Chapter Text
Bruno would never regret bringing Giorno onto the team but sometimes the man just wishes he had either done so sooner or later than when he did. If he had, Giorno would have had the time to be properly acclimated to his team of werewolves. Rather than being thrown into stand battle after stand battle, forced to rely on the others, Giorno would have had the chance to get to know the team, to see them all as people before the violence. Perhaps if that had happened, Giorno wouldn't pollute the air with fear when the others touched him.
But Giorno joined the team and Polpo died, leaving Bruno and his team to take care of whatever unfinished business was left behind from their ex-capo. Bruno wasn’t so stupid or naive to think that Giorno was innocent in Polpo’s suicide. In the few months Bruno knew Giorno, he became painfully aware of the boy's ambition and drive. It was like Giorno’s life was a street race. Taking his foot off the gas for even a moment would cause him to lose whatever imaginary rules he had written up in his own head. Of course, street races meet junctions, and because of the boy’s refusal to slow down for even a moment, Giorno had been injured. It was an unnecessary risk, a pointless, stupid action that might have saved them minutes of a fight, but cost them Giorno’s own well being.
Bruno was unsure what was more worrying, the fact that Giorno could act in such an apathetic manner to his own well being, or that, when Giorno did, no matter how injured, no matter how bloody or bruised he came out of the fight, the blonde radiated pride. Such was the case today. Their fight was against a small group, mostly gun men, though there was a secret stand user in their midst. Nothing too difficult, the stand could only stun and was close range. The pistols or Aerosmith would have handled it fine. But Giorno, never knowing when to let go of the gas- always so eager to have the final word, acted. He rushed in against his Capo's- no- his Don's order. And he paid for it. Giorno was stunned and pummeled.
Of course, the layer of Cress he grew on the inside of his blazer had absorbed damage along with him, reflecting it to its dealer, but that didn't save Giorno. His arm was shattered and he was lucky his ribs hadn't followed suit. Now he was bedridden, bruised and weak at the worst possible time. A full moon.
The full moon was always a tedious thing for a pack of werewolves. It was indifferent to the personal impacts a shift would have on one's own life and could last anywhere from three hours to five days. Preparation was key for times like these, catching up on and completing work to ensure that the transformation wouldn't hinder the affairs within the famiglia. Bruno Bucciarati was always heavily prepared for these transformations. Rations in case their hunting went wrong, medical supplies and a change of clothes for when they shifted back (Narancia was far too comfortable getting scrapes and cuts as a wolf) and a nice cushy car for the inevitable ride home from their nearest forests. It never mattered how long you have been a wolf, transforming back into a human always left you sensitive. All of this meticulous planning, their perfect spot, their peaceful time away all went straight to hell because of Giorno's actions.
“Dude, we can't just leave Giorno like this!” Mista shouted at Abbacchio, “He's injured and that stand user fucker got away! What if he comes back to finish the job?” Abbacchio was brooding on the lounge chair, glaring daggers into the room and at no one in particular.
“The stand user didn't get out unscathed either,” Abbacchio huffed, rising to his feet to meet Mista's determined glare, “Besides, don't you think it'd be pretty fuckin’ stupid of us to hang around a regular human on a full moon? You know how excited Narancia gets. All it takes is one bite– less than! Sometimes!” Both team members quickly turned their attention to Bruno when they realized they would find no leeway with one another.
Bruno stood leaning against the window, holding his chin in deep thought. “I understand both of your points,” He said slowly, still considering his options. It was his own rule to take them out of the house when Giorno moved in. Abbacchio was right, it was simply too risky to expose Giorno to their blood, teeth and fur when Giorno clearly didn't want that. “Giorno is a valued member of our team, and though he doesn't run with us under the full moon, I'd still like to consider him part of the pack.” Bruno chose to ignore the grunt that Abbacchio let out, “Because of this, I simply cannot allow him to fall to harm in my care.”
“Bucciarati-” Bruno raised his hand to silence Abbacchio's protests.
“My decision is final, Abbacchio. We're staying and keeping him safe.” Bruno understood Abbacchio's reservations. Giorno's consistent distance from the pack served to remind each of them that to a regular human, they could only be monsters. Still, Bruno made a promise to care for his team. Each and every one of them. It was a vow that Bruno would always do his utmost to fulfill, if only certain blondes would let him.
