[One moment he's standing alone, in the middle of a laboratory floor. The next moment he's caught up in a hug, in Carlos's arms, and his heart breaks. Not in a bad way — more in the way that sometimes you have to re-break a bone to set it properly, if it's healed over wrong. It hurts, god, it hurts so much, he can feel the pain lancing through every part of him, but it feels better, too. It feels—]
[It feels honest.]
[It's an awkward hug. It is, he won't lie, but it feels safe, which is the only thing that matters. Carlos is all sharp edges and brittle lines, but he smells like laundry detergent and something chemical, and he's holding on tight like he doesn't want to ever let go. Of him. Carlos, an important and worthy person, doesn't want to let go of him, Giorno, who is just somebody. Not his child, maybe not even his friend. Just some kid who makes him uncomfortable a lot of the time, who doesn't know how to be normal.]
[Giorno's fingers clench in the back of that perfect lab coat. He doesn't mean them to, but they do. And once he's held on tight, he finds he can't let go, either. Can't stop himself from crying, not once his heart has been well and truly broken, even though it will ruin the pristine white front of Carlos's coat to get tears on it. He cries anyway. It's good to be honest, and so he cries honestly, his body racked with shuddering sobs as he holds on (awkwardly, with sharp edges, and forcefully, because he needs to not be alone right now and so does Carlos).]
[He didn't quite expect Giorno to hug him back so readily--but if he were to be honest with himself, he wasn't sure what he expected besides a nebulous opposite of everything happening currently. Giorno is like Kevin in the way that everyone is like everyone else: a bit self-centered, a bit rude, a bit cruel, when it comes down to it. In this way, he is like Kevin, but he is also not like Kevin in the sense that Giorno tries harder than anyone Carlos has ever met. There's so much energy and strength that most adults don't have, but Giorno carries himself with grace and tenacity, like the world only ever should look at him and nothing else.
Maybe the world does.
But then he starts crying, and it's painful to hear and see and feel, because Giorno hasn't really ever been that vulnerable before, in his mind. It's like seeing a mountain crumble, if mountains existed, like the total falling apart that everyone experiences at some point, but it seems so strange on Giorno. Maybe the world shouldn't look at him too long--but not like a child shouldn't look at the sun; it's more like the way a child shouldn't look at violence. Giorno crying is violent, and Carlos is proud and worried all at once.
He doesn't know what to say other than repeated whispers of it's alright, so he just holds Giorno a little tighter, waiting for the storm to pass. He's crying himself, though it's not like he truly notices, because he never notices anything important like that. It's alright, he says, again and again, but he means it more than ever.]
[Somewhere in the back of his chaotic and tired mind, Giorno is trying to figure out how it is that he came to deserve someone like Carlos in his life. Someone like Carlos who, as unpredictable and uncertain as he can be at times, nevertheless reaches out to someone like Giorno. Just some boy. Just someone. Just--himself, who isn't good enough at all.]
[It's all right, Carlos says, and Giorno doesn't think it is. But he can suspend his disbelief, at least here and for the moment. It's different than if Polnareff said it. Polnareff comforts mindlessly, because he's made of comfort. For Carlos, comfort is an effort, which means he wouldn't do it if he didn't mean it. If he didn't really believe it.]
[It's not all right. But Giorno believes that Carlos believes it is, and that's how he manages to slow his tears: by believing that. They slow to a trickle as he presses his face to Carlos's shoulder, a wave of shame washing over him as he realizes how weak he's been. Recognizing his own weakness makes him feel weaker; he sags and does his best to take up as little space as possible at the same time as he really doesn't want to move at all.]
I'm sorry.
[It's quiet, his voice a little shaky. Maybe a lot shaky. He hates this. But he doesn't want to be alone right now.]
Scientifically speaking--I'm, I'm messing up your coat.
[And there really isn't: at his core, Carlos is not a liar; it's unnatural to him to even consider lying about anything as important as whatever this is. Maybe it's not alright, exactly, but he percieves himself as telling the truth, and therefore can't be held accountable for any possible lies inherent in the repeated statement. It's all very simple to him, and all simple problems have simple answers.
...Then again, though, what does he know about simplicity? He may not be a liar, but he knows very personally that nothing is quite as black-and-white as that. There are forces at work in Giorno's life that are far more complicated and insidious than any Smiling God, and Carlos understands his lack of understanding about any of them. No, this is not a simple problem, and he does not have a simple role in solving it, by any means. Maybe it's not even his place to solve it: perhaps he's meddling again.
