#GioLena

[softlimefluff]

Thinkin about Ellie, Morri, Esme, and Juno again 🥹🥹

(Morri is the @sunshine-shitposts Sunnie D kid and Esme is @dongiovannaswife GioLena bb, and Juno belongs to @lostinthe-jojos CaeItzeJo)

[dongiovannaswife]

underworld's royalty.

Impera’s part 2!!   •  part 1

cw: medical settings, talk about trauma and past accidents, brief talk about grief.

collab with the lovely @softlimefluff​

Soft music and fresh air fill Melmoth's senses as the automatic doors open. He's never been here —the sight of the SPW Naples lobby is nothing he could have ever imagined, but it does look like the TV sets he's seen in shows like The Good Doctor but… fancier. 

Stepping in, his eyes scan all over the place: the empty waiting room, the front desk and the screen above it announcing the doctors and their current occupation: three of them, he notes, are free except for one. 

Dr. Bocelli Enzo: not available.

The name's familiar and he already knows the doctor is busy with his boss. Nodding to himself, he walks up to the front desk with the lady there already looking at him. Her lips are curved up into a kind, practiced but not fake smile and as her mouth opens the doors slide open and someone steps in. Still, he stays focused on her: 

“Buona notte, signore. How may I help you?” 

Raising a finger in a 'wait' gesture, he pulls out a small notebook and a pen, starting to write down.

‘Hello, miss. I am mute so I use this notebook to communicate.’ 

Turning the notebook to the lady, he waits patiently as she reads over it. Her eyes shine for a second, almost as if she's not sure how to handle the situation. Assuming she's already read his message, he turns the notebook back to him, writing down next: 

‘I am here to visit a close friend: Helena Giovanna, she should be here under Dr. Bocelli's care.' 

The presence behind him makes him look back from the lady: behind him, someone he's known from reports and security cameras shows up. 

Kishibe Rohan. 

The mangaka stands in line behind Melmoth, glancing around the waiting area and over the screens, then pulls out his phone impatiently and taps on the touchscreen, waiting for his turn.

Melmoth waits, intrigued by the artist, but turns back to finish his conversation first, finding out which room Helena is in. Rohan looks up at the name “Helena Giovanna” and raises an eyebrow, speaking up. “That’s actually who I’m here to see as well.”

Holding up a finger, Melmoth scribbles on a new page, holding the notebook up for Rohan to read. “Romaji or English?”

Surprised, Rohan tilts his head. “Either is fine. Whichever you’re most comfortable with.”

Melmoth nods, scribbling another question, this time in english. “If you like, we can walk to Helena’s room together?”

Rohan nods, but questions him further. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, how do you know the Giovannas? For that matter, are you familiar with me? You had this look when I walked through the door… ”

Writing again, he holds up another message, hurriedly getting his thoughts out. “As someone who works under the Don, I’ve seen your file.” He writes further, drawing a line to separate where the new thought begins. “I can tell you more as we walk, if you’re interested.”

Nodding again, Rohan looks up at the front desk attendant, reaching into his pocket to show her his SPW clearance badge from the Morioh branch. Grabbing a scanner, she logs Rohan in, registering his visit.

“Welcome to the Naples branch, Signore Kishibe. Enjoy your stay here. Please come scan out when you’re ready to leave.”

Melmoth turns around, walking into the hall with Rohan following close. As they walk, Melmoth slows down to write, showing it to Rohan as they reach the elevator. 

“I was once a firefighter but, fortunately or not, fate had other plans for me. As bizarre as it might sound, Death took it upon herself to protect me for her own mission." 

As they get into the elevator and Rohan finishes reading the message, he blinks twice, trying to parse out Melmoth’s words, though his curiosity gets the best of him and he blurts out: 

“You’re using feminine pronouns to refer to Death. Does that mean… Have you seen her? Seen Death?" 

Melmoth shakes his head, taking the notebook from him to keep writing. Rohan watches as he writes, taking note of his gray skin and the dark circles under his eyes, so deep they look like craters in his cheeks. When Melmoth raises the notebook back up to show him, Rohan leans close to get a better look.

“I am not allowed to see her. But I do know she's taken after a woman, a beautiful one, to present herself." 

“That’s…” He muses a second, pressing Melmoth for more. “Is there a reason why?” 

Melmoth pauses, thinking about a way to explain the whole situation in a few words —twenty words or less, as Akashi would always request— then, slowly, he dips his head down to write, taking more time now. When the elevator stops at their destination floor, Rohan exits, waiting for Melmoth to join him while the masked man hurriedly finishes writing his sentence.

As they stand in the hall. Melmoth’s eyes have taken after a darker look, a sad one, as he holds up the notebook. “Love between a human and a deity is forbidden.” 

Rohan’s mouth hands open in a perfect ‘o’, taken aback slightly by the sudden confession. Still, Melmoth writes a new message, walking towards Helena’s room with Rohan.

“I am here to meet my future student. Don Giovanna will tell you more later, likely. There’s a waiting room close by with refreshments. I want a private word first.”

He raises a hand in a 'wait' motion, writing another message and hands it over, this one folded, like he wants Rohan to read it later. The mangaka takes the note, leaning closer to inspect the other one.   

Rohan reads it over, then nods. “I’m glad we were able to meet. I’ll see you around, I’m sure.” Giving a small bow, Rohan walks off to find the waiting area, pulling out his phone as he looks around for a second. Melmoth watches him leave and turns to Helena’s room, putting his hand on the doorknob and instantly feeling a stand presence guarding the door. 

The door swings open. There stands Westwood, brows arched down before his eyes roam over Melmoth and a flash of recognition softens his features. The presence disappears and he stands aside with a small gesture. While he waits for him to come in, West looks around the hall, quickly glancing at the camera at the far corner across from him. Fugo must be watching, he thinks.   

Leaving his phone aside, Rohan unfolds the piece of paper, frowning as he goes over the message over and over again. 

'Isn't it interesting? In Spanish, death has a 'e' at the end: muerte. The 'e' makes it a completely neutral word, and yet, Spanish speakers still use female pronouns but with a connotation of thing or event. How come we all associate said event, a part of the cycle of life and reincarnation, with the same pronouns? 

What do you think, Kishibe-sensei?'

Rohan looks back, straight to the door leading to the hall where Melmoth was, confusion written all over his face —what even was that? Walking over to the Lavazza machine, Rohan sets up a cup of coffee, musing over the cryptic letter.

God is a woman, so they say, but perhaps death is as well?

Melmoth de Angelis is not good with introductions. He's clumsy, always has been. The mere thought of making a fool of himself before new people has always been a fear of his; back when he was a firefighter, he was not the one doing most of the talk in the field. 

Giorno knows this. As soon as he comes in and spots him, the Don stands up from the chair by Lena's bed, walking up to him. 

“She's okay," he says, turning to Lena and gesturing at her with sad and equally hopeful eyes, “Dr. Bocelli is really happy with her process.” 

Nodding, Melmoth looks around, spotting Abel there as well —Rome's Capo looks upset, eyes drifting all over Giorno. Upon this, Melmoth looks back, studying the Don's appearance as well. 

His clothes are slightly out of place: his tie nowhere to be seen, shirt out of his pants when it usually is perfectly tucked, uneven buttons and wrinkles all over the fabric. His lips are dry, eyes red and his hair pushed back messily. He's a literal mess. Even the way he moves is slow, a proof of his lack of sleep and maybe food and drink as well. 

Looking back at Abel with a questioning look, the Capo nods back, sighing and running a palm down his face: 

“Yeah, Corvo, this man is fucking crazy. He won't listen, please tell him some— actually, he won't listen to you, get it?” the Capo laughs at his own joke, the sound vague and on edge, barely hiding back his worry behind moodiness.

Giorno sighs and Melmoth looks back, expecting a comeback from him; all he gets, though, is just one tired sigh and a: “I get it, Abel. I know she wouldn't like seeing me like this.” 

Abel shifts in his seat, taking after a rather aggressive stance when he leans forward, pointing an accusatory finger at Giorno, “Then why are you doing exactly what you know she wouldn't like?! She could wake up anytime now and what'll she see? Go on, guess!" 

Melmoth steps in, hands up and palms facing each man, as if putting an imaginary wall between them.

Giorno sighs and when speaks, he sounds defeated and angry at once: “Because I can't stand leaving her. Not here. No like this.” 

Abel stands up now, taking a step forward before Melmoth's presence blocks his path. He peeks around the man at the Don, staring intently.  “What do you mean like this? What don’t you understand about “she's progressing well! What are you so worried about? —Is it Esme? You know she's under that old man's protection, too! Why the hell can't you stop overworking yourself for just one second?!"

Giorno sighs, though this time the sound comes out mixed with a low growl from the back of his throat. Melmoth watches his eyes flash golden for a second before the Don speaks, frustrated with the barrage of accusations. “You wouldn't understand, Agreste.” 

“Oh?" Abel grins, rage surfacing. When he tries to dodge Melmoth, his hand shuts up to block his path again, the other coming up with a note that he sticks forcefully to his forehead. 

The Capo stumbles back, sitting back on the couch with a huff. Taking the note off his forehead, he reads over it with a frown that slowly fades. 

“We are in a medical facility, Abel. I suggest you keep to yourself. I am sure the Don will eventually leave to rest now that Kishibe Rohan is here, who is waiting outside." 

Abel looks up, relief washing over his features for a second before he stands up and leaves, wishing to greet the mangaka and let him know about Akashi's situation, hoping to get his help. 

As the Capo leaves, Melmoth turns to Giorno, stealing a quick look at his drawn out face and then glancing down and back at his notebook to write. 

Holding it up, he watches Giorno's green eyes dart between the words, catching his rapid blinking.

“I am here to meet my future student.” 

Giorno's eyes light up and a grin spreads across his face slowly. He turns to the crib he had been standing over before, blocking the view with his body, and Melmoth's eyes widen. He walks up slowly, trailing behind his boss with cautious yet firm steps. 

Giorno stands by the side of the crib, a hand coming to lift the blanket draped over it. Looking back at him, the Don's face has lit up with pure joy: “Corvo, this is Esme.” 

The blanket reveals the tiny being inside. By now, she's wearing a white onesie with a duck drawn on the front. Her mouth is slightly open as she sleeps on her side —cheeks pink and her tiny nose slightly crunched up. Long red lashes caress her cheeks and there's a tiny bit of equally fierce red hair at the top of her head. She's deeply asleep, worn out and resting soundly after the tiring process of birth. 

Melmoth's mouth hangs open for a second before he looks back at Giorno, eyes filled with tears. Trembling, he pulls his notebook out, messily writing: 

“She's beautiful. Congratulations.” 

Giorno laughs and the baby sighs, dreamily, like the sound of her father's laugh brings warmth and comfort to her: “Thank you. I suppose her hair is like that because of one of Lena's aunts.” 

Melmoth nods, finding his own words lost somewhere else. He writes another message then, 

“Like a Phoenix. Even if that sounds edgy.” 

Giorno nods, appreciating the sweet comparison, “I was thinking more of a cherry, but yeah. She's a mini Lena, too.” 

Melmoth nods, reaching a trembling hand out to place his finger over Esme's fist. Nudging at her fingers gently, it doesn't take too long before she's grasping at it, stirring awake for a second and then settling down back again. 

He looks around, then, finding a chair by the crib —one set before the crib and the stretcher— and sits down, glancing over as the hospital room door opens.

Abel peeks in, his expression neutral. “Giovanna, Kishibe Rohan is here.” 

Giorno nods, still on edge after their confrontation, holding onto Esme a little tighter. 

“Let him in, then.” 

Nodding, Abel disappears for a moment, the room quiet with only the sounds of Esme smacking her lips in her sleep. She must be hungry. It took a lot of energy for her to arrive… as much as Lena bringing her into the world.

Looking around, Giorno searches for the bottles of donated breastmilk, finding the small fridge in the room.

“Corvo, I hate to impose, but could you help me out? We have to put a bottle in the heater before–”

“Giovanna, not even ready to greet your best friend?~~”

Turning around to meet the voice, Gio sees Rohan, coffee in hand, grinning from the hospital room doorway. Breaking into a tired smile, he gestures Rohan over with his head, still holding onto Esme carefully.

“You’re just in time. Put one of those bottles into the heater, will you Kishibe?? Or have you forgotten how, since your Ellie is almost two, hmmmm??”

Rolling his eyes, Rohan reaches into the fridge and grabs the bottle, slipping it into the warming device. “I’m not completely incompetent with children, you know.”

“Oh, really? So that one legendary Rock Paper Scissors fight was all a lie??”

Rohan scoffs, crossing his arms. “You know I was a lot younger then, Giogio. I should never have told you that story…”

Sniffing out a laugh, Giorno grins. “All in good fun, Han-han~ Speaking of your daughter…” The Don looks around, searching for Ari and Ellie. “Are the others coming, or?”

“Mmmh. In about half an hour. Ellie needed a little more time for a bath and lunch. I wanted to come check in first and make sure our visit was alright.”

“Yes, of course. Well. Helena is not awake yet, but. They are more than welcome to come meet the newest member of the family.” Giorno relaxes his arms a bit, showing off Esme to Rohan with a proud smile.

