Work Text:
The sun illuminated the path through a blooming fruit orchard. Graceful apple trees, shrouded in white cherry blossoms, and sturdy pear trees lined the pebbled path dusted with white gravel. They all exuded a sweet fragrance, and honeybees buzzed around them. A little further, along the edge of a green plateau that dropped off into a mighty waterfall, a cool stream babbled. Its blue ribbon flowed parallel to the garden, softening the sun-heated air with its chill. One could breathe deeply here. The trees mingled with flowering bushes, and the sweet scent of jasmine stood out most vividly. The sky overhead was a tender shade of blue.
Jonathan walked with his shoulders thrown back and his hands resting on his hips. A calm and satisfied smile graced his face. His brows were relaxed, and his eyes, partially hidden by lowered lashes, gently skimmed the flower buds around him. Giorno walked beside him, inhaling the sweet-scented air. He felt warm. Jonathan paused by a lush green camellia bush adorned with bright red buds, reaching out to one of them.
“The color of passion. Camellias are very delicate and demanding flowers. Without care, they wither away. Scientists might disagree with me, but I believe they hear and understand us,” he said, trailing his fingers over the fragile petals of the camellia, gazing at it fondly. “They die without love, just like we do. People cannot live without one another, Giorno. The wonders of creation, of building — that is true strength.”
Giorno extended his hand as well, cautiously brushing against the flower. It felt incredibly soft to the touch, yielding slightly under the weight of his fingers.
“Not everyone can see strength in love,” he replied lightly, stroking the petals. “Some consider it a weakness.”
Jonathan smiled condescendingly and tenderly stroked his son’s neck just below his hairline with his thumb.
“But that’s no reason to turn away from it.” He stepped aside toward the trees and carefully picked a small greenish-yellow apple, ensuring he didn’t break the branch. “It is each person’s duty to bring light to others. Even if hundreds turn away from it, if just fifty, ten, or even one person accepts it, then you’ve already made the world a little better.”
Jonathan took a few more steps and knelt on the wet grass to rinse the apple in the cool stream. It sparkled in the sunlight, gleaming with moisture. When he returned, warmth filled his eyes, and a smile danced on his lips as he handed it to Giorno. Giorno accepted it but couldn’t bring himself to eat it; something about the apple captivated him.
“Not everything can be mended with kindness,” he murmured, enchanted, without looking at his father. “There are things and people who don’t deserve forgiveness.”
Jonathan merely raised an eyebrow, but his expression held no irritation. He shrugged, maintaining his gentle smile.
“Perhaps. But we all choose whether to carry forgiveness in our hearts or resentment.”
They continued along the hydrangea bushes, Giorno holding the apple in both hands. Jonathan gently placed his palm on his shoulder — it was warm, its weight soothing. Giorno turned to face his father.
“And Dio?” He couldn’t suppress his curiosity, immediately regretting it as he noticed Jonathan’s smile dimming at the mention of the name. “Do you forgive him?”
Jonathan stared at him, bewildered, with a hint of sadness in his light eyes. It was clear he didn’t want to talk about Dio, his posture less confident now. He lowered his gaze to the ground.
“Dio…” He didn’t try to hide his mixed feelings. “He will surely tell you that love is a weakness and forgiveness is naivety. He’ll say that the world belongs to those who know how to control it, not to those who let their feelings run wild. He despised everything I valued. And perhaps, in a sense, he is right.”
Giorno held his breath. He could almost hear Dio’s voice; he was sure that’s how Brando would express himself. Jonathan noticed his confusion and, with his characteristic tenderness, chuckled softly, tilting his head.
“We knew each other too well, but that didn’t change our differing views,” he lightly rubbed Giorno’s shoulder before releasing him. “I don’t hate him, Giorno. But forgiveness… Forgiveness is not something you can just give away. It must be a conscious choice. Forgiveness is not for the sake of freeing another person. It’s for freeing yourself.”
Jonathan’s gaze remained surprisingly kind yet firm.
“Dio doesn’t understand this. And perhaps he never will. But that doesn’t mean you should carry his darkness within you. You may consider me a hypocrite, but Dio has always been an exception for me. Actually, I feel terribly sorry for him. He wasn't capable of accepting what I gave him. Dio was deeply unhappy. There's some of my fault in that." Giovanna couldn't stop marveling at Jonathan's purity and naivety, while also feeling admiration for him. Joestar looked at the hydrangea bush, and just as Giorno had gazed intently at the most ordinary apple, Jonathan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the lush dusty pink flowers. He brushed his fingers over the leaves that trembled in the wind. For about half a minute, father and son remained silent, pondering something.
