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Entry tags:
( closed ) steady now, steady now
Who: Giorno & closed (Lady Maria, Kaede, Pannacotta Fugo, Ozymandias, Zelda)
When: Backdated, mid-Deceuer (8—13)
Where: The Haunted Mansion.
What: Giorno dies and then is fine.
Warnings: Character death — naturally.
i. ready now, ready now ( 8th—9th | onset )
When: Backdated, mid-Deceuer (8—13)
Where: The Haunted Mansion.
What: Giorno dies and then is fine.
Warnings: Character death — naturally.
i. ready now, ready now ( 8th—9th | onset )
[It’s as the snow starts to smother Aefenglom that Giorno realizes something is really wrong.]ii. i’ll hold onto you (10th—11th | deterioration )
[The wrongness isn’t new. His body hasn’t just started breaking down; it’s been falling apart little by little since he arrived in this city, aches and pains crescendoing into long nights confined to bed in the last couple of full moons. But this is different. This isn’t just weakness getting weaker or creaking joints getting creakier. This isn’t like anything that’s happened before.]
[This is a fatigue that catches him out of nowhere in his sitting room chair by the window. He’s watching the snow fall, and then it’s on him like a truck’s hit, the weight of the world crushing him until his eyes just won’t stay open, until he can’t stay sitting up. When he’s found curled up in the seat, dead asleep, a few minutes or hours later, he’s disoriented and confused, unsure how he ended up there or when he fell asleep.]
[That same crushing exhaustion finds him again the following evening, sneaking up and knocking him straight off his feet. One second he’s standing with a hand on the counter, the next he’s fallen in a graceless pile with a crash of limbs on stone. There’s a vicious hiss that peters out into a breathy sound of pain as he tries, but fails, to stand on his own.]
[It takes him a long time to give up, but eventually, even he has to. Without making eye contact with anyone else in the room, he allows, flatly, grimly,] . . . I think I need help.
[Before he passes out on the morning of the night, he sends out two messages. Their contents are identical, although there are unique spelling errors in each. To Zelda and Ozymandias, and no one else, he texts:]iii. you hold onto me ( 12th—13th | dessication & resurrection )
Good morning. I think I’m finally dying. If you want to come see me, I’ve told Maria to let you in. Don’t if the weather is too dangerous, please. —Giogio
[Even on a good day, he probably wouldn’t see the issue with this message. This isn’t a good day. He’s difficult to rouse even if visitors do come, drifting in and out of consciousness and coherency. In his best moments, which come more frequently on the first day and the first half of the second, he shifts and turns on his side towards the door as it opens, shivering under heavy blankets with a toothy smile on his face. It’s ghastly, actually. He seems so much thinner all of a sudden, and his fangs stand out as though they’ve grown by a solid centimeter.]
Oh. [Breathless, in a way that might be mistaken for concealed laughter if he wasn’t so obviously panting between each slurred word.] Did something exciting happen?
[It’s around midnight on the eleventh that things start going even more sharply downhill. Pulse weakening, his breath comes more and more shallowly with every minute. He shakes so violently that his teeth clack together; when he manages to open his eyes, he stares out at the room like he doesn’t recognize it. Even still, he doesn’t make a noise — strange for someone who usually talks so much, but there it is: Giorno silently curled under the blanket, back pressed up against the wall, still but for the shake of cold and occasional spasm of undisguisable pain.]
[As the Sisters hit their apex, at midnight on Deceuer 12, Giorno dies.]
[It’s pretty anticlimactic, all things considered. One moment he’s moving, even if slightly, and breathing, even if poorly. His lips and fingertips have gone blue, eyes wide and frightened framed by lashes that look frozen, even in the warmth of the house. Curled in the fetal position, his gaze follows all movement in the room, wary and uncomprehending.]
[A moment later, and his shoulders loosen, frozen fingers flexing loose their death grip on the comforter. His eyes shift blue-red-rust, and suddenly there’s no one behind them anymore. Suddenly, it’s just a body on the bed.]
[And then it’s time to wait.]
[Not for long, as it turns out. The sun rises late and sets early in Deceuer. It’s late afternoon, 4:30 perhaps, when color starts to return. Slowly, steadily, subtly, the frozen blue leaches out of Giorno’s extremities, is chased away from the bow of his lips and the shadow of his eyes. By six, his eyes are open, and all the blue has landed there.]