“Oh.” Rohan’s mouth opens softly, staring down at the tiny girl in Gio’s massive arms. “She’s. So small, Gioigio. I forgot how tiny they were when…” Glancing away, Rohan blinks rapidly, trying to clear the tears building in his eyes. 

“It’s alright, Kishibe. Do you want to hold her?” 

He nods slowly, opening his arms and holding her like he’s held Eliana so many times before. Giorno grabs the warmed bottle, putting the nipple on and shaking it gently. Esme wakes slowly, beginning to fuss as she realizes how hungry she really is.

From the side, Melmoth watches curiously as the two men work together, finally getting the tiny girl, his protégé, settled and eating. Even now, he can see how curious and intelligent Esmeralda already is, her tiny hand grasping Rohan’s finger and staring up at him with wide green eyes. Most babies were still getting a handle on the world at this age –eyes adjusting, brain updating, just getting to experience the world. But Esme…

Chuckling silently to himself, Melmoth mused that not all children were the progeny of two powerful stand users with enormous potential. 

“So, Kishibe,” Giorno starts, interrupting himself to turn around and let out a long yawn. Rohan frowns when Giorno turns back around to face him again, noting how that made his eyes tear up—an evident sign of exhaustion. Still, the mangaka waits until Giorno keeps going, wanting nothing more but to listen to him. 

“Sorry,” he says, blinking away the tiredness, “Lena and I would want to talk to you and Ari once she’s here and, well, once Lena wakes up.”

Rohan nods, not quite understanding what’s so important to let him know beforehand, but he still nods, shielding Esme from the light when he feels her slowly drift off, “Sure, Giovanna. You should worry about getting some sleep, though.” he lowers his voice to a whisper, looking down at his unkempt clothes, “You look like shit.” 

Giorno laughs, “Can’t you tell? It’s fashion.” 

Rohan grimaces, playing along. “Josuke dresses better.” 

Giorno’s laughter grows and he leans back, the sound slowly dying in his throat until he’s reduced to a tired smile. “I’ve heard that exact same line about ten times today.” 

Rohan’s eyebrow arches, “The Josuke one or the get some sleep thing?”

Giorno sighs, “The sleep part.”

Rohan grins, mischievous, about to come up with a better comeback when Abel interrupts them, meddling in: 

“Of course, dumbass,” he says, from his spot in the door. “We’re all worried about you. We want only the best for you so,” he gestures around, “Seeing you like this doesn’t help.” 

The mangaka nods, “You should go and get some sleep. Food. All that.” 

Abel speaks up again, almost desperate. “If it makes you feel better, I can stay the night. I’m sure Kishibe will stay too, as long as he can. I know it’s only close to lunch, but. You need more than 30 second naps where you sleep standing, boss.” 

Looking between them, Giorno seems at a loss for words. While it’s not the first time this has happened, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to being taken care of so openly. 

“Alright,” he says, standing up and walking to Lena, he leans in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. His eyes remain closed for a moment as he leans his forehead against hers —he knows she’s doing better now, that she’ll be up and ready to leave soon. But… 

He’s so used to her presence on a daily basis, everywhere and anywhere, that these moments of absence hurt. 

He leans back, looking between Abel and Rohan again. “I’ll come back later. Maybe tomorrow morning, but you need to text me immediately if anything changes. I need to look after the twins, too… Do we have a nurse on hand too? Just to look over Esme if someone needs a break??” 

“I’ll ask Westwood to go home with you and check in with the medical team before I come back.” Abel says, not expecting a reply, already walking out the door. Giogio sees him leave, sighing under his breath. At this, Rohan elbows Giogio in the back, a little bit hard, but nothing that could be misinterpreted or hurtful.

“Relax,” he says, holding Esme carefully and her almost-empty bottle. “Listen to them. They care about you. They really do. Let yourself be taken care of.” 

Giorno looks back and down at him, eyebrow curled up in amusement, but eyes shining with gratefulness. “Quite the poet, hm?” 

Rohan chuckles, “Oh c’mon Giovanna, get your ass out of here.” 

Giorno chuckles, too, leaning down to pass a warm hand over Esme’s head as she unlatches from the bottle, smacking her lips with a satisfied sigh. Looking at her one last time before walking up to the door, where he finally leaves with a final: “Language.” 

Rohan sighs, shaking his head. “Fine. Get your butt out of here. Leave. Depart. Au revoir. Arrivederci. Adiós.”

Giogio grins, shaking his head. “Don’t forget to burp her too.”

“I know!”

Giorno shuts the door, leaving Rohan behind with a wave.

Looking down at the bundle in his arms, Rohan’s hand, now free from the bottle, pokes out from underneath Esme, using a single finger to trace her features. She stirs awake for a second, then settles back down, comfortable and warm.

Pulling her up to his shoulder, Rohan pats Esme’s back, firm but gentle, making sure she can still breathe while he gets her to burp. Melmoth, still sitting quietly, stands and grabs one of the burp cloths, tapping Rohan’s shoulder and holding up the fabric.

“Ah! Thank you.” Nodding slightly, Rohan lifts Esme up, allowing Melmoth to put the cloth down. “You can never be too careful. Babies and Gucci cashmere don’t really mix~”

Melmoth nods, looking up and around the room, seeming to notice the lack of something there, and pulling his notebook out, he quickly scribbles down, showing the message to Rohan. 

‘I will come back later, I need to run some errands.’ 

Quickly reading over it, Rohan nods, humming and looking back at Corvo. “Okay, see you later, then.” 

With a wave, Corvo walks up to the door, then comes back, taking big strides to Lena’s bed. There he stops and Rohan watches in silent curiosity as the man struggles for a moment with his own thoughts, before he writes something down in a tiny sheet of paper. Then, he folds it, placing it atop her hand. The former firefighter turns to him with a silent plea of ‘please, keep this between us’ before he goes back to the door, waving at him goodbye as the door closes behind him.

Minutes pass and Rohan’s eyes drift around the room, still patting Esme’s back gently. The white walls lay bare except for a single painting by the bed: The Ice Floes by Monet. He ponders it for a second, eyes scanning over the piece, deciding that, maybe, the art had been chosen to soothe the mind of patients and families alike. Imposing nature and color as a way to ground people.

The door opens suddenly and he snaps out of his thoughts, looking back just in time to see Abel walk past him and sit by Lena’s bed. “Don Giovanna just left.” 

Rohan hums. “Good.” 

Silence settles in and Abel gazes off into the room, nowhere in particular, in a daze. Rohan stays where he is, eyes boring into Abel the more the Capo fidgets with his fingers and looks down at his feet. By the time Abel finally looks up, Rohan is already there, ready to listen to whatever he had been thinking about.

“Kishibe, I need your help.” 

Rohan stays silent, not sure how to reply. He doesn’t really know Abel well, except for a few idle chats in passing. Logically, the only reason someone would request his help would be the use of his stand powers…

Abel cuts through the silence, speaking up again. “I’m sure you’ve already met Akashi. The short, pink haired guy, remember?” 

Rohan nods slowly, thinking back to the man, remembering his story about Nobunaga and the only thing he could associate with him–his katana that he seemed to carry around proudly. “The swordsman who was at the Giovanna’s residence when the twins were ill?” 

Abel nods, leaning his elbows on his thighs and tugs at his black turtleneck, scratching his skin furiously like his anxiety has started to grow. “I’m sure you already know about his stand and a part of his past, but that’s exactly what’s so worrying about him.” He looks back, taking a moment to observe Esme, who’s still asleep in Rohan’s arms, then looks back at Rohan’s face, unable to get a read on how he’s feeling. “Akashi doesn’t even know if his name is really that. Bocelli says he could be suffering of dissociative amnesia, but—”

Rohan cuts him off, “You can get him a psychotherapist. I’ve heard the newest techniques are quite advanced. Surely they can work with him to–” 

Abel frowns, sharp canines visible when he snarls, biting back immediately: still on edge after his confrontation with Giorno. “That’s what I’m trying to explain! It’s not possible! You’d know that if you were patient enough to listen.” 

Rohan almost, —almost— rolls his eyes, but he prevails, sitting there without the heart to put down Esme now that she’s made herself comfortable in his arms. Newborns were notoriously sensitive and he remembered how clingy Ellie was when she finally arrived. Plus holding them was good for development, he reasoned.

“His brain is damaged,” Abel starts once again, desperation clear in his voice when he keeps going, crudely explaining. “Fucked up, that thing could be rotting inside that little skull of his and the dude wouldn’t even realize until the smell got to him, or if his nose got all runny.”

Rohan grimaces,“No need to get so graphic.” 

Abel imitates him, though almost comically: “Then don’t make me.” Sighing, he crosses his arms, leaning back into the chair. “He’s been trying to give you clues so you read him and tell him his real name.”

“So that’s why he was so insistent with his stories?”

Abel nods silently, arms still folded, glaring at the mangaka with a frown.

Rohan frowns in return, anger flaring: remembering the tiny being in his arms, however, calms and grounds him enough to reply. “What makes you think that information is still in there, if his brain is damaged?” 

“That’s a tricky question. But your stand works reading a person’s soul, not their brain or heart. Correct?”

Touché. 

Rohan sighs, nodding. “Alright, then. I’ll discuss this with Giovanna later.” 

Abel stands up, looking down at the artist. “Giovanna’s not the one asking for help, it’s me.” 

“I meant the details. The place and time for that. Don’t get ahead of yourself.” 

Abel sighs–exasperated, worried and upset. Heading for the door, he gives Rohan a half-hearted “Need’a smoke” and exits, leaving the room quiet again. 

Standing slowly, Rohan walks over to the hospital crib and gently lays down Esme, watching as she fusses, then immediately settles down. Letting out a relieved sigh, Rohan takes a few steps back, glancing over at Helena’s sleeping form. 

Had Akashi been the matter Giorno and Helena wanted to discuss with him later? 

It didn’t seem like it, because if it was, Rohan thinks, Giorno would have been there and Abel wouldn’t have said anything until Giorno was there. It had to be something else.

Feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket, Rohan slips it out, finding a text from Ari: “just scanned in with Ellie. Be up in a minute or two 💖”

He smiles, heart beating slightly faster, and likes the message, sending back “see you soon.”

Pacing around the room as he waits, Rohan glances over at Esme, watching as she already brings a tiny thumb to her mouth, sucking gently and scrunching up her eyes. Letting out a quiet chuckle, Rohan smiles and walks to the door, watching out the window for his wife and daughter. 

As soon as they show up, Ari’s waving silently through the glass and holding up Ellie, who smushes her hands onto the glass, giggling as she sees her dad and yelling out to him.

“Papa! We came to see you!”

Ari shushes her gently and sets her down, kneeling to talk on her level. “Ellie, this is a healing area. We need to be reeeeealllly quiet so the people here can rest, okay?”

Slapping both hands over her mouth, she nods, looking up with big, sad eyes. Ari reaches out to hug her, rubbing her back. “No, no, it’s okay. Shhhh. You didn’t know yet, you’re not in trouble.”

Grabbing onto her mom’s neck, she buries her face in Ari’s shoulder, waiting as they get permission to enter the room from the door guards and finally see Rohan. 

“She’s being a little shy, just give her a minute.” Ari smiles, stealing a kiss from her husband. He nods, smoothing his hand over Ellie’s hair.

“She has to learn certain protocols, it’s alright.”

Turning to look at Lena, Ari gasps a little, seeing her best friend asleep, in a comatose state. “It never gets any easier to see her like this…”

“I know.” Rohan reaches out, squeezing her shoulder gently. “But you should come meet Esme. She just went down after feeding, so we may need to change her soon but. She’s…” He pauses, choking up slightly. “She’s beautiful.”

Finding the nearest couch, Ari sets Ellie down gently, letting her adjust to the new setting and walks over to the crib, beaming when she sees the tiny being inside.

“She’s perfect!” Ari whispers excitedly to Rohan, reaching out for his hand. “I don’t want to wake her, so we’ll wait until she lets us know she wants to get changed.”

“Mmmmh.” Agreeing, Rohan squeezes Ari’s hand, then goes over to Ellie, picking her up and setting her on his shoulders. “Come over and see, Ellie. It’s your new cousin, Esme.”

Holding tight, Ellie peers down at the sleeping baby, repeating “Esme.” quietly to herself.

“Abel will be back soon and then we can grab a late lunch together. They have a nice cafe on the main floor. And good coffee too from what I hear~” He glances over at Ari, grinning.

Ari grins back, nodding enthusiastically. “Nature’s ADHD meds~” Laughing softly at her own joke, she walks over and places a soft kiss on Esme’s forehead, then does the same to Lena. 

“We’ll be back. Sleep well.”

‘Don’t let hope become a memory.’ 

Those had been the words he wrote for Lena in that small, meaningful note. Those words were the first she spoke to him after learning his story, back when he was unable to recover after losing his job and his whole life —the one he was used to, at least, he was still, indeed, alive— and career in the incident, and with it, losing all his hope and dreams. Those words had meant, and still did, everything. In times when desperation came over his incapacity to talk, those words always came to him like a mantra. 

