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During the transition from Sunday evening to the first glimpses of Monday morning, during the ungodly hours to which no one but the stars and the moon should be awake, Giorno Giovanna would go missing. Unless there were prior engagements to be had or the Don was on a business trip, the teenager would find a way to slip out of the protective sanctuary of his mansion to brave the unruly streets of Naples.
This trek had become ritualistic in nature, always on foot until the body’s exhaustion overcame the mind’s desire to press forward and a bus or cab was taken. Giorno always traveled alone and never spoke of this tradition to anyone as his silence would be kept throughout the entire journey until his eventual reemergence back home, with the evening spell of sleep keeping the rest of his team blissfully unaware of his nighttime escapades.
This repetitious cycle would have continued indefinitely, if not for one particular restless evening in which Bruno Bucciarati found himself overlooking the balcony of his study, mind overtaken with the woes of days to come. It was there, out in the yard bathed in moonlight, did the young catch an intruder wading through the premises below.
Bucciarati was worn from that day, but his duty to serve his famiglia was forever vigilant. As such, he took matters into his own hands to give chase to the one who dared skulk about on the property with what could be nothing but ill intention.
The thief.
The spy.
The Assassin.
Any of these descriptors could be the case, a potential risk the young man couldn’t dare take, and yet, none were further from the truth.
As Bucciarati rounded the corner of their garden wall, he was greeted with a full view of the street to fill his vision. The only detail the young man could focus on was the golden hair of his superior, curls bouncing with each quiet step as the figure walked underneath the revealing light of the streetlamp to confirm what Bucciarati had already deduced.
Giorno stopped, head turned ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of the one who was tailing him, without a single word to be exchanged before the teenager continued onward to his destination. His silence did not equate to an objection, nor was it an invitation to follow, but the uneasy feeling taking hold of the young man was more than enough reason to continue following after the teenager he called his Don.
The directions Giorno was taking gave little indication as to where he was going, and by the time the two had reached the first bus stop, Bucciarati had cast aside any ideas of unraveling the truth before it would be inevitably revealed to him. No words were spoken, and no looks were exchanged, even as Bucciarati took a rather concerned place by Giorno’s side while they waited for the midnight bus to arrive.
Giorno’s eyes were faced directly forward, never faltering. This contrasted with the watchful, prying eyes of Bucciarati, who could not fathom the notion that they were safe enough to let their guard down the way his Don had lost himself in whichever thoughts plagued his mind. The blank expression on the teenager’s face was one the young man should have been used to, but the hollow layer beneath it gave no hint of what was going on behind the expertly crafted mask adorned on Giorno’s face.
The truth behind this song and dance was starting to appear sinister in nature, perhaps even the work of a stand holding the teenager’s mind hostage to puppeteer the body as the master saw fit. But, when Bucciarati worked up the courage to speak on the matter, before the first syllable could even pass through the young man’s lips, Giorno raised a silent finger above his own.
A request for silence.
One Bucciarati would humor a little while longer as their destination drew ever closer with each passing minute that ticked by.
Soon, the pair reached the end of the bus line, with Giorno being the first to step off the bus as Bucciarati swiftly followed. His attention was drawn away from his Don in that instance, gazing up at the landmark that was no doubt the teenager’s destination.
The San Martino Charterhouse.
This old building boasted multiple gardens and a rich history for historians and tourists alike to dive into, but neither appeared to be what Giorno was after. Instead, the teenager approached the building and walked inside, doing away with whatever obstacles stood in his path as he navigated each floor of the old building with a notable absence of confusion. This led Bucciarati to conclude that this wasn’t the first visit Giorno had made to this place, and once the pair reached the large open-air balcony, a marvelous view lay in store for them.
The entirety of the gulf of Naples lay before then, gently lit by the city lights working in accordance with the moon above to create a picture that held every reminder of just why the Bucciarati devoted his life to fulfilling Giorno’s dream to bring this city out from its underbelly’s toxic grip. If they were there under normal circumstances, Bucciarati would have stood in awe a while longer, but the fact Giorno had not stopped alongside him had quickly pulled the young man out of his thoughts and back to the teenager, to whom he was trying harder to understand.
Giorno had walked to the very edge of the balcony, taking only a few seconds for the rushing wind to settle before climbing onto the flat garden wall that encircled the perimeter. It was a common sight to find tourists dangling their feet over the edge as they took in the sights laid out before them, but Giorno was far from common.
