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“Diavolo. Or should I say, “Boss”
Diavolo took in a shuddering breathe, he could feel the blood in his lungs, dripping from his nose and lips. GER’s steely strength gripped onto his forearms, and he blinked away from Giovanna’s light.
For someone so young, Giorno Giovanna was immensely powerful. His stand was strong, only made more powerful by the arrow, full of potential unlike King Crimson. A powerful stand in its own right, but plagued by its masters tumultuous thoughts and panicky ego.
“Giovanna!” He scarcely felt the slap across his face at the sharp cry from his own throat. Who was he to beg for mercy from golden, powerful Giovanna. He knew his wrongs, his clouded judgement a fog to hide from the world. Even a child knew that sun melts away the fog.
Diavolo spat blood at Giorno’s shoes, those cold blue eyes unraveling his thoughts, picking them apart one by one, all his mistakes splayed out infront of him, every mess-up, and every wrong. In this world, Giorno was God now, and Diavolo had fallen from his own great throne, the Don of Passione little more than a quivering child infront of the preist.
“Diavolo, do you know what you have done, do you feel the weight of your own sins?” Requiem’s grip tightened, Diavolo had the fleeting memory of getting his blood pressure taken when he was younger. A silly thought.
“The lives you have taken? The lives you have ruined?” The grip moved.
“Bruno.” A hand on his throat.
“Abbachio.” A squeeze.
“Sweet, young Narancia” blood rushing.
“La Squadra Esecuzioni” Diavolo began to feel light headed, he began to claw at the Stand’s strong hands.
“Yourself.”
Giorno strode closer, grabbing Diavolo and slamming his head against the cobble ground, the slick, sticky substance now coating the stones was Diavolo’s own blood, matting his hair. The stars swam before him. What happened to the rain?
Diavolo tried to make a sound, the pressure of Giovanna’s foot on his chest was too much, the heel of his shoe digging into Diavolo’s skin. He was so, so dizzy. His head hurt and he wanted to cry. Why was he so weak?
He couldn’t even summon King Crimson, he could no longer muster the strength.
Giorno smiled, but it did not reach his glistening eyes.
“I didn’t want to do this, But you did kill so many innocent people, a shame really. Maybe we could have gotten along in another life. I don’t want to kill you, I honestly think that would be too kind..” He kneels down, the shift in position putting more pressure on Diavolo’s straining ribs. He lets out a quiet whimper.
Giorno props his elbow on his knee, the shift of the Prussian blue fabric catches the light momentarily. Diavolo thinks that Giorno Giovanna looks like the night. Giovanna purses his lips slightly and gazes down at Diavolo with a calm façade of contempt. He leans forward slightly, the ribs crack from the extended pressure, and Diavolo cries out from the sharp pain in his chest. Giorno slinks off of his chest, then stands up. Blood covers his pants. Crimson.
“I should thank you really,” Giovanna paces slowly, perfectly calm.
“Without you, I would not have came upon the arrows, maybe you would have beaten me!” A giggle escapes from Giorno’s lips. Something so childish that simply does not belong. Diavolo begins to cry.
“But luckily I had that potential. I’m strong.” Giorno pats Requiem’s crown-like head with quiet strength. “But I really should get going, you are running out of time!”
Diavolo was feeling quite faint. His chest really hurt. He was losing blood...was it inside of him?
Giorno kneeled beside him, the frizz of hair that has fallen out of his neat braid formed a fuzzy halo in the residual streetlight. The Don’s hands felt so soft on his face.
Giorno smiles. It never reaches his eyes. When he leans down and presses his open mouth against Diavolo’s own, it is with cool anger and deeply hidden admiration, and hate.
“Goodbye, Diavolo. Maybe we will meet in another life.”
And with that Giovanna stands, turning heel and walking away, seemingly fading into the rapidly thickening fog. Diavolo feels himself crying, but he cannot make a sound. He cannot scream, and he cannot speak. He tries to call out Giorno’s name but he feels the priests long dead eyes boring into his skull.
His vision blurs further, Requiem hovers at the edges of his vision. Those eyes are Giovanna’s eyes.
He still feels the almost sting of Giorno’s lips, the lingering heat too intense for his rapidly cooling body. He felt so cold, and everything was so dark. Where were the stars? Where was the rain? His mind began to race as memories came and went. Blue eyes blue eyes blue eyes blue eyes. Golden eyes.
He lurched to the side and vomited, nothing but blood came up and he choked on his sobs. He wanted Giorno to come back. To be blinded by Giovanna’s light was better than the ink-dark puddle surrounding his failing body.
Requiem was cradling Diavolo’s head, wiping the blood-vomit from his pale, blue lips. No one told him that bleeding out would be so slow. He hazily wondered what organs would go first.
Time came in waves, and the sea was so dark. Cold, sick. Requiem tilting Diavolo’s head to the side so he would not choke, could not get off so easily. Diavolo could scarcely think anymore. How had he ended up this way. He had a daughter, he thinks, but he could not remember her name. Did she even have one? Did he himself have one?
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The once-man no longer felt pain, nothing but a dull ache, a thrumming of slow-beating heart. Too slow to keep him conscious. Blue eyes on pale skin, too blue, too pale. Requiem carefully removed the green eyes. There was no more blood to bleed, and he set them down beside the body. The heart finally stopped.
And then it was morning.