The rush to prepare the house for their transformation was, in no short terms, hectic. They couldn't hunt like they were used to and no amount of kibble and dog bones would keep them fed for long. Luckily they had a large industrial freezer in the basement. It was only a short and awkward affair to ransack three local butchers and stuff the freezer as full as they could. Despite the overwhelming volume of red meats stored, the team knew this wouldn't last them.
“Bucciarati…” Narancia whined. Of course Narancia was the most worried.
“We'll make do.” Bruno spoke firmly, bringing his fist to his palm in a show of determination. If push came to shove there would have to be some local farmer the pack could take from.
It was almost their time to transform, roughly fifteen minutes until they'd have no choice, when Fugo returned to the group from Giorno's room.
“How is he?” Mista asked, running a hand through Narancia’s pelt. Of course Narancia wouldn't wait to shift, Bruno thought fondly. He'd always been so eager.
“He's fine,” Fugo snapped, biting out his words. He then began pulling his tie and shirt off with such a speed and ferocity, you'd think he was allergic to them. “I told him it'd last for three days and he went back to sleep.” Fugo explained as he began scratching his head and twitching his nose, familiar telltale signs that the shift couldn't be delayed much more. It took all of Bruno's composure to not follow suit in mindlessly scratching.
“He's been informed, and we will keep him safe.” Bruno confirmed. “Don't feel the need to hold your human shape any longer. We'll only be causing ourselves discomfort.”
Giorno rolled over again in his bed. It was too hot, too quiet and he was too out of it. Giorno couldn't stand that. When Fugo came into his room earlier, he knew it was going to happen.
“You're doing it again, aren't you?” Giorno asked tiredly, unable to say the exact words he meant.
It was unfair of Giorno to ask, and he knew that his moment of weakness was a mistake when Fugo’s shoulders rose to his ears.
“We have no choice.” Fugo was terse, hackles up and ready to snap. Giorno didn't miss the way Fugo didn't bother to enter the room past his doorframe. “It's going to be three days. So please, bear with us.” he spoke through his clenched jaw, teeth never once parting. The door was slammed shut with more force than necessary and Giorno, small, injured, pathetic Giorno was left on his lonesome.
It was unfair, Giorno knew. It was unfair of him to cling to these feelings, his fears of isolation, his unease with the quiet. It wasn't fair on anyone else in the house to have to put up with such a burden, and while Giorno had always put up a strong front to make sure his weakness was never seen, he couldn't help but feel betrayed by his team disappearing like this every month. Wasn't he one of them? Why wasn't he allowed on these bonding exercises that everyone else was privy to? Was he not doing enough? Giorno could feel exhaustion numbing his mind, and fell asleep again.
The next time Giorno woke up, he knew he could stand. He would have to stand. The others had left him no choice but to remain strong and power through his pain. Just how complacent had Giorno really gotten, relying on his team to care for him when he was down? Giorno stumbled to his bedroom door, his left leg shooting electricity through his nerves every step of the way. He had never needed help before, he wouldn't start now. Gold Experience had manifested to catch Giorno, standing in front of him, placing a hand on his chest.
He was a mess. Giorno’s hair was down and tangled with sweat and heat, his clothes were rumpled and frumpy from rolling on the sheets, His makeup, by now, had likely worn away on his pillow sheets leaving heavy bags visible under his eyes, maring his usually perfect looking complexion.
“It's fine.” Giorno said softly, resting an arm on Gold Experience to use them as a crutch. He pulled the door open and continued to hobble his way down the stairs. “They left, so it's not like anyone's going to see me-” Giorno paused, looking in the living room.
Abbacchio hated Giorno. And honestly, he didn't know how the others could tolerate the pompous brat. It was obvious to anybody who looked at the group that Giorno had decided he was above them all, keeping his cordial, holier-than-thou distance from them all. Seeing how easily Giorno rebuffed each of their attempts to mark him as pack, Abbacchio thought it was only fair to deny him as pack. He didn’t want to be one of them, then that was fine. He wasn’t. If he was so much better than the werewolves he had to work with, then fine. That was all there was to it.
