for the past month or so I've just been putting every bad thought i've had in a document and later writing Giorno having them. Uhm. Snippets below. (trigger warning for sh, gore and animal cruelty)
He looked at the mirror in his bathroom. Giorno was the ugliest person he knew.
When he was a kid, people were at least honest about that fact.
But when his hair coloured blonde, he would suddenly get compared to the cherubs in the stained class in the churches, like his features starting to look more like those of his peers made him more beautiful, like looking like the rest of them was what true beauty was.
Maybe it was. Who was he to decide what beauty was?
It helped too, when he started eating properly and his cheeks filled out, gaining a healthy, pink colour, once again not unlike the little angels he got tired of being compared to, and it helped when he started getting proper sleep and his eyes weren't framed by dark eyebags anymore.
This was only for a little while. He had started to detoriate again. And Giorno, having gotten so used to being so beautiful anyone believed any word he said, would stare at himself in the mirror for hours and would only be able to think about how disgusting he was.
The more he looked, the less he started to recognise himself. He felt detached from his appearance. When he looked at pictures with him in it — though they were few — he would technically know that it was him in there, but he wouldn't feel it, if that made sense. Probably didn't. Didn't matter. This was all just in his head, anyway.
He had dyed his hair back to black. Then brown. Blonde again. Red. More, more blonde, dead hair, dead strands that he had ripped out, that he had set on fire just because he could. A horribly impulse, really, but could you blame him? You probably could. He didn't. Because how can you blame yourself when you don't know who you are? How could one send a criminal to jail when the description didn't match the culprit at all?
He bit down on his lips as he glared at the mirror hard enough that it was a miracle it didn't break. His lip started bleeding and he lapped at the blood with his tongue, the red barely visible on its backdrop.
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The cut was white, like it was holding its breath. Slowly, it let go and the white was coloured a pretty red.
Why did he even do it? Cutting himself in his own room. It was stupid, really, but he could always heal himself with GER again, so it wasn't much of an issue.
Sometimes something would just happen. He'd get this feeling in his bones that he was supposed to be feeling pain right now, especially when he had messed something up.
….He had been messing up quite a lot lately.
And while, yes, he technically could get his stand to heall his wounds, it was nicer to just let them sit. They were a good reminder of his punishment and of the fact that it had happened at all. With a handy stand like his, no injury you ever got was there to stay and it would quickly fade like you had never gone through such hardships at all.
But these were different, because GER knew that if it tried to heal them, Giorno would just fuck his legs up worse in retaliation.
These were scars he could run his fingers along when he was stressed, reminding him of what would happen if he were to screw up. He could softly touch them in the dark and map out every little bump in his mind till he knew exactly where every cut was and when they had been made.
And, yes, it did mean that he had this vulnerability that he was quite literally wearing on his skin. But, the few times that his friends had seen them, they had rather complimented him on 'having quit' and 'being strong enough to survive that'. Once they had seen the scars inflicted by his stepfather in his youth, all his scars started to resemble strength to them, which was fine to Giorno, even if it felt like he was fooling them.
And he was aware that this habit was rather childish.
Perhaps he had just never left the mindset he had had as a kid.
Dropping a glass, breathing too loudly, ruining the carpet, they had all meant pain.
Now, doing such things was no longer that bad. He was grown up --for someone who couldn't even legally buy alcohol-- and recognized that such trivial matters weren't the end of the world.
He still managed to mess up, though, and now his mistakes did mean the end of the world. The Mafia. Italy. His world, at least.
And he wasn't stupid. He recognized that it was probably conditioning, pavlov's stupid dogs. He knew exactly what was going on in his brain.
Didn't erase the fact that the easiest way to shut up the yelling in his head was to simply hand out the punishment to himself.
GER could heal him if needed, it didn't impact him mentally nor physically, he could function just fine, so what did it matter anyway? What did it matter to anyone?
He grabbed one of the tissues he had put on his bed to clean up a bit of the blood. The tissue slowly coloured a deep red and he couldn't help but punch a hole through the wet spot with his finger.
Sigh, now he had to grab another tissue.
"I'm so, so sorry, sir! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to…" the cries of the child were drowned in her sobs.
She was 15, an age giorno had once been too, but he had been much stronger than her at the time.
Still, though, that didn't mean that her mistake had to mean death.
It wouldn't, because Giorno was known as a merciful don.
Not because he had chosen to be that, but because the situation had just played out to be that.
He wasn't good, nor merciful, but rumours don't care about the truth.
He glanced at Mista, who was stationed at his side. The man looked at the girl with pity in his eyes. Yes, Mista would probably be a better don.
