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. "I'm glad you're doing alright, Haruno." His mother still preferred to refer to Giorno by that name, and Giorno hadn't done anything to deter her. It was a name that she had given him, and though he had tried everything in his power to eradicate all traces of irregularity (the mafia valued blood, valued purity), his mother was someone that always remained a constant: childish in her demeanor, youthful in her behavior, insensitive in her love of life. There was no point in trying to convince his mother that he was 'Giorno' now, and not 'Haruno'. There was no possibility that she could even begin to fathom how much had changed, and Giorno somehow didn't mind that static quality about his mother. She would forever be the distant Madonna of his life, and she would remain innocent. Removed from his life lovingly. Giorno didn't mind that notion, though he simultaneously understood that that wasn't how a real family operated. Phone calls like the one Giorno was having now was rare, always trivial, and always intiated by Giorno. A reminder that he was still alive, and a reaffirmation that his mother was still well. His stepfather wasn't part of the equation; Giorno didn't much care about the man that had, essentially, nothing to do with him at this point. Yet sometimes, the topic would be brought up into the conversation, perhaps as an afterthought. His mother still didn't know, because neither of them had thought to tell her about the days and weeks and months and years of abuse. "Your father is doing well, too. He's--" And even after all the years of careful deterrence from the subject of the man who had somehow managed to stay with his mother, Giorno would find himself listening to his mother speak softly about her 'husband', in a tone that suggested obliviousness. A dinner that they went to recently, or their vacation to Venice, or what he made for dinner the previous night-- all innocent things, nothing to reproach his mother about. And yet there was always something about it that made Giorno's stomach knot, made him avert his eyes from something that wasn't there. The disdain regarding his past was no longer fresh, but it would remain. "And then he actually washed all the dishes. Impressive, no?" His mother tittered softly over the other line, filling the empty space of potential silence. "Yes, I suppose. But he should be taking care of you, mother." A polite response. Giorno was exceedingly good at those, especially when it came to the subject of his stepfather. "He asks about you, you know," she said, and Giorno found himself pondering how best to respond to that, how best to be polite without sounding like he was avoiding something-- negotiation, maneuvering, something that he was supposed to be adept at. And as customary in these conversations, and in conversations that he'd had many times before in the past, the words were on the tip of his tongue, welling up from his throat. The truth, yearning to come out, yearning to be heard.
("Mother, did you know that--")
"Haruno?" There was a mother's sensitivity behind that one word, his real name, and Giorno swallowed his words, forcing his eyes back into focus, his lips curling into a smile that his mother wouldn't be able to see. His mother, the distant Madonna that he could never truly blame for the mistakes of the past. "Tell him that I say hello."
"I'm glad you're doing alright, Haruno."
His mother still preferred to refer to Giorno by that name, and Giorno hadn't done anything to deter her. It was a name that she had given him, and though he had tried everything in his power to eradicate all traces of irregularity (the mafia valued blood, valued purity), his mother was someone that always remained a constant: childish in her demeanor, youthful in her behavior, insensitive in her love of life. There was no point in trying to convince his mother that he was 'Giorno' now, and not 'Haruno'. There was no possibility that she could even begin to fathom how much had changed, and Giorno somehow didn't mind that static quality about his mother. She would forever be the distant Madonna of his life, and she would remain innocent. Removed from his life lovingly. Giorno didn't mind that notion, though he simultaneously understood that that wasn't how a real family operated.
Phone calls like the one Giorno was having now was rare, always trivial, and always intiated by Giorno. A reminder that he was still alive, and a reaffirmation that his mother was still well. His stepfather wasn't part of the equation; Giorno didn't much care about the man that had, essentially, nothing to do with him at this point. Yet sometimes, the topic would be brought up into the conversation, perhaps as an afterthought.
His mother still didn't know, because neither of them had thought to tell her about the days and weeks and months and years of abuse.
"Your father is doing well, too. He's--"
And even after all the years of careful deterrence from the subject of the man who had somehow managed to stay with his mother, Giorno would find himself listening to his mother speak softly about her 'husband', in a tone that suggested obliviousness. A dinner that they went to recently, or their vacation to Venice, or what he made for dinner the previous night-- all innocent things, nothing to reproach his mother about. And yet there was always something about it that made Giorno's stomach knot, made him avert his eyes from something that wasn't there. The disdain regarding his past was no longer fresh, but it would remain.
"And then he actually washed all the dishes. Impressive, no?"
His mother tittered softly over the other line, filling the empty space of potential silence.
"Yes, I suppose. But he should be taking care of you, mother."
A polite response. Giorno was exceedingly good at those, especially when it came to the subject of his stepfather.
"He asks about you, you know," she said, and Giorno found himself pondering how best to respond to that, how best to be polite without sounding like he was avoiding something-- negotiation, maneuvering, something that he was supposed to be adept at. And as customary in these conversations, and in conversations that he'd had many times before in the past, the words were on the tip of his tongue, welling up from his throat. The truth, yearning to come out, yearning to be heard.
("Mother, did you know that--")
"Haruno?"
There was a mother's sensitivity behind that one word, his real name, and Giorno swallowed his words, forcing his eyes back into focus, his lips curling into a smile that his mother wouldn't be able to see. His mother, the distant Madonna that he could never truly blame for the mistakes of the past.
"Tell him that I say hello."
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