In times of turmoil, like these, he always thought back to that. Maybe he should have said them to Giogio, too, but the way he and Giorno communicated was different, more into the silent agreement of understanding and respect. 

“That’s exactly what’s so wrong with society labeling people as heroes: once those heroes get ill, age or can’t do their job anymore, they forget about them. And if they have physical marks left from their ‘hero’ days, they’ll be judged by the very people who shoved that role into them.” Giorno’s words had been harsh back then, when West mentioned some rude tourists poking fun over Corvo’s scarred lips. To this day, he’s not sure where those words came from: if hatred, disappointment, sadness or his own rage still left from the life he had to endure. 

Corvo blinks twice, noticing how he’s now standing before the store he had been walking to. The front of it was painted in pastel tones —purple, green, blue, pink, yellow,— and from his position he could see the variety of accessories for babies. Slowly, he makes his way inside, not exactly sure what he’s looking for, but still willing to get something for his future student. After this, he’d go to the closest florist and pick a bouquet of flowers, wishing to take something back for Lena as well. 

Thirty minutes later, he leaves the store, carrying a couple of bags: one contains a fuzzy blanket and the other a stuffed animal, a bunny, that he had liked the second he saw it. Walking down the street, he sighs, suddenly hit with the warm weather. For a moment he ponders on taking his tactical scarf down, but the memory of the scars across his lips and jaw stops him from doing so. 

He takes another sharp breath in, deciding to ignore the heat as he keeps walking down the street: in the distance, he can recognize a flower shop. There are multiple bouquets outside, made of flowers that can handle the sun, and around those, tiny trees in their pots, each with a ribbon around the pot.

Corvo comes in, eyes roaming everywhere in search of the owner or at least an employee: anyone who can help.

“Welcome!” someone calls from the side, cheerful and brilliant, and he turns, following the sound of their voice. 

The young man must be around twenty three years old: blonde hair swept up into a low bun, dirt on his clothes and apron, tinted glasses resting on his hair and a succulent held firmly yet delicately in his left hand. 

Corvo also notices it immediately: his prosthetic left arm. 

His eyes flicker from the succulent, to the prosthetic, then to the young man’s face. He looks calm, like his eyes don’t have any effect on him. 

Instead, he asks: “How may I help you, sir?” 

Corvo raises a finger up, setting down the bags —making sure they don’t get dirty— and pulls his notebook out, starting to write the same introduction from always: 

‘Good evening. My name is Melmoth and I am mute so this is how I communicate.’ 

The young man leans in, squinting to read, then leans back and slides the glasses that had been resting at the top of his head to the bridge of his nose: leaning back in, this time he gets to read over Corvo’s words. His eyes sparkle when he looks back, and he grins:

“Oh, don’t worry, sir! I am more than happy to help. My name is Noah, by the way!” 

Melmoth nods, smiling: he knows Noah can’t see him smile, but maybe he does notice the way the gesture makes his eyes have that certain glow from kindness. The man moves, leaving the succulent aside —and Melmoth notices the way he so carefully sets it down, even going as far as to pet it slightly with the pad of his prosthetic finger. 

“So, Melmoth,” Noah, starts, turning to face him. “Is there something you’re looking for specifically? Any special occasion?” 

Melmoth ponders his reply for a moment, eyes drifting around the different types of flowers around them. Then, he slowly writes down a response. 

‘A friend is recovering from childbirth.’

Noah reads over the words, then, immediately lights up: his baby blue eyes shine bright along the rest of his face, and he leans back: “Oh, that’s— I take it she and her baby are okay, no?” 

Melmoth nods, slowly. 

Noah then keeps going, eyes scanning around. “Okay, so, I can put something together for her. Any flowers she might like? I can also add some pink tulips to wish her well, or maybe some yellow roses to represent your friendship…” 

By the time he’s done, Melmoth shows another note to Noah. 

‘She likes sunflowers.’ 

Noah nods, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh! Then that works out just right, sunflowers mean loyalty!” Turning around, he picks up some sheets of craft paper, scissors and a small bag with different colors of ribbon rolls inside. “Alright,” he says, and Melmoth doesn’t hear any more of it as he watches Noah work effortlessly, without a care or worry over his prosthetic arm. He watches the limb shine under the sun, the light blue painting of it reflects the sun beautifully, making his eyes sting. 

It must be nice, Melmoth thinks, to not feel ashamed of that. How does he do it? 

Noah picks some tulips in his hand, setting them aside. And looking over his shoulder, he says, quiet now, like all his energy has been pushed back and replaced with a sad expression. “Are you an amputee too?” 

And Melmoth jumps, startled, eyes wide. For a second, he looks so frightened he might compare to a five year old who just took their mom’s makeup to mess around. After a moment, he recovers, barely, and shakes his head. Slowly, he lifts his notebook up, writing down his thoughts. 

‘I am sorry for staring. I am just unable to understand how you handle all the glances and looks around you. I say this because I suffered from serious burns along my face and don’t feel comfortable going around without hiding my scars.” 

Noah sets down his scissors, forgetting about the half-ready bouquet. His blue eyes have taken after a rather sad smile and his tone has changed to one of pure understanding. “Do you want to know how I do it? How can I go around without caring?” 

Melmoth nods, solemnly. 

Noah nods, turning to him fully, his left arm stretched before him, where both can see it: like he’s appreciating it. “I accept it as part of me. Of my story.” his eyes stare into Melmoth’s. “Accept your scars as part of yourself, of your story and who you are. I don’t know what happened, but I’m sure you must have been strong to recover. If you can, accept this piece of advice: accept your scars as a sign of your bravery. Sometimes darkness can show you the light.” 

He turns around, back to his work, leaving his words hanging there, like he’s sure Melmoth needs a moment to take all in, to understand and go over his words over and over again until the full meaning behind sinks deep into his brain. 

And Noah laughs, adding after a moment: “That last part, my brother used to say it a lot to me during recovery. He plays the tough guy out of us but he’s actually a sweetheart…” 

The sad tone underneath makes Melmoth turn back, squinting his eyes, and his ears pick on every word Noah says after: 

“He’s always been like that, you know? Always trying to protect me. It’s cute. He was the one who got the Speedwagon Foundation to help with my prosthetic, ever heard of them? They’re amazing.” 

The SPW Foundation, of course. Melmoth is not surprised, actually: said foundation had been there since—Wait, his brother got the Foundation to help? It was not a rare case, but the wording sounded different, like he had been trying to hide something, or to keep himself from saying too much. 

Tilting his head to the side, Melmoth scribbles something quickly, showing it to Noah. 

‘My friend is actually the Naples branch boss.’

Noah reads over it once, twice —then, slowly, his mouth hangs open: “You mean your friend who just gave birth?” 

Melmoth nods and Noah laughs, throwing his head back.

“Oh, man, what a small world! She must know him then. His name is Sebastian Worsnop, he’s a technician there.”

 He’s probably not a normal technician, he thinks, but pushes the thought aside and shakes his head, then looks down to write another note that he soon holds to Noah. 

‘I don’t think I have the pleasure of knowing him, but she for sure does.’

Noah nods, still chuckling under his breath. “Okay, then, let me send something to her. Let her know it was me, please, I am forever grateful for all the help. This bad boy,” he taps at the metallic prosthetic, grinning when the sound of his fingers tapping against it produces a ’clink clink’ sound. “—My brother says it is the latest technology.”

Melmoth nods, again: accepting his request, understanding his feelings and approving of the fact that it is, indeed, the latest technology. 

The foundation never stops working and trying to innovate and, judging by the cyberpunk aesthetic and the neon lights underneath the metallic plates and accentuating the bicep and running around to the circumference of his forearm, disappearing under the plate that unites his forearm to his wrist, Corvo can tell this was Paolo’s work. 

He watches as Noah finishes wrapping the bouquet he asked for, and then, he starts working on another one, this one only made of another different flower he doesn’t know the name of. 

“Hydrangeas,” Noah says, giving him the bouquet, “They mean gratefulness.” 

Melmoth softens visibly, shoulders relaxing as he takes the bouquet. He takes his wallet out, then, and Noah stops him: 

“It’s okay, it’s on me.” 

Shaking his head, the man still leaves more money that he knows would be necessary to pay, and before Noah can protest, he gives him a silent, playful look of ‘Don’t you dare.’ 

“Alright,” Noah says, raising his arms in defeat, playing along. “I’ll take it.” 

Forty minutes later, Corvo is back at the SPW Foundation, bouquets and bags held securely in his arms as he walks through the main doors, greeting the lady at the front desk with a curt nod, to which she stands up with a polite smile and a: 

“Welcome back, Mister Angelis! Our visit hours policies say we can only have two persons per room, so… I’m afraid you can’t stay tonight…” 

He nods, taking a quick glance at the clock in the wall behind her: 6:45 PM. He stops before the desk, setting the bouquets on the desk and the bags on the floor. Taking his notebook out, he writes down, showing the message to her: 

‘Don’t worry, I just want to leave these presents and then I’ll be on my way.’ 

She reads over the message quickly, sending him a nod and a small, shy smile. “Okay, thank you for your understanding.” 

He nods, again, and taking the bag and bouquets, he makes his way to the hall and to the elevator. The cubicle arrives empty, and when he gets in, his eyes drift around the walls: there’s a mirror by the right, perfectly clean. 

His reflection catches his eye. Grey skin, bags under his dark brown eyes, his mohawk kept perfectly: and his tactical scarf still there, covering his nose, mouth, chin and jaw all the way to his neck, where the fabric pools around his shoulders. Noah’s words come back, then, and his hand twitches: tempted to try and go around without the piece of clothing. 

A haze surrounds him, and he snaps out of his thoughts, heart skipping a beat as the scent of roses and smoke fills his nostrils. 

“Mistress…” he whispers, a wanton whisper of her title, eyes eagerly seeking her out. 

She, Death, appears behind him, arms wrapped around his shoulders and eyes staring into his through the mirror. The black veiled bride, his Mistress, reaches out with her arms still around his shoulders, fingers grazing his jaw as her eyes peek from underneath the fabric before her face, leaning down to mumble into his ear: 

“The boy is right, my dearest.” She rubs at his shoulders, “And I know what you’re thinking: no, Melmoth, your beauty never ever scared me.”

The haze is gone, then, and as he realizes, the elevator doors open. 

Stepping out, his legs feel like jelly after seeing her —like always, he is wholly devoted to her, to her very wish and command, hands aching to hold her, eyes yearning to finally get a glimpse of her from underneath the veil that covers her head to toe. If he could, he would make amends and sin enough to get a glimpse of her. But he knows her and knows she wouldn’t want that. 

Silently, he makes his way to Lena’s room and, setting a bag down, he knocks twice, picking back the bag, thoughts clouding his senses. 

Her words… What did she mean? beauty —his beauty? What even was that? What is beauty? Is it to be tall, short? to have clean skin? Who can define beauty without insulting others? Was his Mistress aware of how confusing her words could be? 

The door swings open after that: Abel’s standing by the other side with a grin and a:

“We were expecting you.” 

Arching an eyebrow, he comes in, but soon realizes why Abel used that playful tone. 

A woman and a little girl look back at him from Kishibe’s Rohan side, and Melmoth nods, walking up to set both bouquets by Lena’s bedside and then, turning to leave the bag with Esme’s presents by her crib. He walks back to the bouquets, taking a couple of flowers from them and turning to them, Melmoth does a small reverence, hoping to not scare the little girl in the woman’s arms. 

“His name is Melmoth,” Kishibe starts while he writes, “He works for Giogio.” 

Just when Ariel looks back to greet him, Melmoth already has a note extended out to her. 

‘My name is Melmoth and I am mute, so this is how I communicate. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Kishibe. I take it this is little Eliana?” 

When Ari looks back Melmoth is already kneeling before Ellie, offering the flower he had taken from the bouquet with a gentle look in his eyes —he’s always had a soft spot for kids: they hold a special innocence and, back to his days as a firefighter, kids used to come up to him with lots of questions regarding his job. Now, sadly, kids are scared of him. 

Ariel nods, smiling at her daughter as the girl looks back at her with confusion written all over her features: upon this, the little girl turns to Melmoth with a rather shy smile. 

“It’s okay, Ellie, he’s friends with uncle Giogio and aunt Lena.”

Melmoth waves, then, and offers the flower to Ellie. She takes it from him with a quick nod and then, suddenly shy, she turns around, hiding into Ariel’s legs. 

“Don’t worry,” Ari says, nodding towards Melmoth, “She’s always a little shy around new people, especially when traveling. We’re getting her more used to new places and people. She’ll warm up fast.”

Acknowledging her with a nod, Melmoth writes a new note, holding it up to read.

“Of course. I understand.”

Writing once more, Melmoth holds the note up.

“I’m sure our paths will cross again on this trip. For now, I have other matters to attend to. I just wanted to drop those gifts off for Lena and Esme.”

Nodding, Ari bows her head slightly towards him. “Please come back any time.”

April 19th, Giovanna household: 6:23 AM. 

