( closed ) steady now, steady now

[digiorno]

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 )

[It’s as the snow starts to smother Aefenglom that Giorno realizes something is really wrong.]

[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.

ii. i’ll hold onto you (10th—11th | deterioration )

[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:]

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.]

iii. you hold onto me ( 12th—13th | dessication & resurrection )

[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.

Comments

[digiorno]

[Oh.]

[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.]

[sageprincess]

No.

[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.

[digiorno]

[It stings, yes, but the full hit of the quick response doesn't have time to bruise him. His reaction time is so slow now, his ability to retain information shaky at best. So she tells him, No, sharply, and he flinches slightly but on a delay. Certainly there's no hope of hiding it from her.]

[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.]

[sageprincess]

[If she had to answer, she would likely place a not-insignificant amount of the blame upon the Bond. She imagines it would be terribly difficult not to feel strongly about it when it seems as though a part of your being is just wasting away, relentlessly. Even now - and one could argue especially now - that she's tethered herself to Scathach as well, it's impossible not to notice how weak his presence in her mind is, and now accustomed she had become to feeling him there.

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.]

[digiorno]

[If she were the one in bed . . .]

[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.]

[sageprincess]

[Can she feel it? Of course she can. Her heart feels like it's been turned to stone in her chest, a crushing weight that feels like it should, by all rights, pull and tear the rest of her being into its gravity like a black hole. She aches, but can she decipher that ache? She, who only seems to be better about managing her feelings because she's quieter about them? She, who denies every good word said about her, who feels like anything she does to earn a thank you is simply part and parcel of atoning for all the pain she's caused?

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.

[digiorno]

I promise.

[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.]

[sageprincess]

[It is unfair of her, perhaps, to ask him to promise such a thing. There are a number of paths a soul can take after death, as far as she knows; some find peace with their existence, and ascend without struggle to the realm of spirits. Others cling to the physical realm for a myriad of reasons, transforming into ethereal beings that haunt the land, consumed with rage, with regret, with whatever keeps them bound to the world that no longer belongs to them. A very select few enter the cycle of reincarnation, their souls recycled by time itself in response to the demands of destiny.

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.]

[digiorno]

[It’s an unfair thing to ask, but there have been a lot of unfair things asked of both of them in the recent past. This world is unkind to people like them, both inside Aefenglom where their natural suspicions are bucked and outside of it where they’re painfully reinforced. In terms of what’s fair or not, he’d so much rather face desperate odds for Zelda than for any other reason. She’s worth the risk, worth facing the cruelty of the world around them.]

[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.]