*** HARMONIA has joined 710.35.155.17 <HARMONIA> Buongiorno, sorry I missed you. <HARMONIA> I'll happily get back to you as soon as I'm done with whatever business I'm on. <HARMONIA> Please leave a message.
[On February 13, Giorno had thought that Valentine's Day was stupid. This was a thought he had voiced more than once in the past. He had a lot of reasons for this, many of them logical and many of them not, but they all ultimately boiled down to this: the celebration of romance as a central point in people's lives was excessive and unnecessary. There were better things to celebrate.]
[By 12:03 AM on February 14, he'd entirely changed his position.]
[It wasn't . . . as though it was that unusual for them to give each other things. They did, a lot, because Giorno had found that he liked to and Mista was a naturally giving person. Here, when they were so close to each other's rooms, it was easy to drop something off just to make the other smile. But Mista usually stuck around to see him open whatever it was, if it was even wrapped. More than that, this . . . wasn't I saw this and thought of you, this was specific. Thematic. Deliberate. Purposeful.]
[He brought everything into his room quickly, sat it on the bed, closed and locked the door, and just stared at the pile for a while before gingerly sitting down next to it and and carefully beginning to open the boxes. It was cliche, which was a nightmare, because it was Mista and that meant it was genuine. Mista was a by-the-book romantic. Mista always—]
[There were little frogs. With glitter on them. Did Mista do that himself? He must have. There was no way he found something so absurdly tailored to Giorno's very specific tastes. The booklet he definitely made. The glass was . . . there'd been one thing that consistently made him smile this month, and that had been it.]
[He felt like he couldn't breathe. All he could smell was chocolate and construction paper and the flowers, which had ended up on his nightstand — he must have put them there, but he didn't remember, it was just so much. But not — bad. Not bad. He didn't feel bad. It was something else.]
[To clear his head, he spent the next hour carefully arranging the little figurines on his bookshelf, which was on the wall to the left of the bed. After some thought, he put the booklet there, too, and the glass (once he finished it and washed it out). If he lay on his side on the bed, he could look at all of it at once, including the flowers. There weren't any other personal touches in the room, just these things Mista had brought him today and a few other little knickknacks from other days. Everything that Mista brought him made his room feel more like home.]
[He fell asleep looking at the ladybug he had placed on the highest shelf. At some point in the morning, he woke up and went to the bathroom, picking up a package that had been left outside his bedroom door on the way back in. It wasn't very interesting, especially not after he saw the glass set carefully on his bookshelf, with the card right next to it. After opening, he discarded it in the trash and went back to sleep.]
[The next time he woke up, it was with his teeth clamped down tight around his pillow, screams muffled by the cloth. It hurt. He had experienced so much pain in his life, but nothing like this, not even any of the times he'd almost died. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to him to ask for help, he had to ask for help, but as soon as he thought it the thought vanished, shoved away by a crack of bone that made his blood run cold.]
[That was his. His head, his bone, his skull.]
[The next few minutes were whiteness. On the other side of it, he lay in the fetal position on the bed, legs tugged up to his chest and hidden almost entirely under the blanket. Most of the mess was on the floor, but some of it wasn't. His hair was down for the night, so that was . . . good, but he was a bloody mess, and he was shaking.]
[Mista sat at the edge of the bed, tail curled up under him and trailing along the floor. The thing was — it was just like Mista. Mista as he was, here and now, Mista in the present rather than some idealized version. It was dizzying. It was almost enough to convince him that it was real.]
[But this thing hurt him. It hurt him a lot. Mista never would. So what the hell was it? Did he do this, somehow? Why couldn't he stop shaking? The thing on his bed started speaking to him, little phrases of little consequence, how are you, what do you wanna do today, and it made him want to scream. At the back of his mind he thought: When did he leave those things? Last night? I didn't say anything. I didn't tell him I got them. I didn't say — anything. At all.]
