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England
April, 19XX
Dio Brando has always been the type of man who believes he's entitled to nothing short of the greatest and best and is destined to stand above everyone else.
It's that twisted philosophy of his, blinded by his narcissism, that leads him to attempt an unforgivable and most despicable crime.
The Joestar mansion is terribly frantic this evening but without its typical joy and wholesomeness from the family that lives in it.
The catalogue of silverware on priceless plates under diamond chandeliers, tucked in shirts, knee-high socks pulled up small legs, thick and heavy cigars between large hands while the fog it breeds lingers between large business men in heated discussions of finances and personal statures is drastically less trivial.
It's never been enough for Dio.
George Joestar's obligated kindness opened doors for him brighter than the dingy alleyways and polluted bars he's bounced between, sometimes on his bedridden father's demands.
His invitation into his lavish home and lifestyle, like it was plucked from the pages of a fairytale or the embodiment of a fantastical, sweet song, acquired him tailored suits and materialistic possessions and a brother.
Jonathan figures him out before the night is over, having kept watchful eyes on the brother he'd grown alongside yet hadn't managed to construct a civil relationship with regardless.
Medics and doctors file in and out of the master bedroom where his father lays at peace while he confronts his brother in the hallway with a settled look on his face and a white envelope addressed to his brother in cursive black ink.
Dio regards the letter with little interest, "What's this?"
"Father wrote one for each of us." Jonathan presses it to him, imploring.
"What would I, Dio, get from a letter written by a dead man?"
"Closure. Reassurance that father loved you—"
"Poppycock."
"As much as he did me! Dionysus, he did!"
The late Joestar felt it fitting to christen his second son anew with a name that could reflect his second chance at a fruitful life but, in the end, it only invoked the affiliated frenzy and strive for pleasures—to snatch everything and anything just because he could. It's a name that harbours no fondness or sentimental ties and only brings the bearer resentment.
"Don't you dare call me by that name, Jojo! I want no part of a feeble tie to your family! I seek riches, you fool! Power!"
Jonathan bangs a heavy fist against the wall, rattling the frames hung across, "That doesn't justify poisoning father! After everything he gave to you, Dio, still you--"
A child's intangible wailing for attention cuts off the rest of his rant.
Jonathan's frustration easily settles to shame at being the cause of disruption. He casts a glance to the end of the hallway at the nursery, the wide open door allowing the light from inside to cast out like a reminder of the innocence in such close proximity to the apparent evil.
A reminder of all the good Jonathan does well to never let sink into the kind of darkness his brother chooses to dwell in and entertain.
Haruno Joestar, just born, is much too young to be introduced to such evil; too fragile to be held by the arms of his hateful uncle and too angelic to meet those carnivorous red eyes of his. Jonathan and his wife, Erina Pendleton-Joestar, can never come to forgive themselves should they allow it. The three of them make up the perfect small family that the parents wish to leave untarnished by ill influence.
Dio acts accordingly to that obvious, unconditional love that, when threatened, can break the very soul of a person and plunge them into a great despair. He throws a fist at Jonathan, whose experience with his brother's ditty tactics grant him an effortless dodge before he throws a punch of his own and knocks Dio clean against his lip, the blow staggering him against the wall.
"Dio," is all Jonathan can say, coming to terms with the fact that further pleas and reasoning will be lost on his brother. "Let's not drag this any longer. The police are already on their way."
Dio hides a smirk under a hand touching his cut lip and then he rushes into the room at the end of the hallway. Jonathan's panicked hollering makes for a gratifying ambiance that only fuels his brother's urge to crush him all the more.
The nursery is a tidy, minimalistic room with every neat stack of baby essentials topped with potted bouquets in celebration of the child's birth—that without the medicinal properties of a most unique flower could not have been a success.
A brighter than a buttercup curled petal plant among a sprout of more but the only one blessed with a drop of natural sunlight. It stood out in an ethereal glow like a lighthouse in the darkness, beckoning onlookers and those good-hearted enough to alert the Joestars.
Dio approaches the crib, marvels at the little Joestar sheltered in side who is a spitting image of his father. His large, blue eyes with only light in them cast up at his uncle towering over him, either indifferent to or unaware of his negative energy.
The little Joestar's small hands reach up as if to grab his uncle who, humouring him, pushes a finger halfway and they connect.
