#sign reads ‘the magician hairstylist- find your new self’

[fatiguedcorvid]

everything stays- Golden Wind fanfic

JJBA GW one shot ~1.6k words, SFW genfic

now on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50584042/share

As much as he might have been loathe to admit it, Giorno hated his requiem stand. He felt like an immature ingrate thinking it; Gold Experience Requiem saved him and his friends in Rome. It was the reason Giorno was able to pursue his dream of cleaning up Naples’ streets. But with every passing month the feeling weighed on him more.

He sat bodily on a public bench outside some hair salon, the sign reading ‘il parrucchiere mago- trova il tuo nuovo sé’. Breathing heavily, he was trying to glance at GER behind him without arousing suspicion from the few people already out and about at 5:40 AM on a Tuesday. GER had no such considerations, glaring at every passerby with what Giorno could only imagine was murderous intent. ‘Touch my water bottle’ he thought to it. ‘Turn it into a nutria.’ GER didn’t budge. He tried to call it back into him. It didn’t work. 

Once his vision stopped spinning he sighed and started heading back to the Villa. Giorno had taken up morning jogs in the past few weeks, hoping they would help clear his mind. In reality they did little other than make him feel guilty for not starting his already too busy workday earlier. Is that why he found himself sprinting full force every time he started running?

~

“Ah, man, what to do about GER… ?” Mista scratched his head with the tip of his revolver, considering the question. Most people would be hesitant to stand at the barrel of a gun, but Mista trusted Sex Pistols to never let him come to harm. Well, no harm so irreversible as brain death. Even if perhaps he shouldn’t have. “I dunno, Giogio, I’m not usually the advice guy.” he looked at Giorno, impassive as ever. “But,” he smiled at him, “I'll tell you what. I might not be able to fix anything, but I do know what you need. A distraction.”

“Distraction.”

“Yeah! Anything to just stop thinking about it.”

Giorno paused to consider. “I am very busy, Mista. But I increasingly can’t put it out of my mind.”

Mista pftt-ed automatically before suddenly remembering where he was and looking to see if Giorno was offended. He wasn’t able to tell. “Yeah, but you’re busy with work stuff. Peril, danger, stand attacks. How can you expect GER to lay low like that? Do something fun, for once.” Giorno tried to think back. ‘When did I last do something for pure enjoyment?’

~

“How was the movie? Did Tony McGire spider a lot of men?” Fugo asked, somewhat exasperated. Though he was invited, he didn’t come to the viewing, which only quietly convinced Giorno he got the name wrong on purpose. Fugo wasn’t exactly a pop culture aficionado.

“I don’t know. Fell asleep about fifteen minutes in.”

Fugo shook his head. “C’mon, Giogio. How can you expect to be taller than me one day if you keep sleeping barely four hours a night?” Fugo still retained three stubborn centimeters over Giorno, which he didn’t hesitate to mention at any available opportunity. Giorno had to admit he probably had a point, but sleeping more would leave even less time for his job, let alone having fun. He took a tentative bite of his croissant, smeared with copious butter and his favorite apricot jam; the taste was divine. He loved this quaint little cafe. But at that moment it brought him no comfort. He took his time chewing, wanting any excuse to delay the next part of this conversation. But if anyone could help him with this, it had to be Fugo. “When we came back, I tried to summon Gold Experience again. Strained so hard I felt my eyes almost pop out of their sockets. GER was just staring at me, wearing a certain disapproving expression. I might have snapped at it. Or maybe it was the one who snapped at me. Even now I'm not entirely sure. But it left a giant gash on my forehead.” He pointed to the now traceless site of the injury, undone by the very stand that caused it. Fugo sat there staring at him, mouth full of tuna salad sandwich. Giorno waited expectantly for him to swallow, silently resenting him for using the same time earning trick as himself.

“I don’t really know anything about requiem stands. Did you ask Polnareff about this?”

“I did. He even contacted the Speedwagon Foundation on my behalf to see if they can discover something useful.”

“And… ?”

