( 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]

[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.