[Even reeling from dizzying pain and terror, the idea of inadvertently hurting Mista's feelings made him panic. His message was sloppy, poorly spelled and punctuated from anxiety and his own shaking hands, but he sent it. In the moment, it felt like the only thing that mattered.]
Mista i got your pressent thank you i am feeling weird but not because of tht you're thank you dont feel well but thnk you i shoudlve s
[And . . . that seemed to be as much as he could manage. His hands were shaking too badly to continue. Balling them up into fists, he squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the blanket over his head. No more, no more, no more, he couldn't. He just wanted to think, but the thing that wasn't Mista was talking to him, gently running its fingers through his hair, and no matter what he did thoughts wouldn't come.]
cw for more of the same shit (blood, body horror, emeto??)
[ Mista had barely been able to slither into bed by the time that he'd finished his deliveries but sleep had decided to take a backseat to his nerves. He hadn't expected anything in return but there was part of him that wanted the validation he'd done something good. It was stupid, it wasn't something that was necessary but there was worry in the back of his mind and that was enough to keep him awake. The gift outside his door had arrived when he was finally on the cusp of sleep, the movement on the other side of his door dragging him back into wakefulness.
He'd retrieved it almost immediately, turning the package this way and that before opening it to pull out the card. He read it thoughtfully, brow raising before tossing it onto his bedside table and setting the bag down next to it. He'd planned to leave it at that, but it was a nice gesture and they were meant for him. He palmed a couple of the little hearts as he slipped back into bed, dropping them into his mouth and biting down with far too much enthusiasm.
He'd forgotten what they tasted like, swallowing what he'd taken with a grimace. Too chalky but still sweet, maybe a little different from what he'd tasted before but it seemed like that was a given. A fitful sleep came shortly after, one that ended with a start as that first pain exploded in his head. He'd never felt anything like that before, sucking in a sharp breath as he raise a hand to cover his eyes. He hadn't slept enough, that had to be it, Mista rolling over and trying to make himself comfortable again as that blinding pain flashed behind his eyes.
Fuck. That hurt. As bad as or worse than getting shot, at least he'd been able to run on adrenaline then and right now that was in short supply. The pain was agonising, like there was a war waging in his brain and he was on the losing end. It was all coming in torturous waves, Mista's stomach lurching as he leaned over the side of his bed with a heaving breath. He didn't want to throw up but the way his stomach was churning he didn't know that it was avoidable. He needed something, sliding out of bed and landing on the dirt floor with a painful thump. It was nothing compared to the anguish that was his head, a stupid thought that his eyes were going to explode if he even turned his head the wrong way.
In the thick of it all he could hear screaming, it felt so close but it wasn't a voice that he recognised and it was only when he heard that crack that he put it together. He was the one that was screaming, Mista heaving again as that terrible sound of breaking bone echoed through his body. This was it, he was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. Another crack and a rip that sounded strangely fleshy, lights behind his eyes pulsing with the beat of his heart as he felt the warmth of blood pouring out of the back of his head. He could taste it before it even slid down the side of his face, like it was welling up in his nose and behind his eyes. This was agony, body lurching again as he finally lost the contents of his stomach. That twisting pain in his head tore through him again and the sweet respite of unconsciousness finally came.
He didn't know how long he was out, the dirt around him muddied with blood as he reached up to feel the back of his head. Caked and matted with blood, just like the rest of him, he was sure there was blood in his eyes. There were two things that had finally gotten him to stir, the sound of that message being received and the all too familiar voice calling his name. He'd thought for sure that he'd gone blind, vision hazy as he recognised the figure squatting beside him and his face twisted in confusion. Giorno? Only it wasn't Giorno as he knew him now or even Giorno as he'd known him before, it was a strangely beautiful and ethereal amalgamation of both.
He was wearing one of his sweaters.
It was strangely touching but there was something wrong about it. It was the way that he was looking at him, as if all of the fondness that he'd ever felt coming from Giorno had been boiled down to a concentrate. Powerful and intense, so startling that Mista didn't even bother to try and wipe away any of the mess on his person as he struggled to check that message. Giorno followed him, close and warm, closer than he ever had before. All the more jarring was that message, near incoherent and the abrupt end that it came to.
