( 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]

[Fugo forgets, of course, that Giorno's hearing is exceptional now. That's a strange and awful side effect of this slow death: even as the rest of his senses fade, his senses of hearing and smell are as good as ever. So he heard the dishes when they broke, and wasn't surprised. Only sad. Only guilty. He did this, didn't he? Put Fugo in this position.]

[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.

[unholey]

[Giorno reaches out, fingers trembling. What for, Fugo can't tell. He doesn't make it: the gesture falls short and his hand falls, limp on the bedspread.]

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?

[digiorno]

[Another time, he might prickle at the suggestion that they would need to read it again, although that suggestion is absolutely based in fact. It might feel like pity. But here and now, he’s just . . . resigned. Tired, resigned, unwilling to fight. He stares at his hand on the mattress and hums noncommittally.]

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.]

[unholey]

[It doesn't really matter what the alibis are. After all, the book is just a distraction. It's just a way to pass the time. To while away these long, awful hours, as Giorno's body finishes the miserable business of dying.]

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?

[digiorno]

[Fugo’s gesture towards moving would upset him, except that even in that moment of first motion he is so clearly is moving towards rather than away from. Fugo’s body curls towards him as he shifts, and so even the first instinct of panic is quashed quicker than it can emerge.]

[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.]

[unholey]

[When his grandmother got sick-- when her body ate itself from the inside out and she began to die-- she hid the worst of it from him. He understands that now. That the reason she spent so much time in bed was because she was ill, not just because she was tired; that when she left the house, it was to go to the doctor for medicine that let her live for a little while longer but stole her strength. But back then, selfish as he was, he allowed himself to be tricked. He believed her when she told him not to worry; that going to Bologna would be wonderful after all, that she was looking forward to his letters.

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.]

[digiorno]

[For a moment, Giorno is lucid — painfully so. He can't put his finger on why. Something that Fugo's said sticks to the inside of his ribs like cling film, gumming up the works and keeping him present, even though he doesn't want to be. Even though he doesn't have it in him to navigate this right now.]

[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.]