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introvertedafrican · 20 days ago

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your dear friend's sat in front of the mirror, humming away a tune you don't recognize. makeup - something Dio loves so dearly. a hobby of his, albeit rather peculiar for a man; though you suppose anything peculiar fits Dio just fine. you've come to recognize it as one of his favorite pastimes...it's so familar to you.

watching dio do his makeup brings back some unwanted memories for pucci lol

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You like Dio's room. You like how the cold pierces your skin, makes you shiver. It's an inconvenience, but so much better than the scorching, sweltering Egyptian heat that always plagues outside, even in the moonlight. You think back to the way you slumped and sighed, pushed through the crowds in search of the mansion when you first arrived. That day was so hot. The air so dry, so stiff, that it reminded you of Georgia. It does every day, ever since you've been in Egypt.

Georgia is full of familiarities, of course it is. How could it not be? You grew up there, made so many small, insignificant memories that still linger in your mind. Just the simple thought of it is enough to lead you down a rabbit hole.

You can still remember all the time you had as a child: how little of it you spent under the sun, and how much of it was spent in your father's study, reading books he'd tossed aside. You remember the first of many, many times you fell chasing after Perla, of course, and how upset you got the time she tore up your books when the both of you were small.

That was the only time you yelled at her. Your tiny voice echoed, bounced off the walls, and then you watched: just watched as her eyebrows twitched, and her bottom lip quivered, once, then twice as her body trembled. You watched how with just the narrow of your eyes, she burst into tears, sobbing and wailing sorry after sorry.

You never apologized, never comforted her. And eventually, you didn't want to watch her anymore, so you turned your head and sat there, trying to stick the shredded pages back together, drowning out the noise. You forget what prompted such apathy. You always caved for your sister, always.

Apathy proved worthless, neither fixing the book nor bringing quiet to the room; just a distraction. It's a lot like what you're doing now, utterly useless. It doesn't matter if you can remember all the times she pestered you, or the time the two of you spent together. None of it matters anymore. Georgia's a parasite, the way it's latched itself onto you. It's gnawing and nibbling on your mind like it wants to consume it whole, as if it hasn't already.

Or maybe you're the parasite.

You don't know anymore. However, you do know that you don't like thinking of Georgia. The thought of it makes your stomach sick, and yet here you are. It's been a week, maybe two, but not a second has been spent in peace. There's been not a moment where Georgia and all its sickening southern charm hasn't popped into your mind, even when you're with Dio.

You can't bring yourself to hate it, no, yet you can't stand the memories. You want to escape them for what little time you have in Egypt. You're eager, so eager that you can't admit it to yourself. You don't want to. It's one of many, many truths you're forcing down for the time being, for your own sake.

At least until your mother starts to worry, calling and calling you with her quiet, hoarse voice over the line. And then you have to drag yourself back over there.

Tonight is like any other.

You're sat on his bed, reading. You read something different every night. Some nights it's scripture, other nights it's an old play, or poetry Dio likes. Tonight, it's an obscure little novel, from an author whose name is small and forgettable. The plot is somewhat intriguing, but the paragraphs are tall. They stretch on and on, making the pages seem infinite and the words verbose.

It's only a matter of time before your mind gets tired, and your eyes begin to wander; not that there's much to see that you haven't already.

You've come to appreciate all the little things that decorate Dio's room, it'd be surprisingly scarce without them. Especially if considering the luxuries piled up in the halls.

You like the books that hide themselves in seemingly random corners of the room, like they want to be anywhere but a desk, or shelf, or wherever books are supposed to be.

You like his vanity. It's ancient, like most things in his room, but in a fashionable way: it stands arrogantly, with its prim wood and proper architecture, propped up against the wall, facing his bed. Although, you can't have the same respect for the mirror it holds. Sure, it's tall and grand, but you can't stand to stare into it for long. It aches to stare, so you avoid it the best you can. You don't like the way it reflects you.

You like how dark it is in the mansion. No light's allowed in, and little comes out. However, you can see the moonlight peeking in through the curtains tonight. There aren't any lamps, just candles that cower in almost every corner; held in silvers and golds that're hollow and slender and molded into intricate designs. There's one right next to you on his nightstand living a calm life, content in expelling its sweet, floral scent. Its metal is aged, but you've never seen it dull.

You like to think they're kept around for aesthetics, or maybe Dio just likes what little warmth they bring, not that they're any help to him at all. His hands are always cold, no matter how long he's by candlelight.

Your dear friend's sat in front of the mirror, humming away a tune you don't recognize. Makeup is something Dio loves so dearly. A hobby of his, albeit rather peculiar for a man; though you suppose anything peculiar fits Dio just fine. It's one of his favorite pastimes, you've learned.

He looks content tonight, like always. Content in dabbing on familiar products you know the names of but choose to forget. The brush he's holding looks so small, so tiny, insignificant in between the tips of his fingers. And yet, he takes great care in sliding its bristles across his face. You stare, observe, and notice there's not an inch of hesitance in any movement. Each stroke is quick, calculaR2-D2ted, full of confidence. It's intriguing because the way your dear friend is painting his face tonight is new. It's so unlike the vibrant, bright palettes, the ones that dominate the faces of front covers in his magazines, he'd been trying to replicate. No, it's like he's knocking on Death's door tonight, with a face so pale he looks like he's already been invited in, the only color from it came from the rouge dusting his cheeks, and his lips; so red they look raw.

