( OPEN ) all the things yet to come

[digiorno]

Who: Giorno Giovanna & OPEN
When: Leadup to full moon through the end of the month (so approximately 15th — 30th)
Where: Throughout the city
What: Monthly catch-all, including full moon problems, Litha, and nightmare event prompts. If you would like a specific prompt for your character, PM this account or catch me at passiones! I am happy to write a starter.
Warnings: Blood & blooddrinking, animal death, vampire shit. Otherwise TBA.


BAD MOONS RISING, 15th — 20th.

a. like the old-enough hands ( cw: animal death )

[As the full moon comes, Giorno resists the change. It's stupid. He knows as he does it, as he wrestles down the nauseating hunger, tears his eyes away from the thin skin over wrists and collarbones and throats — he knows he's making it worse. At this point, there's no reason for these people to lie to him. He's putting himself in danger. He's putting other people in danger.]

[But there's a part of him that doesn't want to believe in the inevitability of this change. Worse, maybe: he thinks he can beat it. Even if it is true, he can beat it. He can hold back for long enough and beat it. Maybe, he thinks, the fever will break. Maybe.]

[Of course it doesn't. And as he passes one of the hedge mazes on a night walk (the only kind of walk he gets anymore, and isn't he bitter about it), he hears (too sharply) the explanation from one of the event coordinators: there are animals, she says; to hunt, to kill, if you want. If you like.]

[It's a blur then, running faster than he ought to be able, ducking the angles and corners of the hedge maze until his teeth sink into the rabbit's throat and he shakes his head, once, sharply. Crack. There's blood on his tongue and he comes back to himself, bile rising, drops the rabbit from his mouth and catches it in his hands. It's very dead.]

[Next thing he knows, he's found his way to the area meant for sitting, for closeness. There are people here sitting near one another, touching one another, enjoying one another, not looking at him or the rabbit he drops at his side as he collapses in an exhausted heap. There is blood drying on his chin, down the front of his shirt. After a moment, he reaches out, runs shaking fingers through the rabbit's fur. His shoulders, too, are shaking, so violently it seems as though he might fly off the ground with the force of it. But he doesn't make a sound.]

b. like the breaking of glass

[The rabbit didn't help.]

[Of course the rabbit didn't fucking help. As much as he wants to tell himself it's better to have made the mistake with an animal rather than a person, he doesn't actually believe it. He shouldn't have made the mistake at all. If it had to be one or the other, he'd have taken a human. Back home, there were people he could have chosen, strategic choices who deserved an end to their lives as brutal as that, after all that they'd done to those who couldn't protect themselves—]

[His nails dig half-moons he doesn't feel into his palms as he ducks from shadow to shadow on the way to the Coven. It's instinct; as much as he's turned his nose up at Nessie and Mhairi, as much as he's bristled away, he knows they mean well. And they can help. So, with the red moons rising above the roofs, he goes for help.]

[Except he doesn't make it. It's as he ducks into another shadowy alcove out of the dying sun, breathing heavy and labored, wobbling with exhaustion, that something snaps and he realizes he can't go any longer. If he pushes himself further, he's going to snap. It's going to be the rabbit all over again. But — there. A familiar face. Maybe just by face, not name; it doesn't matter. Witch or Monster, it doesn't matter. His fingers dig into his palm a little deeper before he reaches out, ever so slightly.]

Help. I — need help. Please.

[His eyes are bright, glowing red, though he doesn't know it yet. His skin has gone pale and sallow, washed out further by the bright gold of his hair. He looks exhausted. He looks ill. And, given the fangs peeking out between panting lips, he definitely looks dangerous.]

LITHA, 21st — 23th.

c. like the bonfire that burns

[Giorno prides himself on not taking risks, but truth be told, he's only cautious when it suits him. Just as he'd pick pockets or con tourists back home and excuse it to himself, so he finds an excuse to take a very lightly spiced drink. After all, he's watched others drink something at this low level of strength and they haven't immediately fallen over dead or become senseless, so it's fine. And he's tired, and he feels like shit, and it's been a very difficult week. Month.]

