( 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

ii

[fulgency]

[Sitting with Giorno like this stirs up a number of emotions for Ozymandias.]

[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.

[digiorno]

[There is a part of him that is aware of itself: aware of where he is, what he is doing, how bad he feels. The fact that he’s dying. But most of his consciousness is somewhere else now, parceled up and put away on a high shelf. His body knows that it’s dying, and so it’s pushed him gently away. It doesn’t want him to watch.]

[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.]

[fulgency]

[The meaning of Giorno's words is not lost upon Ozymandias. It is less because the exact words hold meaning and more the sounds that shape it are unmistakable. The way Giorno trembles and shakes, how cold his skin is that one can feel it through blankets and clothes. There is nothing lost in the translation of those things.]

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.]

[digiorno]

[Giorno has never known this.]

[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.]

[fulgency]

[Ozymandias remains steadfast as Giorno tenses and shifts about. There is no falter in the lullaby, there is no stilling of his hand against Giorno's back. Even with as small as Giorno makes himself to be for a few long moments, Ozymandias stays exactly as he is, willing his touch, his voice, his very presence to remain some form of constant for Giorno. Let anything be a constant other than the pain he is experiencing as his body is slowly, slowly collapsing and surrendering to death.]

[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.]