“Did you know that pink hydrangeas symbolize sincerity and feelings?” Jonathan finally asked, watching as bees gradually emerged from the flowers. “I believe there can be no light or feelings without suffering, and the more we suffer, the wiser and more compassionate we become.”
Giorno felt a vague irritation. He respected Jonathan but couldn’t grasp the extent of his naivety. Still, Jonathan's very nature and essence made Giorno feel fondness toward him. He didn’t want to upset him, to disappoint this sensitive man. The boy stepped aside to stand next to his father and only then noticed what had caught Jonathan’s attention in that bush: on the green leaves sprinkled with pink flowers, a single blue flower bloomed, solitary and seemingly less alive. Jonathan sighed heavily.
“Blue hydrangeas symbolize coldness and inconsistency,” he whispered softly, either to Giorno or to himself, before speaking louder, still with that sadness in his voice. “They might be seen as a weakness, but in reality, it’s just a defensive reaction. People misunderstand them so often.”
Giorno clearly understood that beneath that lonely blue hydrangea, his father was referring to Dio. An arrogant, closed-off, icy man. Yet there was no contempt in Jonathan’s voice.
“I believe each of us is responsible for one another, Giorno. Perhaps I too share some blame in Dio’s fate,” he suddenly added, contemplating with sorrow. “Maybe if I had shown him what love and family truly are, our lives would have turned out differently. Only when we all understand that we are accountable for each other can people finally grasp the truth of love and the meaning of unconditional forgiveness.”
Jonathan’s words were beautiful but, at the same time, madly unrealistic — they seemed to drive Giorno to frustration. His perspective could not withstand the realities of this world, and he knew enough about life to disagree with his father. He couldn’t choose Jonathan’s aesthetically idealistic path; his ambitions and pride would not allow it.
“Do you really believe your love could have saved him?” Giorno asked distantly, digging his nails into the apple out of nervousness as Jonathan traced the blue hydrangea with his fingers.
Giovanna thought Jonathan was about to pick the fragile flower, but instead, his father gently caressed its petals, wearing a sincere and touching smile. Giorno held his breath. Suddenly, he felt ashamed that he could never love the way his father did. He couldn’t be as righteous as Jonathan.
Jonathan turned to him, leaving the trembling flower undisturbed.
“I don’t know. But I had to try. It’s a shame I realized it too late. But you still have plenty of time.”
Giorno felt a tightening in his chest. He couldn’t bear the tender, penetrating gaze from his father and lowered his eyes. Jonathan’s smile faltered for a moment but then broadened again as he gently placed his hand on Giorno’s shoulder.
“I know you disagree with me. But listen, Giorno,” he leaned closer, the warmth and kindness in his eyes catching Giorno off guard. “Whatever path you choose, I’ll always support you. I know your sensitive heart will lead you the right way.”
Jonathan’s other hand lifted, and he lovingly brushed his thumb along Giorno’s cheek. Giorno looked up at him.
“You’re my son, and I love you like no one else,” Jonathan whispered, causing Giorno to take a sharp breath.
His father radiated goodness and calm. Jonathan’s simple but honest words settled deep within Giorno’s soul. He was clearly moved but still unfamiliar with showing his emotions. He wanted to lean his cheek against his father’s warm hand, but he held back. He couldn’t remember anyone ever saying such words to him, even in his childhood. Giorno closed his eyes.
“I’ll never have your strength of spirit,” he said, anxiety creeping into his voice as he tightened his grip on the apple in his hands, but Jonathan shook his head.
“You’re already so much more than I am.”
Giorno swallowed hard. Jonathan treated him like something precious and fragile, something that could shatter, with profound care.
“I…,” Giorno began, stumbling over his words, surrounded by the love that only proved Jonathan truly believed in everything he said—it wasn’t just empty sentiment. “It’s hard without that. In real life, I don’t have this kind of support. Sometimes I feel so alone, like I can’t rely on anyone.”