Sighing, reality crashes over him. Right, she and Esme are still at the Foundation. He came back home yesterday to take care of the twins, shower, have dinner and sleep. Despite getting all those done and drinking some oral electrolyte solution Giorno couldn’t find an explanation to his exhaustion. 

His back hurts. Terribly. His birthmark stings like hell. His hair is a mess and his eyes sting. It’s been a rough night. As he sits up in bed, his eyes squint to take a look at the clock by the wall as his right hand reaches out to find only a cold bed. 

Running a hand down his face, he sighs, grunting as he stands up and walks up to the bathroom. 

Taking a quick shower, the cold water seems to soothe his aching muscles and bring a sense of calm to his troubled and worried mind: as he stands before the mirror, electric razor in hand, his eyes drift to his shoulder, where the birthmark is: it hasn’t stopped stinging since the twins’ stands awoke and it only got worse during Esme’s birth. Soon, he thinks, as he makes sure to get rid of the stubble on his jaw, he’d have to tell Lena about this. 

After shaving and hydrating his tattoos, Giorno steps into their closet, retrieving the outfit he had put together the night before. Dressing goes fast and by the time he’s putting his shoes on, the twins come in with wide grins and sleepy eyes. 

“Good morning, boys.” He greets, straightening to open his arms as the boys run up to him, throwing themselves into his arms. 

“Is mommy coming home, daddy?” One of them asks, and he feels his heart sink. He makes a sound, something like a hum, and replies:

“I will go see how she’s doing, I’m not sure either.”

 This time Jovi pouts, “And Esme?” 

“She needs mommy, Jojo!” Dante replies now, turning to his twin with a knowing look —it had been something Westwood had said in hopes of soothing their curiosity. Giorno makes a small note to thank him for that: because then, both boys calm down and instead of asking more questions, they settle down in bed while Giorno goes to the bathroom to fix his hair. It had grown too much by now and it was hard to comb and style the way he liked it. Soon, aside from telling Lena about the sting on his birthmark, he’d have to get a haircut: maybe a nape undercut to try something new. 

Closing the bathroom door, Giorno comes back to the twins, waiting until both are distracted to lift them in his arms with a warm laugh, “You’ve been caught, boys! What will you do?” 

Giggling, both boys trash in his hold as he throws them into the bed, making sure to do it from a close distance to minimize accidents: then, he makes a disgruntled sound, flopping down in the mattress with a: “What have you done to me!! I can’t stand up!” 

Jovi giggles, standing up as Dante takes the sheets, bringing them closer to Giorno, “We’ve caught you, dad!” 

Between giggles, the twins throw the sheets on Giorno, pretending to tie him up with them. 

“We won, dad!” Dante screams, grinning from ear to ear, Jovi by his side with the same expression. 

Giorno stays under the sheets, though, silent and biting back his laughter. 

“Dad? Jovi asks, hand reaching out before Giorno reaches out from underneath, catching his leg and tugging gently, but making an overemphasized growl similar to those one would hear in cartoons, earning a squeal from the boys before he lets him go and the three burst into a fit of laughter, with Giorno sitting up and getting the sheets off him and the twins sitting each by his side. 

“Okay,” Giogio says, running a hand to fix his hair again, taking a deep breath to calm down, “It’s too early for you to be awake, is there something bothering you?” 

Dante pulls at his sleeve, replying once he has his dad’s attention, “Uncle West said he’s taking us to the park!” 

Jovi, by his other side, hums. “We said we’ll get to see the cats that live there!”

Giorno frowns, looking forward… Cats living in a park— oh, right. The park in the center of the city, the one close to Mister’s Belluci gelato store, the park he and West used to hang out after complicated meetings and hard days. 

“Oh,” he says, turning to his sons with a soft grin. “Then, let’s get you breakfast and get ready for that, hm?”

Both boys nod in unison, jumping off the bed and running up to the door. Too much energy, he thinks, amused, as he follows them out.  

Two hours later, Giogio walks into the garage, playing with the keys to the Biugatti Veyron Grand Sport that he had requested to get ready thirty minutes prior. He twirls the keychain around, his walking slower, relaxed —much more calmer than when he woke up. The twins had that effect on him, always reminding him of the good side of life. They had that calming effect on him with all their questions, grins and kindness. He believed they’d grow up to be strong, kind men. Hopefully they would not get involved in the underworld life like him. Maybe they’d pursue different careers: whatever they wanted, but not this. Anything they wanted to choose, he’d make sure to support them all the way: and he knew Lena would do it too. Their family was something both treasured deeply. 

Getting in, he rolls his shoulders, taking a second to glance around and make sure everything he needs for the day is there: keys, jacket, his thermal mug tucked safely in its cup holder by his right. 

The engine roars to life and he sighs hoping that when he comes back home, his wife and daughter come back with him. 

10:27 AM. April 19th. SPW foundation, medical bay. 

Abel can't stand hospitals. Any medical facility, in fact. Any place where pain and sadness lingers in the air: he can't stand the picture of someone lying in bed, sick or attached to any device. 

For a mercenary that makes millions chasing after people who earn Don Giovanna's rage he's really extremely empathic. A coward under his own judgment. 

And it's funny, really, because he's an assassin. Has been all his life. Just because he's labeled himself mercenary doesn't make it less of a fact. 

He's been in the room for a few hours —all night,— sitting on the couch by his boss's side, stealing lingering looks at her and tearing up in silence. 

Memories come to him as another tear slides down his cheek and falls to his pants. When they met, Giorno and Lena had been dating for around two months: his first impression still makes him laugh. 

When Giorno walked up to him holding her hand he did not expect the difference of aesthetics: though her style was more alternative-oriented and his more like the usual office look and the colors they wore were similar, it was the fact they seemed so different that took him by surprise. 

He remembers the way she so kindly took his hand into a handshake and complimented his eyes. 

Now, as he looks back and she's still laying there asleep, his eyes fill with tears and he sighs, reaching a shaking hand out to place it over her hand. 

“C'mon, Lena, don't make me cry.” 

Looking off through the window, he keeps going despite the lump on his throat. “Giogio left yesterday to shower and get some sleep." He chuckles, “He's crazy, you know? Man got bored of getting his usual boiling coffee: he switched to iced coffees. All because he didn't want to leave your side.” 

Looking back and noticing he feels calmer now, his smile grows and he laughs genuinely: “But I guess you're just as crazy as him. You're both insane.”

Someone else speaks up from the door and he jumps —his heart almost bursts through his chest, too.

“Son, I don't think Giogio will appreciate those words.” 

Turning to the man in the doorway, Abel grins, wiping the remains of his tears with the back of his hand, eyes shining as he spots Dr. Bocelli there. 

The old man has a habit of calling everyone son, almost like he's trying to make up for the lack of his own. Still, he doesn't mind: his care brings familiarity. 

“Sorry Doc, I just, you know. Miss her.” 

Dr. Bocelli comes in, stopping to close the door behind his back with a soft click and then, leaning on his cane, he walks up to the bed, his smile turning into one of sadness: “We all do.” 

Doctor Bocelli leans in: checks the monitors and the IV, everything he does, Abel notes, is done with practiced care and simplicity. He has a vibe of wisdom within his mere presence that makes Abel wonder if he’ll ever be like him when he grows older. If he’s been blessed with wisdom or he has gained it through his path on earth. 

Bocelli’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts, immediately focusing on him:

“It seems she’s recovering faster than before. Not at the rate I was expecting, though.”

Abel leans back, eyebrow arched. “What do you mean?” 

Bocelli sits down on the couch before Abel, setting his cane between his legs and leaning on it, he looks back at Lena for a moment, pondering his reply and trying to figure out what’s going on. From the looks of it, Abel could consider this was not something written in those medical books, guides or articles. He turns back and Abel frowns, waiting for his response. 

“Do you know the date?” 

Abel’s frown deepens and he opens his mouth to reply, exasperated and offended, when Bocelli keeps going, “It’s April 19th, right? According to my calculations, she should have been in her current state on the 22nd.” 

Abel’s frown disappears and slowly his eyebrows arch up, “But… I take it you’re basing that off the twins' labor, aren't you? This was just one baby.” 

“Son, even if it was just one… It’s too soon. This time labor took more time. There was no way she could be like this by now. Unless…” Bocelli turns back to Lena again, thinking back to a certain someone. 

“Unless…?” 

Bocelli turns to him, his hypothesis just a mere vague thought; a possibility. “Unless Giogio’s healing her. Aware or not.” 

Abel frowns again, turning to Lena and then standing back again, walking up to the door: he’s confused and worried. Facing him, Blinding Lights’ user almost chokes on his spit when he asks, “Does that put her at risk?”

“It does not.” Bocelli pauses, taking a moment to think about it, “It’s just a thought, I still have to ask Giogio.” 

Abel sits back down, elbows on his thighs as he leans over, restless and anxious. “But he would have told you before…” 

Bocelli shrugs, “Maybe he doesn’t want to say it or doesn’t know he’s been doing it this whole time. We'll have to wait until he's back." 

 The man in the SPW lobby walks in fast, showing his ID to the lady in the front desk and waiting until she scans it and gives him a short nod to walk around and into the hall, getting into the elevator. 

As the metal cubicle moves, Giorno looks at himself in the mirror. White dress pants, navy blue shirt perfectly smooth and tucked in. He pushes the dark shades off the bridge of his nose to his hair, rubbing at his eyes with a soft sigh. 

He’s better now that he’s slept –tired, but definitely better. The twins are home with Mista waiting for West to arrive so he can take them to the park, as they mentioned earlier: though they’re calmer now that they’ve seen their mom, they still ask when she’ll be back home: when will Esme come home so they can show her their toys and her bedroom? Or introduce her to Ares? 

The solution? Sticking to a soft and reassuring smile, all relaxed shoulders and dimples, and a brief explanation of ‘mama’s still getting some stuff done.’ 

Out of everything he could have prepared himself for, their questions and glances were not something he would have ever felt prepared for. Maybe it’s because of that fact —that they’re conscious and old enough to ask about their mother— that he finds the situation so hard to deal with. On one hand he doesn’t want to lie to them and on the other, he knows he can't blurt out the situation to them. They’re still young to understand. 

It’s because of this, their questions, that dealing with the whole situation has felt like he’s lying to his sons and betraying their trust. He feels like a hypocrite. At least the thought of Westwood taking them to the park close to the gelato store eases his worries: he knows he will take care of them, distract them for a while…

Sighing, he feels his chest expand as he exits the elevator and walks down the hall, eyes roaming around and spotting a few members of his team guarding the door to his wife’s room. 

“Good morning, Giogio.” Marco greets him first, hands behind his back as he stands by the right side of the door, a small smile lifting the corners of his lips. “How are you feeling?” 

“Good morning, Marco,” He replies, stopping there to greet his friend properly: he smiles, gentle. “I'm okay. Thank you for staying here, I'll get someone to cover for you so you can go home.” 

Marco waves it off, “‘S okay, Abel’s inside with Dr. Bocelli. C’mon, get there.” 

Patting him in the back, Gio steps in, turning the knob and coming inside. 

Abel and Dr. Bocelli turn to him. The first eyes him suspiciously and the latter greets him a wave and a smile. 

Gio stands there, looking back at the both of them, expecting something from them, but not quite sure what: was his choice of clothes too much for the occasion? Did something happen? 

Dr. Bocelli speaks up first, gesturing him forward. “Giogio, Lena's making great progress.” 

"I'm glad," Giorno smiles, walking up to the bed and sitting on the edge of it, reaching his hand out to Lena, talking without turning to the man, eyes glued to the sleeping figure before him. “You need a break too, Bocelli.” 

Abel frowns, turning to Dr. Bocelli. The man nods and Giorno notices the interaction: before he can ask, Bocelli turns to him.

“Is your stand fully under your control, Gio?" 

Giorno frowns, confusion written all over his face as he turns to the both of them. “All the time.” He turns to him now, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “Why?”

Bocelli shifts in his seat, offering an explanation shortly after. “Lena’s healing process has been faster this time. I expected it beforehand, but it’s… Different.” 

Giorno hums, eyes darting down as he thinks about it. He’s been tired after all the time he’s spent up and watching over her… 

But he’s not sure. He can’t reply to that: anything he says could play against him. Not because he wants to keep secrets, but… Denying such an event and getting a positive response right after would not be of help: confirming such a thing without being able to explain would also backfire. Maybe not the worst of consequences, but it wouldn’t be of help certainly. 

“I don’t know.” He confesses, turning to Dr. Bocelli with furrowed brows. Taking his glasses off his hair and setting them on the table, he turns back to the old man with an almost shy expression, “Only Goldie can reply to that. If he did, then it must be a matter of… I don’t know, a leak?” 

As he talks, the smell of honey and flowers starts to surround the golden being materializing aside him. Gold Experience Requiem’s silhouette stands there. The stand doesn’t acknowledge Abel and Bocelli’s presence, instead turning to Lena and approaching her fast. “Mistress?” 

Abel moves to stop him when Bocelli raises a hand to stop him, watching over the stand’s interaction with the woman. Goldie’s hand shines when he touches her and the monitors pick up on their pace, registering a sudden peak on vitals and then, seconds later, parameters come back to their normal rates, steadying themselves. 

