Chapter Text
Giorno looked like a giant corndog.
His bed pillars rose up and over, and, along with the thin sheer between them, it all added to the look that they’d put him in a microwave. Hopefully, he wouldn’t burst.
Bucciarati had insisted on something like thirty different blankets of varying thickness and textures. Of course, Fugo had warned against it, since waking up immobilized probably wasn’t the best thing for Giorno’s mental state right now. Without so much as a glance up from his work, Bucciarati gave a short hum of acknowledgement, and it was clear the bundle would stay.
As Bucciarati scuttled out, anxiety pulling his phone up to his ear again, Trish sighed. This actually was a more recent calm in their older friend’s demeanor, hard-won, and took the entirety of the day to reach.
Not a moment after they had pulled into the driveway baking in the late morning sun, Bucciarati had been at the car door, yanking it open, asking a flurry of questions at a speed Trish had no stamina to keep up with. Before she could even sit up properly, he had snatched a sleeping Giorno from her lap in the car, already hurrying into the house, Trish calling after.
By the time Mista and herself made it through the doorway, the sleeping blonde was already placed upstairs in bed. Bucciarati perched halfway down the stairs, delegating tasks to the others, each running off this way or that.
It took Fugo almost knocking her over, and his very hurried apology, for Trish to realize the weight of each personal hell the rest of them must have endured all morning and night. She suddenly felt terrible for choosing to call Mista in the heat of the moment, and not Bucciarati. She didn’t hear how the gunman’s phone call with his old Capo went, but she could guess it wasn’t pleasant.
She’d made her way up to Giorno’s suite, passing the potted ivy and marigolds of his sitting room, bathed in morning sun, to arrive in the bedroom doorway. Abbacchio was on the phone in the corner, but noticed her, sending a nod that she returned as she slid inside.
Without much thought, she found herself pulling up a chair beside the bed, settling in for what she thought would be a long wait.
Exhaustion threatened in her shoulders, and she only allowed them to sag, forcing herself to look up, ignoring the pull of her eyelids. She couldn’t sleep now. Not yet. She assessed her workload.
In the rush of it all, Bucciarati had basically just plopped him on his bed. His back sank into the comforter around him, dirtied suit leaving dark marks on the intricate lace surface. In the car, she’d attempted to clean him up with what she had then. Napkins from the glove box and sun-heated water from Narancia’s forgotten water bottle had been her first aid kit. So, at least his face was clean. His clothes and hair? Still stained and splotched, sticking to open wounds and crisp with dried blood.
Clothes first then.
Since Abbacchio had rushed somewhere else a few minutes ago, she summoned Spice Girl to help her. Sliced eyes materialized beside her, glancing the blonde up and down before sending her a consoling look.
With a small smile, Trish thanked her stand internally, and they got to work.
After she’d successfully slipped off his suit’s vest, he stirred, mumbling something worried. She hushed him, pressing her palm to his cheek, and he calmed, face slacking back into sleep.
It tugged at her though, pulled the broiling back up into her gut. She could’ve been faster. She could've gone straight instead of right and been there quicker-
“You’re good at that, you know.”
She didn’t startle, but Narancia’s voice still caught her off guard. She swiveled to see her friend walking in, carrying towels and a first aid kit.
“Good at what?”
Narancia plopped the armful down in the bedside chair. “Doing all this taking care of people shit.” He settled on his left foot, turning to her, thinking before offering, “Like, if I was fucked up like that, and I had to choose someone to fix me up, it’d be you.”
She smiled small, shrugging. “It’s just doing what any of you would do.”
“Well yeah sure, anyone can put band-aids on, but I mean, not everyone does it carefully.” He shifted foot to foot, crossing his arms into a knot, but managed to keep eye contact as he said, “You’ve got that kind of careful thing that you know, people like moms have. And it’s nice.”
The compliment melted her heart into a smore. “Thanks, Nara.”