Anyone would've been, giorno had realised way too late. Because while Mista's head was no doubt filled with pity for the girl and ways to make it right, all giorno could focus on was how easy it would be to snap her neck.
Her head, held between his hands, was slowly goaded into his lap.
Her disgusting tears tainted his suit. It would be so easy to lap those tears up with his thumb and then scoop her eyeballs out while he was at it.
Blood would probably adorn his clothes, though everything he wore was probably already permanently drenched in it.
Yes, he could so easily snap her neck and immediately stop her sobbing.
No one would blame him, they would think he had made the right decision. Would she, in heaven — no, probably hell, no one got so close to someone like him without doing the devil's biddings — would she even blame him?
He could grab pliers and rip out her tongue. He could scratch her face till it bled. He could rip all her hairs out, one by one, or in big chunks. He could choke her and watch the way she would be unable to move under his gaze. He could make her stab herself. He could do anything he wanted. And he wanted to.
But, with his companion at his side, he decided that, when her sobbing died down, he would be merciful once again.
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Bucciarati pinched the bridge of his nose.
"and i keep telling you, giorno, that i'm not mad at you."
"I thought we had promised to not keep secrets from each other. To not lie to each other."
It was a promise that had been made in the middle of the night, on a night after Giorno had become someone who cried and on the dreadful night that his new family had found out who they were replacements for.
A deep sigh escaped Bruno's lips. He looked at Giorno with a look that the blonde could only describe as pity.
"That's exactly why I'm telling you that i'm not angry at you. I'm angry, believe me, but i can't blame you. You're —" he signed again "— you're just a kid. He's an adult who should've known better."
Oh, so when it was about life and death, Giorno was an adult, but when it was about something silly like this, he was a kid? Bruno really had to make up his mind about whether his friends were children or not.
Because when Narancia insisted on staying in the mafia, he was simply a child who had to live a normal life, but when Fugo had needed to kill ten men for a mission only he was suited for, he was suddenly an adult who was more than fit for this kind of thing.
Fugo was younger than Narancia, for christ's sake!
"Still," Giorno insisted, "I knew about Abbacchio's past struggles with staying sober and convincing him to get drunk with me was something i shouldn't have done. Even if you don't blame me, know you have my sincere apologies nontheless."
Bruno sat back in his chair, sliding his hands off the table they were sat at.
"Okay, then, i accept your apologies, if that's what you want. Thank you, Giorno."
The noirette was going to take Abbacchio on a trip to a place that was more quiet, after nice evening shared between Giorno and Abbacchio that had apparently been a pretty bad relapse.
He and Abbacchio had been seperated by the rest, which was kind of funny, because before the group had tried to bring the two together Abbacchio probably wouldn't have been able to be in Giorno's presence without getting brutal flashbacks about his past.
Their friends had also started watching Giorno's liqor intake more, though in the end, there was nothing they could do when they were faced with their undying loyalty for their boss. A shame.
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His friends weren't without sin, either, of course.
No, not the usual mafia stuff.
No, no, no, his companions were disgustingly deranged.
What else would you call someone who injured his best friend over a small inconvenience and then patched up the wound like he hadnt even been in the room when it had happened?
What else did you call someone with urges to kill strong enough for the literal reflection of his soul to only be useful for that one act?
So, when Giorno crouched down by Fugo's side, he wasn't surprised at all, because he knew what he had been dealing with.
His friend had started furiously biting his own arm in hopes of muffling his sobs.
Giorno had closed the door to Fugo's bedroom, so it was just them. He neednt fear. He told him this.
Slowly, Fugo's gaze moved from the floor over to Giorno. It felt like looking in the eyes of a rabid dog.
Giorno placed a careful hand in Fugo's shoulder and watched his reaction, before he started rubbing the clothed skin.
"Hey, it's okay. I'm here. You're okay." He whispered sweet nothings.
His friend released his arm from his mouth, leaving a trail of spit left on the skin.
His teeth hadnt even broken his skin. How sad. The indents would no doubt colour red in a few minutes and the next day, any proof of what had happened would have disappeared completely. Poor Fugo. Poor boy.
The long abandoned animal in the cage behind them started whining. Fugo flinched and almost went back to chewing on his arm again, but Giorno firmly gripped it and slowly put it back in his lap.
He hushed him. "It's okay, you're okay. I can always use GER to heal it, right?" They both knew he wouldn't.
The animal in the cage trashed around some more, throwing itself against the steels bars of its cage, in hopes of being able to escape, but to no avail. When it threw itself at the walls again, it suddenly went still.
Oh well. Blood stained Fugo's hands, but it was okay, Giorno could hold them. Fugo started to become a bit more aware of where he was at the moment and his gaze sharpened. Giorno held the man in a comforting embrace. "You're alright, Panna."
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