Of course, Bucciarati was as card-hearted as ever, justifying and defending Giorno’s position to the pack by explaining it away as the boy’s fear. And that placated the team for a while. They gave Giorno time and space and Giorno still rejected them! Every touch was met with disgusted recoils and wide eyed stares that were accompanied with the sour scent of fear. Overwhelming, instinctive, putrid fear that only ever came with the spitting insult of Monster. Sub-human . The others may have thought that could change with time, but Abbacchio wasn’t an idiot. No amount of exposure would get rid of a fear like that.
Of course, Bucciarati wanted this conversation to be reserved for when Giorno opened it and loyal team that they were, everyone remained tight-lipped around Giorno, waiting for the boy to ask. To show a slight interest. To give them the hope that he was finally seeing all of their hard efforts to accommodate him, to see them as… not friends, but reliable coworkers. Hell, Abbacchio was sure that the team would settle for people. The team would probably be more open if Giorno gave them any notion that he trusted them at all!
But Giorno never did. He was still recoiling, pulling away and staring at them all like they were mindless hounds, ready to rip him to pieces at a moment's notice.
They were all playing nice, of course, but something was giving, Abbacchio could tell. The team could only be reminded that they were seen as nothing but monsters for so long, and now, remaining home for the first time since Giorno moved in with them, the man was sure something was going to break. Fugo had come back from Giorno’s room smelling of frustration and anger. Something was clearly said that rubbed him the wrong way and Abbacchio couldn’t see how Bucciarati thought this was a good idea. Staying behind, around the boy that was petrified of them to protect him. A plan that only benefitted Giorno and ruined the morale of the rest of the team. The full moon was their time, damn it! Their only time to really be a pack and enjoy their time together, fully free from all other burdens! Putting them directly in company with their current main burden was only going to upset the others who clung to the idea that Giorno could accept them. It was going to be a miserable full moon.
Still, it wasn’t Abbacchio’s place to ask questions. So instead of acting in any certain way, Abbacchio decided he would ride out the next three days in as much peace as he would be permitted. Having already transformed, the mafioso ascended the stairs out of the basement and bee-lined to his recliner chair. He couldn't recline it now but it was still large and plush, big enough that the silver wolf could fit comfortably if he curled up. Besides, Abbacchio was exhausted. He missed being surrounded by his own familiar scent when in wolf form. He had found places in their hide away to mark as his own, obviously, but none of them were quite as comfortable and homey as… home. Abbacchio curled up, quickly rolling around to shed his scent onto the chair further, digging his snout into the cushion crevices and leaving behind layers of fine silver on the fabrics. Once he had comfortably rearranged the recliner to accommodate his new form, Abbacchio curled up to watch the others in the room, burrowing his muzzle between his paws and the pleather of the chair.
Hours passed in relative peace. Mista and Narancia had taken to play-fighting around the living room, currently engrossed in a game of tug of war that had to be repeatedly hushed by an exasperated Bucciarati who was still concerned for Giorno resting up stairs. Fugo sat prim and proper on the same couch as Bucciarati, though at the opposite end. It was a painfully quiet and domestic scene that usually befell their pack on the full moon during the day. Everyone but Mista and Narancia were exhausted. The wolves were not made for day-time activity.
“It's fine.” Abbacchio’s ears twitched as Giorno’s voice carried from the top of the stairs. Heavy footsteps followed as the boy continued muttering to someone. Just who was he talking to?
The wolf's questions were quickly answered when Giorno appeared in the doorway, leaning pathetically on his stand’s side. His hair was uncharacteristically messy, iconic donuts missing, and his clothes were crumpled and creased in a way that seemed to really show Giorno’s age. For the first time since meeting him, Abbacchio was confronted with the reality that this was a fifteen year old boy.
And radiating from the blonde was the pure, wretched scent of unadulterated fear. As expected. His eyes met Abbacchio’s own for only the briefest of moments before he recoiled again, bringing his good arm up defensively across his chest to hold the broken one. Abbacchio exhaled sharply through his nose, closing his eyes and turning away from Giorno. Abbacchio wasn't a monster, and for all of his short temper, he wasn't going to let this blonde fuck prove that he was.