Violet eyes glanced to the ground with a smile. He shifted and looked up, probably about to say something else wonderfully endearing when-
Giorno gasped, sputtering air in and back out.
It wasn’t a cliché dramatic gasp, but it was still enough to startle the actual fuck out of them both.
After they both swore, Narancia’s hand hit his chest like some old lady and he leaned in. “You need to work on not doing that, Gio.”
Spice Girl lowered him back onto the bed before disappearing, and his brows furrowed, his hands prodding at the comforter beneath like he wasn’t sure it was there.
“Giorno?”
His gaze roamed like he heard, like he was trying to find her. When he finally came to rest on her, his lip twitched up, right before his chest spasmed and he fell into a fit of spitting up the blood pooled in the back of his throat.
Then she was swearing, catching a towel Narancia tossed her and wiping his mouth, trying to catch the mess before it ruined his pillowcase even more.
She heard Narancia already thumping out of the room with a “ Bucciarati!”
In seconds, the bedroom buzzed with activity, each bee whizzing back into the hive for orders on high.
Trish found Narancia next to her, harmonizing her swearing with his own as they pushed Giorno onto his side, mopping up the clumps of blood he spat out.
After a calm finally came over him, Giorno settled, eyelids fluttering, and they gently pulled him onto his back. She barely had to turn to accept the new pillow Fugo offered. Then Mista appeared beside her and lifted his head for her to replace the stained cotton. She fell back into the bedside chair as Narancia moved in and took the old case away.
“Shouldn’t he stay on his side?” Mista asked. “Isn’t he gonna need to puke again?”
“Hopefully not.” Bucciarati moved into her view, dropping to one knee beside her, reaching out to press gently on the blonde’s shoulder. “Giorno? Can you hear me alright?”
His gaze roamed the ceiling, though his face scrunched and he gulped down something thick and disgusting. When his voice moved after, it scratched like rope on skin, but at least now it was freed somewhat, “I hear you.”
“Can you see?”
He blinked hard. “Not too well.”
“How’s your stand?” Abbacchio now stood by the bed post, arms crossed, though not really trying to hide the worry in his voice.
She watched Giorno’s hands flex, testing fingers before fist. Then Gold Experience breathed out of his form, shifting into its own.
It sat by him, winged heels pressing into the comforter to mimic weight. Sliced blocks of violet eyes materialized to look at her.
She couldn’t stop her relieved sigh from escaping. The rot was gone. “Thank God.”
The rest of them were struck silent. Proxied pain clear on each face in its own way.
“Did he...?” Abbacchio spared her a confused glance.
“Look worse? Yeah. Alot worse.”
“Jesus.”
Fugo muttered quietly, almost to himself, “He looks like he got eaten alive.”
“Yeah, by like... termites or some shit.” Narancia muttered back.
“It was more like maggots.” Trish earned a disgusted look from Fugo, and Narancia stuck his tongue out with a harsh ‘blegh’ noise.
Bucciarati, face a little paler now, pressed on. “Giorno? I’m sorry to ask it of you but, are you able to heal yourself?”
Easy guess that the phone calls he’d made the second Giorno was in bed was to their ‘family physician’ about making himself available immediately. Despite how Giorno’s self-healing would be infinitely more efficient and effective, Bucciarati’s hand still hovered over the phone in his pocket, ready.
Giorno shifted in place, less like he was uncomfortable, but more like he was assessing what worked and what didn’t. He took a shaky breath before nodding, “Yeah, I can.”
But Gold Experience didn’t budge.
It settled the air into mud around them. No one dared to push him on. They all knew too well what it was like to have Gold Experience fix them up. It wasn’t healing. It was replacing.
She’d heard Fugo describe it as sinew and muscle pulling itself apart, tearing and twining back with new foreign tissue. Bucciarati had added how it felt like a million ropes unravelling just to knot themselves back together. Narancia said it hurt like an army of fire ants crawling under your skin, gnawing and ripping stuff while other ones put it back together with new lumps of wrong-colored play-dough. Mista had just wished he could be shot again instead, and Abbacchio had grunted agreement on that one.