Bocelli’s Type O Negative team pops out from behind the monitors, climbing up the bed and around Lena and Goldie. The nurse closest to Bocelli nods up at its user, giving a firm thumbs up with both its tiny, green hands. 

Esme stirs awake in her crib, getting a bit fussy over the new presence, almost like she can already sense her father’s stand. 

“Oh?” Bocelli mumbles, eyes the size of dinner plates as he sees Gio approach her crib and cradle her close to his heart, rubbing her back while she starts to calm down. “I think we have a special case here.” 

Giorno sits down by Abel’s side, letting Esme sleep on his chest with his hand spread across her back and the other keeping her in her place, his voice is firm but gentle at the same time when he calls, “Goldie, have you been healing her?”

The stand straightens his back, turning to his user with wide pink eyes and, pulling his hand back, he nods. “I am, Master. Is that wrong?” 

Giorno’s voice turns cold unexpectedly, silent rage flaring up underneath the surface, “When did I give you permission to do so?” 

The stand stares back at his user coldly, and before any of them can say anything else, Bocelli steps in. “Let’s calm down, yeah? She’s not at risk, but we could have used some warning from any of you.” 

Giorno sighs, feeling the tension leave his body slowly. His green eyes have a darker shade to them, clearly troubled as his mind keeps running faster than he can process his thoughts, “Please run all the tests you need to ensure her safety.” He turns to his stand, eyes turning darker for a millisecond when he addresses the powerful being, “Goldie, get back. Now.” 

Gold Experience Requiem dissipates into thin air, leaving behind a stronger scent of honey, like the confrontation arised its presence somehow. It was obvious they wouldn’t fight physically… It was Giorno’s own guilt shining through. 

Dr. Bocelli stands up, letting his stand approach Lena. “I’m certain nothing is wrong, Type runs tests constantly so, anything out of place would have been already reported to me.” 

Abel, still tense, sighs. It’s shaky and clearly intentioned, forced: an attempt to make himself know everything is okay. He shifts in his seat, mumbling out. “We should ask Paolo about this.” 

“Later.” Giorno says, eyes drifting to Lena’s form as Bocelli keeps himself busy with some papers. 

The old man hums, and when he looks back, the light behind his eyes makes Giorno know of impending good news. “I think we can keep the healing process with her awake. If everything goes well, she should be home tomorrow’s evening.” 

His heart skips a bit and unconsciously, he straightens his back, holding his daughter closer to him: the ghost of a grin curling his lips up for the first time in days, making his dimples stand out: his eyes, that had been darkened, go back to their usual tone. “Can we have Ariel and Rohan here all day, then? Can she receive longer visits now?” 

Dr. Bocelli thinks about it for a moment, pausing to think for a second. “Yeah, just remember newborns are fragile so make sure she’s not in constant contact with them: her immune system is still adapting.” 

Giorno nods, quietly going through every word. Bocelli walks up to the door, then, and before he leaves, the old man turns to Giorno: 

“I believe your souls are connected, Giogio. That’s why your stand was healing her without you noticing. To put it simply: it’s what others describe as soulmates.” 

His breath hitches right as the door closes behind Bocelli. Abel, still there, stands up slowly, a grin curling up his lips. “That’s cheesy, but he’s right.” He says, “I’m sure Paolo would say the same —I wouldn’t be surprised if you could share your stand abilities somehow.” The Capo walks closer to Lena, noticing the nurses working to calculate new lower dosages. He ignores it, though, not wanting to see furthermore and instead, he turns to the bouquet of flowers, pointing at each of them: 

“So. Corvo got these for Lena. The one with tulips and sunflowers is his, and the other comes from a grateful patient.” 

Giorno’s attention drifts to the other bouquet, recognizing the flowers: hydrangeas. Gratefulness. His eyebrow arches and he looks at the Capo with a curious look. 

“Does the names Noah and Sebastian Worsnop ring any bells?” Abel asks, grinning now. 

Giorno squints, as if the action would be enough to bring back those memories —the names do sound familiar, but he’s not sure how to explain it. “Kinda,” he ends up saying, shifting his hold on Esme when she sighs, settling down against him. “Why?” 

Abel hums, “Corvo met a florist, turns out his brother works for the Foundation and got direct help from her to get him a prosthetic. Not sure when, but I assume it’s been a few months, maybe a year. He said the boy looks healthy and recovered.” 

Giorno hums, thoughtful. “Well, I don’t remember. But maybe Fugo can find something related or I can ask Lena once she wakes up and sees the flowers.” 

The door opens, then, and silent footsteps are met with curious glances from both Giorno and Abel. 

“Good morning.” Akashi greets them, a wide smile across his face and eyes soft as he glances at the bundle in Giorno’s chest, “Is the little princess asleep?” 

“Yeah,” he says, letting him see her face. “Are you going home?” 

Akashi nods, eyelids heavy with sleep. “Mhm. Alma’s here to cover for me.” 

“Good,” Giorno says, “Who’s gonna cover for Marco?”

Akashi looks up into the ceiling, taking a moment to remember the schedule sent by Fugo to the group chat: after a moment, he looks back: “Paolo.” 

“Excellent. Go get some sleep, you look like shit.” 

Akashi laughs, walking to the door and quoting him: “No swearing in front of kids, remember?”

Giorno shrugs, biting back laughter as he waves him off. “Adiós, kid.”  

With a playful scowl, Akashi leaves and with him, Marco and the rest of the team. The others settle in their positions, ready to work. 

Right when the door closes behind Akashi’s back, Abel blurts out, like he couldn’t hold it in anymore: “I told Kishibe about his situation. He should be talking to you about it today.” 

Giorno’s eyes scan over Abel’s face —back and forth, calculating and knowing. His lips part, and slowly, he speaks. “Are you aware we won’t get that done today, or tomorrow? We need to see his schedule, he’s busy. He has work and a family to attend first.” 

Abel hums, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Of course I know.” 

Giorno nods, silent, lips pressed into a line as they settle in silence. Then, his honeyed voice can be heard as a whisper. “You should go home too, Abel. I’m thankful for your stay here, but you need to rest too.” 

Rome’s Capo shakes his head no, sitting down beside Lena’s bed, hopeful eyes darting to her and back to Giorno. “I want to see her awake first.” 

“Don’t wanna be a killjoy, but you can go home now, Abel.” A tiny voice cuts through, makes both men whip their heads back to the stretcher where Lena lays awake, hazy eyes and a tired smile: the braid Giorno had made to preserve her curls falling over her shoulder as she takes a deep breath in, senses slowly coming back to their best, as analgesics are still working. 

“Lena.” Giogio whispers, mouth open for a second before he stands up, clutching Esme closer to him. He sits by her side, legs like jelly and eyes filled with tears: he leans in, careful with the baby in his arms, and presses a soft, long kiss to her forehead, paired up with a whisper of: “Missed you.” 

“Missed you too.” She whispers, weakly: the type of voice one has after an unexpected nap at five in the evening on the couch after coming home from a long day outside. 

“Make room,” Abel calls, voice shaky as he runs to the other side of the stretcher, coming into Lena’s sight with a wide grin and tears already falling down his cheeks. “Missed you, Lena!” he leans in, pulling her in for a short, friendly hug. Pulling back, his grin and tears a contradiction but a solid, carefree expression. "How long have you been awake?" 

She replies in a whisper, voice tiny and hands coming up to rub at her husband's arm, "Was gaining consciousness when I heard Giogio tell someone to rest." 

Gio sighs, laughing under his breath, with Abel scoffing and replying instead; "Silly. Take care of yourself first, I'm all good." 

This time, Giorno looks back at him, eyebrow quirked and an amused smile tugging at his lips, "Good enough to be considered a corpse." 

Both men laugh and Lena grins, soft brown eyes drifting around them and noticing the bundle in Giorno's arms. She taps at his arm and he turns, exchanging a look so he relaxes his hold around the baby. 

Looking at Esme, Lena's eyes fill with tears once again as she glances at her, deeply asleep in her father's arms and dressed in a white onesie with a character's face she can't make out from her unfocused eyes. "She's really daddy's girl, huh?" 

"Of course," Abel says, wishing to pay back: "This man will soon wear a tiara and all." 

The couple chuckles and Abel finally gives in, rubbing a hand down his face, "Alright, Imma head out. See ya' later, hm?"

"Of course, thank you." Giorno's reply comes out easier: a weight has been taken off his shoulders, effectively making him appear genuinely calm now. Happy. 

Again, the door closes and Giorno stands up to set Esme down in her crib with Lena's eyes fixated on him. Making sure she's properly tucked in with the blanket Corvo got her, the Don turns to his wife, eyes soft and an equally softer smile thrown her way. 

"It's been hard without you, you know?" He steps closer, sitting in the stretcher by her side, his hand brushing hers. 

"I can imagine." She whispers, moving over. "C'mere?" 

Giorno hums, turning to lean back against the pillows and then, sets a leg up, careful not to put most of his way in the stretcher in case it can't hold up. His arm, the one closest to Lena, reaches out, wrapping itself around her shoulders and serving as a pillow for her once she settles by his side, cuddled up against him. 

“There is so much we need to talk about, but I don't want to bug you with all of it." 

She hums, appreciatively, "We can start slowly, from the things that can’t wait and we can actually do something about, to the ones out of our control.” 

He sighs, laughing right after: the sound soft and more like a puff of air leaving him: “What would I do without you?”

She hums, taking a deep breath to take into his cologne and shampoo, as well as the smell of fabric softener. “You’d carry on for our children.” 

He hums, the sound sudden but hiding an affirmative undertone to it, like it had taken a moment for him to accept it. Moving on, he starts to think and possibly categorize everything that has happened —Akashi and Rohan, the twins, the florist Corvo had met, Rohan and Ariel and the proposal they wanted to make, his birthday… 

The first one: one of the ones they can do something about. 

“So,” he starts, tone lighter now. “Do you still want to ask Rohan and Ariel to be Esme’s godparents?” 

She doesn’t stay silent for so long, replying right away: “Yeah.” 

He hums, nodding to himself. “Good. Dan and Jojo have been asking about you nonstop: West had to take them to the park to get them to relax.” 

She stays silent, seeming to think about it: Giorno doesn’t need to look at her to know she’s trying to find something to say, or maybe she’s trying to find a reason for their behavior even if it’s obvious. 

“They’re stressed.” 

Giorno hums, eyes slowly closing and opening again. “Bocelli said you could go home soon, seeing you back will soothe the—.” A tiny tug to his shirt and he looks down, finding one of Type O Negative’s nurses pulling at the fabric of his shirt: as soon as the stand senses it has his attention, it points to the door: 

“Dr. Bocelli will come to check in, please get off the stretcher as you are not in need of it.” 

Grumpy little shit. He thinks, trying not to laugh as he stands and throws his arms up in a gesture of surrender. Lena laughs, too, sitting up as the nurses keep working around her and her eyes take a look around the room, staying on the flowers by her bedside. 

Noticing this, Giorno steps in, pointing at each bouquet he’s referring to; “Corvo got you these bouquets: the one with sunflowers is his, the other… Do you remember someone called Noah and Sebastian Worsnop?” 

It takes a moment but Lena nods, slowly, and after a moment of contemplative silence she speaks up. “The first case I took after getting appointed director of the branch was the case of a boy who had lost his arm in an accident. My team had told me about it, but then his brother came to my office and was willing to stay the night just to get a talk with me. So I let him in and we talked. I know he should have waited like everyone, because the Foundation would have gotten to their case eventually, but… I don't know.”

Giorno stands before her now, watching the nurses walk around her, but still replying: “Compassion.”

“Yeah…” she trails off, looking to the side. “After that, I asked Paolo for help and he took the case along with the rest of the team.”

Giorno nods, not willing to ask why he didn’t know —sometimes both were too tired to talk about work, and if he remembered right, that must have been around the time he had to leave in order to fix the mess he had caused with Rohan. Back when they had that ugly confrontation. “It’s okay, I was just not sure. The names did sound familiar, but I’m not exactly sure where.” 

She looks back, a small smile in her lips, “Gio, one of your interns took the case: Noah’s car was severely damaged and they had to get it solved in court. You just happened to help your interns with that case.” 

He blinks, once, twice: and unable to remember, he shrugs, “Honestly, too many cases go by my hands every day. Can’t remember every single one. Oh, by the way…” he trails off, seeming to pick on someone coming over: 

And so, the door cracks open and Dr. Bocelli comes in, lighting up when his eyes meet Lena’s: the grin that breaks through his face makes his eyes smile too, a rare view. 

“Mrs. Giovanna,” he says, with a playful tone to it, “How are you feeling? I didn’t expect you to wake up so soon.” his tone shifts to one of seriousness, like he genuinely wasn’t expecting for her to wake up after the reduction of dosages on both painkillers and benzodiazepines because, technically, it should have taken more time for her system to process the reduction of said drugs and then it would also mean her body would have to take out all the reminders of the higher dosages, making room for the newer ones: it made sense but it also didn’t. Still, he doesn’t say anything, waiting for her response —like she’s taking time to think and feel, to find out what she’s feeling and name it. 

