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Right after Diavolo’s defeat happened—or it, as Giorno liked to say— he, accompanied by Mista, Trish, and the turtle under his arm, walked over to the Colosseum to meet Bucciarati. His body had laid there after the bodyswap shenanigans had occurred between them all, and retrieving him was their top priority.
By the time they got there, Bucciarati’s body lay cold, as stiff as a board.
“Hey, Giorno. Can’t you do something?”
Mista’s voice echoed throughout the building, and while his tone sounded aggressive, it was more pleading than anything.
Giorno remembers not knowing what to do; he had healed the gunshot wounds on Bucciarati’s body created from when Doppio had inhabited it, but Bucciarati wouldn’t stir. He was, as far as anyone could tell, dead.
However, G.E.R. had other ideas. Instantly, he could feel his stand manifest beside him, almost as if it operated on its own wavelength (it couldn’t, right)? His stand quickly made work of the man on the ground.
Giorno wasn’t sure what his stand had done, but before he knew it, Bucciarati was trying to sit up, rubbing his face in confusion.
“What are— Where am I?”
Mista and Trish sighed audibly in relief. But anyone could practically see the gears turning in Giorno’s head.
An hour after Diavolo’s defeat, they had already rushed over to Narancia, and G.E.R. had performed the same miracle done unto Bucciarati moments before.
A day after Diavolo’s defeat, they had travelled to the coast where Abbacchio laid, and G.E.R. had worked its magic again.
A week after Diavolo’s defeat, they all had assumed full power of Passione; their takeover was swift, graceful.
Two months after Diavolo’s defeat, Giorno sat down at his desk, frustrated and tired.
Being the Don of Italy’s biggest gang was—as one might expect—hard.
His first action after rising to power was to help fulfill Bucciarati’s dream of dismantling the drug trade. Of course, the act was easier said than done. He had wound up feeling so guilty for his teammates’ injuries and what he had brought unto them that he had thought it better to shut them all of and take down the drug business without their assistance. But, his stand was powerful enough, and he didn’t want to rope anyone in his group into it, especially considering Bucciarati’s aversion to the substances.
Most of the groups could be dealt with diplomatically, save for a small number. Though, it did turn out that being able to shoot beams of pure energy didn’t leave a lot of room for resistance.
To Giorno’s lack of surprise, there were still a handful of groups that would likely reappear no matter what he did. The drug trade was a lucrative business, and he wouldn’t be so naïve as to assume that it wouldn’t be a consistent problem he would have to deal with.
With the drug trade to deal with and the added stress of trying to gain the trust of Passione affiliates, Giorno had run himself to the ground with the amount of work piled on his desk, often forgoing sleep to complete it. He had doled out jobs to everyone, yet he felt himself feel responsible for the majority of the work that had to be done. The others noticed this—quite quickly—but Giorno’s closed-off demeanour and tendency to brush people off hadn’t left a lot of room to confront him about it; he would rarely meet with the group at Libeccio nor leave his office, save for public appearances.
Their first attempts to get Giorno’s head out of his work were a bit rough if the group had to be honest.
Bucciarati had tried to talk to Giorno, at first—twice.
The first time was when he had walked by Giorno’s room (which doubled as his office) to offer him a cup of tea. However, his attempt was unsuccessful, as Giorno had refused the drink with the excuse of there being too much to do.
Of course, that hadn’t deterred the older man. Thus, he was at Giorno’s room again.
“Giorno, we’d love it if you could join us for dinner. We haven’t been able to talk to you for a while, and we’d enjoy your company if you so choose.”
Giorno had contemplated for a while before following Bucciarati to Libeccio.
The meal was… awkward. Narancia and Bucciarati would make repeated attempts to include Giorno into the conversation, but he seemed too exhausted to join in, so they were forced to leave him be. Unnatural silence blanketed the room, and Mista’s attempts to wave it away with his monologues and hypotheticals were unsuccessful. In the end, they had all parted their ways, and Bucciarati had reminded them gently about the team meeting that Giorno was to run in the upcoming days.
There was nothing too out of the ordinary concerning the upcoming meeting. Every week, they would all gather to discuss their plans for Passione and the next steps for management. All of them—except for Giorno, who was the Don and Bucciarati, who worked as the Consigliere—were part of the Unita Speciale, and were to relay these orders to the Capos of Passione, who would present the commands to the Soldatos.
The work assigned would be as per the usual, with hits, gambling, and protection being the main focuses. Giorno left the drug busting to himself, of course. However, it proved to be fruitless and exhausting. A string of a few particular cases often proved difficult, and the aftermath would always take a while to blow over, regularly ebbing away at his sleep. Unfortunately, this particular aftermath had cost him days of it, and that lack of rest had carried over to the day of the meeting.