Back then, Trish had nodded and agreed politely, sipping her soda and switching the subject.
Now, she reached out, her fingers slipping over Giorno’s pale ones on the dark comforter, mossy with lace ivy. “Can we help? In any way?”
He hummed, kindly. Or tried to. It came out like a rattle.
“No, it’s ok. You all can go.”
She gave him a look. “And do what? Pace around outside uselessly while you rebuild every fucking bone in your body? Yeah, no thanks.”
Abbacchio stood beside her, “You think you can just shoo us off, kid? Tough shit.”
“Yeah, tough shit!” Narancia was crossing his arms, imitating the older, earning a glare from him. “But really dude. We’re staying.”
“We’re here, Giogio.” Fugo nodded.
“Yeah, I’ll be grabbing some lunch for the pistols but-” Mista sent a smirk. “Bet your ass I’ll be here for anything you need.”
“Sorry, Giorno.” Bucciarati nodded firmly. “But we want to do what we can.”
It tugged in his numbed gaze, and he nodded, his fingers squeezing hers.
“Alright.”
---
She’d hated to hear it, but, apparently Faye’s stand had left his insides a mess of necrotic tissue. Whatever organs those gross maggots had burrowed into, they dug the cells out like moles, clambered into them, swelled the cells full of their rot, and used the nutrients to breed more, before abandoning the husks, vandalizing the organ with their tunnels of dead flesh.
Giorno had grinned- or tried to- and told them he was grateful to have been eaten alive. Now that the living stand was gone, he could rebuild with the blackened pieces left behind.
They’d busied themselves with doing what they could. A warm towel here, an ice pack there. Giorno sighed in relief at the press of a hot towel on his skin sheltering the resown tissue, as he relaxed on the chill of ice against recently completed jigsaw puzzles of bone.
He made sure to heal his throat first, freeing up the line of communication, and soon he had Abbacchio dislocating his shoulder so Gold Experience could properly snap it back in place, repairing the muscles accordingly.
“On my signal.”
“M’alright kid.”
“…Now.”
CRACK
A short shout escaped Giorno, and she watched him shrink afterwards. No doubt beating himself up for the outburst.
She squeezed his hand harder, getting a quick glance from him before-
“ God- That noise- the fucking noise your arm made-? Fuck.” Abbacchio recoiled as Gold Experience took over.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s ok- I just… Fucking hell kid.” And then Abbacchio was up and pacing to face the wall behind Bucciarati, rubbing his eyes. Trish had watched the older hide behind the other’s gentler demeanor on more than one occasion. Every time it had to do with that same trembling worry that rose in his violet eyes and lip.
She turned back to see Gold Experience press a metallic hand against Giorno’s shoulder. He straightened up and sucked in a breath- right as the stand sent a shockwave through him, and he keeled over to hold his stomach.
She could’ve broken his fingers and wouldn’t have noticed.
After a few agonizing seconds of him locking noises behind tight teeth, Giorno gasped and his stand pulled away, finally allowing him a few deep breaths before he nodded, “Alright, now my ankle.”
“What the fuck’s wrong with your ankle?!” Narancia wailed.
“Comminuted fracture.”
“What?!”
“Means it’s pixie dust.” Mista filled in before sending a look to Abbacchio’s back, “I can take this one, if you don’t want to, Abba.”
A humored grunt escaped him, and he picked up some tossed reddened rags by the nightstand, “I’ll find Bucciarati and add these to the laundry load he’s running. My stomach can only take but so much more of this.”
“So-?”
On his way out, the older called, “Whatever the shithead wants.”
And after a glance to see the nod from Giorno, Mista actually grinned. Trish winced a little. His coping mechanisms for stress were as confusing as his clothing choices.