“ Oh no ,” Giorno muttered, rushing further into the room. Abbacchio had little time to react as a hand reached under him and promptly scooped and pushed him from his own chair. Landing less than gracefully on the hardwood floor, the silver wolf rounded on the boy, bearing his teeth and snarling at the blonde., previous convictions to not be seen as a monster forgotten somewhere between the recliner and hardwood. “Abbacchio is going to kill me.” Giorno seethed, causing Abbacchio to lean backwards and bark loudly. Damn right he was going to kill the brat! “Gold, this is too much.” Giorno chastised, turning to his stand, that had sat on the arm of the couch beside Bucciarati. Despite the threatening display he was putting on, Giorno was completely ignoring the silver wolf. “You have to turn them back- small, remember?” The boy looked between his stand and the cushion he was still trying to clean of silver hairs. Abbacchio could only huff, knowing his favorite cushion had been tainted with Giorno smell . “Shit- will these even come out when they turn back?” he asked. “Listen, just-” the wolves all gawked at Giorno as he frantically switched between cleaning the cushion and conversing with his stand. “Wolves are way too far.” Giorno’s tone was too casual, too conversational to sound like the Giorno Giovanna they all knew. If it wasn’t for Gold Experience being in the room with them, Abbacchio was certain he and everyone else would have assumed this to be an imposter. “And get off the couch!” Giorno snapped at Bucciarati and Fugo, suddenly limping over to usher the other two from the furniture. The two wolves quickly lept from their seats, watching giorno curiously as he fretted over the stray hairs. “This is the worst, how do I even clean these?” Giorno huffed, exhausted from moving so quickly while injured as badly as he was.
Did he think they were creations of his stand? Had Giorno done that before? Should they be creeped out? Abbacchio was creeped out.
“I suppose, it is very cute that you made them pack animals this time.” Now past his fretting and worrying, Giorno had sat down on the middle couch cushion, looking around at the pack curiously. There was a gentle smile on his features that was sickeningly peaceful as it was confusing.
Mista was evidently thinking the same thing, as he stood in front of Giorno and gave a curious whine and tilt of the head.
Giorno laughed.
Well, not really. It was more of a soft chuckle, but it was more than the team had heard from him before.
“You must be Mista.” Giorno said confidently, bringing his hand down to rag over Mista’s sandy brown head affectionately. This action prompted Narancia to barrel over Mista and into Giorno, demanding headpats of his own. After another gentle laugh (an absolutely foreign thing, Abbacchio was coming to realize) Giorno began dragging his hands through Narancia’s pitch black fur. “And you are definitely Narancia. Which means that you,” Giorno pointed to Fugo, pristine white pelt separated only by the stark red of his eyes, “are Fugo. You must be Bucciarati,” Giorno acknowledged, nodding to their capo, who tilted his head in return. “And you’re Abbacchio.” Giorno deadpanned. Abbacchio woofed his displeasure to Giorno, who rolled his eyes in return. It took a significant amount of self restraint to keep himself from growling and snapping at the blonde again. Since when was the kid so cocky! “As long as we don’t have another Bird-bacchio situation, we’ll be fine.” Giorno hummed, switching between pampering Narancia and Mista with affections and scratches that had the two instantly rolling over and exposing their stomachs. What idiots. Gold Experience began to do the same to Bucciarati and Fugo, who both at least sat dignified and unresponsive to the touch. Abbacchio tried to ignore whatever canine part of his brain was jealous. He wasn’t going to roll over like the others for this blonde brat. He wasn't!
These may be the longest three days of Abbacchio’s life.
And what the hell was a Bird-bacchio!
The difficult thing, Fugo thought, was that as wolves they couldn't express thought as easily as when they were human. If he could, he would be conveying each and every concern this interaction was raising. The first and most pressing being that Giorno thought they were creations of his stand. That Giorno had made copies of them before. That was kind of creepy, wasn't it? That also opened up the realisation that Giorno hadn't realized they were Werewolves. How hadn't Giorno noticed? If he didn't know, why was he so adamant to deny their touch? While he couldn't act on any of these questions currently, Fugo made a mental note to bring them up later with Bucciarati, but for now he sat, accepting the easy touches of Gold Experience while Giorno interacted with the others. His laughter was like Christmas bells or summer rain. Soft, lovely, gentle. Fugo didn't want to think about how he couldn't place a time previous where he heard it. Mista always said that the Moon looked after them. It was a culty sort of interpretation some werewolves had, making the moon into some sort of deity, but it gave them confidence in their status as wolves. It made them feel less monstrous and added purpose to such a nonsensical condition. Before Fugo could use reason to denounce the notion, he let himself believe that this just had to happen. They were meant to see this. The Moon had granted them a peek behind the curtain of their most distant and confusing me member.