[His gaze is bright and clever and owlish. Like it was before, at least so far. Quietly, as at a wake, and in a voice rough with disuse, he finally speaks up.]
Hm. I’m hungry.
III
The Chimera passed by every few hours instead, every so often when she wasn't trying to rest or busy herself with other things. Sometimes she did need to be elsewhere.
This was a pointless exercise, she told herself. Giorno would be back. Or he wouldn't be. Maybe they'd bury him in the garden.
As usual, Kaede didn't listen. She'd taken up her self-appointed perch on an armchair she'd pulled closer, feet tucked up onto the cushion and tail curled around them.
But this time--this time. This time Kaede heard something. The Chimera's ears perked up and strained towards the sound that wasn't the creak of the house in winter. She didn't hear someone breathing, the sound of a heartbeat--a voice. Giorno's voice.
She didn't barge right in--at least, not in the usual way. Kaede's shadow flowed under the door--followed by the rest of her, flattening into a formless black shape. The shadow flowed over the carpet, curled up the legs of a couch, and sat there in quiet defiance of the dim light.]
There you are. [The shadow said. The echoing distortion to her voice belied the relieved concern in it.]
[Giorno was here. He was awake, alive, looking like he hadn't been ill at all. Did she dream this? Was he really there?]
no subject
[He is, in fact, smiling at her when she curls up incorporeally on the couch.]
Here I am.
[Oh, and part of him is worried. Because she's worried, not for himself. Because he knows that however long he was gone, it was too long for her comfort. Stretching out his fingers, he cracks one knuckle at a time, slowly beginning to shift out from under the quilt. Unfolding like some old beast.]
Did I keep you waiting long?
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But...that was a smile. A sharp-toothed smile, but that came with the Monstrous territory. The shadow flickered, wavered--and the formless black melted away from it, wisps of smoke shedding from Kaede's physical shape. The Chimera proper crouched on the cushions, leaning forwards with her clawed hands pressed against the arm.]
A few days.
[Or half a week, or an actual week, her fretting worry wasn't keeping track.]
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[His smile flickers briefly before hoisting itself back into place. Was it really that long? It felt like the blink of an eye — but then, he was dead. He wouldn’t know one way or another. How strange.]
I’m sorry.
[But for what, though? He pushes himself up onto his elbows and regards her carefully.]
If I worried you, I mean. Or inconvenienced you. [Is that an appropriate emotional escape route? Inconvenienced. Well, at least he tried.] Is it still storming? Have you been stuck in here with me? [There, that’s another out if she wants it.]
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She wasn't sure how to respond to that 'I'm sorry.']
No, the storms cleared up awhile ago. While you were... [Dead.]
[Kaede's voice trails off, and she glanced away.]
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[There's a hint of puzzlement. She stayed, even though she didn't have to. He doesn't know how long she's been here, how much of his convalescence — and, well, deadness — she's been pacing these halls, but she showed up right as he woke, so . . .]
[Was she here the whole time?]
If you want to go out together, we can. In a little while. I don't think it will take too long.
[For him to be on his feet again, he means. It's a wobbly attempt at reassurance. He isn't entirely sure what he's doing.]
III, with references back to I and II
Somehow, backlit like this, she's probably even more intimidating, even though she lacks her hat, or her other hunter gear. Though the sun is setting already, and the light coming through the crack is very weak and hued a lovely orange-pink, she turns and closes the shades entirely, before coming up to the side of the bed. She'd not touched him much before this, aside from to gently grip his wrist and note how his pulse had slowed to a stop, and then to check that it was still not beating, but otherwise had left his corpse alone. She's carrying what appears to be a notebook with her, and on its pages... well, there's plenty scrawled. A quick observation seems to be... pulse rates and other observations.
Like a doctor.]
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[And carrying something over to him. A book. Briefly, he entertains the thought of Maria writing in a diary, or reading some kind of high fantasy novel. Would that be ironic? — But that's not what it is. That's too orderly and spaced out to be a diary, and certainly handwritten. Numbers, or something?]