“Alright then, Gio.” The gunman did a small stretch, siphoning his nervous energy up and out before cracking his knuckles. “Gonna be honest, I wish I could call this payback and enjoy it, but…” it snagged, “what was the phrase about cake or pie or-“
“‘You can’t have your cake and eat it too’?” Fugo sighed.
“Yeah! That one!”
“Just break his ankle, Mista.”
“Oh-!” Narancia snapped and pointed, “Break a leg!”
“Aha- yes!”
They high-fived.
“Mista-” Trish groaned.
“Right, right!” He jogged over, threw up the comforter, landed a knee on the mattress, and grabbed hold of Giorno’s ankle.
“Alright,” the blonde resituated, pulling himself to sit up more. “On my signal.”
“Ok. Got it.”
“One- SHIT!”
Giorno lurched forward, almost breaking her fingers this time, face scrunched tightly as he croaked, “I told you to break my leg on my signal .”
“You never said what the signal would be!”
“That wasn’t-! Agh, fine.” Giorno let it go, slouching back onto the cushioned headboard. “I apologize for the confusion.”
“You apolo-? I... Jesus, dude.” Mista muttered, passing the leg to Gold Experience. He scratched the back of his head before sighing, “Yeah, ok, I’m the one who should be sorry.”
“...But you’re not?”
Mista broke into a smirk. “Ok, alright, I am actually sorry about catching you off-guard.”
“Mhmm.”
“I swear.”
“Sure. Anyway, Fugo,” His head rolled to address the other leaning on the bedpost, “could you get a new ice pack,” he pulled at the one sweating on his shoulder. “This one’s melted.”
And so it went on like that.
A whole thirty minutes passed of pulling Giorno apart and putting him back together. It got to the point where Fugo swore Giorno’s teeth would break, with how hard he gnashed them together, stifling shouts and groans. Taking off his boot, Mista offered his sock, which did earn a humored grin from Giorno. A split-second later, and the sock was an eel. Muscled shoulders used to flexing in gym mirrors shot up with a very high squeal and Mista scrambled back, the eel slipping out of his grip.
Giorno laughed. A raspy echo of what it could’ve been. But, right then, for Trish, it was by far her favorite laugh. From anyone. Ever. And contagious to say the least.
When his bones were set and insides nuzzled back together like soft clay, he sighed, long and heavy, laying back on the piled-up pillows behind him.
Trish placed a steaming towel across his forehead, and he pulled the warmth over his eyes. She watched his whole body decompress, muscles humming in relief.
In total: a class three concussion, four broken ribs (to Mista’s utter horror, of course), punctured and waterlogged lungs, a broken right ankle and shattered left knee, arms pulled like they’d tried to stretch taffy, a dislocated shoulder, and a splintered collarbone. Trish didn't even try to keep track of all the organ stuff he had said was shredded.
And frankly, all that mattered now was that smooth way his lungs pushed air out and in. Bare chest unhindered in its rise and fall, abdomen wrapped in gauze down to his waist, stopping just short of his exposed hipbones-
Trish cleared her throat, threw her eyes back up to his. “Better?”
He hummed, reaching up to pull a hand through his hair, only to snag it on-
“Oh- sorry.” She grinned as an apology. “I completely forgot about trying to get the blood out of your hair.”
She resettled closer, attempting to brush some of it out before she got Mista to grab and wet a towel from the bathroom. Rubbing it didn’t really help either.
“Jesus, guy just needs a bath.” Mista muttered.
“Rude.” Trish spat.
“It’s not a bad idea, though.” Fugo crossed his arms, touched his chin. “I was going to suggest it soon anyways. Before you fall asleep, Gio, it probably would be best.”
With a nod, Giorno pushed himself up further, grunting, “Good plan.”
Mista bowed, delivering the line in his worst British accent, “Shall I draw up a bath for you, sir?”
Giorno rolled his eyes and waved him off.
As Mista grinned and strolled out, Fugo stepped forward, “What can I get for you as a change of clothes?”
