GIORNO + HIS MOTHERgangster_starMay 8 2011, 02:13:21 UTC
He hadn't spoken Japanese in a while, and so the words rolled off Giorno's tongue awkwardly at first, some of the vocabulary faded, needing time to be polished so that he could see himself in them again. The pronunciation was flatter than he remembered, the syllables requiring less work; it required less musical sounds, and thus Giorno had to check himself every few moments, to make sure the even tone of his mother's voice wasn't stained with laughter, or some sort of mirth. He could imagine it, he remembered it, the way his mother had used to smile that coquettish smile between her sentences whenever he had stumbled over his own words (clumsy Italian). A knowing smile, one that should have been pointed towards people of her age, but certainly not a child of three, four, five. It's odd, Giorno had thought, that he should remember something as trivial as that so vividly
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GIORNO / HARUNO [ a little bit of conflict ]gangster_starMay 8 2011, 02:14:47 UTC
What's wrong? is the inquiry that rings in my head; the inquiry that rises with the voice of a child, a voice of a teenager whose voice is still cracking, the smooth sound of my own voice, the loving sound of a long-lost lover, the sound of a small boy who hides his bruises underneath layers of clothes and kisses his mother good-night. The world behind my eyelids, is what I call the world that 'he' inhabits, the child who was scared of being forgotten and being unloved, the child who kept up his strength through smiling and false reassurances
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AU: GIORNO + DIOgangster_starMay 8 2011, 02:26:24 UTC
I have a memory of when I was young, of recieving my first birthday present ever: a book. That was when I was still six, and it had only been a few weeks after I had moved to Italy. I woke up, and there it was. A book, with a single note written in a language that I couldn't even read yet, 'Buon Compleanno': unwrapped, the book was obviously bought not with the intention to give it to me (because honestly, what six-year-old enjoys recieving a book?), but to serve as one of those decorative books to put on one's coffeetable, to give the illusion that one is more cultured than one actually is. Regardless, I found myself fascinated by the sheer weight of the book, its laminated pages with color photos of a world that I'd never seen before, and my childish fingers liked to run over the smoothness of the lamination. That day, as expected, my parents didn't come home or provide me with a nice birthday cake, but I stayed in the corner of the dining room, reading and rereading the book until the sun went down. Those pages contained the gentle
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