[He isn't the individual blending into the background that he's tried so hard to be, then, once Litha truly begins. Not that he's exhuberant or anything. He's still quiet. But he's noticeable, hauling the lovely little lantern he's purchased along with a giant basket of flowers to a grassy space in the middle of the square. There he sinks to his knees and begins to sort out his flowers by type, by color, by size.]

You can sit, too, if you like. There's enough grass for more.

[That's the other difference. He smiles. Just a little, but it's guileless and open as he sets out the layout of his first flower crown: a ring of golden and pink flowers with a rose in the center.]

d. in worth; in a fight felt, too

[Not to put too fine a point on it: the mazes frighten him now. They don't hold the same heavy, dangerous promise as before, now that he's got blood in him, but he hates how much they speak to his own loss of control. Which is exactly why he's going through one again tonight. He's got a light dose of liquid courage, and there are no rabbits this time.]

[He opts for the choice to meet an unknown partner in the middle. It seems, to Giorno, to make best use of the unknown while removing the aspect of chase. And he's so enchanted by his surroundings, running his fingers along the thickets of flowers that create a loose tunnel around him, that he blinks with surprise when he turns a corner and sees — well. Someone who must be his partner.]

Oh. Hello. [Slowly, a smile creeps across his face.] You did it! Well done. I got distracted. [Obviously.]

NIGHTMARE, 22nd.

e. wasteland, baby, i'm in love with you

Shit.

[Breathless and almost dizzy with fear, his voice comes out higher than usual. A moment later, he laughs, quiet and near-manic. It's not as though he's afraid of heights; this is just common sense. He swallows as he hears the stair behind him splash into the water far below.]

[But he doesn't close his eyes. Balance is too important now for that. Instead, he fixes his gaze on the person in front of him, serious and intent and trying not to act as concerned as he is.]

Do you have any ideas about what to do besides keep going up? I'm happy to workshop next steps. Ideally before this one falls into the ocean.

f. & i love too that love soon might end

[Eventually, the stairs take him so high that he can go no further. It's then that he makes the only choice available to him: to step to the side, and fall. And fall, and fall, and fall; it seems like a longer fall than should be possible, almost comical, to the point that he chuckles a little bit to himself at the absurdity of all of this before he hits the surface of the water like a ton of bricks.]

[It both hurts and it doesn't. This is a dream; he's fine. But at the same time, he knows it should hurt, that he should be dead, so he winces and hisses and panics because he should be drowning, too; thrashes like a wet cat for a few long moments before sucking in a lungful of water and . . . settling. Because he can breathe after all.]

[And why not.]

[He walks to the graveyard. He walks between the corpses — the skeletons, so long dead that the fish have picked their flesh away, presumably — and looks them over, one after another after another. The ones who sport the Coven's insignia have it removed, a pile slowly growing in Giorno's pocket, out of some sense that maybe this will be evidence, or maybe the Coven will just want them back.]

[The whole time, he thinks. About all of this, beginning to end, the Looking-Glass House pristine as anything to here, with the sound of crying in the distance and skeletons picked clean . . . He sticks his hand in his pocket and shifts the insignias restlessly.]

Time, [is what he murmurs eventually, eyes lifting to follow the Leviathan, so obviously sick, so obviously not right.] The time doesn't make sense. It's not right.

Comments

[digiorno]

[He doesn't question her reasoning. As it happens, the reminder of some of the dangers the Coven face seems to sap some further energy out of him. As sick as this makes him, becoming this thing that he can't outrun or resist, the thought of losing something as paramount to survival as his focus is terrifying. Unconsciously, his fingers tighten on the inside of the cloak.]

[His next blink is long; he stumbles slightly before opening his eyes again, but doesn't lose his footing. In that half-second he sees Napoli, with rolling hills and winding alleys, buildings pressed so close together that between them there is only a tunnel of light with the sun at the end. Like a labyrinth.]

[When he opens his eyes again, the twin suns are still setting. The distant beat of their rays still hurts. I will never walk in the sun again, he thinks, and breathes in grief, swallows down resistance. I will walk in the sun again, he insists.]