Blood, [he confirms, although, after a few moments' thought, he adds,] or . . . carbohydrates. Blood and then maybe some bread.
[Clumsily, he reaches for the notebook and just manages to swipe at it. Not much coordination yet. It takes a minute to wake up from being dead.]
What were you writing?
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She watches him swat at the notebook, then lifts it, and pens something new in, before lowering it back down, closer to his field of view.] I took observations while you were... incapacitated. Up to, and including your... "death", as well. [Well, she's being honest.]
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[. . . Oh. Hm. That’s weird, but somehow he doesn’t mind?] That’s a good use of resources, I suppose. Can I see it? I’m curious.
[Weirdo.]
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Certainly, though I'd like it back for further research, later. [She finds the cover of the notebook and closes it over, turning it over so he can take it to read if he wishes. ]
... And no matter what you read, don't damage it. I need all the notes. [For what, she will not specify.]
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Maybe some other time. The vials will be fine.
[Taking the book from her, he opens it with the care of someone who isn't quite certain of his own coordination. It's clear he takes her words to heart: each turn of the page is maybe a little more gentle than is warranted. He stops at the bit about his pulse rates.]
This might be good to have in graph form. Are you planning to continue monitoring me now that I'm alive again? [This is a weird thing to be this cavalier about, but it's sort of helpful in a most likely unhealthy way.]
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[A pause.] But more on that later, and yes I intend to continue monitoring your developments. I'll return shortly.
[Hey look, Maria being nice for once. She's headed down to the kitchen and the pantry-slash-larder-slash-whatever-passes-for-a-refrigerator-here. A few minutes later, she returns, with a plate of relatively fresh, though not warm, bread, some butter if he wishes to spread it, and a couple vials of blood. A wholesome breakfast.]
ii
[Zelda chides, bitter hurt dripping off of every word like a snake's venom. It seeps into the bond, too, weak as it feels on her end; her frustration, her despair, her anger... there's no attempt to hide any of it. She couldn't even if she tried.
It isn't fair.. This world acts like this is how things have always been, with magic, and monsters, and everything. Why haven't they figured out some way to stop this? Why is it putting them through this? All this time she's spent studying and practicing, and yet there's nothing she can do but scold the pale, dying boy in his bed.]
Don't-- Don't pretend like this is normal.
[She can pretend like so much is: the pressure behind her eyes on the new moon, feeling emotions that are not her own, the little bite marks that pepper her arms under their sleeves.
But not this.
She refuses.]
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[The Bond, weak as it is, seems to fade even more in response to her feelings, to shrink away and dull somehow. His expression fades, too, going so blank as to be nothing much at all: a face, sharing nothing, of a boy, feeling nothing.]
[This is his fault, that she's upset. That she's hurting. Maybe he shouldn't have told her — oh, but she would have felt it anyway, wouldn't she? Maybe if he'd asked Maria to keep her out . . . but that wouldn't have been right, and Maria likely wouldn't have done it anyway. So now here he is, dying, and with no choice but to hurt Zelda by doing so. If he had never offered her the Bond, would that have been better?]
[It does seem as though it's easier for most people, safer, not to associate with him. Something he hasn't thought about much here in Aefenglom, keeping himself at a distance from most people, and those he's allowed even a little bit close such resilient people. Maria, Kaede . . . Zelda. Who he's hurt, now.]
[Something pushes against his heart as it tries to shut down, to pull away from her. His fingers on the blankets clench into something close to a fist, to push feeling back into his fingertips; then he loosens them and stretches out towards her, wrist still resting on the bedspread.]
Are you angry with me?
[So childish, he chides himself. And he does sound like a child, anxious and desperate to please. It's a new side of him that she's seen shadows of, almost-familiar enough to cause a sense of deja vu, or puzzle pieces clicking into place.]
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[She answers, honest in her immediacy and firm in her conviction. It might actually come out a little harsh, like she thinks he's just as stupid for asking that as he is for trying to pretend like everything's fine. She doesn't mean for it to, especially not as the ghost of the boy he might have been, once, takes over his features, but it's hard to regulate that sort of thing when it feels like a part of her soul is dying and the rest of it is twisted up in knots over it all.