First it stings, the lip cut, as the inner etchings of its skin pull back together in an invisible stitch.
Dio touches it. It's restored, completely healed and all traces of his brother's lucky hit erased.
Little Joestar garbles with a mouth full of spit, entertained by his uncle's expression of a man realising all the fundamentals of the world, pieces coming together and creating his most ingenious plan to date.
"Dio, stop this and come out at once!" Jonathan, knocking heavily from the outside, demands.
"Haruno!" Erina Pendleton-Joestar's scream comes right after, full of horror and desperation as she pummels on the door as hard as her dainty hands can.
Dio's smirk is like a gleaming blade over a spitting fire as he stares down into the crib, seeing not his nephew but an answer to all he's ever wanted.
"I needn't cast aside my humanity anymore." He scoops the child up and into his possession, bouncing him slightly to quell any urge to whine. "Not when I have you, little Jojo."
"DIO!" Jonathan yells.
Dio nears the window, moonlight striking against it and pulling from his stature a nasty looking shadow across the floor.
"Goodbye, Jojo!"
He hurls himself and the child backwards through the window and falls into the depths of the abyss, his manaiacal laughter echoing across the land next to Haruno's starting cries.
Italy, Naples
April, 19XX
The evolution of the little Joestar is a precocious and sheltered one, forced to remain isolated without any real explanation as to why and discoveries being made daily by both himself and his father in their quaint home buried within Naples.
As he grows, he develops a passionate curiosity accompanied with a desire to know all he can about everything he is unable to interact with physically, so the majority of his youth is spent surrounded by books.
Through reading and tracing fingers carefully over printed pictures, he acquires an interest in entomology and botany and becomes quite eager to view all sorts of flowers and befriend any and every bug that visits him in his room in the highest point of his tower he lives in.
It's in many ways a cage more than a home.
Any question as to why he must be kept like a prisoner is never given a legitimate answer. Dio has always responded vaguely in as few words as possible, relying on adjectives to let the child's mind explore his imagination in distraction without ever reaching the truth of the situation.
Burglars, serial killers, maniacs, liars, cheats. A list of characters to be on guard for is read off every time with such confidence and, because Dio is older and bigger and therefore wiser, the little Joestar doesn't persist an argument.
So he grows up in his tower with many questions and little answers and without touching the ground below to feel the grass or smell the flowers. Without feeling the rain cling to his skin or the sun grace him with warmth; without ever being able to meet and befriend anyone, only his Padre and imaginary friend around to keep him company.
He also goes without any idea on why his hair is awfully long enough to circle the entire room at least three times over. As meticulous as his daily hair care routine is, he doesn't actually buy the 'works like magic!' inscription sold on the back of bottles.
He manages it into a fixed plait at the back that envelopes the majority of space around his room and twists his bangs into cannoli shapes; a beautiful style too extravagant for the reality of only ever being appreciated by himself and the four corners of his room.
If he dare say he's being driven absolutely mad then he at least ought to know why.
"Problem, Giorno? You're staring," Dio says, brushing his hair from behind as a small favour, watching him carefully through the reflection of the vanity mirror.
Giorno almost doesn't bother with this again but, "I want to go outside."
"Useless."
There it is, his Padre's infamous dismissal to what should be a simple demand. Dio chuckles in a pitying way; from where he stands, the piles of books, fine clothing, fresh food and his company are certainly more than enough.
"You, Giorno, wish to step beyond the bounds of the home I've provided for you? Useless, Useless. You're still too young to understand how dangerous the world is."
"I'm fifteen."
"And that automatically endows you with more knowledge and experience than I?"
"No, Padre, it just would be a nice change, is all."
"You know, as you sit in front of this mirror and I brush your hair, do you know what I see?" Dio hums and waits a quiet moment for his son to believe that this is anything to do with him and what he wants before dropping the punchline, "I see a strong, handsome man capable of holding the world in his hands. Oh, and you're here as well."
Giorno sighs, "Padre, I just want—"
"Padre knows best. Listen to your Padre, it's a scary world out there. Padre knows best. One way or another, something will go wrong I swear."
Giorno guesses if his Padre is singing what could be a broadway song then perhaps he is too far gone to be reasoned with.
Birthdays are lacklustre and lonely too. Every year, the day is comprised of Dio making a short morning journey to fetch the one thing his son desires that isn't to leave the tower, followed in the evening by Giorno viewing the news coverage of a traditional light show in England wherein which they ascend star shaped lanterns to the sky.