“Good,” she says, shifting to lay on her side so she can talk to Bocelli, “Just sore, but overall, everything seems just right.” 

“Mhm.” Bocelli closes the door behind him, pen and clipboard held under his arm as he starts with a small questionnaire: “Dizziness? Nausea? Pain?” 

She shakes her head, “Nope.” 

Bocelli nods, writing down her replies, and, coming into the room, he gestures at Giogio to sit down as he takes the chair besides the stretcher to set it by the foot of the bed, where he can see both of them. “I’m glad. So, while you were unconscious and Giogio was here, it seems like your souls have bonded —further— somehow. Gold Experience sped up your recovery.” 

She frowns, sitting up slowly. Leaning against the headboard, she looks at her husband, then Bocelli with a confused pout, “But… Goldie can’t deal with pain?” 

Bocelli nods, and Giorno speaks up before him. “That was Type, both stands managed to work together somehow, am I right?” 

The old man nods, sighing under his breath. “It’s an enigma. But,” he turns to her, soft eyes and an even softer smile: “Type has confirmed you’re out of danger. We just have to wait until you’re fully healed, which should be around this evening.” 

Giorno grins —a wide, happy and excited smile, one that makes him look hopeful again. “Really?” 

Dr. Bocelli nods, slowly, smiling at Giorno’s evident happiness. “I wouldn’t lie about something so important as this.” He stads up, slowly, and walks up to the door, where he waits before opening it, “Your friends are here.” 

“Please let them come in.” Giorno asks, and when Bocelli nods, he speaks again, making the old man stop on his tracks so he can listen to whatever he has to say: “And Bocelli: thank you.” 

Dr. Bocelli Enzo hums, turning to look him in the eye, then at Lena: and with a soft smile, he replies: “Of course, son.” 

The door closes behind him and Giorno smiles, sighing: things are getting better, it seems. 

That evening he’ll get to see his sons smile and rest after seeing their mother come home, and he won't have to worry about her staying behind with their daughter–

And oh, the kids would get to show Esme her room and toys: and Ares would probably try to sleep with her in her crib: and he'll have to teach him not to…

It would be a nice view. To see his wife and kids happy at home, healthy and reunited. His family…

“What’ya thinking about, baby?” Lena asks, laying in the stretcher with a soft smile and tired eyes: but awake and alive: there with him. 

Giorno blinks, snapping out of his thoughts. “I’m just happy to know you’ll come back home. The boys and I miss you. Dan and Jojo want to show Esme her room.” 

She grins: it’s soft and full of hope. Full of life. “They’re so sweet. They… will be amazing.” 

He nods, standing up slowly. “While we wait for the visits to show up, I found something you might like.” Pulling his phone out, Giorno walks up to the TV in the wall, turning it on and connecting it to his phone: Netflix’s main menu shows up and Lena sits up, leaning her head against the pillows: and as he looks for whatever he wants to show her, her eyes drift down his back, noticing how he keeps flinching. It's a small, almost unnoticeable flinching: like he’s shaking his shoulder like one would do to get rid of a mosquito…

“Does your arm hurt?” She asks, and he freezes. The loading screen darkens the image for a second, before Netflix’s intro starts with its usual sound, then the screen goes dark again. 

And in that single moment of silence, Giorno replies, eyes looking down at his phone. “My birthmark has been… Feeling weird since Dan and Jojo’s stands awakened.” 

The first credits starts, and Lena speaks up: “Do you think this has to do with Dio Brando?” 

Giorno pauses the show. The image on the screen displays a valkyrie: but none of them care about it right now. Not when Giorno takes longer to reply, head held down for a long second before he turns to her, eyes troubled. “I don’t know.” 

Lena remains silent, then, her eyes flick to the screen, noticing and recognizing the character on screen: then, she looks back at her husband, a determined look in her eyes. “Then we might have to ask him directly. Sounds like that sensation Jotaro described when the Cairo incident happened.” 

The group of five; a journey of fifty days. The source of Mr. Polnareff’s concerns regarding the stand arrow, the mere thing that brought him to Diavolo, who had obtained the arrowhead from Enyaba, who was under Dio’s orders. It makes sense, somehow. He hadn’t wanted to think too much of it: because no matter how much he wants to reunite with Dio Brando, he’s still human: he fears. 

Giorno nods, “You’re not… Mad?” Walking back to her, he still doesn’t mind the paused chapter, wanting to hear her answer. 

She shakes her head, waiting until he’s close enough to reach out for his hand, “I take it you didn’t want to bug me?” 

This time, Giorno breaks into a small laugh, nodding his head. “Yeah. You were pregnant and we had more to worry about: the twins were… Too ill for us to focus on something else.” 

“That doesn’t mean you don’t matter, hm? We could have found out sooner. Have you noticed any change of texture, shape or size on your birthmark?” 

He shakes his head, “Not really.” 

“Then… We’ll have to see what’s going on and request a meeting with him.” 

Giorno sighs, sitting down by her side in the stretcher, letting the show play: as the recap of the latest rounds goes on, he dips his head down to reply in a whisper: “Agreed.” 

She hums back, a silent agreement to contact Dio Brando soon: arrange a meeting and find out. And, at the same time, ending the cycle that had started back then when Sunnie and Catherine had asked for their help with the Board. 

Soon, their attention drifts to the show on the screen: shuumatsu no valkyrie’s second season, episode one. The fourth round of the ragnarok, where gods and humans fight for the extermination of the human race, or the salvation of it.

The door opens and Rohan steps in, eyes darting to the screen, then to the couple: he has to take a second look to confirm Lena’s awake and waving at him. 

“When did you wake up?” 

Giorno pauses the show, standing up to open the door and let Ari and Ellie in. “Welcome. Lena woke up around… Ten minutes ago?” 

“Oh my god, you’re awake!” Ari’s excited, cheerful voice comes in as she rushes inside, leaving Rohan —who’s carrying Ellie still in her pajamas— by the door. She rushes to Lena’s side, giving Giogio a quick nod as a salute, before wrapping her arms around her friend. Both women laugh as they embrace, with Ari pulling back shortly after. 

“We’ve missed you so much! How are you feeling?” 

Lena grins, softly: like she wants to let her friend know she’s okay. Like she’s still, somehow, not used to this kind of attention, To be cared for so deeply and attentively. “I’m good, still sore and sleepy, but Bocelli says I should be good enough to go today.” 

“That’s such good news!. You’ll have to get home and rest more there.” Ari smiles, softly, relieved to hear the news. Her eyes drift to the crib, hands clasped in front of her, curious but quiet.

Following her sight, Lena smiles, turning to Gio and then to Ariel and Rohan, who’s now inside the room. “Ari, do you want to hold her?” 

Ari looks back with a soft blush spreading through her cheeks and wide eyes, nodding–she had been there earlier and seen Esme, but had let her rest, settling for slipping a finger into Esme’s tiny palm, not wanting to interrupt her slumber.

Giogio stands up, walking up to Rohan. “Rohan, could you..?” 

Rohan met her first: and if they get to hold her together, then it would be the perfect moment to ask. 

“Sure, Giovanna.” Rohan gives the taller man a nod, letting Ellie go with him. Then, as Ellie settles down in Giorno’s arms, Rohan walks up to Ariel, taking her hand and guiding her to the crib. 

He gives his wife a short look before he reaches for the baby inside the crib, gently cradling her in his arms. Ari gets closer, looking down at the tiny being in her husband’s arms. And she gasps, eyes filled with tears: when she looks back, Giorno and Helena smile back at them, with Giogio holding Ellie and speaking up: 

“Ari, this is Esme.”

She nods, making the gentle transfer from Rohan’s arms to hers, supporting Esme’s head and rubbing her thumb in gentle circles at the crown of her head. Marveling quietly at her tiny eyelashes and sleepy yawn, Giorno interrupts her reverie with a question:

“We were wondering… Would you two like to be her godparents?” 

Kishibe’s mouth hangs open at the question, and Ari’s eyes have widened impossibly more: the couple stays in silence for a minute, with Ellie giggling over the sight of her parents so out of their usual expressions.  

“Of course,” Ari mumbles, tears in her eyes and a grin on her face. “We would be more than happy to be her godparents.” She trails off by the end, staring for a moment at the soft, sleepy face of the baby in her arms.

Giorno grins, bowing. “Thank you, really.” 

Rohan sets his hand on Ari’s shoulder, squeezing gently, then kissing her cheek. “You know we’re someone you can always count on, Giovanna.”

7:22 PM. April 19th. Giovanna residence. 

“Mommy!” Dante yells, eyes wide as he runs up to his mother who’s just coming through the door with her dad trailing behind. The boy stops in his tracks as he notices his dad is holding a tiny bundle in his arms: and he knows that’s his sister. His twin, Jovi, stops by his side too, and both exchange a look, before breaking into wide, stunned grins, hushing each other and deciding to stand there as they watch their mother grin at them. 

Lena sits down on the couch, opening her arms for her sons that upon the sight of their mother’s arms ready to embrace them, run up to her, climbing into the couch by each side of her, and through tears, they melt into her, tiny arms wrapped around her.

“It’s okay,” She whispers, voice loving and filled with warmth; the warmth and comfort only a mother can provide. “I’m here.” she whispers, rubbing their backs as they cry quietly in her hold. 

And he sighs, biting back his laughter as Ares comes in, climbing into the crib already purring. The cat, like he thought, is trying to cuddle with Esme. Howeer, he scoops the Maine Coon, and gets him out of the room, as it’s still too soon for her to be so close to him: Giogio doesn’t want her to get sick. 

Giorno walks upstairs, carrying Esme, and arriving at her room, he sets her down in her crib —a small ritual he’s created for his kids: that once they arrive, the first place they lay down with him watching over them is their crib. Like he’s making a silent promise to them and himself to always watch over them. Because no matter how old they get, or if he grows old and his hair turns all grey: to him, his kids will always be his little ones. 

He hears footsept coming in, and he already knows those are the twins: and soon enough, two blond heads peek in, coming into the door with Lena trailing behind. Scooping both twins in his arms, he lets them peak at the crib, where Esme sleeps peacefully:

“Mommy, why is her hair like a carrot?” Whispers Dante, and the comment makes Lena laugh. 

“Red,” she says, gently correcting him, “Her hair is red. And that’s because she got that from one of my aunts.” 

“Ohhhh.” Dantes nods, finally understanding, and speaks up again: “And why is my hair like daddy’s?” 

“Because you look like him,” she says, looking back at Giorno, who’s watching the whole interaction with soft eyes. Jovi then joins, with a question of his own. “And does she have red eyes too?” 

Giorno replies this time, shaking his head. “No, they are green. Like yours and mine.” 

“Ohhh.” Both twins muse, in unison.  

The family stays there, watching over the new member —later, Giogio would take the boys to bed, promising to help them show Esme their toys and her plushies: and then, he’d set the baby monitor by the crib and let Lena know it was all done. Both would lay down after that, and watch the baby monitors, both the twins’ and Esme’s until sleep overcame them. And in the morning, they would plan a dinner to celebrate his and Lena’s birthdays.

[seromelo-tonin]

@dongiovannaswife

I present...

The Giovanna Family Portrait!!

I hope you like it friend!

[abbacchios-sunflower]

Welcome Aboard Part 2

The second half of my collab with @dongiovannaswife ! Thank you so much again Lena for doing this with me, I had sm fun! <3<3 ^o^

*****

“Sooo, what’s he like anyways? Your boss? Giorno you said his name was?”

 “Hmm? Oh, yeah, Giorno’s a fair guy, really smart, kinda scary to most people who meet him for the first time, but he’s one of my best friends, great guy,” Mista leaned back in his seat, arms folded, knees crossed as he looked to Marissa. “To be honest I don’t know why he needs bodyguards, his stand is probably the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.”

 “Hmm, I see,” she looked out the window as they drove on what felt to be forever. “He’s kind of mad I got involved, huh? Is he even going to like me? I’d rather not get shot in the head for walking in on mafia business, you know?”

 Bruno closed his laptop, tucking it away as they were going to be arriving soon, “Just like Mista said, he’s a very fair guy, we’ve known him for a long time now; he’s just very protective over his famiglia and doesn’t like civilians getting tied up in our business, doesn’t think it’s right. I’m sure he’ll be very welcoming when meeting you.”

 “Yeah; exactly! It’s not like it’s your fault you almost got sliced up by that dickwad we were chasing!” Narancia interjected.

 Fugo rolled his eyes, “Yes well, you didn’t have to be such a blabbermouth and tell her we were the mafia, Giorno has the biggest problem with you doing that if anything.” He looked across to Marissa as well, “he’ll probably ask questions about your stand, what your intentions are, you’ll be fine, try not to worry too much about it, all of us here got roped into the mafia at young ages and we did just fine,” the blond checked his phone.

 Well, yeah, of course it was easy to tell someone not too worry when this has been your norm for like, ten years. The newcomer folded her arms, stretching her legs out in the back seat of the car. “Alright I guess.” Maybe she was starting to regret the decision to come. When her parents had said to “branch out and meet new people'', but this probably wasn’t what they meant, oh well she was kind of stuck in the situation now, might as well see where this all goes. Worse case scenario she probably would just go back home.