Quietly, he tightens his grip, barely even processing what's being said to him, lost in thought and memory as he so often finds himself. Lost in general, really: he cannot be a scientist in this situation. This is not a simple scientific problem, and treating it like it is will only lead to more things breaking, for better or for worse, and that's not something that he wants. Carlos doesn't have experience with whatever he's doing, but it feels natural, like he's seen it before.
You will not change, or fix, or do anything at all to my little girl.
He exhales sharply, offering the slightest laugh--more of a suggestion of registered humor than anything, but it is sincere. He is not a liar.]
These are made to get dirty. I can scientifically guarantee I've had worse things on it than Italian teenager snot.
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no subject
[It feels honest.]
[It's an awkward hug. It is, he won't lie, but it feels safe, which is the only thing that matters. Carlos is all sharp edges and brittle lines, but he smells like laundry detergent and something chemical, and he's holding on tight like he doesn't want to ever let go. Of him. Carlos, an important and worthy person, doesn't want to let go of him, Giorno, who is just somebody. Not his child, maybe not even his friend. Just some kid who makes him uncomfortable a lot of the time, who doesn't know how to be normal.]
[Giorno's fingers clench in the back of that perfect lab coat. He doesn't mean them to, but they do. And once he's held on tight, he finds he can't let go, either. Can't stop himself from crying, not once his heart has been well and truly broken, even though it will ruin the pristine white front of Carlos's coat to get tears on it. He cries anyway. It's good to be honest, and so he cries honestly, his body racked with shuddering sobs as he holds on (awkwardly, with sharp edges, and forcefully, because he needs to not be alone right now and so does Carlos).]
no subject
Maybe the world does.
But then he starts crying, and it's painful to hear and see and feel, because Giorno hasn't really ever been that vulnerable before, in his mind. It's like seeing a mountain crumble, if mountains existed, like the total falling apart that everyone experiences at some point, but it seems so strange on Giorno. Maybe the world shouldn't look at him too long--but not like a child shouldn't look at the sun; it's more like the way a child shouldn't look at violence. Giorno crying is violent, and Carlos is proud and worried all at once.
He doesn't know what to say other than repeated whispers of it's alright, so he just holds Giorno a little tighter, waiting for the storm to pass. He's crying himself, though it's not like he truly notices, because he never notices anything important like that. It's alright, he says, again and again, but he means it more than ever.]
no subject
[It's all right, Carlos says, and Giorno doesn't think it is. But he can suspend his disbelief, at least here and for the moment. It's different than if Polnareff said it. Polnareff comforts mindlessly, because he's made of comfort. For Carlos, comfort is an effort, which means he wouldn't do it if he didn't mean it. If he didn't really believe it.]
[It's not all right. But Giorno believes that Carlos believes it is, and that's how he manages to slow his tears: by believing that. They slow to a trickle as he presses his face to Carlos's shoulder, a wave of shame washing over him as he realizes how weak he's been. Recognizing his own weakness makes him feel weaker; he sags and does his best to take up as little space as possible at the same time as he really doesn't want to move at all.]
I'm sorry.
[It's quiet, his voice a little shaky. Maybe a lot shaky. He hates this. But he doesn't want to be alone right now.]
Scientifically speaking--I'm, I'm messing up your coat.
no subject
[And there really isn't: at his core, Carlos is not a liar; it's unnatural to him to even consider lying about anything as important as whatever this is. Maybe it's not alright, exactly, but he percieves himself as telling the truth, and therefore can't be held accountable for any possible lies inherent in the repeated statement. It's all very simple to him, and all simple problems have simple answers.
...Then again, though, what does he know about simplicity? He may not be a liar, but he knows very personally that nothing is quite as black-and-white as that. There are forces at work in Giorno's life that are far more complicated and insidious than any Smiling God, and Carlos understands his lack of understanding about any of them. No, this is not a simple problem, and he does not have a simple role in solving it, by any means. Maybe it's not even his place to solve it: perhaps he's meddling again.
Quietly, he tightens his grip, barely even processing what's being said to him, lost in thought and memory as he so often finds himself. Lost in general, really: he cannot be a scientist in this situation. This is not a simple scientific problem, and treating it like it is will only lead to more things breaking, for better or for worse, and that's not something that he wants. Carlos doesn't have experience with whatever he's doing, but it feels natural, like he's seen it before.
You will not change, or fix, or do anything at all to my little girl.
He exhales sharply, offering the slightest laugh--more of a suggestion of registered humor than anything, but it is sincere. He is not a liar.]
These are made to get dirty. I can scientifically guarantee I've had worse things on it than Italian teenager snot.
[There's more of an actual laugh, now.]