Change of clothes. Right- wait. Baths... She blanked. Why? What happens during a bath again?
“There should be some night clothes in the second drawer.”
Fugo nodded and went to fish them out of the dresser.
Dresser. Dressing. Un-dressing. For a bath. That’s how baths work.
Right...So-
She should leave, right? Or did he care? He probably cared. She would care, wouldn’t she? (Would she?) But- more importantly- she should leave. Instead of staring off into space like the wall was suddenly so interesting, she should-
“Trish?”
“Y-Yeah- Yes I’m-” She cleared her throat, forced herself to pause and ask Giorno calmly, “What is it?”
“Aren’t... aren’t you going to go get cleaned up too?”
Did he mean in the same tub?
“But the bathtub is too small for two-?”
She caught herself. Too late. She felt her cheeks go fucking crimson . Of course he didn't mean the same bathtub- why the fuck would he mean that?! Why would she immediately assume it and then ask him like-
“Yeah, um.” He resettled, thrown a bit by the question. “The bath isn’t actually too small- it‘s more like... I meant, aren’t you going to get cleaned up in your bathroom?”
Yes. Of course. Yep. That made more sense. Also, she noted that Don Giorno Giovanna probably had an Olympic-sized swimming pool for a bathtub. Fucking double-dumbass jeopardy on her part.
“Yeah. Right. Yes. I should probably um...” She got up, she’d been sitting on the bed. Now she was up, taking too long to form words.
“I’ll see you in a bit.” Giorno offered her, a tease of humor lurking under it.
“Yes, yeah. I’ll-” She backed into the chair, almost knocking it over, catching it and righting it before turning back to him, clasping her hands together. “I’ll go now.”
Giorno nodded, the faint tell of a smile there.
Trish pointed with a joke on her tongue before pausing, deciding against it, and just leaving. She’d embarrassed herself enough already.
By the dresser, she caught Fugo struggling against a smirk, opting instead to send her a teasing look.
She mouthed ‘piss off’ on her way out.
---
Trish opted for a shower. A hot one.
And oh my God had she needed it.
Peeling the dress off was infinitely more satisfying than she’d anticipated. But, as she observed the poor thing, she almost groaned; it was beyond salvageable. Blood stained large portions, the boddice had a number of surface scratches and gashes, the silk of the skirt was sliced up, and the back string ties were ripped out, the holes now openly mouthing off across the gap. Mournfully, she placed the red and pink heap on the ground, unsure how else to pay her respects. Maybe she’d give it a Viking funeral. Goad Giorno into lending her a shoebox and a lighter. They could send it off on a boat in the garden pond outside or maybe in his massive bathtub while they-
She yanked her mind back. Christ. Anyways-
The moment she stepped under the water, she felt her skin slink right off. She understood snakes now. The whole shedding your old beat-up skin for a new underlayer? Yeah, it felt good.
Sweat and dirt had coated her hair and face and body. Now, the grime muddled the water swirling into the drain at her feet. A reddish hue coming through every now and then as she scrubbed the crisped blood off her arms and legs.
She hadn’t been hurt that bad. Not really. Just a hard hit to the head and some surface wounds. Definitely easier to clean and treat than Giorno’s lexicon of injuries. The drug cocktail in her system had mostly run its course, the hangover feeling dissolving into grogginess thanks to some painkiller from the kitchen cabinet earlier.
After hopping out, she wrapped her hair up in a smaller towel, and slid into some loose cotton shorts and her softest crop-top sweater, a dark navy on her torso with small pink poofs at the shoulders. A short blast of a hairdryer later and her hair fluffed by her ears.
She was clean. Now she could go back and-
Do what? Prance around shampooing Giorno’s hair while Mista and Fugo splash him with bubbles and squeak little rubber duckies in her ears? Maybe they could all sing a long repetitive sing-a-long song too.
She slumped her shoulder against the doorway, gaze drifting through her steamy sauna of a bathroom. She’d have to wait.