The full moon was about living in the now. And living in the now was Giorno, slumped shoulders, messy hair and playful smile. For the first time since meeting the blonde, Fugo would say that Giorno looked comfortable. A new wave of discomfort came over Fugo as he watched Giorno scratch Narancia's stomach, cooing words of praise. The pack could absolutely not let Giorno know this was them. It would be humiliating for everyone involved. Though… it did also feel rather gross to watch Narancia flop about. As though the other was taking advantage of Giorno's new found forwardness and love for animals. It was a peek behind the curtain of Giorno Giovanna that they just were never meant to see, and while Fugo wasn't opposed to spying on Giorno like this, he felt mildly uncomfortable at the prospect of… Essentially tricking their newest member into pampering them, not knowing who he was touching.
As if sensing Fugo's thoughts, Gold Experience floated around to have it's back to Giorno. The stand continued scratching behind Fugo's ears, down his neck and under his chin. After adjusting to the change of location, Gold Experience brought its shoulders and palms up, tilting its head in an overdone version of a shrug. Fugo wasn't sure what the stand was trying to communicate and tilted his head in response. Gold experience threw its hands down in front of itself, mechanical clicking noises ringing out to signal the stand's frustration. Could Gold Experience talk? When fighting it seemed to be able to, though that was only one word, much like Sticky Fingers’ ‘ari’. In a last attempt to convey its message, the stand brought a finger to its lips, leaning close to Fugo and Bucciarati, who seemed just as confused as Fugo himself. The stand wanted them to keep quiet? A small smile crossed Gold Experience's face. It wanted to go along with the… charade? While sentient stands were nothing new (Sex Pistols was painfully memorable) the idea that a stand could act and think entirely independently of it's user was. A stand keeping secrets from it's user was an insane notion to Fugo. Could Gold Experience really be so much trouble?
The answer was yes, apparently. Fugo quickly came to realize that Giorno's stand, Gold Experience, was far more playful, fun loving and down right rebellious than anyone on the team had ever thought it could be. The stand would skip and bound around the room, playfully poke at Narancia and Mista, provoking them into chasing it before floating up out of their reach. This happened afew more times before Narancia then decided to use the couch as a platform to jump and tackle the stand out of the air and almost crash into the coffee table. This promptly caused Giorno to cut their game short.
“Absolutely not!” the blonde chastised Narancia, who happily yipped in return. The scent of irritation was wafting from Giorno in thick waves. “No! Bad, Narancia!” Giorno continued to tell the other off, watching the black wolf shift from his playful lowered stance to a sitting position, tilting his head curiously. “You could have been hurt! You could have broken the coffee table-” Narancia jumped forward playfully, licking at Giorno and nipping him. “Damn it, Narancia!” Giorno yelled in frustration, “can you stop being so needy and just listen!” The group all turned when Giorno’s scent went from irritation to anger. Beedy wolf eyes were all trained on Giorno as his scent flickered again. Anger and irritation bled together before melting into a whole new scent. The blonde sat defeatedly on the couch as the stench of shame seeped into everything around him.
The day had been exhausting for Giorno. To be as injured as he was inconvenienced Giorno to no end. If the burden of a broken arm got any more severe, he thought he might have to severe it and reattach a new one. Now having awoken a version of healing, Giorno found that healing the old fashioned way simply didn’t suit him anymore. He couldn’t afford weakness like that. His bruised ribs and pulled muscles couldn't be helped; but they were negligible. They hardly held the boy back at all, what was really the problem was this god forsaken broken limb.
On top of his broken, pathetic state, Giorno had humiliated himself to Fugo and upset his teammate. To show weakness like that…
“You're leaving again, aren't you?”
Giorno sat with the pack of wolves, trying his damndest to push those thoughts away. The blonde moved between petting the hounds that would let him, and watching Gold play with its creations. Gold must have put a lot of care into making these ones, who mimicked his team so well. Too well, as Narancia, in expected Narancia fashion, almost sent himself through the coffee table.
