Chapter Text
It wasn’t as painful as it likely should’ve been.
To be fair, it’s not like he could really feel physical pain anymore. Being dead surprisingly had a few perks.
It was more confusing than anything. First, he heard worried whispers from outside. They quickly escalated into panicked yelling. After that, having come out of the gem on the key and looked around he saw it – the sun, minutes ago setting beautifully as Giorno went over the last few written reports from one of his teams that Jean wanted him to take a look at, now already gone. And seemingly right back to rising and setting in what felt like less than a second.
There was that one other time he saw the sun act up. He’d almost laugh at the memory, if he wasn’t just as panicked as the young man, standing over the desk, trying to come up with what to say to his distressed friends beside him. Trish and Mista tended to feed off of each other’s energy and their panic was not helping right now.
He almost spoke up to ask for an explanation of some sort as well, (god, he’s been in the tortoise for just a minute and look at what was happening!) but stopped himself once he saw Giorno’s face. Deep in thought, the boy always unnerved him. With his brows furrowed like that, almost scowling at the sky, he could always see the familial resemblance.
And yet, for the longest time Giorno remained silent. By that point, even his friends couldn’t help quieting down – likely his unnatural influence at play. After what felt like minutes and looked like years flew by, only speeding up, the man spoke.
‘I do not know. I can only tell that this is likely the work of a stand.” It sounded like he spoke through gritted teeth, just as panicked, yet better at hiding it.
‘No shit, GioGio! What the hell should we do!? Can’t G.E.R. do something about it!?’ Mista finally yelled back, their inaction only adding to the collective panic.
‘I don’t know!’ spoke the blonde, turning to his friends sharply, ‘Mista, how am I meant to know what’s going on!?’ Giorno turned to him suddenly and he only saw a terrified boy, unsure of how to save anyone right now. He took reigns of one of the world’s most influential gangs at fifteen, only strengthening its position while eliminating its drug trade. He conquered the man that Jean believed to be the most vile creature to walk this earth ever since the crusaders took down Dio. He took the power that managed to turn Jean’s own stand away from him and made it his own.
It’s the closest Giorno’s ever been to crying in front of him. The boy didn’t have to say anything.
‘I-… I’m afraid I also don’t have a clue. We’ve encountered a sun-like stand before, but this is nothing like that, Giorno… That is the sun.’ His own voice and just how quiet it was surprised even him, let alone the young group. All he wanted right now was to just have a body again, if only to comfort the poor children in front of him. He wished to hear them correct him once more, tell him just old each of them is and to see their faced when he calls them ‘kiddos’ again.
God, he wasn’t any better than a mother hen, trying to dote on her grown-up chicks.
There hung a heavy silence again. None of them knew what was going on or how to stop it or if it even was dangerous to them in the first place.
They didn’t have to wonder too much longer.
‘I’m sorry…’ didn’t get to fully slip off of Jean’s lips. Out of time, as he often was.
He woke up with a start, his hand squeezing his shirt tightly as he panted, barely coming down from the tense moment.
Was...? Was that a dream? A scary dream and nothing more?
A sigh of relief came, but the respite wasn’t lasting.
Jean looked around and his heart sank at the awfully familiar sight. Was he finally, truly dead now? In heaven of sorts perhaps? He furrowed his brows the thought.
‘Some sorta purgatory…?’ he mumbled, looking around his room. Not the cozy room of Mr. President that he came to know all to well after inhabiting it for a decade and some change.
The walls were largely bare, a faint pastel color that he’s pretty sure his mother chose back when the doctors kept saying that he’s be a girl; few old pictures from his childhood, those where he still had his bucktooth grin and those from his teens with awkward braces; a few odd posters here and there, rather awkward on the half-empty walls; a closet, rather overwhelming in the small room, with a thin mirror in one of the doors; a desk by the bed, empty aside from a few dirty glasses and shelves with his old comics, neatly stacked in boxes alongside a few old baseballs and tennis rackets.
His old room. His old room from his house back in France.
Of all places he could’ve, should’ve ended up in…
Jean swung his legs off the bed, a little too fast. Last time he had a body, half his legs were pretty heavy. And also metal. Imagine his surprise when he saw his regular old legs, even managed to wiggle his toes on his left foot. Almost like he never lost them. Or the rest of his legs for that matter.
His left hand was just fine as was his right arm, not even a scar where it was re-attached. How odd.
Now that he really focused, he finally noticed that his vision was different: when he closed his left eye, he could still see everything, just as clearly.
That had him standing up and quickly getting to the mirror in a familiar three long steps (if only slightly shaky from his body having not walked in some time). He couldn’t believe what he saw – he was just fine. Hands came up to his face, running over where scars were supposed to be, one big enough to run from his forehead down to his cheek and to split his eye. His bright blue eyes looked right back from the reflection, just as baffled to see him with all of his limbs intact. God, since when was that the status quo?
After a good ten or fifteen minutes of staring he noticed more. Far odder things than missing limbs coming back.