 “Just be grateful you don’t have to do the lighter test to get your stand and we discontinued that kind of stuff; that was so nerve wracking, I thought I was a goner!!” Narancia rubbed his neck nervously.

 “Lighter test?”

 “It’s how things used to be done, though some of us already had our stands by the time we joined, you see,” Bruno had explained. “Mista and Abbacchio both had manifested their stands by the time I had found them, not everyone needs to pass the arrow’s test to get one. It’s a topic Giorno and his family are highly interested in actually.”

 “Oh?” Marissa looked to Abbacchio who was sitting in the front seat. In the few days she had known these five men; it was probably him that she knew least of. He was even more closed off and disgruntled than Fugo, barely speaking a word to her unless they were bickering about something.

 “Hey guys, maybe you shouldn’t be telling her everything about us, she’s still an outsider in case you forgot about that; I doubt Giorno would like you guys running your mouths more than you should, he’s already probably pissed,” the goth grumbled, looking back from the passenger’s seat.

 Bruno has a teasing smirk, leaning back, “And since when you were so interested in obeying what Giorno says? Hmm? I thought you liked being difficult with him.”

 “You’re just lucky he always trusts your judgment, Consigliere, or else he probably wouldn’t have even wanted to meet her,” Abbacchio sarcastically snapped back. Bruno had rolled his eyes.

 “You’re still just sore that I didn’t tell you about why I brought him into Passione in the first place all those years ago,” Bruno chuckled, “but that’s a story for another time, perhaps Giorno would like to tell you himself,” the leader pleasantly smiled. “Now, we’re almost there,” he regained Marissa’s attention. “I don’t care what you’ve heard from any of us, you’re going to refer to him just as Don Giovanna, okay?” she nodded stiffly. “I take it we can trust you to be respectful?”

 “Hmm? Oh yeah, of course!!” she straightened up in her seat; the anxiety was definitely setting in now. This was probably— definitely a mistake. How did she always get into weird and scary messes with people?

 *****

 The estate was huge, yeah; surely the Don of the mafia and his most trusted men stayed there. Mista was the one to open the door first and stroll on in, followed by the others. “We’re baaaaack!” He loudly announced. “Oh Trishy? Did ya miss us?!” He confidently smirked as footsteps approached.

 “I’ve been wondering when you would be back, I’m still bummed out I didn’t get to go…” a young woman with pink hair slowly came to a stop as she looked past the men, seeing the shorter woman with them. “Dio mio- when I said to bring me back a souvenir, I didn’t mean kidnap a local!” She folded her arms, narrowing her eyes at the gunslinger.

 “Relax, she just got caught up in our bullshit, she’s a stand user and Bucciarati was interested in her stand and thought Giogio would be too, said he wanted to meet her when we were on our way over!”

 “Speaking of that, I already finished the reports from this job, we burned down the warehouse, not a trace of the drugs left, same with Emiliano,” Fugo held up a small folder.

 The young woman’s face relaxed more as she exhaled, taking the file and extending a hand to the newcomer, “Trish Una, I know how it feels to get swept up into trouble by these assholes, they don’t bite though, I promise, well, maybe Abba will if you provoke him enough, but he’s a bit of a softy under the fangs,” she smirked when Abbacchio looked disgruntled by the use of the nickname and teasing in front of the other woman who was smirking back at him now.

 “Abba, huh?” she raised a dark eyebrow, smirking as well.

 “That’s just “Abbacchio” to you, brat,” he snapped back.

 Rolling her eyes, she ignored the threat and took Trish’s hand, “Marissa, but uh, you guys can just call me Mar, all my friends do, it’s easier in my opinion,” she tilted her head back and forth. “So are you, like, a stand user too?”

 “Got that right, most of us are,” Trish pulled her hand back, gesturing to follow her, “come on, they’re right this way! They’ve been expecting you!”

 “They?” Mar blinked.

 “Oh, of course, the Donna will be there too naturally, she’s a lovely lady, Giorno’s lucky to have her for sure. She’s very interested in you too; I’m sure you guys will be great friends if you’re to stay with us! Also, we better get you Italian lessons if that’s gonna happen, luckily a lot of us speak English pretty well too,” Trish stopped talking and turned to face a set of doors, knocking twice. “Don Giovanna, Bucciarati is back, Fugo already finished his reports.” She announced.

 “And is she with them?” A male voice came from behind the door.

 “Right next to me!” Trish replied.

 “Well, send her in then.”

 *****

 Trish Una turns to Mar, a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes directed on her way as she opens the door, holding it open for her. “Good luck.” She mouths right when Mar walks by her side, closing the door at her back.

 The office looks like a lawyer’s would; bookshelves around the room are filled with all kinds of books; from astrology to philosophy, biology, medicine, math. All the knowledge the human race had cultivated through centuries seemed to rest there, in a silent office where only the light of the window pooled in, illuminating it just in the right amount.

 “Please take a seat, would you like something to drink?” a feminine voice, soft and gentle, breaks the silence.

 Marissa’s head snaps towards the source of the sound.

 In the couch where the sunlight is gentler, a woman sits, a glass of liquor suspended between her fingers. Her short black dress hugs her figure in a comfortable way —and the dark purple cloak resting on her shoulders, huge and almost drowning her makes it clear the garment is not hers, both from its size and the cut.

 Her red lips curl upwards in a genuine kind smile when Marissa and her make eye contact.

Nodding her head, her curls move along her head, strangely giving her that aura of mysteriousness. “Don’t be shy.”

 “Sit down.” the male voice is there again, this time, coming from the desk. Just when Marissa looks on, a blond man stands up, all six foot six of him towering and blocking the sunlight from the window. As he moves on, his features and figure become clearer: short blond hair that reaches the nape of his neck, piercing green eyes and lips in a tight line, and a strong, imposing built. Hands inside the pockets of his burgundy suit —the black shirt underneath the suit jacket glistens with something underneath, a shape unknown to most —but to him, the rumble of the arrow lets him know this is a stand user standing before him.

 “We were told about the incident.” He starts, not expecting an answer from her until he rounds the couch, coming to sit down besides his wife and circling her shoulders with one arm as the other extends forward, signaling her. “And we wanted to talk about it.”

 Mar nods, quickly walking in and sitting down at the couch before the couple.

 Their glances feel like an ice cube and a flame at the same time but even then, she still finds the courage to look at them in the eyes before centering her attention in a spot above their heads, where her voice doesn’t quiver when she speaks.

 “I was the one who asked,” she starts, quickly correcting herself as her fingers fiddle with her clothes. “I wanted to know what it was —just a part, because the rest was obvious.”

 Giorno hums, “First things first, what’s your name?”

 Marissa gulps down, feeling the man’s gaze harden when her reply doesn’t come immediately; naturally, one would expect this question to be answered right there.

 “Marissa.”

 Giorno nods, curtly: all business. “Well then, nice to meet you. She’s my wife and the Donna of the famiglia —I suppose you already know who I am, don’t you?”

 Lena nods, raising her glass shortly —making the Don tone it down. “Please make yourself at home.”

 “Thank you, Don, Donna.”

 “Now,” Giorno doesn’t let silence settle in, “There is something we need to talk about first; we have a strong policy to not get civilians involved in our… Matters. You were a special case, and before we start, you’re totally free to choose and swear silence over this. If you do, you can go home right now, and you won’t talk about this —not the police, not your family, not your lover, no one at all. Is that what you want?”

 Marissa opens her mouth to reply when Lena raises a hand up, her palm open and exposed towards her —perhaps a blind body language sign.

 “Think about it. We won’t go anywhere.”

 And this time the rest is silence.

 As Marissa’s head spins with thoughts and questions, her eyes go back and forth between the couple and the literal library around them, the sound of birds chirping outside and the water in the fountain falling. The distant sound of male laughter and the following hush to it.

For fucks sake, she had come here without a purpose. It was all a mere impulse to go out and explore, find new things, meet people perhaps.

 But the Italian mafia was a whole other level of her mom’s phrase. It was crazy.

  “Listen,” she says, making the couple’s ears peek immediately as they look back from each other’s faces —their quiet conversation forgotten immediately. “If you’re trying to embed another question about my reason to be here I’m gonna be sincere with you, I don’t know what I want from this, but I’m not your enemy. Hell, I’m just a girl from a damn boring town.”

 Giorno nods, tilting his head to the side slightly. “That does answer one question, but not the other.”

Marissa sighs, “I want to stay.”

 “Why?” Lena shoots back, leaning forward to place her glass into the coffee table. The liquor left there is now ignored.

 “I don’t know.” Marissa repeats, trying to bite back her annoyance —she had already said it.

 Lena hums, a sweet smile making its way into her lips; the situation makes it feel like a venomous one. “Mar,” she stops for a second, giving her the time to correct her in case the nickname does not match her taste. “There is always a reason for everything; you want to stay, and there must be a reason for it. Everyone here has one.” She gestures around with one hand, recalling some of their most loyal men. “Loyalty, money, a lost cause, redemption, a golden heart. Everyone has a reason; and all of them are valid. As long as the interests match, then there is no way we won’t let you in.”

 Giorno’s gaze comes back from outside, a solution on the back of his mind. “Let’s do something; we will proceed with your test,” if he noticed Mar’s stiff shoulders at the word ‘test’ he played an excellent act when he didn’t react to her reaction. “And by the time we’re done, the last question will be your reason to be here.”

 “Sounds good,” Lena speaks up. “Shall we start, then?”

 Mar hums, gulping down.

 “What are your views on law and justice? Is it true or just another circus?” Giorno leans back, chest puffed out in pride.

 Mar huffs, almost rolling her eyes. Now that she has found her physical reactions don’t seem to have an effect on them, the will to be herself comes back slowly but surely. “Money. If you have the money, then there is no way you’ll put a foot in jail; no one will be able to find out about your actions, unless you want them to.”

 “And what if you don’t have the money and you are not the culprit but you find yourself in jail?”

 “Then… Someone who doesn’t want you out there got you there with their influences.”

 “I see,” Giorno nods, eyes falling into the window once again. Thoughtful. “What would you do to escape if you found yourself in that position?”

 “Let’s be real, any person who knows about this kind of business will be killed in no time: the news and the police will say they took their own lives. But we all know the government doesn’t want to be seen as a traitor to the people they swore justice and truth to. So they will kill them and make it seem like a suicide, they will pay and eliminate anyone who dares say otherwise,” Mar looks up, almost as if looking into the white celling will give her the answers. “The only way to escape is paying, as I said before, anyone will do whatever they can to grasp a few more bucks into their hands, even if that means letting go someone important under the lie of an escape.”

 Lena nods, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “But… Most people in the government are there because some of them have been put there by us.”

 Mar nods, humming along. “And that’s why you’ll probably never find yourselves there, because those men are working for you. They owe you one, that’s it.”

 Giorno turns to Mar, smirking slightly. “That’s right. Then, next question —Will you commit murder? Whatever your impulse is from these two; orders or will, never from liking —would you do it? And who would it be?”

 Mar’s lips end up pressed together for a moment —her eyes go around the room until her sight falls outside; the sun is gone, hidden by grey clouds. Even the birds have gone silent. The only sound is the water fountain still working.

 Looking on, Mar stares into Giorno’s eyes, then into Lena’s, replying in a firm, concise tone. “Well, as far as the rich and powerful that get away with horrific crimes? Anyone who takes advantage of the weak? I don’t care about what happens to them and I’d gladly set them on fire without thinking twice if given the opportunity.”

 The couple before her don’t reply, turning to look at each other —right there, Mar can see the deep connection between them, as the simple glance into each other’s eyes proves to be enough to communicate; only a small smile from Lena and her nod, and Giorno turn to her again.

“That does actually match with our interests —you’ve got one point there.”

 Lena nods, speaking up. “Next question, Mar, and this one is my favorite; are we born good or evil? Do we turn evil, or perhaps good, as time goes by?”

 Mar nods to herself, replying shortly after —eyes going between them in a simple conversational gesture, out of nervousness or insecurity. Despite the topic, it already seems like everyone there is comfortable with each other’s presence. “As far as that whole debate, well, everyone has some kind of baggage; people are just people. You have to make the conscious decision every single day of what kind of person you want to be. People who come from bad homes either choose to rise above it and be ‘good’ or they’ll choose to use it as an excuse to hurt others because they were hurting. Regardless, yeah, at the end of the day, there’s always a choice that has to be made.” She shrugs her shoulders a little.

 Giorno nods, humming low. The sound spark’s Mar’s attention.

 But his last question is not expected.

 “Usually, we ask more, but you’ve surprised us —last question; what is your will, if you ever form part of the famiglia?”

 After a moment of hesitation, considering all the previous answers she had given, she looks back up, finally thinking she had a solid, cohesive answer to give. “To be honest I’ve been kicked around all my life, I was never taken seriously, I hated being ignored, and in turn I hate seeing others face injustice. I even considered a job in criminology at one point; my dad always thought I should have been a lawyer or went to work for some behavioral analysis unit, ya’know, FBI stuff,” she licks her bottom lip as she starts off. “But like I said earlier, it’s all corrupt at some level, the law, all the red tape and bullshit rules, that’s why I stopped trying to pursue the idea of becoming a profiler, it frustrated me to see people manipulating the system.”