You stare in silence, so much so that you don't even notice he's stopped. You don't notice he's staring right at you until he speaks, startling you out of your daze.

"Would you like me to do yours next?" Dio smiles at you. It's genuine, so unlike the sweet ones he slips to unnerve you when you're besting him in chess. He's looking right at you, through you, from the mirror.

Your breath hitches for a moment, and everything's so loud. You can hear the way he's tapping on the vanity, the incessant scritching and scratching of the paint is so loud. Even the candle's flickers and gasps, silent wails for breath don't go unnoticed in that moment.

"No." The words come quick, once you come to your senses. You close your book shut, resting it on your lap, to ensure that his attention is yours. "It's fine."

"That's a shame," he sighs, and a solemn look dons his face. "You looked so enthralled, Enrico."

You're not sure if he's actually upset, or simply teasing. Dio likes to play with your mind like that, send it around in circles.

You've noticed his tendency to twist things, words being his specialty. He can make them invisible, make nonsense mean something, like it's nothing; with only the tip on his tongue. It's fascinating, honestly.

"Do let me know if you change your mind, hm?" He says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice, see it when he spares you another glance before turning his attention away. You open your book back up, but can't seem to wave away the uneasiness you feel. You look at him again, and your eyes settle on the mirror. The mirror, so tall and grand that it's almost familiar.

...

"Must I always be your guinea pig, Perla?" You sighed, exasperation filling your voice. Your jaw ached from her grip: the firm grasp that held your face, locking every muscle in place.

What'd been worse was that this girl, your dear sister, had been at it for twenty minutes. Endless poking and prodding at your face with an array of tools and product. Her grip loosened every few minutes, though it was only a means to tilt your head up and down, then left and right, and whichever other way she deemed necessary until satisfaction filled her mind. Her nails dug into your skin just enough to cause you discomfort, but not deep enough to cause any real pain.

"Of course!" She said, beaming with enthusiasm, completely oblivious to your discomfort. "Who else but- hold still!" Perla huffed, suddenly twisting your face into another odd angle. Her smile returned once she was satisfied, and she continued on. "But you, 'Rico?"

You sighed and looked into the mirror, piecing together your reflection.

You looked. . interesting, to say the very least. Not that Perla had done a bad job, not by any means. You always looked interesting when she used your face for practice. Now, you weren't a makeup guru, not by any means, but you'd become familiar with the process after enduring it so many times. This was a common occurrence, after all: Perla dragging you into her room, and sitting you in front of her vanity.

Within these occurrences, you found yourself enduring Perla's persistence, as always. It didn't matter how some of the colors hated the complexion of your skin, or if there were never any powders that matched your tone, she always found a way to make it work. The way she painted your face was never really all that calculated. There was a process, yes, albeit not very orderly. Frankly, you had little idea what went around in that mind of hers when she did your makeup. There were times when she'd stare at your face, brush in hand, for what felt like hours, and others when she'd waste no time applying stroke after stroke of color to your face.

Perla never used mascara on you, not for the reason that there weren't any white ones available but because of the length she claimed your lashes already had. She always ranted to you, openly expressing her envy and groaning about the injustice before indulging you in her plans to steal them with a grin. You were sure she was joking, most of the time. Perla joked with you a lot, especially when she did your makeup.

She hummed a quiet tune, applying lipstick to your lips. It smelled sweet, artificial, and you popped your lips to spread the dark mauve across them; not minding how the cool wax threatened to make your lips stick.

Your eyes wandered as Perla brushed product against your cheek, and you found them glued to the photos she'd stuck on the mirror: a few of you and her, some of her and her friends, but most were of her, and him: that boy she loved to fill your ears with talk about. So you narrowed your eyes and asked:

"Why not your boyfriend, hm?"

The girl paused, staring off into the distance as she thought. "Well, to be honest, Wes would be a better model..." She said, as if she was actually considering it. "And he wouldn't squirm, or complain as much..."

A frown pulled at your lips, despite your wanting to keep a blank face, like always. It wasn't any of your business what the two of them did, but you had a strange feeling, beating on the back of your brain. Maybe it was just instinctive, or a result of your long, long history of looking after her, but the idea of them doing this -something only the two of you shared- irked you.

She giggled at the sight of your sullen expression, and pat your shoulder firmly. "But he's not you, Enrico! You're my favorite brother, after all."

"Oh please, I'm your only brother." You corrected, rolling your eyes. A smile tugged at your lips, and you bore into the mirror again. You saw yourself, but focused on Perla behind you. The two of you didn't look related. You supposed she took after your mother: blonde hair that wasn't so kinky, but still tangled when it got wet, just like yours; big-light doe eyes and pale skin that got irritated when she dawdled in the sun too long.