Ugh.
Well, maybe she’d see if she could call some pickup for dinner or... something. There wasn’t much else to do besides-
Her brow crunched. Wait.
It lay on the floor, still tucked in the silk of the dress’ right breast, still soft as the puddy she left it as.
Oh, there we go.
---
She found no one in the kitchen, the messy living room, or library, and frankly, she didn’t know why she decided to run everywhere when she could’ve guessed Bucciarati would be in Giorno’s sitting room.
But evidently, he wasn’t.
She scanned the parlor, only to find the bedroom door partially open, Mista’s complaining and Fugo’s chiding trickling from it.
Their little bath time couldn’t be done already, could it?
She really only heard the two louder voices and some other she couldn’t make out. Along with some particularly loud splashing. She peered in.
The bathroom was on the opposite wall to the parlor’s door. It wasn’t a straight shot, so she struggled. But she did see-
“TRISH!”
Her skull could’ve slammed through the ceiling with how high she jumped. She swore. Turned. Saw Narancia’s shit-eating grin. “Shithead!” She wacked him on the shoulder. “I could kill you! In fact I almost killed you if I didn’t hear it was your dumbass voice!”
The fucking bastard held his hips and swung them back and forth proudly, “But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You love me too much. And besides, I’m too adorable to kill.” He batted his eyelashes.
She stifled a grin. “You’re. Horrible. And very kill-able.”
Narancia pushed closer, batting his eyelashes harder, until she shoved his forehead away.
“Hey,” he swiveled back, “at least I’m not some peeping tom.”
Heat flushed her cheeks and she sputtered, “I wasn’t trying to look for that, dumbass! I was just checking to see if they were done and I could go in ‘cause I have to tell Giorno about-”
A hand landed on her shoulder. “Ah, Trish! I thought I heard you.”
The number of times she had adrenaline shoot down her spine today was about to be too many.
Though, when she turned to see Bucciarati’s kind look, it all soothed over like hot cocoa on cold bones. “Why don’t you come in?” He said.
With a sigh and nod, she followed the older in, ignoring Narancia still smirking behind her.
The other two were situating Giorno into bed, his freshly washed gold rolling in waves down blue silk pajamas fresh from a glossy magazine cover.
He perked up when he saw her, sitting up further. “Oh, good timing. We were just about to discuss last night’s operation.”
Bucciarati tapped what had come to be her bedside chair, “Won’t you sit down?”
She did. Crossed her legs and was about to start when Abbacchio began, “So, what did you guys learn?”
Giorno piped up, “The trafficking ring extends far beyond Faviloni, he’s just on the more visible front lines.”
“Apparently not visible enough, if he was able to hide his night job from us for as long as he did.” Abbacchio muttered.
“We'll discuss how to better monitor our Capos another time.” Bucciarati soothed. “For now, we need to take down the current infestation.”
Giorno nodded, continuing, “We know Faviloni was using Passione’s boats and docks as meeting places and for transportation, and in several different cities. Meaning those various Capos either were paid off or too incompetent to see it happening right under their noses. Unfortunately,” Giorno knit his hands together, settling them in his lap, “I was confronted by him, and put in a situation that forced me to show my hand, and as a result, our investigation was cut short. Mista.”
The gunman perked up from his place against the wall. “Boss?”
“You swept the house before we left, did you find anything useful?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Couple must have burned what leads they could, knowing that we knew and that their bosses would pay if we found anything tying them to their sinking ship. Left the place a wreck in the process. Though, it was almost like they were looking for something-”
“Like this?”
She’d waited for her moment. And in a triumphant sweeping motion, Trish dug a hand into her bra to pull out the brown leather puddy with a flourish, allowing it to pop back into the once-dusty ledger with a “Ta-da.”
“Dude! Whoa- wait-” Mista plucked it from her hand, throwing it open and scanning it, “It’s a ledger!”