But she drops to her knees a moment later, taking up the cold hand that tries to reach for her in both of her own, willing whatever magic remains within her under the growing moons to go to him, he needs you more, please, as if maybe she could stave off the inevitable despite all accounts to the contrary if she just tried hard enough.]
... I want to tear this world apart by its seams for doing this to you. I want to pull the Sisters down from the sky and demand they tell me what kind of sense there is in all this, and have them answer for it when they cannot show me any.
But I am not angry with you, no. Just... do not ask for me to pretend-- because I can't.
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[A moment later, his cold hand is in both of her warm ones. He blinks down at them foggily, trying to comprehend this new connection when the jolt of magic travels from her to him. This doesn't do much, not really, but it does push the pain away. Just for a second, just for an instant. He sucks in a sharp breath while he has the opportunity to do so without his lungs burning, lets it out slowly.]
[Then Zelda speaks.]
[He listens, eyes wide and fixed on her face. Because he always listens to her. Because he can't leave this bed. Because the fire in her eyes pins him in place, holds him still and forces him to hear it: her pain, her grief, her anger. For him. On his behalf.]
[There will always be a part of him that asks, why? With Zelda more than anyone from home. Back home, he has accomplished something. They know who he is, what he is, what he's become, what he's capable of. What has he done to make Zelda feel so strongly for him? What has he done to make her hurt so badly just because he's hurting? It doesn't make sense. He doesn't understand, but—]
[He can't look away from her. His throat closes up, lashes wet as he blinks. It's all muddled up, what he's feeling and what she is — whose grief is this? Whose desperation for this not to be happening? His grip on her hand is suddenly so tight, so is it his?]
I don't want to die, [he whispers, hoarse, and shakes his head faintly in apology.] But you don't have to — you don't have to pretend. I didn't mean . . .
[Just because it hurts to look at doesn't mean he should push her to look away. Maybe this is better. Maybe if he just looks at her, bright as she is in her fury (why all of this, for him?), maybe it will all be just a little bit easier.]
[Maybe. He doesn't know. But he can't ask her to pretend. He can't.]
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But the truth is far simpler: she is a lonely girl, just as he is a lonely boy. She finds her rough edges and broken pieces so unseemly, but he has welcomed them. She has trusted him, and he hasn't betrayed her.
That's it. That's all she needs to threaten the gods with furious retribution. Someone she can call a friend in pain, and no other recourse left for her to take.
Her eyes shine as she looks back at him, his mirror in the tears that refuse to fall as she rests her cheek upon their joined hands. It's so faint, but his confusion is there, at the base of her skull, questioning, and her lips twitch in a way that could have been a smile, if everything about this wasn't so miserable.]
You would do the same if I were the one in bed, would you not? [Her eyes slide to the side as she entertains that idea.] Though I do not imagine you would be as diplomatic about it...
[He's the mean one. But that's probably fine when you're talking about fist fighting god.]
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[There’s a faint, humorless twitch of a smile on his face. A pang of regret, because it’s easier, when she puts it like that, to understand. If it was her in the bed, there would be blood on his hands already. Maybe, truly, he wouldn’t be by her side at all, too full of rage to turn away from destruction on her behalf. Although he hopes that wouldn’t be the case. He wants to believe he understands his priorities better than that.]
[He wants to believe he would be like her if their places were switched. To be firm but close, angry but not so angry as to burn the person he’s angry for.]
Probably not, no. I . . . [Something clutches at his chest, heavy and tight like hands reaching through his ribs to grab his heart. Maybe it punches through him entirely and grabs hers, too.] . . . I’m not good at losing people. I . . . would be very angry.
[Very angry. Even the spark of anger in theory is bright, vicious. It burns him, too. But her hand is soft, warm but in a way that doesn’t startle him. Just — present. Alive. She cares. She’s still here, even though he’s said too many wrong things for anyone with sense to want to stay. She’s still here, answering questions he hasn’t even voiced.]
[Something breaks in his heart, spiderweb-cracking all over his insides. He bends as if overcome by pain, presses his forehead to the back of her hand and closes his eyes.]
Thank you. [For what?] For — I don’t know. [Being angry for me. Being here. Eyes fluttering open, he stares at nothing.] . . . I don’t know. I can’t think. Can you — feel it? Can you tell?
