his eyes.
The things eyes were dark, nearly black, and they were shaped like Mista’s, but they were glassy and empty and sightless and there was nothing behind them.
Giorno found himself jerking away, shoving the thing out of his lap, shuddering at the way it simply flopped to the ground. It wasn’t Mista.
The metallic stench of gore was suffocating. The blood that seemed to cover his entire body was beginning to grow tacky and sticky and it pulled against his skin as he moved. His clothes were damp with it, clinging wetly to the body beneath them, and he could feel it congealing in his hair. The eyes that stared up at him from the body on the floor were wrong wrong wrong wrong
His entire body trembled, and once it started, he found he couldn’t stop it. He didn’t bother trying to suppress it. It didn’t matter. Whether he remained perfectly still or allowed himself to shiver like a small animal didn’t matter, because nothing would be able to lessen the reality of the situation.
Mista had left him. Mista had finally left him, just like everyone else. It didn’t matter that he’d promised to stay by Giorno’s side, because promises were useless, and no matter what anyone said, the truth was that they would leave him. One way or another, they would leave him.
Buccellati was dead. Abbacchio was dead. Narancia was dead. Fugo had disappeared. Trish had moved away. Even Gold Experience, his own ability, had left him.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew Gold Experience Requiem was only Gold Experience in name and name alone. He’d felt his stand die when he’d stabbed it with that arrow, felt the indescribable agony of having a literal part of his soul ripped away from him.
Requiem was powerful- unbelievably so- and he knew It was still his Stand, but It wasn’t Gold Experience. It was far more distant than his original Stand, It’s presence more unnerving than comforting. It served as a constant reminder of what he’d lost to get to where he was.
Giorno’s final vestige of composure cracked, and for what he was pretty sure was the first time in his entire life, he let go. What did he have left to lose? The crushing despair that’d lurked for so long within him came violently bursting out now that there was nothing left to hold it back. He screamed. He screamed so loudly he felt certain it’d be heard from miles away, and he didn’t stop, not even when something in his throat tore and his voice cracked beyond all recognition. He bashed his fists against against the cement until he felt something crunch. He clawed at his skin in a frantic attempt to get the blood off, but only succeeded in drawing his own. It was impossible to tell whether the warm wetness on his face was just more blood, or if, for the first time in over a decade, he’d begun to shed tears.
Normally, he’d find a tantrum like this to be pointless and childish, but wasn’t he allowed to be childish? He was 16 years old! His mother may have ignored tears, and his step-father may have beaten him senseless for them, but neither of them were here right now. No one was here right now. He was 16 years old, kneeling on the cold floor of a warehouse, covered in blood, surrounded by dead bodies, and he was completely, utterly alone.
“Forgotten about me so soon?” The robotic voice made him start. Of course. Requiem was still there.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a metallic, humanoid shape lower itself down to the ground beside him. He didn’t bother looking up, now clutching his knees to his chest with his likely broken hands, staring firmly at the ground.
He was so, so tired.
“I take it this wasn’t what you had in mind when you summoned me,” the Stand continued. Distantly, Giorno thought that he probably should’ve been angered by that statement. Of course this wasn’t what he’d wanted. But he found that he didn’t really have the energy to muster up any sort of emotional reaction to his own Stand’s words.
“The arrow is a fickle thing,” Requiem said after a moment. “It will give a user with a sufficiently strong spirit the power needed to achieve their greatest wish. But only in that moment.”
It turned to him then, Its unnaturally wide eyes staring into the side of his head.
“You summoned me during a moment of great crisis,” It continued. “You summoned me wishing for the power to utterly and completely defeat the enemy that stood before you. I granted you that power, and I did so in a way that even you had not been able to imagine. I fulfilled your wish.”
Giorno still didn’t respond. He didn’t have anything to say. Requiem didn’t seem to be waiting for a response though.
“I was what you thought you needed then, but I am not what you need now, nor am I capable of becoming that. What I am capable of, however, is providing a second chance.”
At that, Giorno’s brow furrowed, and he found his eyes darting over to his Stand. Requiem stared back at him, and upon locking eyes with It, he understood.
“Could,” he rasped, wincing when his abused throat protested his attempts at further use. “Could you actually do that?”
“If I was incapable of accomplishing such a feat, I would not have bought it up in the first place,” Requiem replied frankly. “My ability involves the manipulation of dimensions- the warping of time and space itself. If I can trap one man in an infinite, eternal death loop, I should have no problem whatsoever with a simple... reset. If, of course, that is what you wish.”
Giorno nodded. Yes, that was very much what he wished.
“Understood,” Requiem said, reaching forward to grasp Giorno’s clammy hands with Its strange, slightly metallic ones. “I feel it necessary to warn you that you may experience a number of irksome side effects- as is to be expected when dealing with such a dramatic shift in reality.” Giorno nodded solemnly. Again, he considered himself a pragmatist. To expect a complete lack of adverse effects from what sounded like literal time travel was simply unrealistic. “That and I will, of course, cease to exist once we move forward, as you would not have summoned me at the time.”
A pang of what may have been sadness struck Giorno at that. He may have been somewhat… uncomfortable, with Requiem, but It was still his Stand, and It was doing him a great service. The thought of It simply blinking out of existence was somewhat upsetting.
Sensing his discomfort, Requiem spoke again.
“There is no need for remorse,” the Stand droned. “I have done my part.”
“Yes, I suppose you have,” Giorno murmured. He thought for a moment longer, his eyes fixed on his and his stand’s interlocked hands. He gently rubbed his thumbs along Requiem’s vaguely metallic ‘skin’. The pressure and the heat and the texture of it all was… off, far different from that of an actual human being’s, but it was… nice, nonetheless.
“And what about the price?” He asked. Requiem didn’t say a word, Its blank eyes staring into Giorno’s as the blond looked up. “For something this big, there’s bound to be a price.”
“There always is,” Requiem replied. “You of all people would understand that fact.”
“I do,” Giorno confirmed. “And I’m more than willing to pay whatever it takes, so long as I’m the only one to shoulder the burden of that price. I won’t have anyone I care about suffer for the sake of my dream. Not again.”
“Do not fear,” Requiem rumbled. “There will be a price to pay for this chance, yes, but it will provide you the opportunity to ensure that such tragedy does not recur. All I would ask is that you do not squander the gift I grant you. This time, know what it truly is you wish for.”
“I will,” Giorno said, squeezing his Stand’s hands gently. “Thank you.”
Requiem inclined Its head solemnly at him, and in a flash, the world fell away, splitting apart at the seams and disintegrating into stardust. His stand disappeared from in front of him, leaving him unanchored and floating in the emptiness. Colors he’d never seen before danced around him. He couldn’t feel any part of his body. In fact, it almost felt as though he’d ceased to have a body at all.
He wondered if this was what it was like to die.
And then he blinked, and found himself corporeal once again, staring out the open window of a slowly moving funicular tram.