In my home, [he begins, pausing for breath,] there is this neigborhood . . . the Rione Sanità. Almost two thousand years ago, it . . . was a burial ground. You know? Um, catacombs. Underground. They're tourist attractions now, even though the neighborhood is so dangerous. The families there, each one picks out a skull from the ossuary to take care of. A little wretch . . . that's what they call them. "Someone always has it worse than me."

[The way he laughs is brittle and shattering, too high and too loud; under his nails, threads of the cloak are breaking.]

I can — I used to crawl around in there, sometimes. The catacombs. It was fun if I didn't get caught. But the rooftops were better. Over the rooftops under the sun, and scale back down to the stone—

[In his memory it's clear, so clear, as if he were there all over again, the sun in his face and his hand up to shade it from the glare, falling down into shadow — and vertigo hits out of nowhere as if the sun is real and the fall is real. His stomach turns and then screams at him, stabbing pain, and he stumbles again, for real this time, because he just can't anymore, he just can't.]

[He tries desperately to steady himself on his own. He doesn't want to rely on her, even now. He doesn't want to burden her.]

[sageprincess]

[It's not that she's not listening to him. In fact, it's quite the opposite; her long ears twitch with every strained gasp of breath, every scuffle of his feet against the uneven cobbles beneath. But the words he says are distant things, images she doesn't allow to linger long enough within her mind's eye to create a vibrant painting of the memories he clings to like a lifeline. No, she sees Aefenglom's streets and Aefenglom's buildings under Aefenglom's dusky sky, and realizes they're slowing down with every labored step they take towards the Coven.

We're not going to make it, she thinks, and as if the world itself is punishing her for her lack of faith, Giorno stumbles. And human bodies are just so unwieldy, and pure physical might has never been one of her strong suits, so when he falls, despite all her effort she can't stop him from going down, nor can she keep him from taking her down with him. Pain blooms in her knees as they hit the ground, and she hisses with it, but at least she's able to remain largely upright. That's more than can be said for the boy next to her.

"Someone always has it worse than me," indeed. She looks at him, pale and sickly, blood red eyes unfocused, labored gasps escaping from chapped lips and fanged teeth, and amends her earlier thought: He's not going to make it. Unless he gets blood or magic or both, he's not going to take another step down this road while within his right mind. And she has to decide what she's going to do about it.

To leave, to just stand up and walk away as though this has nothing to do with her, would be cowardly as well as cruel, and thus is an option she considers for only the briefest of moment before tossing away. And as merciful as she tries to make dying as himself sound in her head, she just can't summon the stomach to commit to it. Which leaves only her, alone in this forgotten little alley, to somehow bring him back from the brink or find herself facing down a feral vampire trying. When put like that, there aren't very many options available to her, are there?

Fear and concern cool into a steely resolve as she pushes Giorno onto his back. His arms are pulled to his sides, and after only a moment of hesitation, she pins them there with her legs as she straddles his torso. She draws her knife from it's place hidden in her boot, and tears the sleeve of her other arm down to her elbow with her teeth.

It's all behavior that's very unbecoming of a princess. But she's swallowed the princess down along with the scared little girl inside her, leaving only the survivor that took their place at the surface. She holds the pommel of her knife to her navel, its point hovering mere inches above Giorno's ribcage as she leans over him and holds her bared arm to his mouth.

Her golden hair falls over her shoulders like a veil, leaving the unwavering scarlet eyes that stare back at him a sight for Giorno and Giorno alone.]

Drink. [She commands, voice low.] But take more than you need and you shall bleed out here with me.

[His own Sword of Damocles, so to speak. He'll damn them both if he becomes so greedy that she can no longer hold herself up above him.]

[digiorno]

[Movement is muddy, confusing, too fast and too slow all at once. He can't keep track of it. There's pain, sharp and angry, in his side and his back that tells him he's collided with the cobbles, but it's overshadowed tenfold by the cramps in his stomach. It takes too long for him to consciously recognize he's on his side on the ground through the haze of red, and by then he's moving.]

[No — no, he isn't, she's moving him. Panic rises like bile in his throat, stomach clenching on nothing. The sound he makes is all animal, a snarl like a wildcat as he fights against her direction; but he's too weak to make any headway. He can't beat her. He's done this to himself, he realizes. He's made himself this weak. This is his fault.]