Giorno was smiling, he could see it out of the corner of his eye. He was unsettled, heart pounding as he barreled out of his room and threw Giorno's door open. His body was aching, a dull throbbing still coursing through his head as he froze in the doorway with the copy trailing quickly behind him. He was there, not Giorno but himself; his own face on the monster sat on the bed next to the pile of blankets that was actual Giorno. How were his own thoughts so confusing?
His mouth was dry and he was dizzy, when Mista finally managed to croak his words out he sounded every bit the mess that he looked. ]
[Stupid. So stupid, he thought as the door banged open on his hinges; how could he possibly have expected Mista not to come find him after something like that? Was that what he wanted in the first place, to make Mista worried enough that he’d come running without having to be asked? Cowardly, he told himself bitterly, sparing a fearful glance over hunched shoulders to take in the scene he was sure he’d see.]
[Except that wasn’t what he saw at all.]
[It was chaos. It was too much to take in. Mista covered in blood, hair and head and eyes (his hand came up unconsciously to wipe drying blood from his eyebrows); a figure behind him that looked too familiar and not familiar at all. Some sharp stab of emotion took his heart and pulled it at that, his eyes going wide and unreadable at the sight of something that looked like him in Mista’s sweater. Why did that make him so—]
[No, fuck that, it didn’t matter, Mista was hurt. The thing that wasn’t Mista on the bed was moving between him and the real Mista, but not quickly enough, and when he stumbled to his feet and yelled at it to stop it did, sheepish but obedient. Because it wasn’t Mista. Because it wasn’t right, it wasn’t Mista, Mista was here, face under shaky hands that had grabbed hold of him before Giorno even realized he was reaching.]
I’m sorry, [he found himself whispering,] I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I think I did this — somehow — I should’ve—
[What? What? What should I have done? It didn’t matter, he should have done something!]
Don’t — are you bleeding? Tell me what happened, I can’t fix you but I can try. I can help, I can get help, just don’t—
[What? What? Don’t what? Leave. Don’t go, was all he could think, breathless, chest tight with panic, feeling as though he’d broken everything good in his life that he’d managed to hold onto.]
[ He could feel that freshly created double hovering behind him, too stunned and overwhelmed to wave him away once Giorno's hands had touched his face. He reached up himself, his own hands trembling as they rested on top of the other boy's. He was only vaguely aware that his hands were as bloody as the rest of him, some of it flaking off and falling unnoticed to the floor.
His heart had stopped when his other self had tried to get between them, Giorno's words registering as he tried to put the entire scenario together. He was apologising but he couldn't figure out for what, hands slipping over to rest on Giorno's cheeks instead of over his hands. He hadn't meant to but he shushed him, something that was meant to be reassuring for the both of them and maybe give them a moment to catch their breath. ]
Shhh, shhh, you didn't do this, I don't know how you could have...
[ There was a pang of guilt in his stomach, that feeling that perhaps he really was the one to blame here. Things had been so hard recently, Mista trying to recall if he'd ever seen Giorno this upset. He couldn't recall and it tore at his insides, a feeling that he couldn't fathom beyond how much it hurt to see him like this; to see him blaming himself for something that was out of his hands. ]
...I'm okay, I think, it's mostly dry now and...
[ In the dirt on his floor. ]
There's no way this was something you did, I...I'm sorry, I think it might have been my fault with the gifts and...
[ He didn't know how to put it, how to make sense of any of it. There wasn't a way, this place was unusually cruel and this was just another one of those things; what had they done to deserve this? What had any of them truly done that would have warranted punishments this severe?
It had to have been something but he didn't have an answer.
His hands dropped down from Giorno's face, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in close. Right now this was the only thing he could do, the only thing that made sense in all this mess. ]
I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, not until we figure this out.