With a look of heartfelt concern on his sad face, Jonathan gently but firmly pulled his son close, wrapping his arms around him. Giorno, taken aback, suddenly felt like a child again. He hugged his father’s broad shoulders and allowed himself to relax, resting his face against Jonathan’s chest. Jonathan spoke softly above him:
“You’re not alone. I’m always with you,” he whispered, kissing the top of Giorno’s head gently. “If you need me, just look for me in your dreams. I’ll always be here.”
They stood in a garden where eternal spring bloomed, and the sun was beginning to set. The twilight painted the sky red. Giorno took a shaky breath through his nose, dismissing his pride, while Jonathan stroked his back. Peace filled his heart—until Giorno felt his own body beginning to slip away. His time had come.
The scorched flesh of the stone desert. Not a sprout or a thorn in sight. The dry, cracked earth held no life; there were no streams trickling, no insects chirping, no animals burrowing. A dull, stale hopelessness surrounded by the gray sky spread out over the horizon, and the desert seemed endless. No wind blew, no clouds rolled by, and the empty surroundings greeted him with a sense of despair, death, coldness—more accurately, the absence of life and warmth. There was nothing; a tight vacuum filled the gray expanse. The ground cracked and groaned, crumbling beneath his feet. It was dry.
Dio Brando was naked, his red eyes burning with fierce flames. As he walked on the ground, it scorched his bare soles.
"You spoke to him again, didn’t you?" Dio asked, squinting his eyes against the stillness. "Don’t answer; I know you did."
Giorno also stared ahead, quickly picking up his pace to match Dio's long strides, glancing at his father’s face from time to time.
"He talked about you."
Dio smirked, his fangs peeking out from beneath his lips. He nodded.
"Of course he did. Our 'sweet and sentimental' JoJo. Sentimentality led him to his grave."
Giorno tilted his head, shooting a sideways glance at his father.
"You killed him."
"His feelings killed him," Dio stopped to lean closer to Giorno’s face. "Feelings for me and that fool Pendleton."
Giorno frowned for a moment.
"Am I hearing jealousy?" he challenged.
Dio merely snorted and walked on. Giorno followed him.
"Don’t be foolish. Only weaklings get jealous; they can’t hold on to someone. Despite all his hatred, Jonathan faced death alongside me—that’s what strength looks like," Dio continued, not looking at Giorno. "Attachment is a weakness. Don’t get attached to anyone, Giorno; attachment leads to concessions and compromises. The world is ruled by strength, not love."
His words angered Giorno. Unbeknownst to him, his hands clenched into fists. He tried to keep his emotions in check, but he couldn’t help feeling irritated.
"He knew you’d say that," Giorno replied calmly, thoughtfully pressing his fingers to his lips. "He practically quoted you."
Brando let out a harsh, angry laugh.
"Well, he told you that 'kindness and humanity' would save this world. That nothing is stronger than passion and love for one’s neighbor. But you know the truth," Dio’s voice, like his eyes, suddenly became serious. "This world only recognizes power and might. Only those who know what they want can climb to the top. You mustn’t shy away from your ambitions; don’t limit yourself by rules and laws—JoJo didn’t know that. He held back his strength with morality and principles. You have no idea what he could have achieved without his mind clouded by concerns for honor. There is no honor if the result is lost. There are winners and losers, and the winners write history."
This time, Giorno stopped. His gaze suddenly turned serious, mature, too wise for his age. There was an inner understanding and a hint of indifference in him.
"You know you didn’t really defeat him, right?"
He expected his father to explode in anger, to fight back, to lash out. Whatever he said, the seeds of honor had sprouted within him. Maybe it wasn’t honor but a wounded ego. Giorno wasn’t afraid of him. Surprisingly, Dio’s features didn’t harden; they remained apathetic, resigned. The corners of his lips lifted slightly, the closest thing resembling a smile rather than a feral snarl.
"Maybe not. But it wasn’t Jonathan Joestar who wrote history."
They continued walking, stepping into the void. Dio’s hair didn’t get tangled without wind, nor did it shine gold without the sun.
"By the way…" Dio glanced at his son, a brief look of eagerness flashing across his face, as if he were embarrassed by his emotions. "What did he say about me?"
Giorno subtly smirked.
"He feels sorry for you."
Dio raised an eyebrow, disbelief etched across his features.
"Sorry? For me? JoJo never failed to surprise me."
"He said you’ll never understand the miracle of love," Giorno continued, placing his hands on his hips. "He said you’re truly unhappy, and he feels sorry for you. That he feels guilty."
