[Giorno is now wheezing. Wheezing so much, so dramatically, his breath fluttering. The beeping has intensified, probably, even though real hospital machines don't work like that. He opens his eyes again when Polnareff returns to his side, reaches out for the pudding — and then his hand falls to the floor.]
Papa . . . a spoon . . .
[And then, a little more briskly:] We're not barbarians, Papa.
[He informs him of that just as briskly. Fortunately, the drawer is within hand's reach, and so Chariot rises, opening the drawer and groping blindly. It takes him two tries, but eventually a spoon is found.]
[Are they just gonna snuggle on the floor? Yeah, maybe. Maybe they are. So what? It's a free country. It's their house. Fight them about it. He curls up, getting a little more comfortable in his position of "flopped".]
My hugs are always worth it. And so are yours, even if they are sometimes a little lethal.
[If anyone needs the kitchen, they're out of luck. Polnareff settles in, fingers drifting idly over Giorno's back. He'd push his fingers through his hair, but it's not yet nighttime; god forbid his son be seen with mussed hair.]
Full of love. I've never smothered anyone with my hugs, except you, maybe, just now, but even that worked out. You oughta be grateful, all these muscles mean I can pick you up whenever you want.
[His father is a merciful man, considerate of his son's perfect hair and also perfect everything. His father is, in fact, nearly as perfect as Giorno himself. Truly together they are too perfect.]
You should just carry me everywhere, I think. That way I can be as tall as everyone else around here.
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Papa . . . a spoon . . .
[And then, a little more briskly:] We're not barbarians, Papa.
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[He informs him of that just as briskly. Fortunately, the drawer is within hand's reach, and so Chariot rises, opening the drawer and groping blindly. It takes him two tries, but eventually a spoon is found.]
Now can you live, petit?
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[He considers the spoon. Then, grabbing it, he nods, and sits up, cradling the pudding cup to his chest.]
I think I will manage, yes.
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[He flops back, lying on the floor, propped up on his elbows.]
That was a close one.
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[He looms over his beautiful, perfect papa, a solemn look on his face.]
You were a hero today.
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I should get a medal. An award. A hug.
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[No one. Giorno is not that big. But still.]
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Worth it.
[--he wheezes, and pats Giorno lightly on the back.]
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My hugs are always worth it. And so are yours, even if they are sometimes a little lethal.
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Full of love. I've never smothered anyone with my hugs, except you, maybe, just now, but even that worked out. You oughta be grateful, all these muscles mean I can pick you up whenever you want.
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[His father is a merciful man, considerate of his son's perfect hair and also perfect everything. His father is, in fact, nearly as perfect as Giorno himself. Truly together they are too perfect.]
You should just carry me everywhere, I think. That way I can be as tall as everyone else around here.
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[It isn't a no. Just a problem thoughtfully posed for his son-don.]
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[So breezy.]
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You're gonna tell me about exercising?
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[Listen. Son. You are not the first relative who liked to be picked up; he knows the pitfalls of this.]
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I can't believe you don't love me enough to carry me in your arms.
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[How very dare you? He just nearly killed you with his love, don't doubt it.]
It's a matter of tactics! Planning! I want to be able to carry you all day!
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[whimpers . . . desolately . . .]
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You're going to get spoiled if I keep this up, but I just can't say no to that face.
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[Yeah, that's right: heh. Heh.]
I win. [|3]
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[He tips his head up again, eyes narrowing.]
Don't be smug. That's not cute.
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[sparkles cutely]
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[He has endured baby sisters. He can withstand this adorableness.]
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[frowns]
[SPARKLES MORE???]
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