 Letting a few beats go, she continued on, “That said, one might say I have a moral flexibility problem and I don’t like playing by rules that are designed to protect the corrupt, my ideals of justice aren’t really what the government is interested in. Sadly, for me, that means I’ve never really fit in anywhere, never had much of a plan after I realized I couldn’t stick with a job I had thought I wanted.” She looked down at her feet again, “That’s why, when I ran into your guys pursuing that drug dealer this week, I guess I figured it was a sign that maybe there could be a place for me, after all, it doesn’t seem like any of you had much success being on the side of government or law enforcement.”

 Folding her arms, she looked back at the Don of Passione, “I guess that’s why I want in; if you guys could find a place and purpose being here, why not me too?”

 Giorno’s eyes bore into Marissa’s, cold and empty of anything but plain green pools accentuated with yellow bits.

 The Donna leans back as a single chain enveloped in red energy emerges from her palm. It flicks, filling the room with the sound of clicking metal.

 Rising a hand up just when one of the chain’s links rests there, surrounded by a brighter tone of red, turning orange briefly just when another hand, humanoid and clearly not hers, but her stand’s, touches the object, producing a creak that echoes and bounces around the walls.

 And as soon as it came it’s gone; the sound, the stand’s arm and its glow, everything’s gone and now, in the Donna’s palm rests an insignia. She leans forward now, with Giorno’s eyes on both women as he watches the moment through proud and calm eyes.

 “Welcome, Marissa. Wear this and serve loyally for our cause, which is just.”

Giorno speaks up just when Marissa leans forward to take the insignia, “You will be assigned to an area with a Caporegime, and will work for them, understood?”

 Marissa nods, taking the insignia from Lena’s palm. “Understood, boss.” She looks down at the golden object —it’s not that heavy, but it does have a certain weight, taking in consideration it’s apparently made of pure gold; the arrow that crosses the small button has what seems to be an insect, whose form is palpable.

 “Please, wait outside; we’ll send someone to lead you into an apartment soon. And Mar?”

 Mar stands up, freezing and turning back to the Donna. “Yes, boss?”

 “I can assure you you’re part of this now, you’re not an outsider anymore.” 

 Mar nods, sighing in something she can’t say —turning around, she doesn’t fail to notice the sun back again, the birds flying out the mansion’s garden and the fountain still there, functioning as if nothing happened. Where a world keeps going, her world seems to stop; or maybe time passes slower, she couldn’t know what was it, but everything felt different the moment she closed the door at her back.

[amethystsoda]

Seriously considering some draw the squad stands pics with AriHan, GioLena @dongiovannaswife and SaraMis @mistaswife!! (Hearts on Fire, Heaven’s Door, GER, The Wire, the Pistols, and Golden Swordsman) 🤔💞 (I know they’re all 5′s but the Pistols can be scattered around anywhere uwu)

[birdiesflowers]

Sunflowers and Peaches

Happy belated birth @dongiovannaswife! I decided to take a break from my current project to make you a quick little something!

The bell above the door tinkles cheerily as sunlight fills the flower shop. Birdie looks up from the bouquet she’s arranging to greet the customer, only to melt into a nervous puddle at the sight of him.

“D-Don Giovanna!” she blurts out, almost dropping her flowers all over the floor. “Never knew you’d be here. How can I help you on this fine day? A bouquet, perhaps? Tea? A tin of our fresh homemade cookies?”

“Now, now,” Giorno assures her. “No need to be so worried.” He peruses the walls of flowers and gifts before speaking again. “You’re Signorina Hartwood, right? Lena’s told me all about you.”

Birdie flashes a warm smile at his words. “I’m so glad you feel that way. Now, I assume you’re looking for a gift for Helena, right?”

“No, it’s fine. I just came here to have a look around—”

But she's already at work arranging a new, bigger bouquet. Sunflowers, Helena’s favorite. Roses, red and yellow, for true and undying love. White lilies for purity. Dandelions? No. They may be pretty, but not good enough for the Dona. Yellow asters would be much better. Tie it all with a black satin ribbon and a hand-drawn card, and perhaps add a jar of fresh peach jam to go with it...

“Sweetheart, what’s going on out there?”

Aerith’s voice catches Birdie suddenly off guard, leaving her floral magnum opus unattended. She leaves the counter behind for a while to go join her beloved, but when she returns...

“My flowers! Something ate my flowers!” Indeed, the flowers have been chewed up and burned, perhaps by one of Red’s pups, leaving only the jam. In utter disbelief and disappointment, Birdie curls up in fetal position and starts to cry.

“It’s all right,” Giorno assures her, kneeling down to her current eye level.

“NO IT’S NOT! She’s gonna kill me if she finds out! And you did absolutely NOTHING to stop it!”

“You didn’t have to make that. You really didn’t.”

“But...” She sits up again. “...but I did anyway.”

“And I applaud you for doing so. You showed such compassion for your dear friend. Now... would it make you feel better if I brought them back?”

She nods, and with a quick touch from Gold Experience, the flowers are back to their original state. He drops his payment on the counter and gives the two pups a quick scratch each on the head before leaving. And Birdie can’t shake the feeling of giddiness from knowing her close friend will appreciate what she made.

This was so worth it. She’s going to love it.

[star-birthmark]

Beloved: GioLena

First of all, this is somewhat similar to that one super poetic Risotto letter piece that I did, but I did one for Giorno because it’s  @dongiovannaswife ‘s birthday today! Happy birthday Lena! Though we haven’t been friends for long, you’ve been so kind to me since I entered this community. So when I saw it was your birthday on my dash I figured I’d write something small at least ^_^. 

In the early morning hours of April 27th, Don Giorno Giovanna quickly crept out of bed, moseying down the hall to his office to write a note for his wife and the mother of his children. The letter read as followed. 

“Dear Lena, 

Beloved is a word that I don’t often get to use. There are few things in this world that I am able to lay claim to so tenderly and lovingly as you. There are very few people in this world who when I am near them, I allow my gaze to soften, my shoulders to lower and relax, and my head to become clouded with the thoughts of a normal man in love. 

I believe one of the most human things is to realize one’s own ephemerality. There have been so many times where I have touched fingertips with my own cold demise, yet your hands are always there to warm mine when I come home to you and our children. And when we were first seeing each other, I reminded you how dangerous it would be to love me, and I think you knew that. I think you knew that there could be one day in the future when I would leave from your doorstep and not be able to come back. But something put your life in mine, knowing that I could take care of the both of us, and I haven’t stopped taking care of the both of us since. 

Lena, there is something in you that is hardly human I think.

A man could spend his whole life desperately trying to find a lesser version of you, and he would remain lost until the end of time. There is something within you that withstands against ephemerality. Perhaps it’s in the way that you challenge me not to blame my present mistakes on my past. Perhaps it’s in the way you stand tall and confident in the face of others’ judgement. Perhaps it’s the way you’re able to lift the world off of my shoulders during the nights where it dawns on me all the lives that hang in the balance over my words and it all becomes too much. 

Beloved is a word I don’t often get to use, yet within our own private palace, I find myself using it every day. I mutter it hurriedly to you when I come home from work and the boys are running into my arms for attention. I use it to describe you when my hand wraps around your waist as I proudly present to the world that you’re the one I want to have for the rest of my life.

And I’ll never stop using that word, because it’ll never not apply.

Happy Birthday dear, GioGio.”

As the young husband and father wrote the last word, he soon silently returned to his room and placed the note on his beloved’s nightstand. Hours later, when two small sets of feet came pattering down the hall to wake their sleeping mother for her birthday, Giorno pulled them up into his lap as the three boys watched their collective beloved open her gifts. When she finally arrived to the letter and read it, the young Don felt a rush of color flood to his cheeks staring into her face for a reaction. A tense silence ensued, and Giorno felt he might have done too much. Such nerves were soon lost when Lena leaned over to give him a loving kiss, her hand on his scruffy cheek. The two twins looked at each other confused. 

“What did the paper say?” Giorno smirked at his sons, content as Lena’s head rested on his shoulder, her thumb tracing his jaw.

“Not gonna tell you.” He chuckled and ruffled their wavey blond heads of hair. The two twins pouted as their parents picked them up. 

“That’s no fair.” Giorno saw their pouts and rolled his eyes with a sigh. Lena watched her two sons and smiled. “Are you sure you wanna know? It’s really icky and romantic.” She teased.

The two toddlers visually gagged and rapidly shook their heads, not wanting to know anymore detail. Both of their parents laughed hysterically, sharing a look of gratitude between one another at the life they had made together. A life that could last until the end of time. A life with a beloved. 

[milk-is-here]

Hi i'm soft and I want to cry because apparently my period LOVES making me suffer and I just... I just wish I could be on Giorno's arms, either crying or sleeping ;^;

I feel your pain, periods suck butt >:( but your hubby is always here to help you feel better!! Have a short and fluffy little fic about it uwu

You laid under the warm blanket, a pinch of pain painting over your face. Your husband was currently in his office doing paperwork, though he had promised to join you soon after he finished. Rubbing your stomach slightly in hopes to alleviate some more of the pain, you sighed softly.

Grabbing one of the throw pillows, you cradled it to your chest, resting your head on the plush arm of the couch. Breathing in slowly to work through the pain, you suddenly heard the telltale footsteps of your husband emerging from his office, the shoes padding down the stairs.

He came into view, golden hair shining slightly in the light, carefully slipping his shoes off before walking across the living room to where you lay. He lifted the blanket and slipped himself under it, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close.

"How are you feeling, tesoro?"

"Like my uterus hates me"

He chuckled softly, sticking his nose into your hair and inhaling your comforting scent. He sighed gently, holding you tighter, moving his hand to rest over your stomach. He rubbed gentle, soothing circles, relieving the pain with his warm hand.

You turned to face him more, burying your face into his chest and sighing happily. The pain was beginning to go away and your husband was finally embracing you after hours of minimal contact. Curse those documents...

His free hand carded itself through your hair, gently massaging your scalp and soothing you into sleep, the don closing his own eyes as the two of you fell into peaceful and comforting slumber.

[golden-lightning]

My brother wants to read the next part of he fic I'm working on and I said yes. Wish me luck.

[dongiovannaswife]

Us celebrating after getting our first matching tattoo (and getting Bocelli to heal it completely) —sitting down with the boys and watching movies for the rest of the day until they fall asleep uwu

Tagging whoever wants to join! 💕

Since Valentine's is just around the corner!!! Let's do some cute scenarios with our faves

Link

I really tried my best to confess to Chifuyu but I might have yelled at him and threw the box at him

Tags: @etheralyonn @novaresque @whydohumansss @livid-basket @ranitani @lostinthe-jojos

[softlimefluff]

@dongiovannaswife the reviews are in (<3333 @smol-sunnie)

[dongiovannaswife]

gonna expand this thread everytime a Giobaby Thought crosses my mind:

Seeing him come out the shower with just his boxers and the arrow around his neck --walking up to him, grabbing the arrow and pulling him down for the most slow and passionate kissy ever, and when we pull back he's blushing and stuttering <3

[seromelo-tonin]

@dongiovannaswife

Happy Birthday amiga!❤❤❤ I hope you like my present! (I tried)

[abbacchios-sunflower]

Westwood Carveli stands at the other side of the door when Leone Abbacchio swings the door open. The mercenary under Don Gioanna’s orders is not wearing his usual mask and suit, and instead, his outfit doesn't make him look like a mercenary. Just an average man, with multiple scars all across his skin, delivering a cake.

“Good afternoon,” he starts when Abbacchio doesn't say anything and just frowns at him. “I was sent by the Don and Donna to deliver this present to you and Miss Marissa. They wish you a happy anniversary and send their apologies: they're working out of the city and couldn't make it home on time to come personally. Please accept this gift as a sign of their wish for you to prosper.”

Leone blinked, letting the action sink in when he looked at the small cake box that was set in his hand. He then half-smirked, "I didn't expect the kid to get us anything with all the attitude I still give him," he joked, though maybe he shouldn't be surprised when he remembered how Giorno was kind enough to give him advice when going about proposing to his now wife, how the Don and Donna both opened their home up for the wedding and helping in any way they could, just for them.

His joking smirk had turned into an actual pleasant smile now, "I'll have to call and thank them both later then, thank you Carveli for bringing this over."

[amethystsoda]

AAAAAAA. I'm going to miss those talks between Gio and Rohan, I feel like they somehow would become great friends? Maybe they are out there, gushing about their wives and looking extravagant 😳💕

Aaaaa!!! Me tooooo Lena!! 😭💗 I think they would!! Don Gio is definitely a man of fashion and power and Rohan would just be like 😵😍 Especially if they ever met in person like he’d lowkey be obsessed haha!! You and I could just sit and admire them as they try to outdo each other 😂 it would be perfect 💘

[dongiovannaswife]

ty for the tag, itzel!! i made giobaby and me ofc uwuwuwu 

i urge you to make this with your comfort character >.<

here is the link

tagging: @deuskira and all of you! ;)