"Guilty?!" Dio exclaimed, freezing in place, his face contorting with rage and disappointment. "Guilty for me?"
"He believes everyone is responsible for one another. If he had treated you differently, showed you what it means to love, you would have lived your life differently."
Dio Brando couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him, his eyes wide with confusion and inner malice.
"How noble of us. Reduced to feeling guilty for me," Dio spat, storming off. "If it weren’t for me, he would never have known what he was capable of. He would have lived his pathetic life as a wealthy aristocrat, grown fat and mustached, and died of gout."
It was as if he stopped noticing Giorno beside him, spewing his venom.
"He feels guilty for me, huh? Like my life depended on him. The great and unique JoJo."
By the look on Brando’s face, he seemed ready to spit on the ground, but his royal posture wouldn’t allow it. He simply kept walking, all tension, like a taut wire. Giorno realized this was his chance—to stand up to his father, to position himself as an equal so that Dio would take him seriously. He knew well what Dio believed in and revered: power and control. In his worldview, only domination existed, a clear hierarchy of the strong and the weak. Giorno needed to assert himself. He decided to challenge his father, to manipulate him, to show that he was just as capable and could stand up to a titan like Dio himself. On the other hand, it was hard to admit, but he desperately wanted a reaction from his father, to feel that he cared. Despite his father’s broken moral compass, Giorno admired Dio’s strength but feared becoming his copy.
“Jonathan said you can’t accept love; he considered it your greatest weakness,” he spoke to his father’s back, following him, but by Brando’s posture, he could tell his words didn’t fall on deaf ears. “Maybe that’s why you sought domination. Inside you, there’s an emptiness that nothing can fill.”
Giovanna found his courage. Though he was still scared to push Dio, the fire inside him fueled him.
“I think you hated him not because you were afraid he would surpass you. That he would become stronger or better,” he continued, watching the muscles in Brando’s back tense. “You despised him because he could love—something you never achieved.”
At half a step, Dio suddenly turned around, and Giorno almost collided with him, stopping just in time. A chill ran through the boy’s chest at his father’s glare. Offended, oppressed. He had never seen him like this. Brando couldn’t afford to admit his ego was bruised, his weakness. His pride still ached. For a moment, Dio was silent, searching for something in his son. Then he suddenly jabbed his finger into Giorno’s chest.
“You know how Jonathan ended. You know where love and morality lead.”
“They help me see my path clearly,” Giovanna interrupted, but Dio waved him off, rolling his eyes.
“They hold you back. Your power, your abilities. My blood runs through you, my legacy,” Dio spoke quickly, fiercely, gripping his son’s shoulders tightly.
“I am not you,” Giorno retorted.
“But you can rise higher,” Dio said passionately, looking Giorno straight in the eye. “My mind, my ambitions, and Jonathan’s will and determination are all within you. You have everything you need to bring this world to its knees. What I didn’t manage, you can. You just need to open your eyes.”
Giorno raised his chin proudly.
“To what? What am I supposed to see?”
“That there are no rules. Law, morality—all of it is made up by people, and it changes year by year,” Dio continued with all his impulsiveness. “In my youth, a human life was worth less than a penny, and look around at how things are now. Five years will pass, ten, a hundred, and no one will give a dime for another’s head again. So why worry about the inconsequential?”
Giorno stood firm against the onslaught until his father emotionally calmed down. Dio burned with the fire of his thoughts, his theory, breathing heavily, gripping his shoulder tightly. Giorno didn’t look away. He felt his gamble on bravery had paid off—his father was taking him seriously. Dio’s reaction stirred him. Dio’s lack of principles could be admirable if Giorno didn’t know better. If he were as unfeeling, he would have tried to emulate him, but Giorno was firmly convinced of certain unyielding ideals. He couldn’t follow the path of Dio Brando—his conscience wouldn’t allow it. He appreciated some trust and perhaps even pride from his father, but he was afraid of losing himself in him.
“Maybe that’s why you never became a victor? That’s why the Joestars write history,” he asked, tilting his head to the side. “Maybe that’s why Jonathan defeated you time and again? Was it because you lacked principles? Morality that would drive you forward?”
Dio’s enthusiastic smile slowly faded. His eyes narrowed. He furrowed his brow and scrutinized Giorno.
