Chapter Text
Naples did not slumber.
The only thing the dead of night brought with it was a different kind of verve to the cobblestone streets. Bedlamic spectacles of unjust trade and unmitigated revelry died down in favor of more subdued scenes birthed by characters who rarely showed their ways in the light of day. It was by no means a lessening of action, but rather a reimagining of what was considered commonplace by the inhabitants. One time’s crowd did not mix well with the other, though they did often intersect. A nobleman’s business at night was as important to him as the one executed during the day, after all. Some faces remained the same after the lanterns were lit, but most changed with the coming of darkness. For every sun-kissed soul, the moon had a substitute of its own design. Shopkeepers took back their unsold wares and barred their doors. In their place, the dealers came out to barter for more than just coin. The handful of bards waxing poetic to foreigners and pretty dames retreated to their abodes and, in their stead, the gypsy caravans took to the streets to sing and dance for one another. The ladies were replaced by the girls, just as lovely in face and figure, but far more cunning than most everyone was willing to give them credit for. To the barefoot children raised on those streets, night was little more than an unconquerable beast which came, time and time again, to hurt them in more than just their dreams.
It was here that one of those children found himself alone in the cold of the deep winter. He’d pressed his body against the uneven brick wall of a tall, decrepit building to hide himself from the falling snow. The structure had a small balcony held up by stone pillars which came out and over the street. It was just enough for him to use as shelter. The façade was once a pristine ivory color which had now become an unappealing dirty yellow splattered at the bottom with hardened mud and manure. Its windows were small and too high up the wall to use as an entrance way unless you were willing to take the risk of breaking an ankle falling down on either side. It had once been thought of as home to someone who no longer needed to worry about their wellbeing. Death had made their acquaintance far sooner than nature might have intended.
Giorno, for that was what the child had named himself, watched the lull of the night crowd from his petite haven beneath the balcony. He was a young thing, not yet of age, blessed with a beauty few had the fortune of receiving and a setting so vile, it made him that much more charming by comparison. If one were to gaze at him even in passing, they’d be struck by mental imagery of Florentine masterwork and refinement. When he stood unmoving he looked like a misplaced statue carved out of Carrara marble. He was as much David as he was Pietà, cherubim only in face for the rest of his malnourished body had been cloaked in clothing unbefitting of his natural gifts. The boy was one of Raphael’s angels, no doubt, after having decided to abandon his position on the frescoes in Villa Farnesina. The girls – often jealous, often amazed – called him a nymph. His eyes were mirrors for the stars to reflect in once they rose high enough in the sky. Giorno often cast glances in their direction, as if greeting old friends. The tilting of his head cascaded his hair over slender shoulders like laburnum in full bloom. For as beautiful as the curls were, they often stood as the only testament to the boy’s shameful heredity.
As time passed, he gave passersby bonhomous smiles in hopes they would stop and show proper interest, which none of them did. Who would bother with the sight of such a small creature, no matter how stunning, offering them matchboxes for a couple of coins each? No, it was not worth the crowd’s precious time. If he had something else to offer, perhaps. He was not the only skirted figure standing at street corners, after all.
Giorno held a few of the damp crates to his chest while the rest filled up the pockets of his too-large dress. He’d stolen it from his mother before leaving in the hopes it would provide comfort and safety from the cold he was forced to endure. Though they were torn and thin, the extra layers of fabric did aid a bit. They covered up the cuts in his trousers well enough so the wind could not get in. The woman would no doubt scold him upon his return, but Giorno saw it as a necessary concession. Winter did not show mercy to anyone. He’d gone through the song and dance one too many times to allow himself the displeasure of letting it happen again. His only regret was not being able to steal a pair of shoes as well since his mother had no more than the one she’d left the house in. It had only been a few hours but he’d already reached the point of not being able to feel anything beneath his soles. The same could be said about his uncovered arms since the dark blue dress had no sleeves.
It was the night of the New Year’s Eve and all the boy could think of was how to get through it without dealing with the aftermath. The inevitable dawn should have brought him relief, but the ones following the dark hours in which he was unable to sell his goods only brought him dread. The thought of returning to a loveless home of a mother who was never present and a faux father who lived with his hand on the captain's daughter came with a froth in his stomach like the beginnings of nausea and it wasn’t long before he could taste repugnant bile on his tongue. Old alcohol did not disgust him as much as it did.
He slid down the side of the wall, matchboxes on his lap, and contemplated not going back. What purpose would it serve? The same scene always played out when he returned without coin. The small amount he’d managed to pilfer from careless pockets was not enough to satisfy the insatiable adults who always asked for more. All the money did was fund his mother’s delusions of grandeur and her beloved’s bottomless tankard. Holding any of the profit for himself often lead to more lashes, so he’d trained himself out of the habit. Giorno had nothing to spend the money on, anyway. His pleasures were few and far in between, and the necessities he required were too expensive to save up for without being discovered. Their house had no usable hiding spots and he did not trust anything outside its walls for a safe stash. The little urchins, the ones far younger than him in age, knew of all the nooks and crannies in the city. His coins would be gone in no more than a few hours.