[It’s an insane question. A request for her to dig into his feelings? That’s not like him. But then, he’s dying. If there was ever a time for him to ask, to offer up the feelings he has no idea how to decipher and pray she has the code, it’s now.]
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That, she's less certain of. But she has to try. She frees one hand to delicately brush away the hair that's fallen over his face.]
It is... terrifying, how much pain you are in. The fear is almost worse, somehow...
[Fear is supposed to keep you alive, to push you away from danger to live another day. It's been her faithful companion for many years. But what do you do when you can't act on that fear? When you can't even soothe yourself with the notion of going out fighting, or that it will be over quickly, and soon? It's unbearable.]
... But I am going to stay here with you. For as long as you want me to. If my presence eases that burden even the slightest bit...
[She sinks down a little, almost hiding behind his mattress; her eyes peek over their joined hands and her voice is muffled by his blankets against her lips.]
Just-- would you promise me? That whatever happens, wherever you go... [The words break a little in her throat, and she swallows the shards of them down.] --you will do everything in your power to come back?
Please... don't become someone else I've lost. Not like this.
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[Just like that.]
[It's a stupid promise to make. Even as he makes it, he knows this. He knows better than anyone, after everything he's experienced, that there is no such thing as cheating death. Even now, having seen vampires die and be resurrected in this place, he largely doesn't believe it to be possible. Dead is dead. No one can bring back the dead. Even if it worked for others, it won't work for him. Not him. Not after what he did. The rules of his universe will stick to him. As they should.]
[And yet he promises Zelda that he will come back without hesitation. Why? It isn't a lie. It's something he believes with all of his heart as he says it, although whether or not he'll believe it in a few minutes remains to be seen. In this moment, though — in the face of Zelda's sorrow, her fear, her pain, her empathy, her rage—]
[It's no burden to believe her. Yes, she will stay here with him. It's no burden to promise her. Yes, he will come back. As impossible as it is, as impossible as it should be — what else can he do? Deny her? After everything?]
[Maybe, if they have enough faith in each other, they can make it a reality. This insanity where he dies and comes back. For a moment, there's a flicker of confidence in the Bond, an instant of strength. With all the power in his body, he gives her hand a light squeeze.]
I will come back to you. I'll . . . come back for you.
[For her. So the hurt doesn't linger for too long. So he can hold her in turn, once he's stronger and she's been hurt by his death, his absence.]
I won't let myself leave you. I don't want to leave you. [Not ever. He doesn't say it.]
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She cannot say what Giorno will face, if anything, when this process is said and done. He may not even have much of a choice at all, in the end, rendering this promise between them rather pointless. Yet he makes this promise to her anyway. He tells her he won't be tempted to stray, that his desire to return to her will be stronger than whatever laws the natural order of this world would have him abide by. And he believes it, wholeheartedly.
And that... means something. Even if he ultimately cannot put it into action, to the girl who has lost friend and family one by one to destiny's call, it has meaning so profound that it finally draws the tears from her eyes. She cries, hiccuping against their joined hands as she nods, accepting this as a satisfactory answer to her request. She still aches, her grief still throbbing through their connection, but there's a sweeter edge around the bitterness.
For her. He... chooses her.
It takes a while for her to find her voice again, and when she does, her nose is red and sniffling.]
Could I... lay here with you for a while...?
[Long ago, they were told to share beds, and she chose to simply not sleep instead. But it doesn't seem like such a terrible thing now.]
no subject
[Has he ever told her that? Now that he’s thinking it, he doesn’t know. Maybe he has, but there’s no clear memory that comes when he calls. Even if he has, would it hurt to tell her again?]
[He’s on the verge of doing so when the dam breaks. She starts crying. He feels it coming through the Bond before he sees the signs of it, a sensation not so dissimilar from one that hides under the current of her everyday moods. This time, though, it breaks through the surface, leaves her shaking with sobs against the edge of his bed. Her tears fall on their joined hands. With the last of his strength, without thinking at all, he lurches forward and presses a cold, dry kiss to the crown of her head, then nestles into the mattress with his nose pressed to their joined hands, watching over her with all the care and concern his exhausted body can engender.]
[Once she stops crying, once she looks up and asks to be close to him, he . . . smiles. Just at little. It makes his face hurt, but it warms him, too, and when she crawls up onto the bed he’s already scooted over and lifted up the blanket for her to come lay close.]