“Give it.” Abbacchio snatched the book, flipping through. Scuttling over, Fugo and Narancia did their best to not disturb the taller as they crowded to see the book's scribbled shorthand and columns.
It took a few seconds before the older’s face fell, and he sighed, “Hate to say it but, as good of a find that this was, it would only be useful if Faviloni was still alive. With him dead now as the obvious leak and our main lead, his partners will clean up shop, and stop using the information they knew Faviloni used. They’ll start fresh with new aliases, locations, and times.” Abbacchio handed the book off to Fugo. “Sorry, kid.”
Trish met the look with a grin, propping her head up on her fist and elbow, muffling the words with the inside of her cheek, “Good thing I listened to them arguing about it, then.” She tapped her chin. “Something about how one of them killed one Antonio, and that they had to traffic people for the Bernardi Brothers to atone for it.”
Fugo’s jaw dropped. “The Bernardi Brothers?! Wait, wait, wait- the two massive figures in Parliament that have been in Passione’s pocket since even before Giorno? Those two?!”
“Certainly sounds like it.” Trish hummed happily.
“Oh- The two guys with the dalmatians that bring that good lasagna to dinner?!” Narancia asked.
“They’ve been exceedingly helpful and loyal to our organization, even after the leadership turnover.” Bucciarati added.
“Not just to the organization, but they seemed rather eager to be in my pocket specifically.” Giorno hummed.
Blue eyes caught on, and Bucciarati watched the younger more carefully, “You think they could do it?”
Giorno rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t put it past them. They’re already moral-less as it is. They’ve proved that much to us.” He looked to Trish, asked, “You’re absolutely sure you heard them correctly?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t not hear it with how loud they were.”
With that, Giorno nodded and looked to Fugo holding the ledger. “Are they in there?”
The other looked up from it. “No. Not that I can see so far.”
“So, if the Bernardi’s aren’t in it, then they will safely assume they’re clean of Faviloni’s dirty books, and continue operating as usual, with maybe a few changes.” There was a growing excitement in his eye.
“But not enough changes to get away with it, since they don’t know we’re on to them.” Narancia pointed. “That’s how we'll get ‘em, right?!”
Giorno nodded, a smile growing, and the air hummed with it.
“That’s awesome!” Mista burst.
“Hell yeah! The team’s back on the case!” Narancia faked holding a magnifying glass in front of his eye, looking and pushing into Fugo’s face.
The paler shoved him away before sending a kind grin to her, “Good work, Trish.”
She smiled back, then sent a glance up as Abbacchio patted her shoulder with a “You did good, kid.”
Bucciarati was beaming at her and Giorno-
smiled, weakly, before it dropped, and he seemed to get lost in the comforter’s floral pattern.
She heard the others talking, bouncing around leads and setting up meetings and spies and-
“Hey, um. Could you guys give us a minute?”
Of course, she watched humor flash on faces such as Narancia’s, before the humor caught on her tone, the tease of grins ebbing away.
Bucciarati nodded, broke the silence, “Sure.” He rose. “Call if you need one of us.”
And with that, they shuffled out one by one. The door clicked shut.
The hive’s buzz gone, quiet settled in.
Fugo had left the window open earlier, the one closest to the bed. Drapes pulled apart, midday poured in, trickling bird calls and squirrel chatter through the creamy liners, breeze pushing and pulling the sheer in and out, like foam on an ocean shore.
“So, what is it?” She asked.
“What?”
Trish pushed her hand onto the comforter, but it didn’t pull his attention to her. He still stared at that spot in the floral lace, looping a loose strand around his finger, over and over and over.
“What’s bothering you, Giorno?”
“...I-” He stopped the movement, leaving his ring finger wound tight in the strand, strangling it. “I owe you a proper apology.”
Her brows knit, “For what? ...Last night? That mess? It wasn’t your fault.”
“But I could’ve prevented it.” He looked to her. “I should have looked into Faye’s history more thoroughly, I should’ve smelled the trap a mile away, and I should’ve never brought-” He snagged on it, his shoulders sagged, and he looked away.