Giorno saw a flicker in the night sky and looked up before it vanished. A star had just fallen. Someone must have died, he thought with a little sorrow in his mind. What a cruel fate, to depart before experiencing the hope of a new year, and yet how fortunate a resolution if they were of the same accursed breed as him. A whole year had passed and his life had not changed. His reverie, once a devoted companion, was now merely a shadow cast down the length of the street. The boy fought to keep his spirits high every day but here he was yet again, at the end of the cycle, still kneeling in the dirt.
And how painfully cold he was. The space beneath the balcony was no better than the street. He stood up and walked back into the blizzard to start yet another search for shelter. The snow greeted his whole body like a long-lost lover. It fell in his hair and did not melt fast enough before more of it came to layer atop itself. Nature was making the child its bride, white veil and all. His suffering was a spectacle, a living tableau. The gentle union of lashes under the weight of snowflakes and the soft parting of incarnadine lips was euphoric to onlookers. He was breathtaking. He was the offspring of Venus and Summanus, a reincarnated Pothos, a phantasm to haunt the memories of the night, and the stars, and the full moon.
Even the sea called his name with desire. Giorno walked towards the edge of the city from where he could watch the waves crash into the sides of foreign ships, rocking them with a steady motion like a mother trying to put her child to sleep. He rested against the far wall of a warehouse used by local fishermen. Tired knees gave way within moments of him stopping and the boy collapsed with his back pressed to wet brick, much like earlier in the night.
Could he have asked for too much of fate? The moon shined a light so beautiful… could it not help at all? Glory and wealth were not things he sought out since they were unattainable to even his thoughts. All he wanted was a moment of peace. A fire to warm his hands and feet. A show of sympathy, something— something. Something. Anything.
The fire, perhaps, he could provide himself. He’d already made his choice not to return home, so striking a few of the matches would not earn him a harsher punishment than what he would receive once that man discovered him. He took one out of the wooden box and drew it above his head, against the wall where it was drier, until it sparked with flame. To Giorno, it embodied his hope. He watched it flicker under the cover of his palm which he used to shield it from the wind. The more he gazed at it, the more he thought he could see within the light. It was all so clear and so unbelievable – figures in a senseless swaying, locked in an embrace and in a kiss so sweet it made his heart ache with yearning. How wondrous it must be to fall in love with another soul! The only love he’d ever witnessed was in the pages of borrowed tomes from scholars passing through the city and the sung verses of bards and outcasts. Giorno asked for little more than that. He hoped to soar on Cupid’s wings once, just once, just to see what it would feel like. When the flame died to the wind, exposed by his carelessness, so did the rapture in his heart.
Or perhaps it would be more reasonable to hope for the fall. Giorno let his eyes drift up to the starscape, then descend to where the manmade lights began – a second set of constellations beneath those God had peppered the cosmos with. Oh, would it not have been easier to do something wicked and cruel so he’d get locked up instead? He could take up the mantle of Campanella and get thrown in a small cell where at least the snow could not touch him. He could watch all of Naples from high, high up there, atop the hill, where only nobleborn and criminals got to spend their days. He could bribe the guardsmen with promises of fortune and pleasure so they’d bring him the best answers for his drought and his famine. Weak hearts were easily swayed by the glimmer of gold, like that of his mother, who must have gone to some other gentleman’s house to celebrate the night.
Giorno struck another match. It was all he had. He peered into the light dancing across his features and prayed for the continuation of that which he’d lost. Someone else’s romance was the best he could hope for in such terrible times. Those joyful spirits joining as one were his sole companion. The flame flickered with life and blinded him with another vision which made him lose track of the minutes passing by. What he saw disturbed the boy – a figure, as elfin as his own, with the same marks on its back as his own, cloaked in a beast’s blood-soaked fur. His hearing was overtaken by screams and curses, by the sound of a steady breath snuffed out in the consolidation of anger, of violence, gore and tears, pain, heartbreak. The scene was of an indescribable carnage. When his senses came back to him, Giorno threw the still-lit match into the rising snow. His body was shaking from more than just the cold. His chest heaved with heavy breath and his heart was introduced to a hysteria never-before experienced.
And yet… such visions could not harm him. They were as dangerous as his thoughts of romance and the beginnings of faintness settling in his exhausted body. He was assuredly daydreaming, there was no other explanation. Giorno often caught himself thinking about other lives, though they rarely exhibited themselves with such stunning clarity. What a silly thing, to lose control of your own thoughts… Surely that horrific display was a manifestation of his fears. Surely. He curled into himself and rested his head against the cold bricks. No one else was present, though he could hear the sounds of humanity far off in the distance. He could always get up and join the caravans, he thought. Rumours often circulated about how the gypsies took in anyone who knew how to make coin. Giorno was clever and fast with his hands. They’d love him, no doubt, even if he was not family.
For one last time he struck the wall with a bundle of the unsold matches. The fire, though larger, could only provide so much warmth to a body falling in inanimation. He glowed in the light, a firefly lost and confused in the merciless storm, as he thought of how the coming morning would find him sleeping peacefully with dreams of amorous entanglements and tranquility.
His mind slipped out of consciousness before his fire went out.
The night passed and the new year came with rays of shy light engulfing the city of Naples in their warm embrace. Somewhere on the pier, tucked away from the yet to be awakened world, a man discovered the still-breathing body of a fallen angel wrapped in vines of freshly bloomed morning glories.