[ He wanted to cry, both from worry and relief but that wasn't what Giorno needed; right now they both needed some kind of stability, even if it was forced. ]
[Mista didn't often tell him what to do, not even as gently as this. Unless they were in a combat situation, Mista really wasn't one to give directives at all. Which meant that when he did, they were serious. The combination of warm hands on his face and soft encouragement to calm down, to breathe, cut through his panic immediately, frantic quests going quiet as he stared up at Mista, waiting, afraid but trusting as always.]
[Of course Mista didn't know the answer or have a solution. That was fine; he hadn't expected that kind of miracle. But Mista was certain of a few things, while Giorno was certain of a few more. There was the flicker once again of the old certainty that no matter what, they'd be able to figure it out if they worked on it together. They were always better together.]
[Which just made his heart twinge, considering. It might have been my fault with the gifts, Mista said, and he wanted to say something about it, but then Mista was pulling him close and holding him tight and — what could he possibly do in the face of that but wrap his arms around Mista's waist in turn? Burying his face against Mista's neck, he shuddered, eyes squeezing shut to push out the first implications of tears. He couldn't do that, not now. Not in the middle of something as dangerous and strange as this.]
. . . You didn't do this.
[Muffled, but firm. After a moment, he lifted his head to rest his chin on Mista's shoulder, glaring daggers at the opposite wall.]
I refuse to accept the idea that — that you doing something thoughtful and— [And? There were more words, he'd gone through them all before he slept, but now they were scrambling away from him and he couldn't find the right way to explain himself. How something that had made him so happy couldn't possibly have hurt them this way. The carefully-arranged display of Mista's gifts still rested on his bookshelves, staring accusatory down at him.]
That can't have caused anything like this to happen. It just can't. It's something else.
[ He had just as much trouble accepting that he hadn't pushed this along, that his caring gesture had caused them this grief in some way. He rested one of his hands on the back of Giorno's head, brow furrowed with concern as he stared intensely at his copy. That's exactly what he (it?) was, the same down to the last detail and it was uncanny.
That wasn't a strong enough word and he knew it, terrifying or disconcerting might have been a little closer to that feeling that spread through his stomach again. There were more important things for them to focus on, his heart thudding in his chest as he stroked the back of Giorno's head to keep soothing him. ]
...I'm glad you like them, I was afraid that it was too much but...it was something important to me.
[ Now really wasn't the time for this, for a heartfelt moment amidst the real danger of the situation. He needed to think, try and figure out what had been different, what else had happened before he'd been overtaken by that skull ripping headache. ]
Is there anything else you can think of? Anything at all?
[ The candy was the farthest thing from his mind, it had been so innocuous that he wouldn't have considered it at all. Something like this...it was bigger than that. ]
[The really irrational thing was that, despite the danger, all he wanted to do was talk about the gift. Mista said it was important to him. He wanted to ask why. What about it was important? What did he mean by it? Was the timing significant? Was that a stupid question? It was probably a stupid question. But the next question, then, logically, is—]
[Is—]
[Mista's fingers in his hair were so gentle he could cry. Instead, he buried his face against Mista's shoulder and shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut tight in a desperate attempt to focus, to think. The warmth of being held, the familiarity of Mista's scent, the shape of the shoulders under his hands — not now. He couldn't now, and he was so angry about that, because he wanted to.]
[Anything he can think of. Anything at all. Behind his tightly-shut eyes, colored lights sparked. They flew open again.]
Just one thing. Just — I woke up because someone left some candy at my door. I was annoyed about it. I didn't understand why someone left a present after you, it bothered me.
[Even if he didn't understand why. Just . . . what was the point? Why did someone bring him that? Mista had already been there. He'd already stared at the vase Mista left him as he fell asleep. He didn't want anything else.]
[ For a second Mista was sure that his heart had stopped, stomach dropping as he thought about those candies that he'd accepted without question. He felt colder all of a sudden, a chill spreading through him as he worried his lower lip between his teeth. ]
There was candy at my door too, I just thought they came from someone else here. You didn't eat any of them, did you?