“Narancia, no!” Giorno called out in a panic, watching the hound narrowly miss the sharp corners of the wooden table. Giorno's creations could protect themselves fine against living things, but when it came to the inanimate, they couldn't. They couldn't protect themselves. Giorno couldn't protect them. Giorno stared down at the black wolf, its size in comparison to the others betraying its age.
“You're leaving again, aren't you?”
Why did he say that? Why was he focusing on it so much? It was useless to fixate on mistakes that had already been made. He couldn’t take it back, so his only option was to face it and move on! But that was always easier said than done. If facing your problems and moving on were so easy, Giorno wouldn’t have developed this strange need to be surrounded by things all the time. More than that, before joining the team, Giorno had never felt the need to replicate humans into animal forms. Yet, here he was. Every time the team would leave without him, anywhere for one to five nights a month, Giorno would make little animal versions of them, all of them, for no reason at all.
“You're leaving again, aren't you-”
“Damn it, Haruno, can you stop being so needy!”
“Damn it, Narancia, can you stop being so needy!”
By the time Giorno said it, he knew he regretted it. The large black wolf seemed incredibly small now. Its ears were pulled back, violet eyes wide and glossy, looking scarily human and studying. Giorno really was his mothers son, wasn’t he? He let himself fall back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees and hiding his face in regret. Long moments passed, Giorno shaking with tears he could no longer cry in the company of hounds to stand in for the team that had abandoned him. He couldn't do anything right today, could he? The team were all furious with him, he was certain they'd want him gone by now. They left him injured and they were going to come back with the announcement that Bucciarati was assigning him to another team. They'd do it because Giorno wasn't good enough to be amongst them. Why was Giorno never good enough for the people around him? He took all the punches, he made all the schemes. His stand was the most versatile and useful on the team! What was so rotten within Giorno that he just couldn't get it right?
Narancia- The Smaller Black Wolf- Not-Narancia poked its nose against Giorno’s leg, digging its wet snout at the weak point between his elbow and knee, forcing Giorno to uncover his face and look at it.
“I’m sorry,” Giorno sighed, sliding off the couch and onto the floor with the wolf. He ran his hands over the animal's head, into its neck and around under its chin, before circling his arms around its neck and pulling it in for a hug. It was just a mindless mutt, it couldn’t understand his words. Still, Giorno felt compelled to apologize anyway. This hound wasn’t just Narancia anymore. It was Haruno, in all his disgraceful, shaggy bleakness. Didn’t he at least deserve an apology for all the ways Giorno had failed him? Giorno pressed his face harder into the wolf’s pelt.
“I’m so, so sorry.”
Giorno felt the Narancia Wolf shift, never moving away, but moving around Giorno until it could rest its head easily atop Giorno’s own. Giorno stayed pressed into its fur until another wolf began to nose at him too. Mista. Giorno let out a soft, humorless laugh as he turned and petted the Mista Wolf.
“I guess I've been a bit… harsher than usual today, huh?” Giorno asked, scrubbing his hands rapidly up and down the sides of Mista Wolf’s face. “I really screwed up last night.” he admitted, watching as the Bucciarati wolf perked up behind the other two. “I messed up, i got injured and i-” Giorno sighed, rolling onto his side on the floor. “I’m alone.” Giorno began to play with the Mista wolf’s tail, spinning his fingers around it or tucking it under his chin while he thought. “I should be proud, really. That they trust me so much to leave on their monthly trip, but it just sucks.” he sighed out. “I’m all alone, and they're going to-”
“Muda!” came the strong voice of Gold, instantly silencing that train of thought. Giorno couldn't help but laugh at that, Gold's timing was always so kind.
“Of course, but you don’t count as company, you’ll always be here.”
The stand poked again, only slightly harsher as Giorno dug his heels into the metaphorical ground. Whatever stand off Giorno was about to have with his stand was postponed by the embarrassing rumble of Giorno’s stomach. He had missed breakfast and lunch.
Giorno was on his own, he realized as he limped over to the kitchen. He had no team with him, no guardian or caretaker, no external human kindness to reach out to him and comfort him through his difficult times. Giorno realized, not for the first time, that it was fine. This scene was familiar, only this time, Giorno was safe. Truly safe. A strange nostalgia came over Giorno as he fixed his food. Perhaps this was his own chance to take his pain into his own hands. To recreate such painful memories and this time, play them out in a happier light.
This was Giorno's time, and he would spend these next three days without any other burdens.