Whatever they're representing, they bring some comfort to Giorno who never forgets the singular rule imprisoning him from the world.
He, Giorno Brando, has a dream but, like every year, it progresses no further than that.
April, 20XX
In the same universe where there are narcissistic men and curious men, there too are simple men with simple desires.
Guido Mista is the type of man convinced he lives a consistently simple life despite several arguing aspects: his destitute status leading him to occasionally assault Clint Eastwood haters for cash, his audaciously patterned fashion choices and, last but not least, his aversion to an unlucky number that, no matter what, ensures the worst will happen.
Four armed guards are relentless in their chase after catching him shoot down several suited mafia family members. It had been a risky operation but Guido was confident he could do it—swore on his boss' honour and he nearly did but then that haunting number showed itself and here he is.
He wasn't aware the streets of Naples could go on this long. He runs and doesn't stop or look back, weaving between alleyways, hiking himself over fences and shimmying down narrow pathways to eventually come into the open space of a desolate, unfamiliar area.
With a tower at the end of it gated away by vines and colourful, bloomed nature under a spot of sunlight.
Guido heads straight for it and climbs up using the vines.
It's a tidy and well organised makeshift room out of a tower attic, he sees upon inspection. The ceiling slopes into a corner and implodes in the centre in a disturbing way even underneath the coated pastel shades of paint and illustrated flower designs. Huh, cute room, a girl must live here, he susses.
He uses the natural light coming in through the open balcony to view the coins in his hand, stolen right under the nose of an uptight rival gang member on his way back from a mission.
Counting them up, he concludes that anyone in his unfortunate position would do the same; take whatever opportunity comes there way to dig themselves out of their own hell.
It's his last conscious thought before he's struck from behind with the weight and shape of something very much like an empty suitcase before his eyes close on the figure of something gold.
He can't say how long he's out for. Dispelled in the darkness of a unconsciousness and a throbbing headache, he envisions being shoved in and out of a wardrobe indecisively and falling back onto a smaller body, the person emitting an adorable sound of surprise underneath.
If he could, he would protest (he happily came out of the closet years ago, thank you!).
Like many men, he also envisions himself strapped to a chair and at the mercy of someone—theirs to do with however they please and be as rough or gentle as they like. It's an enticing dream of savouring skin on skin, of shuddering at sweet promises and steamy whispers.
"Signor?"
It's not a dream, apparently, that soft voice very close and awakening real vibrations in the ear.
Guido blinks through the pain and squints through the haziness until his eyes piece the scene together and he's able to make out a face in front of his. "Um, ah, what?" he mumbles incoherently.
"Good, you're not dead."
What?!
Guido takes more time to fully awaken and then recognises two things. First, he was assaulted from behind by such a blow that he was suspected to be dead.
Second, hello, who's this beauty? Guido's been around Naples plenty a time with a girl and guy under each arm but he would definitely remember this gorgeous thing right here.
'Time to turn on the charm~'
"Oh. Me? Nah, yeah, I'm real good." Guido turning on the charm, as he calls it, involves a gentle bite on his grin and half lowering his eyes as if he's in a dreamy state, "But how 'bout you double-check and give me mouth to mouth?" He leans forward with closed eyes and puckered lips.
In doing so, realises a third issue: his hands and legs are restrained to the chair.
He jostles under the bind, "Wait, what the fuck is—?!"
He's knocked out for the second time.
* * *
"Okay, look, I don't care how pretty you are," Guido starts immediately in his reawakening, the pieces much clearer and more frustrating now than before. "Don't do that again!"
"You startled me! You were doing something strange with your face!"
"My face isn't strange! Now why the fuck am I tied up?!"
"It's until I am able to ascertain whether or not you're a threat to me."
"Bashing my skull in with a suitcase wasn't enough?!"
Though the person's face keeps its stoicism their bashfulness is proven in the way they pull the suitcase behind them, hiding it as evidence. "It was closer than the frying pan at the time."
"You're crazy!"
"In my defence, I had little time to decide what to do with the intruder in my bedroom."
"You live in the attic?!" Guido asks and surveys the room properly.
The fancy decor and clothes he could never afford in a million years and piles of books that look boring from the cover alone aside, the true status of this rustic, dungeon-like room is horribly hidden under illustrations of flowers and pretty drapes. It's been given somewhat of a makeover with personal belongings and strung lights but it's obviously cramped.