[ It was a question that he didn't really want to ask, that he was sure he didn't need to ask considering that Giorno had all but told him that he didn't want them. That they weren't important to him in even a fraction of the way the gift he'd left had been, it was a thought that made that chill in his body a little more tolerable.
He wasn't going to admit that he ate them, part of him hoping that it really had just been a kind gesture that they were reading into far too much. ]
[For a moment he trailed off, thinking back to the bleary moment in the middle of the night when he found those candies at his door. Blinking slowly, he went back over every moment, making sure he was remembering right. Ultimately, he shook his head.]
No, I didn’t eat them. I just touched them. Because I was annoyed, like I said . . . but I got that dust all over my hands. It’s stupid that anyone even left it.
[Stupid? It was hard to think, his fingers digging stubbornly into the back of Mista’s shirt, eyes squeezing shut, thoughts heavy and slow like the headache had moved its way into his thoughts now, making it impossible to put one logical step in front of the other.]
. . . It could have been that. [As reluctant as he was to admit it.] But that means somebody got in here just to leave those. [And did they leave them with anyone else? Who else could have been affected by this, or might still be affected by this? They should go check. He should move.]
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uhhh cw gore body horror brain stuff
[By 12:03 AM on February 14, he'd entirely changed his position.]
[It wasn't . . . as though it was that unusual for them to give each other things. They did, a lot, because Giorno had found that he liked to and Mista was a naturally giving person. Here, when they were so close to each other's rooms, it was easy to drop something off just to make the other smile. But Mista usually stuck around to see him open whatever it was, if it was even wrapped. More than that, this . . . wasn't I saw this and thought of you, this was specific. Thematic. Deliberate. Purposeful.]
[He brought everything into his room quickly, sat it on the bed, closed and locked the door, and just stared at the pile for a while before gingerly sitting down next to it and and carefully beginning to open the boxes. It was cliche, which was a nightmare, because it was Mista and that meant it was genuine. Mista was a by-the-book romantic. Mista always—]
[There were little frogs. With glitter on them. Did Mista do that himself? He must have. There was no way he found something so absurdly tailored to Giorno's very specific tastes. The booklet he definitely made. The glass was . . . there'd been one thing that consistently made him smile this month, and that had been it.]
[He felt like he couldn't breathe. All he could smell was chocolate and construction paper and the flowers, which had ended up on his nightstand — he must have put them there, but he didn't remember, it was just so much. But not — bad. Not bad. He didn't feel bad. It was something else.]
[To clear his head, he spent the next hour carefully arranging the little figurines on his bookshelf, which was on the wall to the left of the bed. After some thought, he put the booklet there, too, and the glass (once he finished it and washed it out). If he lay on his side on the bed, he could look at all of it at once, including the flowers. There weren't any other personal touches in the room, just these things Mista had brought him today and a few other little knickknacks from other days. Everything that Mista brought him made his room feel more like home.]
[He fell asleep looking at the ladybug he had placed on the highest shelf. At some point in the morning, he woke up and went to the bathroom, picking up a package that had been left outside his bedroom door on the way back in. It wasn't very interesting, especially not after he saw the glass set carefully on his bookshelf, with the card right next to it. After opening, he discarded it in the trash and went back to sleep.]
[The next time he woke up, it was with his teeth clamped down tight around his pillow, screams muffled by the cloth. It hurt. He had experienced so much pain in his life, but nothing like this, not even any of the times he'd almost died. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to him to ask for help, he had to ask for help, but as soon as he thought it the thought vanished, shoved away by a crack of bone that made his blood run cold.]
[That was his. His head, his bone, his skull.]
[The next few minutes were whiteness. On the other side of it, he lay in the fetal position on the bed, legs tugged up to his chest and hidden almost entirely under the blanket. Most of the mess was on the floor, but some of it wasn't. His hair was down for the night, so that was . . . good, but he was a bloody mess, and he was shaking.]
[Mista sat at the edge of the bed, tail curled up under him and trailing along the floor. The thing was — it was just like Mista. Mista as he was, here and now, Mista in the present rather than some idealized version. It was dizzying. It was almost enough to convince him that it was real.]