[This is his fault.]

[And it's too much, too complicated and confusing — just days ago he could sense the movement of warmth like a snake, but now it's all shades of scent in gray and grayer. He knows she's moving, can feel the weight of her pinning him down, but can't process it, too overwhelmed and too lost in his own hunger. His stomach clenches on nothing like a heartbeat. Hungry, he thinks, and twists weakly to get away, and pants, and hungry hungry hungry is all there is.]

[Until a pulse appears in front of him, and everything slows and thickens and crystalizes. Clear as early morning sunlight.]

[Her arm, close enough that he can feel the pulse in her wrist between them like shockwaves. Her sleeve, ripped to shreds — and when did that happen? Her weight on his stomach, knife in her hand, a threat and a promise. He can hear her heartbeat, he can only hear her heartbeat, fast but not as fast as it would be if all she was was scared.]

[Drink, she says, and his stomach churns. It's not fear this time but nausea. Instinct shoves it down as his body agrees with her — drink, take, please, please — but he twists his head away, frustration and disgust making tears spring to the corners of his eyes. Resisting just makes him hungrier, but he can't, he can't—]

I don't want to, [he whispers, hoarse, breaking;] I don't want to, please, I can't, I don't want it, [but it's a lie, and he's already turning back, twisting towards the pulse of her heart, panting in fear and disgust and hunger and his neck cranes up and his teeth sink in and his cold, cold fingers wrap around her wrist and pull it close and secure.]

[There's so much care in it, somehow, despite everything. He's still holding back, though the other part of him growls and snaps and shrieks at him to take. His hold on her is so delicate, loose enough that she could easily pull away but for the knives in her flesh. His eyes, closed in concentration, are framed in lashes wet at the corners. He's shaking from relief and horror and everything just being too much. The most animal and honest part of him is his mouth, open and earnest and starving as her blood pools around his teeth and between his lips.]

[sageprincess]

[It's not an unfamiliar sensation. Underneath her skirts and stockings, there is a fading reminder of a careless encounter with a wolfos marring the skin of her leg. The bite is painful to be sure, but that is to be expected. What Zelda didn't count on, is the difficulty in remaining still while this is happening, the muscles in her arm tensing and twitching in his gentle hold as she forces herself to bite back the instinct to tear it away from the thing causing it pain. Her other arm mirrors its twin, her grip on her knife growing white-knuckled as she waits for him to have his fill.

Her eyes cool back to their natural hue as she watches him, completely and utterly disgusted with himself, and her heart breaks for him, despite everything. It really does.]

What you want... does not matter.

[Her words are softer than they were a moment prior, barely a whisper upon the wind, and yet there is a practiced quality to them, as though they are something she has repeated dozens of times before.

Because it is a truth she has lived ever since that fateful day she was forced to flee the only home she had ever known. She wanted to go home, she wanted her father back, she wanted to leave the tiny, dark cavern her attendant had squirreled her away in, but none of that mattered. There were things she had to do to survive in the hostile world created by that evil man, and they weren't things she wanted to do, but she did them regardless because--]

... You have to do whatever it takes, if you are to see the sun on those rooftops ever again.

[The hope that they might reach that mythical other side, and all of the tragedy might have meant something in the end. It was the only thing that could make life even vaguely bearable some days during those seven years.

... But she doesn't expect Giorno is truly listening, regardless. Nor does he likely want her words of wisdom either.

Zelda focuses on keeping her breathing even instead.]

[digiorno]

[It tastes . . . disgusting. It feels disgusting, the choking tang of iron thick and viscous on his tongue. There's a disgust more physical than mental that overtakes him as blood pools in this throat, as he's forced to hold his breath to swallow, lying on his back with his teeth pinning her arm in place. The remainder of his body that's still human insists that blood isn't food, that he needs to get it out; his mind screams at him to let go, to push Zelda off and away and find a way to make certain she'll keep quiet about this. To not be the monster that this place wants to make him.]

[And he gags, but the monster wins in the end. The monster is hungry. The monster is starving, because he has starved it. The monster doesn't need much; all of this deprivation has left his stomach shrunken, uncertain what to keep and what to reject. It's best for the both of them that he can only take a little bit now, that he doesn't have to figure out how to regulate his intake and fight the near-feral hunger at the same time.]