It would be alright, Giorno hoped, nothing a dab of concealer couldn’t fix.
(Unfortunately, it was something concealer couldn’t fix, but he digressed. He’d be fine.)
(Spoiler alert: he wouldn’t be.)
Giorno got to the meeting successfully, ignoring the concerned glance from Bucciarati amidst the morning chatter.
He raised his voice in an attempt to gather their attention (it worked) and started to go over what needed to be done.
His eyelids felt heavy. Were they supposed to feel this heavy? It was fine. He just needed to power through it.
—
…and he comes to in a bedroom.
The plush blankets were wrapped around his body. Disoriented from waking up, he pawed around confusedly in an attempt to remember both what happened, and why he was here. Strangely, he felt well-rested.
It was his bed, thank god. Deductive reasoning assumes that he had likely collapsed from exhaustion and was brought to his room by the gang. He reddened in embarrassment to himself.
It was Bucciarati and Abbacchio who walked into the room first to check in on Giorno. Bucciarati peeped his head through the door, and upon seeing him awake, he sat down at the foot of his bed. Abbacchio followed behind him awkwardly and stood hovering between the bed and the adjacent wall.
Bucciarati was the first one to speak.
“It’s been an exhausting day for you, huh?”
The Don rubbed at his eyes.
“I suppose so.”
“Look, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, I’d just like you to know that before I asked—” Giorno nodded—“but I’d like to ask what’s been keeping you up at night. I and the others noticed that you haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately. We’re concerned about you, Giorno, and we care about you, alright?”
“It’s fine. I think it—it’s nothing.”
Abbacchio walked over and crossed his arms.
“Don’t bullshit me, Giovanna; it’s clearly not ‘nothing’. We can’t help you here if you’re unwilling to even let us know what’s been eating away at you.”
Giorno breathed out.
“I’ve been taking on the drug trade by myself. I’m sorry for not letting you know sooner— Bucciarati, and everyone else.”
Bucciarati sighed and opened his mouth to speak before Abbacchio interrupted him.
“Why wouldn’t you ask for help? How long have you been doing this for?”
Giorno set his jaw.
“I don’t need your help; I just need to get this done.”
“Giorno, please let us help you with this. It’s clearly taking a toll on you,” Bucciarati argued.
“You all don’t deserve to be burdened by the extra work. Fate allowed me to rise to the position of Don, and it’s my responsibility to take on all the work that comes with it.”
“Giorno—” Buccellati interjected— “you are not Diavolo. He may have chosen to run everything by himself, but that was because he was scared of allowing others to work at his side. You don’t have to be like that. Let us support you, Giorno. Don’t feel like you need to handle this all by yourself.”
“Yes, but,” Giorno continued, “Narancia and you both almost died because of my idea, it’s the least I could do.”
A look of realization dawned upon Bucciarati’s face.
“Oh, Giorno, is that what’s been bothering you? Please know this—” Bucciarati placed his hand on Giorno’s—“our injuries were ours to take, and you don’t owe us anything, alright? We all went to betray the boss willingly. Don’t think that what happened was your fault. And never, never think that you owe us anything at your expense.”
“What Bruno said,” Abbacchio added, “we’re more than capable of helping you, Giovanna. Don’t assume we can’t all hold our own. That was how we defeated Diavolo, after all.”
Giorno sat there, processing.
“...thank you, Bucciarati, Abbacchio.”
“Please,” Bucciarati stops him, “it’s truly no problem. I want you to feel welcome around here. We’re family after all, hm?”
Giorno’s facial features soften.
“We’ll be watching a movie tonight, care to join us?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Alright, then, feel free to come with a movie choice, I’ll give you first dibs before Narancia or Mista get a hold of the remote.”
Bucciarati laughs.
Giorno smiles.
—
“Narancia, that’s not how you make popcorn!”
Fugo’s yelling can practically be heard by the entire block, but nobody pays him any mind. Narancia grins.
“Narancia—” Bucciarati peeps into the kitchen— “make sure to turn the heat down, or else the oil might burn!”
“Got it!”
“The movie’ll be starting in ten minutes!”
“Got it!”
After a few minutes had passed, they all sat in their respective seats. Fugo sat in the recliner, Bucciarati and Abbacchio sat their loveseat (Narancia had always liked to make fun of the name—’a loveseat for the two lovebirds’ was the phrase the gang had found amusing at first, but now groaned in frustration at the mere mention of), and the rest of them were piled onto the bigger couch that sat in the middle of the living room.
—
Two months and a week after Diavolo’s defeat, Giorno had finally felt at Home.