His hair was unstyled, moreover, the silver strands covering up a part of his face shone with grease at the roots; despite seemingly just waking up he was in his old sweat pants and a tank top, both with multiple stains and only worn when he was fixing something major around the house not to get anything nice dirty; the sun was already setting, far slower than whatever was just happening in Italy, but he still usually woke up far earlier. And what felt almost just as shocking as suddenly waking up in your body from years back – he could feel a slight stubble poking out on his cheek. For a man who could barely even grow facial hair in general and kept a strict hygiene routine? That was absolute insanity. Moreover, now that he focused, he could almost smell just how dirty his old clothes were – a pungent mix of whatever was spilled on them, seemingly days prior, and sweat. It’s almost like he didn’t change out of them for days.
As odd as his sudden unkemptness was, he still felt more curious about waking up a good decade younger (not counting his years as a ghost, that is) in France of all places. As much as he loved his home, last he was aware, he was in Naples. In Italy. At least a good thousand kilometers away.
Was this a dream? Was his journey the dream that he had…? Trip around half the world, Egypt, Italy… He could still clearly remember what happened, his friends, his opponents… If it was a dream, it was way too clear, he remembered too much of it…
What day even was it today? What time?
He remembered keeping a calendar in his room, usually, anyway. Some with cute kitten picture Sherry’d pick out for him when he’d take her out to the bigger city nearby for Christmas shopping. She was always so happy when they’d see the pretty lights and decorations, he’d even splurge on a roll of film just to capture his little light.
If he was back like this… God, he hated giving himself hope like this, but just maybe, if this really is heaven, if the world is right and there’s any good in it… He wanted to bolt to a familiar door, just a few longs strides away from his own down the hall.
But right now, the calendar was on the floor by the door as if it fell and got smushed to the side with the door opening, like no one bothered to pick it up.
Looking at the floor closer, from this angle he could see a few darkish brown and green bottles under his desk. With a worried furrow to his brow, despite something desperately longing to run and check, just in case, he came up to the desk, picking up one of those glasses to take a quick sniff. Jean’s face scrunched up quickly – definitely not water. The others must not be flat coke either then.
Now he couldn’t hold back on the need to check. There were only so many times he fell into such habits.
It was almost like that dreaded fight he had with Cameo, the Judgement stand. He was half ready for something to try to bite off his shoulder again… or would that really be again if it seemingly hasn’t happened yet?
Regardless, he warily proceeded to open the door, walking through the hallway – dark, oddly cold and dusty. He knew these steps, has walked them so many times that it was beyond counting. Jean remembered running to his siters room at any chance he got. Maybe that was another reason why his wasn’t quite as decorated – he basically only came in to sleep, too busy sitting with his sister somewhere else around the house.
The door was just the same brown wood as was his, unremarkable on its own, yet Sherry always managed to add her charm to anything she touched. White and purple and pink morning glories vined around the frame and in a pretty cursive there was her name, a little lower than his eye level.
The knob was just about the same and yet he couldn’t find the power within himself to open the door.
“I have truly grown weak,” he thought to himself, before forcing himself to just push through and open the door.
The sharp movement made it creak slightly, the hinges definitely needed oiling later.
And despite all his worries he was met with a familiar sight, not one thing out of place: Sherry’s larger bed, one where they could just talk for hours on end; her big window, where he extended the sill so she could read on it; her big desk, a few textbooks strewn on it from her preparing for the coming exams; a large closet with all the clothes neatly folded and of course, the heart of the room according to Sherry herself – her bookcase. Numerous titles, from philosophy, to arts, to foreign languages and to cheesy romance books she tried to hide from him by setting them in the back. He still knew and has read quite a few of them. Just to support her, of course.
A sigh of relief escaped him too early. She must be at school, such a diligent girl, so unlike himself at her age. He was so glad at how she turned out – truly beautiful, first and foremost as a person. She did take a lot after their parents’ looks as well, thankfully. According to their mother Jean just looked like some great-great-great-whatever who also didn’t have any brows. Sherry’s inner beauty just shone through with her looks.
‘God, if she really is here… this really must be heaven, right…?’ he whispered, unable to stop his tired heart, still awfully hopeful despite everything he has gone through in his life.
He just might bake the girl a cake if he sees her. Or Crème Brûlée. Or anything she’d ask for, really. Oh god, he just hoped that he wouldn’t burst out crying too early. Sherry. His Sherry, truly back and alive and well.
Maybe everything before was just a dream? That was his least favorite twist from Sherry’s books. “What? How am I supposed to care about all of that nonsense if it hasn’t even happened?!” Sherry would simply remind him of how nothing fictional has ever really happened, even if it did in the universe of the book itself, laughing, oh so warmly.
Now, relieved by the sight, and having not noticed the dust that settled over everything in that room he rushed downstairs, towards the door, “If it’s this late in the afternoon, Sherry must be coming back soon!” he thought.
Only to run into a coffin in the living room.