[But this thing hurt him. It hurt him a lot. Mista never would. So what the hell was it? Did he do this, somehow? Why couldn't he stop shaking? The thing on his bed started speaking to him, little phrases of little consequence, how are you, what do you wanna do today, and it made him want to scream. At the back of his mind he thought: When did he leave those things? Last night? I didn't say anything. I didn't tell him I got them. I didn't say — anything. At all.]
[Even reeling from dizzying pain and terror, the idea of inadvertently hurting Mista's feelings made him panic. His message was sloppy, poorly spelled and punctuated from anxiety and his own shaking hands, but he sent it. In the moment, it felt like the only thing that mattered.]
Mista i got your pressent thank you i am feeling
weird but not because of tht you're
thank you
dont feel well but thnk you
i shoudlve s
[And . . . that seemed to be as much as he could manage. His hands were shaking too badly to continue. Balling them up into fists, he squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the blanket over his head. No more, no more, no more, he couldn't. He just wanted to think, but the thing that wasn't Mista was talking to him, gently running its fingers through his hair, and no matter what he did thoughts wouldn't come.]
cw for more of the same shit (blood, body horror, emeto??)
He'd retrieved it almost immediately, turning the package this way and that before opening it to pull out the card. He read it thoughtfully, brow raising before tossing it onto his bedside table and setting the bag down next to it. He'd planned to leave it at that, but it was a nice gesture and they were meant for him. He palmed a couple of the little hearts as he slipped back into bed, dropping them into his mouth and biting down with far too much enthusiasm.
He'd forgotten what they tasted like, swallowing what he'd taken with a grimace. Too chalky but still sweet, maybe a little different from what he'd tasted before but it seemed like that was a given. A fitful sleep came shortly after, one that ended with a start as that first pain exploded in his head. He'd never felt anything like that before, sucking in a sharp breath as he raise a hand to cover his eyes. He hadn't slept enough, that had to be it, Mista rolling over and trying to make himself comfortable again as that blinding pain flashed behind his eyes.
Fuck. That hurt. As bad as or worse than getting shot, at least he'd been able to run on adrenaline then and right now that was in short supply. The pain was agonising, like there was a war waging in his brain and he was on the losing end. It was all coming in torturous waves, Mista's stomach lurching as he leaned over the side of his bed with a heaving breath. He didn't want to throw up but the way his stomach was churning he didn't know that it was avoidable. He needed something, sliding out of bed and landing on the dirt floor with a painful thump. It was nothing compared to the anguish that was his head, a stupid thought that his eyes were going to explode if he even turned his head the wrong way.
In the thick of it all he could hear screaming, it felt so close but it wasn't a voice that he recognised and it was only when he heard that crack that he put it together. He was the one that was screaming, Mista heaving again as that terrible sound of breaking bone echoed through his body. This was it, he was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. Another crack and a rip that sounded strangely fleshy, lights behind his eyes pulsing with the beat of his heart as he felt the warmth of blood pouring out of the back of his head. He could taste it before it even slid down the side of his face, like it was welling up in his nose and behind his eyes. This was agony, body lurching again as he finally lost the contents of his stomach. That twisting pain in his head tore through him again and the sweet respite of unconsciousness finally came.
He didn't know how long he was out, the dirt around him muddied with blood as he reached up to feel the back of his head. Caked and matted with blood, just like the rest of him, he was sure there was blood in his eyes. There were two things that had finally gotten him to stir, the sound of that message being received and the all too familiar voice calling his name. He'd thought for sure that he'd gone blind, vision hazy as he recognised the figure squatting beside him and his face twisted in confusion. Giorno? Only it wasn't Giorno as he knew him now or even Giorno as he'd known him before, it was a strangely beautiful and ethereal amalgamation of both.
He was wearing one of his sweaters.