[It's the monster and her voice that calm him in the end — the monster coming to recognize that satiation is coming, that the only thing that counts as food anymore is filling his belly, that the fear of starvation can be dismissed for now. The monster is happy to feel blood sliding down his throat. The monster isn't particularly happy to be pinned, but he considers the benefit to outweigh the cost in a way that Giorno's common sense simply can't. The monster relaxes, and Giorno's frown smooths out; his movements smooth, too, losing their jerky urgency as his drinking slows.]

[Everything is slow. He goes somewhere else for a while, her stillness and sheer physical dominance enabling him to just stop thinking. There is only the reality of drinking, the cobbles against his back, and survival. All of this is survival.]

[Her voice is quiet. Not soothing, but not threatening. He doesn't hear most of what she says, but he doesn't need to. The tone matters. The few words he catches are enough.]

[Whatever it takes.]

[By the time he pulls away, gasping in a sharp breath like he's forgotten breathing matters, he looks like a different person, flushed with life. He feels like a different person, too; fingers previously freezing now encircle her wrist warmly before shifting so he can clasp his palm over the open wounds, applying pressure.]

Bandage, [he mumbles thickly, clumsy, slow-moving like a snake in bright sun. His other hand flexes on nothing by his side.] Your sleeve.

[Since she already tore it. She wouldn't have to use that back home, he thinks, he could just fix it up for her — except at home she wouldn't have had anyone bite a chunk out of her arm, either. Probably. As far as he knows. Shame begins to trickle in again, now that hunger's no longer his main concern. He tips his head to the side, avoiding eye contact.]

[sageprincess]

[It worked. Color and warmth return to him, and no one had to die. She didn't have to bloody her hands. Her relief is subdued, so far removed from her own feelings in this state, but he'll feel it in the relaxation of her arm in his hand and in the pressure of her weight on his abdomen as the tension holding her body up slowly ebbs away.

Thank the Goddesses, it worked. But there are still things to do.

She sways slightly as she pulls herself upright, a minor case of dizziness that subsides quickly enough. He says "your sleeve" and she's already taking the knife that had threatened him moments before to it, cutting the whole thing off without so much as a blink. The blade is then discarded, lightly tossed to the side as she holds the tattered fabric to her bitten arm and finally pulls herself off of him, skirts billowing around her as she plops down on the ground nearby. She probably shouldn't try standing yet, just in case.

He's not looking at her, but that's fine. She probably wouldn't look at her either.]

... A witch's blood willingly given is the strongest thing you will find with any kind of ease as far as the Coven willing to say. You should remain sated for a while.

[Cold comfort, and she knows it, judging from the tone of her voice. She sets to wrapping the shreds of her sleeve around her arm.]

You should still go there, just in case. It would be worth it to hear their advice for times like these, at least.

[It doesn't sound like she's including herself in this trip anymore. She can't imagine he wants her help any longer, after all.]

[digiorno]

[Something is wrong.]

[He chides himself. Of course something is wrong; he just drank her blood. It would be absolutely insane for her to not have some kind of negative reaction. But this is — it's different. Not what he expected. Dread drops into his stomach like a rock in a still pool. Whatever it is, whatever unknown boundaries beyond the clear one that he's transgressed, she's . . .]

[Retreating. He has to think about it for a while, but that's the truth. She's creeping behind a shield that he didn't even realize she's had up this whole time, one that she let down for just a few minutes in order to protect him. To protect him. To keep his mistake from costing his own life or worse, the lives of others.]

[That was her, the truest part of her. And now she's going away again.]

[Before he can stop himself, he's scrambling upright himself, stumbling at a speed he'd briefly lost and forgotten about. Disheveled and wide-eyed, he reaches for her, fingers clutching at the edge of her intact sleeve.]

Wait—

[—for? What is he expecting her to wait for? A flush starts in the tips of his ears. He doesn't know what it is that he wants, just — not this.]

Please, [is what he manages eventually, hand dropping back to his side like he's burnt his fingers.] I just — I'm sorry.