"Yeah, yeah." She sighed, resting her hands on your shoulders. Your sister squeezed gently, before letting go and grasping either side of the top of the chair. You heard her scratch at the soft fabric ever so slightly. "It's just a little sad, Enrico."

"What is?" You raised an eyebrow. There wasn't much that made Perla sad, not anything you hadn't already known about.

"Well, we never get to spend all that much time together anymore, y'know?" She looked at your reflection, a frown on her face. "Nowadays, you're always all cooped up in that old church."

"I have responsibilities, Perla. We're not getting any younger." You began, but stopped yourself from saying anymore once you saw the sad look on her face. You didn't mean to be harsh, just truthful. It was the truth, after all.

"I know, I know." She grumbled with a pout on her lips, and a moment passed before she spoke again. Your dear sister didn't talk in her usual loud, upbeat manner that time. No, she spoke in a small, unfamiliar voice. One that yanked the loose strings on your heart tight, and made it ache. It was one you'd never heard before. "Just don't forget about me, okay?"

"...How could I forget about you, Perla?" You chuckled softly, a useless attempt to lighten whatever solemn mood you'd invited in.

"I don't..know. Sorry, I'm being silly." Your dear sister stammered, a weak smile on her lips.

"You're not-"

"I know." The girl said firmly. "Just...I mean in the future, when you're like Pope or something, y'know?" Perla's eyes bore into your own. "You..you're going to be somebody, Enrico. Somebody who helps people and does good things, and I'm just going to be me." Perla said, never stopping to take a breath. Her gaze never left yours. "So don't forget, okay?"

You thought about what to say; what to say to comfort her. What could you have said, that wouldn't make it worse? You couldn't lie to her, could you?

"Okay." That's all you managed to say for a while: two pathetic, sad syllables left your lips.

Then four.

"Okay, Perla."

...

You don't know why you relented, put away what little pride you still had and sat in front of the mirror, his mirror. What had gotten into you, you didn't know. All the effort you've put into forgetting has gone to waste. Why do you torment yourself? How could you put yourself into such a familiar position?

Your head's spinning, and your eyes lock onto your hands. The hands that as you stare, bore hard into, you swear you can still see, no, feel the water on. The shrill, freezing water that pruned your skin, froze them over, made your fingers numb. You sigh because it doesn't matter anymore.

"Relax, Enrico," Dio says, his nails digging into your skin. It's not like you don't want to be relaxed, you simply can't be. He's holding your face so tight, twisting it gently in odd angles. You've been here before, and it's making your stomach twist. "Relax." He says, and you watch his lips purse as his grasp battles your stiff stature.

Slowly, the man turns your face; and makes you look up at him. So you stare, you stare up at him and he stares back. The look in his eyes is blank, full of nothing. You can never really read him. You can pick up on patterns, observe, try and try, but your dear friend's just so unpredictable. He's so much like her; unpredictable.

"What's troubling you?" Dio asks, his voice smooth and gentle, genuine.

You say nothing for a moment, and there's an inch of your mind that wants to tell him everything. You want to tell him about Georgia, Perla, and the sickness swirling around your stomach, but you smile at him instead. "It's nothing. I'm sorry for worrying you."

Dio's lips curl into a frown, and he persists. "You can confide in me, Enrico. You know that, yes?"

"I know."

The man hums, seemingly content with your answer. Content, but he doesn't smile back. He simply continues on. It's quiet whilst he does your makeup, save for his quiet sounds of satisfaction seeing the look come together.

Once he's finished, he places his hands on your shoulders, squeezing them gently. "There, don't you look beautiful?" You spare your reflection a glance, and can't say that it isn't impressive. The makeup didn't transform you, or make you lose your identity. It only enhanced what you already had. The dark spots beneath your eyes vanished. The shadows he used to dust your lids were smoky, a compliment to your eyes.

"Thank-"

"You know, Enrico, you have such long eyelashes." Your dear friend interrupts.

You can practically hear the smile in his voice, sense the narrowing of his eyes when he speaks again. "I'm almost jealous."

Jealous, he says. Jealous. You're not so sure it's the word, or the playful smile on his lips, or the way your reflection's looking back at you, or the sickness tumbling about your stomach, or the familiarities filling each sense as you stare into his mirror, but you know it's all too much to bear.

You hadn't cried, not a tear, not one had fallen after the day she died. Neither at her funeral nor when sorting through her stuff. You came close to it, so close, so, so many times. You should be able to control yourself, but you fail, of course.

The tears trail down your face, dragging down the powder and foundation, and eyeliner he'd been careful to paint onto you. No wails or sobs or sounds escape you, but you cry nonetheless. Your eyebrows knit, almost seamlessly, together. Your face twists and pulls and you swear it might just get stuck that way.

You look into the mirror, your vision a little blurred, but your eyes manage to focus on Dio, right behind you.

And your dear friend's watching, just watching you cry.

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#fanfiction #ao3 writer #jjba #jojos bizarre adventure #ao3 fanfic #fanfic writing #enrico pucci #pucci #dio brando #stardust crusaders #jojo no kimyou na bouken #angst #2nd person pov #perla

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