It was strangely touching but there was something wrong about it. It was the way that he was looking at him, as if all of the fondness that he'd ever felt coming from Giorno had been boiled down to a concentrate. Powerful and intense, so startling that Mista didn't even bother to try and wipe away any of the mess on his person as he struggled to check that message. Giorno followed him, close and warm, closer than he ever had before. All the more jarring was that message, near incoherent and the abrupt end that it came to.
Giorno was smiling, he could see it out of the corner of his eye. He was unsettled, heart pounding as he barreled out of his room and threw Giorno's door open. His body was aching, a dull throbbing still coursing through his head as he froze in the doorway with the copy trailing quickly behind him. He was there, not Giorno but himself; his own face on the monster sat on the bed next to the pile of blankets that was actual Giorno. How were his own thoughts so confusing?
His mouth was dry and he was dizzy, when Mista finally managed to croak his words out he sounded every bit the mess that he looked. ]
G-Giorno...it's...me...?
[ And not me. And not you. ]
...what the fuck is happening?
no subject
[Except that wasn’t what he saw at all.]
[It was chaos. It was too much to take in. Mista covered in blood, hair and head and eyes (his hand came up unconsciously to wipe drying blood from his eyebrows); a figure behind him that looked too familiar and not familiar at all. Some sharp stab of emotion took his heart and pulled it at that, his eyes going wide and unreadable at the sight of something that looked like him in Mista’s sweater. Why did that make him so—]
[No, fuck that, it didn’t matter, Mista was hurt. The thing that wasn’t Mista on the bed was moving between him and the real Mista, but not quickly enough, and when he stumbled to his feet and yelled at it to stop it did, sheepish but obedient. Because it wasn’t Mista. Because it wasn’t right, it wasn’t Mista, Mista was here, face under shaky hands that had grabbed hold of him before Giorno even realized he was reaching.]
I’m sorry, [he found himself whispering,] I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I think I did this — somehow — I should’ve—
[What? What? What should I have done? It didn’t matter, he should have done something!]
Don’t — are you bleeding? Tell me what happened, I can’t fix you but I can try. I can help, I can get help, just don’t—
[What? What? Don’t what? Leave. Don’t go, was all he could think, breathless, chest tight with panic, feeling as though he’d broken everything good in his life that he’d managed to hold onto.]
no subject
His heart had stopped when his other self had tried to get between them, Giorno's words registering as he tried to put the entire scenario together. He was apologising but he couldn't figure out for what, hands slipping over to rest on Giorno's cheeks instead of over his hands. He hadn't meant to but he shushed him, something that was meant to be reassuring for the both of them and maybe give them a moment to catch their breath. ]
Shhh, shhh, you didn't do this, I don't know how you could have...
[ There was a pang of guilt in his stomach, that feeling that perhaps he really was the one to blame here. Things had been so hard recently, Mista trying to recall if he'd ever seen Giorno this upset. He couldn't recall and it tore at his insides, a feeling that he couldn't fathom beyond how much it hurt to see him like this; to see him blaming himself for something that was out of his hands. ]
...I'm okay, I think, it's mostly dry now and...
[ In the dirt on his floor. ]
There's no way this was something you did, I...I'm sorry, I think it might have been my fault with the gifts and...
[ He didn't know how to put it, how to make sense of any of it. There wasn't a way, this place was unusually cruel and this was just another one of those things; what had they done to deserve this? What had any of them truly done that would have warranted punishments this severe?
It had to have been something but he didn't have an answer.
His hands dropped down from Giorno's face, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in close. Right now this was the only thing he could do, the only thing that made sense in all this mess. ]
I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, not until we figure this out.
[ He wanted to cry, both from worry and relief but that wasn't what Giorno needed; right now they both needed some kind of stability, even if it was forced. ]
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[Of course Mista didn't know the answer or have a solution. That was fine; he hadn't expected that kind of miracle. But Mista was certain of a few things, while Giorno was certain of a few more. There was the flicker once again of the old certainty that no matter what, they'd be able to figure it out if they worked on it together. They were always better together.]