“Yes, it’s him. I see him in you,” Dio quietly, though not whispering, said, sliding his gaze over Giorno’s face. “His stubbornness in Jonathan’s eyes. His naivety in his very features.”
He slowly released Giorno, pulling back his hands. Giorno felt this moment was right for a few intimate questions his father would have never answered at another time.
“Did you respect him?”
Dio Brando seemed taken aback. He didn’t show displeasure but genuinely pondered. Something in that question forced him to temper his venom. He looked at his son, as if trying to glimpse something in him, to remember, to confirm.
“Respect? Respect is such an overrated thing,” he replied vaguely and thoughtfully, looking aside, into the distance. “It doesn’t compare to fear.”
“People will come to your aid if they respect you, and they’ll run if they just fear you.”
“That’s why you must be independent. Self-sufficient enough that you don’t need anyone.”
Giorno lifted his head as Dio looked at him again. He didn’t agree; his heart told him otherwise, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he decided to press for the truth.
“And yet,” Giovanna said softly, “did you respect him?”
Brando grimaced somewhat irritably. He didn’t want to answer, but something in Giorno loosened his tongue. Perhaps he and his son were too alike.
“I don’t know what respect is. As for Jonathan…” Dio nodded. “He was the only one who could match me. The only one who wasn’t pathetic enough to break before me. No matter what I did, he just grew stronger. For that, I can say that…”
He smirked, looking down at his feet with resigned eyes.
“Yes, I think JoJo deserves respect. He believed in his convictions until the end; that takes willpower,” Dio’s face softened as if he recalled something pleasant for the first time. “Even though his beliefs don’t fit in our world. It would crush them. Jonathan was an idealist, and his ideals shattered the moment pressure was applied, but he himself did not.”
Dio’s gaze hardened again, his features sharpening. He broke free from the comforting memories that warmed his dark soul.
“Remember, JoJo’s downfall came from his foolish philosophy of forgiveness and love. But I know you, I know what you’re capable of and what strength lies within you,” he no longer touched his son but stood close, staring intently at him. “Only on that can you rely, no one else. In this world, you can only rely on yourself, don’t forget. You are all you have.”
Giorno didn’t want to believe him. His whole life, he had lived alone, and now that he finally felt what it was like to feel someone else’s shoulder, he couldn’t let go of that feeling, to drink it in.
“How can you not go crazy when there’s no one around?” his question hung in the air; Giorno looked at his father with no emotion.
Dio shook his head.
“Better this way than to be deceived by illusions.”
He took one last look at the horizon before squinting against the heavy blindness and turned to walk on, along the desert, leaving his son behind. Giorno watched his father’s back as he walked away. Dio moved without a goal, without intentions; that was all that remained for him. There was no end to his path; the vast desert itself was his way. He wandered through the hot sand, going further and further as if something was waiting for him out there, beyond the horizon. As if his existence wasn’t meaningless. Giorno turned around, hoping to see the burning crimson ball of the sun, but his eyes could only catch the mercury-gray sky. He inhaled the rancid air and woke up.
Before his eyes, the spots stretched, and his chest burned, as if he had just run a marathon. A sharp scent of incense hit his nose. Giorno, bewildered and frantic, blinked as he looked around. Right in front of him, leaning on the table, sat a fortune-telling gypsy. Her black eyes watched Giorno with curiosity, her dusky face betraying a mix of interest and a bear-like calm. The corner of her burgundy-painted lips curled upward. Giorno breathed heavily, wiping his damp forehead. The fortune-teller smiled fully and extended her open palm toward him, her bracelets jingling; she clenched her fist a few times, demanding his attention. Swallowing hard, Giorno dug into his pocket and pulled out several smooth, crisp bills, placing them in the woman's hand. She immediately began to count them greedily, slowly chewing something in her mouth. Then she carefully tucked the money into her blouse and patted it a couple of times with satisfaction. She never let Giorno see her Stand—he only noticed the purple smoke that softly drifted behind her.
Stunned, Giorno raised serious eyes to her.
“Is it true?” he asked firmly, rising slightly from the table, nearly knocking over the lit candles and other magical decorations. “What I saw. Is that what heaven and hell look like?”
The woman shrugged her broad shoulders, her black curls sliding down her chest.
“It’s how you see them.”
She scratched the large mole above her lip with her nail. Giorno’s eyes widened as he felt a tightening sensation inside him.