The teenager stood with his back straight, hands in his pockets, unhindered by the wind’s return.
The sight was more concerning than ever, as Bucciarati couldn’t deduce what was going through his mind, but several conclusions were very easy to jump to, as the young man approached Giorno as fast he could without arising any panic on Giorno’s part.
Bucciarati felt that he should choose his next words carefully, but just as Giorno did on the bus, the teenager reacted before the young man had a chance to speak.
“I am not going to jump.”
That statement— the first statement —Giorno had made to him this entire trip carried a hefty connotation. Jumping implied that he was to leave the ledge on purpose, as falling could be more often than not attributed to an accident.
“I never said you were.”
“No, but that is what you thought, even if for a moment. That is not a harmful conclusion to make, considering if I were to do so, then I have no doubt in your ability to catch me.”
Bucciarati was puzzled, unsure if Giorno was intending to do something or not by the way he was acting. “I don’t— Forgive me, Giorno, but I don’t understand what statement you are trying to make by bringing me all the way out here.”
Giorno slowly turned around, carefully choosing his steps to ensure his balance as he faced Bucciarati. “I suppose not. I never intended to bring anyone with me, but knowing your penchant for answers and my own stubbornness and refusal to miss this tradition of mine, I thought it would be best to bring you along.”
“You come here often?”
“As often as I can, I suppose. This place is a reminder to myself and this view, the city of Naples in the dead of night beneath a quiet evening sky, is an image that has cemented its place in my memory for quite some time now.”
The young don sighed, stretching his neck a bit to take one last look at the city behind him before stepping off the platform and back onto the balcony. His back was slouched a bit, and his landing was far from graceful, leaving that instance for Bucciarati to catch a glimpse of the teenager Giorno was instead of the Don he had positioned himself to be.
It was clear Giorno was on his way to leave, but nothing of what he said truly answered why there was so much secrecy behind a small jaunt outside to view the city. The undertones suggested something deeply personal, something Bucciarati wanted to understand and in spite of his own reservations, the young man pushed for a more conclusive answer.
“Why do you come here? Out of every scenic view of the city?”
The young Don halted his advances towards the door leading back inside before leaning back and staring at the sky directly above his head as Giorno gave the young man’s questions some thought. “Here? As in this exact location… I honestly couldn’t say. Every tourist pamphlet or guide book claimed that this was the most stunning view of the entire city, and so I was curious.”
There was a pause, and Bucciarati thought that this was the end of the conversation, until Giorno let out a long sigh. “You know, coming here in the dead of night was the first time I ever saw this city as something truly beautiful. The same went for any other time of day, but being here when no one else can be always brought a sense of the surreal with it. I come back to recapture that feeling as well as to remind myself…”
Giorno’s words trailed off as he smiled, taking in a breath of air as Bucciarati stood patiently with every intention of giving him all the time he required to answer.
A smile. A small, but genuine smile then appeared on the young Don’s face, with eyes unable to look at Bucciarati directly as the words took their time finding the proper formation to be spoken in.
“This place… is a reminder that my dream didn’t end here. It is a reminder that I found my footing in this new chapter of my life.”
Giorno then stepped forward, gently reaching out and taking a hold of Bucciarati’s hand. “I am thankful for every day I’ve spent with everyone, and especially the day we met. None of this wouldn’t be possible if things were to have gone any differently.”
Bucciarati couldn’t discern what he should say in response, only that the truth was far more fitting than any consolations he could provide. “Giorno, you have no idea the profound effect you’ve had on my own life. If we had never crossed paths, I dare to think where I would be today.”
“It must be the work of fate, then.” Giorno mused, “I apologize for the unnecessary amount of worry I put you through tonight. I find myself unable to share this piece of myself with the rest of the team, and I would prefer to keep this between us if possible. At least, until I work through a few more things on my own.”
“Oh, Giorno.” Bucciarati pulled the teenager in, wrapping both arms around his Don’s shoulders as the teenager stood dumbfounded in his arms. “It is my job to worry. I promise to keep this between us. But please, if you ever need someone to shoulder any more of your burdens, I will always be by your side to do so.”
It was in that moment, after the final word had been spoken, that Bucciarati felt Giorno’s arms around his, reciprocating the gesture with the two embracing each other in silence, sealing an unspoken vow to share the weight that had accumulated all this time.
“And I to you, Bruno Bucciarati.”