Uh-huh, [he mumbles, and curls up against her immediately, shivering with relief at the warmth he gets from her proximity, both literal and figurative. Contact is good for Bonds, he remembers. They haven’t been very good at that. Typical that they’d start working on it now.] Stay, please. Or — do you mind? Is it all right if you . . .
[His voice trails off. Not from uncertainty or embarrassment, but from comfort. The rest of the question will have to be implied.]
ii
[Fugo remembers the moment very clearly. They were in the kitchen. He was peeling tomatoes for a sauce and Giorno was leaning against the counter, complaining about how he needed to do something about his hairpins; how his counting compulsion was making doing his hair very difficult, because it was making him stop to count his the pins scattered across his vanity every time he looked down. And then, mid-sentence, he fell.
No, he didn't fall. His legs gave out from underneath him. He crumpled to the floor, sudden and hard and painful. Giorno, who has been getting sicker and weaker for months, didn't have the strength to stand.]
[Since then, Fugo has stayed as close as Giorno will let him. He brings him tea with honey and too much sugar in it, which doesn't keep him warm. He cajoles him into taking medicine, which do almost nothing for his pain. He sits at his bedside and reads to him, until his own voice gets hoarse. If he has to leave, it's only for a few moments and only when someone else is there to keep Giorno company. His presence is steadfast and remarkably even tempered-- at least in Giorno's presence. The shredded papers in his bedroom and broken china in the kitchen are better clues to how he's feeling underneath his flat affect, but he takes great care to keep that messiness out of Giorno's sight.]
Exciting? [He glances down at the page, blinking; there are enormous dark circles underneath his eyes. The blurry words of the book he's been reading snap back into focus:] Hm, not really. Just more interviews between the detective and witnesses at the party. He's checking alibis.
no subject
[But Fugo doesn't bring it up, and so neither does he. He doesn't have the energy to, really, not unless it's absolutely necessary. As desperate as he is to ask Fugo if he's going to leave, to get real, concrete verbal confirmation, he doesn't bring that up either. Just shrinks into the covers when Fugo leaves the room and feels a rush of brief relief when he comes back in. He should be grateful that Fugo's being so attentive. He is. But—]
[He tries to reach out for Fugo, to grab at a piece of his clothing, at his hand holding the book. His hand falls far short on the mattress, and he sighs lightly.]
Oh. I think . . . I fell asleep for part of this scene. [He didn't; he's just already forgotten. But he doesn't want to upset Fugo with that.] How are they so far? . . . The alibis.
no subject
Predictably flimsy. [Fugo shifts in his chair; his neck crackles. Is he stiff? ... it doesn't matter. He glances down at the page number of the book he's been reading to make a mental note of their place.] We can read it again. As many times as you want.
[Then he stands, moving in one motion from the chair to sit on the edge of the bed. He reaches out to take Giorno's hand and presses it between his palms. Giorno's fingers are cold. He knows he won't be able to warm them up again, but he can't let go of the thought.]
Did you want something?
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If you think it’s important to the story . . . [He huffs out a laugh.] Well. I suppose it would be. Alibis. I . . .
[Did he want something?]
[Fugo’s hands take hold of his, palms warm, almost scorching against his own freezing skin. His whole body curves towards Fugo instinctively; his eyes sting, and he ignores them.]
I don’t know. I don’t think so. [And then, ultimately, in a fit of frustrated honesty:] You seem so far away. [Because you’re dying, his brain reminds him. Because you’re dying, and he isn’t. That’s why. His fingers curl around Fugo’s hand, weakly possessive.]
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I'm here. [First and foremost: this reassurance. It's not the first time he's said it. Giorno... loses track of him, sometimes. Of either the moment, or where he is in the room. Sometimes he turns to face him and just looks right through him. He squeezes Giorno's hand, willing what little warmth he has to move to him instead.] I'm right here with you, Giogio.
[You seem so far away. It's a weird choice of words. Giorno knows he's close. Fugo looks down at their hands, the way the curl of Giorno's fingers mirrors the shape of his spine. Giorno knows he's close, but feels as if he's far away. The solution is simple, isn't it? He just needs to get closer. Fugo shifts to move to the head of the bed; it's a bit of an awkward trip, given that he doesn't want to let go of Giorno's hand. And that he remains seated, instead of lying down. But he is... much, much closer.]