“And nothing. He says he barely understands them himself. But if the original Gold Experience hadn’t asserted itself once since it was pierced with the arrow, it’s unlikely it ever will again.”

“I see.” Fugo said eventually. “If that’s the case, I think the only way forward is to accept your circumstances. You need to stop thinking up ways to bring it back. You’re just torturing yourself. You’ll never be able to make peace with GER if you only ever think of how to turn it back. Who knows? Maybe GER will change, become something bearable, even if it will never be the same Gold Experience again.” Giorno held back his response.

“Well, regarding the monthly budget-”

~

Giorno knocked on the half opened door to Coco Jumbo’s room. It was already rather late, but Polnareff would usually still be awake at this hour. From inside came an ever cheery voice “yes, come in!” It echoed like it was coming from a much bigger space than the modest room could allow. Coco Jumbo was sitting on the sofa in the corner. Normally much too tall a surface for a turtle to climb onto, given access by ramps stretching from the floor to every piece of furniture or appliance not already placed on the floor. They’d offered to get rid of the sofa, but Polnareff insisted they keep at least a small sofa and desk. As soon as he was inside the turtle Polnareff charged at him with a bear hug. The contact with his ghostly form felt a bit weird. It had mass, but wasn’t entirely solid. 

“What’s wrong Giorno? Couldn’t sleep? Something bothering you?” Coming from any other person that kind of attention would’ve felt smothering, but from him it felt genuine. Like he was asking because he wanted to hear the answer, not just out of politeness.

“I suppose.” he sat down, reminding himself not to get so comfortable as to fall asleep in the turtle. “I talked to Fugo. He said I can't live with GER if I'm constantly trying to turn it back to something that's already gone. But I can't seem to actually let it go. Even though I know it’s all useless.”

“What is it exactly about Gold Experience that you miss?”

Giorno was a bit taken aback. “How do you mean?”

“Well, Gold Experience might not be coming back, but why do you miss it in the first place? Do you know what it is about it that made you happier than GER? Maybe you can have this thing back. That same feeling, just in a different way.”

~

It was over a decade ago now. Giorno, only five years old, was sitting on the dirt in the tiny unkempt garden of their new house in italy. It was the time when his mother’s marriage was still fresh. When he was excited to make friends at this new place called “school”. When he still believed his stepdad’s wrath could be avoided if only he was well behaved enough. That garden was his refuge, a garden of eden. Crows and pigeons would fight over the right to rule the fence. Stray cats would sometimes sneak in; they might’ve let him pet them, if he gave them food scraps before. He was digging around for worms, eyes widening every time he found a squirming form in the moist ground. It made him wonder if they were placed there by a higher power just for him. The critters hiding in foliage and underground seemed like too much of a miracle to be a product of mere chance. Aristotle wrote about the theory of spontaneous generation. That living creatures could be birthed from dead, inanimate matter. And that was what humans believed for centuries. Common knowledge, really. By Giorno’s time everyone knew this was nonsense, of course; a fantasy created by prescientific minds. But Giorno was too young to have learned about such things; free to dream up explanations for the miracle in front of him.

~

Once giorno figured out how the damned UV lamp was supposed to be set up the cage was complete. Substrate, sticks, a stone to rub on, and every amenity a crested gecko could hope for. He opened the small plastic container and placed it inside the terrarium, letting the little guy step out and explore in his own time. Mista stood behind them, making faces.

“A gecko, really? Am I going to see it now every time I step in your office? Ugh, it’s face gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“How could you say something so awful?” he said, his back still turned. Not that seeing his face would’ve given away whether or not he was joking. “In any case, his name’s Charlie, and you’re perfectly within your right to look away if his face bothers you.” When Giorno finally turned to face him, he took another sip of his tea. Out of politeness more than anything. He was never much of a tea guy, but when Giorno offered him a cup he brewed with the mint he grew himself, Mista didn’t have the heart to tell him no. Because at this point he knew Giorno well enough to see through his mysterious air; he was proud of himself.