“So, I made it all up?” he asked, disheartened, leaning on the edge of the table. “The people, the conversations? Everything I saw. Was it just my imagination?”
The fortune-teller traced the rim of her cup with her fingertip, which held a strange-looking, foul-smelling liquid.
“I didn’t say that,” she replied mysteriously, leaning back in her chair, her smile widening.
Giorno understood that she wouldn’t tell him anything more, and he left her behind in a haze of incense and dim light. Outside, night was falling. As he stepped out of the half-basement and climbed the stairs, a cool breeze hit his face. He inhaled deeply, but Giovanna's head still spun and throbbed as if caught in a vice. The visit to the fortune-teller left him shaken—deep down, he had hoped for straightforward answers to his direct questions: what to do, who was to blame, and how to proceed. Which path should he take? Behind him loomed giants, their massive silhouettes overshadowing him, demanding more of himself. Giorno felt he had to work hard to live up to their status: Jonathan and Dio were complete opposites, yet undeniably incredible people who would be hard to overshadow or even just keep up with. Giorno's heart ached; he didn’t fully agree with either of them, yet something profound from each had taken root in his chest—morality or ambition, love or confidence.
Down the alley, Giorno spotted a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette. Bucciarati stood in the middle of a tiny, completely empty square by the fountain, staring at the shimmering reflection of the full moon in the flowing water made of white marble. He appeared calm, but his back still expressed tension. Giorno heard the sound of pouring and foaming water splashing at the bottom of the fountain. He walked down to the fountain and stood beside Bruno. Without turning around or taking his gaze from the water, Bruno spoke:
“You’ve been gone a while. Did you find something?”
Giorno also looked at the water. The yellowish orb of the moon glided and distorted on its surface.
“Answers,” he said quietly, tilting his head to his shoulder. “But not the ones I wanted to hear.”
They fell silent for a moment, gazing at the droplets of water on the carved edge of the fountain.
“Bucciarati, do you believe in fate?” Giorno suddenly asked, and Bruno finally turned to look at him with his dark, piercing eyes. He didn’t answer right away, pondering the question.
“I believe in choice,” he finally said, studying Giorno’s profile with concern, but his voice was firm. “We decide what to do and determine every step we take, not fate. That’s what I believe.”
Giorno sighed and turned his gaze from the water to look at Bruno with an unusual mix of confusion and seriousness.
“And what if I feel like my choices are being forced on me?” he asked again, watching Bruno’s shoulders tense. “What if that choice is weighing on me? What if I’m not on my own path but someone else's? What if I’m just imagining that I have a choice?”
They both stared ahead into the dark blue sky, not looking at each other. Bruno raised his chin.
“It all depends on who those people are and how much you allow them to dictate your path.”
They fell silent again, enjoying the pleasant quiet where they could delve into their thoughts. Crickets chirped.
“I know there are shadows in me,” Giorno finally admitted. “Shadows that stretch far back. They push me forward, making me choose what I choose. But I don’t want to repeat someone else’s mistakes. And I don’t want you or anyone else to suffer because of me.”
Giorno knew that Bruno had long seen something more in him. He felt that something about him was off. Bruno must have noticed that mixture of ambition, pride, and moral anguish in Giorno that he couldn’t quite explain. And now he was anxious, fearing he might let Bruno down.
“You’ll choose for yourself who to be, Giorno,” Bucciarati replied, stretching his head to catch a glimpse of a figure passing between the arches in the distance. “And it doesn’t matter where you came from. In the end, you’ve always been and will be the one who decides for yourself. You have enough strength.”
Giorno wearily furrowed his brows.
“Strength?” he echoed quietly. “I’m afraid that strength will only bring more pain. I don’t want to make such decisions alone.”
Bruno suddenly smirked, which Giorno hadn’t expected at all. He exhaled noisily.
“In your doubts, you’re not alone, believe me.”
Giorno had hoped that Bucciarati might provide him with a direct and clear answer, but he could sense Bruno's own instability, the emotional turmoil deep within him. And still, it was comforting to know that he wasn’t alone in this. He let out a barely audible sigh of relief and nodded. Bruno glanced at him briefly with a stern yet caring expression.
“I’ll stand by you to the end,” he declared confidently before closing his lips tightly and turning to walk away from the fountain.
Giorno watched the sparkling stars in the darkening sky for a few more seconds before following Bruno. Surprisingly, he felt a sense of calm wash over him.