Is that better?
no subject
[Once Fugo is settled on the bed, it’s Giorno’s turn to fold in towards him. His heart, weak in his chest, settles into an exhausted rhythm. He rests his cheek tiredly, awkwardly, against Fugo’s stomach. With his hearing so sharp, Fugo’s heartbeat comes clear through his skin. Their hands are still entwined, though awkwardly.]
. . . That’s better.
[Quiet, almost inaudible. But Fugo is close enough that he knows he’ll hear. His free hand curls in the front of Fugo’s shirt, for something to hold onto. His shoulder has been jostled free of the blanket; despite everything, he shivers.]
Thank you. I know it’s . . . not comfortable. For you. [Any of it. Being here. Watching this. Feeling it. None of it is fair for Fugo to be a part of. But Giorno so desperately doesn’t want to be alone, all the same.]
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There was no time in his life to worry about his grandmother, so he just-- didn't. And he doesn't think he'll ever forgive himself for leaving her. She died, alone and likely in pain, less than afterthought. She died and no one cared.]
I don't want to be comfortable. [Absently, Fugo reaches with his free hand to tug the displaced blanket back over Giorno's shoulder. He's cold and heavy. Fugo awkwardly wraps his arm around him, holding him close.] Not if it means leaving you with this. I promised you that I'd be here.
I don't want to be anywhere else.
[Which is selfish in its own way. There are others here who have come to care for Giorno, who he's sure would be better at this than him. But he wants to be here. He can't let Giorno. Without him, he would just be lost.]
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[Fugo tucks the blanket over his shoulder. Fugo wants him to be warm and secure and . . . Fugo wants to be here with him. Doesn't want to be anywhere else.]
[His dry eyes sting.]
Wh, [he begins, and swallows it back down. Presses his face against Fugo's shirt and breathes him in, clumsily, openly, unwilling or unable to hide what he's doing. His chest hurts. The only thing that helps is Fugo, who smells like home.]
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[He takes comfort in knowing that even if something were to go wrong, if this weren't the final step in Giorno's transformation and that he would never return to this body or world, death is not the end. Giorno would never be gone in the sense that he would cease to be, and it would only be a parting where Giorno would go where Ozymandias could never follow. He would miss the boy, but that would be no reason to mourn him.]
[But despite all that, it does not make it an easy thing to watch, the way Giorno deteriorates and becomes a smaller and smaller version of himself. His energy seems to wane with every passing hour now instead of passing day, and it seems that at any given moment, Giorno might slip away without any real warning. It's also...]
[...]
[The circumstances could not be more different. He is not looking at a boy with Ozymandias' features softened both by age and his mother, frozen in a peaceful sleep from which he will never wake, but instead, a boy with foreign features alternating between sleep and pained wakefulness. And yet, he cannot help but feel the same degree of helplessness, that all he can really do is bear witness to it and remain a steadfast anchor to others.]
Be still, [Ozymandias says as he smoothly moves from the nearby chair to Giorno's bed. Giorno is shaking violently, eyes opened but entirely unfocused. He doesn't even really know if Giorno is awake as he hasn't made a sound yet let alone said anything, but he continues to speak quietly to him. Any sign of grief or concern is kept strictly out of his voice with only warmth and confidence in their place.] You'll only make it worse if you work yourself up.
[He moves Giorno carefully to rest his head in Ozymandias' lap, to allow him to steal as much warmth as he can against the impossible cold inside of him. He brushes some of Giorno's hair out of his face before resting his hand on Giorno's shoulder.]
Settle. [Ozymandias rubs at his shoulder.] You're in your room, in your bed, and I'm right here.
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[He might remember this when he comes back, or he might not. For now it seems unlikely. His expression is so distant, staring into a blankness at some far distance, through the walls and into the Cwyld beyond them. He shakes so hard his bones seem to rattle.]
