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When he decided to join and eventually lead a crime organization, Giorno had been prepared. He was willing to deceive. He was willing to kill. He was ready to do anything for the sake of his dream.
Nothing could have prepared him for mandatory family game night.
The game they were playing was, by the loosest definition possible, some form of Monopoly. Mista and Narancia had warped it into a chaotic, Mao-like chimera of changing rules and utter chaos. Although nobody was allowed to tell him the rules, Giorno was a fast learner. He did surprisingly well, racking up wealth, property, and somehow gummy bears. With all of his cunning and knack for strategy, though, nothing could have saved him from plain rotten luck. He drew the "Go to Jail" card.
Mista and Narancia had been growing increasingly miffed with every round that they failed to trip Giorno up with their ridiculously complicated rules, but they now exchanged a triumphant and conspiratorial look that he found more than a little concerning. Next to him, Bruno released an exasperated sigh. Abbacchio made a show of rolling his eyes and Fugo covered his ears a split second before an ungodly shriek pierced the air.
" SHAME CLOSET! " The sound startled Giorno so much that he almost reacted visibly. He shook off his surprise and responded calmly, voice level as always.
"Pardon?"
He received no answer and before he knew it, he was being manhandled into the hall closet. Darkness consumed him as he struggled to find his balance. Then it was quiet, save for the click of the lock and receding footsteps on the tiled floor.
Giorno had been here before.
He was fairly certain that he cried, the first time. He was young enough that the memory was fuzzy and malleable. The only thing tethering it still to his conscious mind was the raw, unfiltered terror of a small child left alone in the dark, seemingly abandoned. In his memory he cried, screamed, and banged his tiny fists against the door in desperation until they stung. He reacted as any small child would, pleading in the only way he could for his need to be met.
Infants cry when they need something. It's natural. It's the only way they can signify to a caregiver that something is wrong, that some action must be taken to pacify them. When that call for help is consistently ignored, though, the crying stops. If there is little precedent for the plea for help to be answered, they can be conditioned to internalize all the pain that a child is meant to express without shame.
The second time he was locked in the closet, the fear was the same. Giorno didn't cry. When that unadulterated terror had no physical outlet, it was absolutely overwhelming to his young mind. He had no tools to soothe himself. Instead, he went somewhere else. He swallowed his fear and in turn was swallowed whole by nothingness.
He would be good next time. He would do whatever his mother wanted, be whatever she needed him to be. Maybe then she wouldn’t leave him there again.
She did. No matter how agreeable he was, no matter how silent and unobtrusive, she locked him up again and again. He got used to drifting away from his own head to escape. He got used to the hunger and thirst. He never got used to that initial, all-encompassing pang of fear at being left alone in the dark: not for years, and certainly not now. He sank deeper into his head, the only place he could feel safe.
~~~~~~~~
When light washed over his curled up form in the closet's back corner, he only dimly processed the change in his surroundings. Chattering voices in the distance passed through his ears without being processed, but a frantic yell from much closer caused him to flinch and shrink even further in on himself.
"Don't shout. Tell the others to stay put." A different, much softer voice carried through the air and finally translated into words with meaning. "Yes, even Bucciarati."
"Giorno? Can you hear me?"
Belatedly, he realized he was the one being addressed. He nodded slowly.
"Good. Can I touch you?" Giorno nodded before even processing the question. He could be good. He'd do whatever was asked of him. He still flinched when hands made contact with his hunched shoulders. The touch didn't stop, or even falter. Solidly, purposefully, gentle hands ran up and down from his shoulders to his elbows. It was grounding. He soaked up the contact, as impersonal as it was.
"Do you know where you are?" He nodded again, more quickly this time. The words were easier to process. Was he supposed to answer? Either way, he could get punished for being rude.
"Closet." His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. It was too small, too uncertain. He shouldn't sound like that, not anymore.
"That's right. The closet where?"
"....Home?" Not his mother's home. His real home. His safe home. Ever so slightly, he let his taut muscles relax.
"Good. You're doing well. Do you feel your hand on the ground?” Another nod. “What does it feel like?”
“Cold.” He clicked his nails against the tile in a comforting rhythm.
“And the wall behind you?”
Having caught on to the process, Giorno responded without prompting. “It’s hard.”
“Perfect. Do you know who I am?”
Finally, Giorno managed to look up from his knees. He saw light hair, a suit spotted with holes, and an unreadable expression across pale features. “Fugo.”
His answer brought a small, tired smile to Fugo’s face. His hands left Giorno’s shoulders. “Hi. Are you with me?”
Giorno uncurled himself from the fetal position and shifted to rest comfortably on his heels, still disoriented but feeling far more present than before. “Yes. Thank you. Where did you learn how to do that?”
Fugo shrugged and looked away. “That’s just what works best when it happens to me. Do you want me to get you to your room without having to talk to the others? I can’t imagine you’d want to continue with game night right now.”
Giorno was immensely relieved to have an out from Hell Monopoly for the night. He was exhausted. “Please. I think it’s best if I go to bed.”
Fugo stood and offered his hand. “Of course. They’re gonna make you play using only your feet next time for leaving early, though.”
They had to walk back through the living room to get upstairs. Fugo was a buffer between Giorno and the rest of the group, partially blocking him from their view. Bucciarati started to get up, but Fugo must have given him some kind of look because he reluctantly remained in his seat.
As promised, Fugo made sure that he reached his room without interference. Giorno climbed into bed immediately, not even bothering to take off his suit.
As Fugo started to turn away, irrational panic overcame Giorno. “Wait.” The word spilled past his lips before he could catch it. The please don’t leave me that tried to follow was hastily swallowed. Fugo had done more than enough. Asking him to stay would be greedy, impolite, inconvenient.
Still, Fugo’s expression softened. As if he had somehow heard Giorno’s unspoken plea, he stepped into the bedroom, leaving the door cracked open behind him.
“Lend me one of your books. I’ll stay for a while.”