"Err, it's a...nice place you got here. Um..."
"Giorno."
"Giorno," Guido says and takes a good look at the person, "What's up with your hair?"
Giorno glances back to his plait as if the seemingly endless trail of gold hasn't been a part of him for the last several years. "I would be more concerned over your own wellbeing, Signor. You are still bound to that chair after all."
"Feel free to let me go then!"
"Who are you? What's your name?"
Guido scoffs, "I'm not easy like that! Try putting dinner on the table first and maybe I'll—"
His full name, birthday and even zodiac sign are read off cleanly in a textbook like answer. In Giorno's possession, is his wallet with his ID card pulled out and even his purple gun from down his pants.
"Oi, don't just take my stuff!" Guido conveniently ignores the irony of being the one to say that. "When'd you swipe that anyway?!"
"I don't see how knowing that will help your situation. Now why are you here?"
"I didn't know anyone was living up here, jeez!"
"Am I to just believe that?"
"What, you think I climb up towers like this for fun?! I was being chased and just hid where I thought looked like a good spot!"
“My Padre has warned me of people seeking my hair, so forgive my reluctance but I'll have to cross examine that story."
“I’ll admit I have a couple kinks but stealing hair? That’s weird!" Guido squirms under the binds, straining his muscles and kicking about against the floor. "Just untie me already and give me back my stuff, kid!"
"Qualcosa per qualcosa.”
Guido's mouth falls open into another gape. Something for something? "You're not seriously trying to bargain my stuff with me, are ya?!"
Giorno stands by the open balcony, the grand view of the small forest and the city further beyond reflective in his eyes, "I, Giorno Brando, have a dream. I wish to see Italy with my own eyes and experience as much as possible. Escort me there and back safely and you will have your things returned."
"Do I look like a babysitter?!"
"Then you will never see your things again."
Guido opens his mouth to fight it but the decided look of Giorno's tells him it's not negotiable by any means.
"Okay, okay! Fine!"
"Really?"
"Not like I have a choice. Now can you untie me, please? I kinda need the feeling in my legs back if I'm gonna play tour guide."
Giorno unbinds his hair from the arms and legs of the chair, giving Guido, nursing his wrists, an amused smile, "And here I assumed a man with kinks would enjoy being tied up."
“Hey, don’t make me out to be some kind of pervert!"
Giorno chuckles unapologetically, "My apologises, Mista."
Guido frowns but even he knows that delightful sound and stunning smile pretty much melt away all traces of offence and frustration. "So, how are we getting outta here?"
"This is the only way," Giorno says with a heap of his hair in his arms nearing a hook outside above the ledge. He throws the heap over it and it unravels all the way down. He tugs on length beside him, testing the security. "You first."
"Why me?!"
"To limit the possibility of you reclaiming your gun and shooting me from behind."
"Great," Guido mumbles as he climbs over the ledge and grabs the hair, "Thought the pretty ones were s'posed to be dumb as fuck."
"Excuse me?"
"I said I'm ready!"
Giorno doesn't look convinced but he lets it slide for now and slowly sieves his hair past his hands, lowering Guido down gently and as soothly as possible; his unfamiliar weight makes the decent sway in places, sometimes colliding with the brickwork of the tower.
Then it's Giorno's turn and he has to inhale deeply as his bare feet touch the windowsill of the balcony.
The view is much larger and the air warmer. He tells himself it's now or never, sure his Padre will return just as quickly as he left and all confidence to do this will fleet as quickly as it came.
Guido calls up to him, "I kinda thought you wanted to see Italy in this century, kid?"
Giorno doesn't realise it right away but that voice pushes out the last of his hesitation. He keeps his eyes down on the bunches of flowers growing beside the vines at the end of the tower; the biology and gardening books he read on his birthdays were remarkable but did no justice to the real sight and oh, how they must smell and feel in four dimensional reality!
How beautiful Italy must be.
He ponders on about his Padre's wrath from eventually finding out he's gone.
He doesn't care as much as he expected to.
This is just the beginning. Maybe he'll never get to do this again, be locked away forever and lucky enough to see a shred of daylight if his Padre has his way. Or maybe, just maybe, the world will be merciful and grant him this.
Giorno clutches his hair and falls with his heart in his chest and Guido looking right up at him.