[Which just made his heart twinge, considering. It might have been my fault with the gifts, Mista said, and he wanted to say something about it, but then Mista was pulling him close and holding him tight and — what could he possibly do in the face of that but wrap his arms around Mista's waist in turn? Burying his face against Mista's neck, he shuddered, eyes squeezing shut to push out the first implications of tears. He couldn't do that, not now. Not in the middle of something as dangerous and strange as this.]
. . . You didn't do this.
[Muffled, but firm. After a moment, he lifted his head to rest his chin on Mista's shoulder, glaring daggers at the opposite wall.]
I refuse to accept the idea that — that you doing something thoughtful and— [And? There were more words, he'd gone through them all before he slept, but now they were scrambling away from him and he couldn't find the right way to explain himself. How something that had made him so happy couldn't possibly have hurt them this way. The carefully-arranged display of Mista's gifts still rested on his bookshelves, staring accusatory down at him.]
That can't have caused anything like this to happen. It just can't. It's something else.
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[ He had just as much trouble accepting that he hadn't pushed this along, that his caring gesture had caused them this grief in some way. He rested one of his hands on the back of Giorno's head, brow furrowed with concern as he stared intensely at his copy. That's exactly what he (it?) was, the same down to the last detail and it was uncanny.
That wasn't a strong enough word and he knew it, terrifying or disconcerting might have been a little closer to that feeling that spread through his stomach again. There were more important things for them to focus on, his heart thudding in his chest as he stroked the back of Giorno's head to keep soothing him. ]
...I'm glad you like them, I was afraid that it was too much but...it was something important to me.
[ Now really wasn't the time for this, for a heartfelt moment amidst the real danger of the situation. He needed to think, try and figure out what had been different, what else had happened before he'd been overtaken by that skull ripping headache. ]
Is there anything else you can think of? Anything at all?
[ The candy was the farthest thing from his mind, it had been so innocuous that he wouldn't have considered it at all. Something like this...it was bigger than that. ]
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[Is—]
[Mista's fingers in his hair were so gentle he could cry. Instead, he buried his face against Mista's shoulder and shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut tight in a desperate attempt to focus, to think. The warmth of being held, the familiarity of Mista's scent, the shape of the shoulders under his hands — not now. He couldn't now, and he was so angry about that, because he wanted to.]
[Anything he can think of. Anything at all. Behind his tightly-shut eyes, colored lights sparked. They flew open again.]
Just one thing. Just — I woke up because someone left some candy at my door. I was annoyed about it. I didn't understand why someone left a present after you, it bothered me.
[Even if he didn't understand why. Just . . . what was the point? Why did someone bring him that? Mista had already been there. He'd already stared at the vase Mista left him as he fell asleep. He didn't want anything else.]
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There was candy at my door too, I just thought they came from someone else here. You didn't eat any of them, did you?
[ It was a question that he didn't really want to ask, that he was sure he didn't need to ask considering that Giorno had all but told him that he didn't want them. That they weren't important to him in even a fraction of the way the gift he'd left had been, it was a thought that made that chill in his body a little more tolerable.
He wasn't going to admit that he ate them, part of him hoping that it really had just been a kind gesture that they were reading into far too much. ]
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[For a moment he trailed off, thinking back to the bleary moment in the middle of the night when he found those candies at his door. Blinking slowly, he went back over every moment, making sure he was remembering right. Ultimately, he shook his head.]
No, I didn’t eat them. I just touched them. Because I was annoyed, like I said . . . but I got that dust all over my hands. It’s stupid that anyone even left it.
[Stupid? It was hard to think, his fingers digging stubbornly into the back of Mista’s shirt, eyes squeezing shut, thoughts heavy and slow like the headache had moved its way into his thoughts now, making it impossible to put one logical step in front of the other.]
. . . It could have been that. [As reluctant as he was to admit it.] But that means somebody got in here just to leave those. [And did they leave them with anyone else? Who else could have been affected by this, or might still be affected by this? They should go check. He should move.]
[He didn’t move.]