[And he doesn’t still when Ozymandias closes the distance between them, but it does seem to give him pause. It’s as though his suffering takes a breath, steps back to reevaluate the situation. He doesn’t look at Ozymandias, but he allows himself to be rearranged; doesn’t thrash or try to get away, curl back into the blankets. Instead, once he has been settled, he so-tentatively rests his fingertips on Ozymandias’s knee. They’re so cold they burn like brands.]
[You’re in your room, in your bed, and I’m right here.]
Padre . . . ?
[His shaking starts up again, shallow twitching movements as he curls up closer.]
Padre, fa così male. I— [Except he doesn’t finish, just lets out a thin noise through his noise and closes his eyes against the pain.]
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I know, [Ozymandias murmurs, voice likely softer than Giorno has ever heard it be if he can even be cognizant of it now. There is nothing Ozymandias can do for any of it but see it. Acknowledge it. To sit with Giorno as he rides it out to the end.] I know.
[It feels impossibly cruel to Ozymandias to be so helpless. Not towards him, but towards Giorno. If there was some assurance that interfering with this process would not hinder his return, Ozymandias would not hesitate to enact it. But there are no such guarantees, and he refuses to repeat mistakes of the past and gamble with this boy's life. Ozymandias rubs soothing circles between his shoulders, accompanying the motion with quietly sung words.]
[It's an incantation, but Ozymandias is not casting a spell. Not one of this world, in any case, as the words Ozymandias uses are foreign to Aefenglom. But there was a time where every child in Egypt in both Ozymandias' world and Giorno's world likely knew those words by heart, singing them one day to their younger siblings or their own children. It is a lullaby that Ozymandias sings, one that commands spirits and unseen forces to leave their sleeping children be as the person watching over them will not allow any such harm, illness, or death to befall their children.]
[Ozymandias acknowledges privately that it is perhaps a bit useless under these circumstances being what they are, but it does not stop his sentiment that Giorno might know peace. That this terrible affair might end sooner rather than later. That he will return quickly, stronger than this hollow shell he's being made into.]
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[There was never a time in Giorno's life where he felt a parent's gentle touch between his shoulderblades, soothing him back to sleep when he's sick. He has no context for the fact that this is something that comes naturally to most parents, nor the fact that most children are used to the touch. This is the first time anyone has held him through pain.]
[He stills, but not out of a sense of comfort. Not at first. His brows draw together over eyes still closed, arms clenching tight around his stomach as his knees come up to his chest. Self-protection. Something new that he doesn't understand, in a state like this — the only thing he can do is protect himself.]
[But in a state like this, there's only so long he can keep his guard up. The tension in his shoulders relaxes after a few long taut moments, a long slow exhale in time with the song Ozymandias sings. The frown stays, confused but not frightened, not anymore. The pain stays, but he focuses on this now, instead.]
[After a short while, his eyes open again, staring out at the room, at nothing. A single tear is pushed out by the pain, tracking from the corner of his eye to the fabric of Ozymandias's pants, which his fingers curl into in a tight squeeze.]
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[Giorno's fingers curl tightly into Ozymandias' pant leg. Ozymandias' free hand covers Giorno's on his leg and their skin could likely not contrast one another more. Ozymandias remains warm both the presence of this strange rebirth this world's magic bestowed upon him and the practice of magic involving flame. Giorno, however, feels already so touched by death as his hand feels so cold it seems almost impossible. As though he should not have that much strength or ability to grip at anything so tight. He holds Giorno's hand though, his grip on it firm but not unyielding. In his efforts to comfort, he does not want to trigger any animal instincts of being trapped or pinned in some capacity.]
[Although he's certain there probably is not much left within Giorno to do much if he does feel that way. He hasn't the strength, hasn't the ability to focus enough if that stare into nothing is anything to go by.]
[But there is something of him in there. Even with as physically weak as he is, as much as he is fading to this terrible change in his being... The tear that slipped and fell is evidence enough that even if that part is growing quiet (or perhaps more accurately, forced into silence) that Giorno still yet lives. And so, Ozymandias would not have him fear his presence. Not in these near-final moments.]
[Ozymandias' hand at Giorno's back moves up to gently brush aside his hair once more before returning to his back. Ozymandias has already made numerous appeals to the gods to watch over Giorno during this difficult transition, to grant him the strength to do the same in this more physical sense of watching over him, but he reiterates all those prayers privately now.]