After a moment, Trish leaned forward, “Who would have you brought instead? Mista? In that dress? He doesn’t have the ass for it.”
Giorno broke, a hiss of a laugh escaping him, devolving into a contagious giggle that spread to her.
“He would spill out of that dress.”
“He’d spill in that dress! Those fucking heels almost tripped me every five minutes! And I’m more experienced than him! Well... mostly.”
It egged more of that smile and quiet giggle from him, feeding hers.
She was almost sorry to bring them back to the topic but, “Don’t worry about last night. Really, Giorno. Shit happens, and it isn’t worth feeling guilty about afterwards.”
He looked more settled about it, though he still offered, “I do still want to say I’m sorry, nonetheless. You went through a lot, too much, all while I was half-conscious and otherwise useless. It’s not something I ever wanted for you that evening, or morning, or ever. And it won’t happen again.”
Trish smiled, just happy to see the worry leave him, “Thanks. And it’s really ok.” Her fingers fiddled in her lap. “A-and if we’re being honest, I probably should be the one apologizing-” Why was she bringing this up? She didn’t have to- but- “I-It really wasn’t fair of me to just k-kiss you while you were unconscious and all-”
“I wasn’t unconscious.”
“You-?!” Her glance shot up, caught him hear himself and snag his bottom lip. He didn’t chew at the fissure there, but that kind of pressure probably wasn’t good for it either.
She felt heat broil under her cheeks as his eyes dropped back to the comforter.
He was awake? How long? For how much? Did he hear her yelling at him? Crying? Should she say sorry or-?!
“Trish. I’m... not the best at this sort of thing.”
She found herself stuck on his finger coiling the strand around itself again. Around and pull, around and pull, around and-
“How much did you hear?” She asked, quietly.
“Enough to feel horrible that I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. You were a voice in a distant dream talking to me. And I wished I could have told you I was there.”
Her shoulders hiked up, and she wished they could cover her burning ears. “I-I’m sorry, I... I didn’t mean for you to hear it.”
Giorno looked up to her, his glint slicing through her lie, her core, but it was gentle, how a sharp knife should cut. “I am sorry I listened to something so personal, but, it was actually... rather nice. Actually, it was rather helpful.” He stopped fiddling with the strand, twining his fingers together in his lap instead, watching them spindle an imaginary thread. “After you left, and Mista blurred into the sky, the place I found myself in was comfortable, but numb, and... empty... Pleasant, though, somewhat. I was content, at least. But then I heard your voice.”
He was lost for a moment, and he still looked past his hands, his bed, the floor, as he continued,
“You filled the void there with something so tangible, I can almost feel its softness between my fingers still... And when your voice stopped, the world went numb again, and I found that I didn’t want it to stay that way.”
She fought against melting as his eyes came up to lay warm over hers.
“You brought me back.” He said. “And I don't think I could ever repay you.” His head tilted forward. “That’s what bothers me.”
Oh.
His look was molten, resting heavily on her and she wasn’t sure if she could hold the weight up any longer. Her shoulders fell, and she resorted to the one thought she could grab onto, among the millions of others rippling and blurring her mind. “You can repay me by not dying again.”
Giorno allowed the ghost of a smile, “I wasn’t planning on it anytime soon.”
A grin trickled across her face, fading as soon as it appeared, “But really. You don’t owe me anything. I saved your life, sure, but... it was because I couldn’t just stand by and let you, you know...” She was holding her arms. Like she was cold. She wasn’t, despite the goosebumps slithering over her skin. And yet she shivered as she studied the ground.
A warmth settled around her shoulders, and she looked up to find Giorno sitting up on the edge of the bed, a breath away, wrapping her in one of his many blankets. As he took time to pull the corners to her collarbones, he began, “It's redundant of me to say it, but I didn’t want to die, either... Not in front of you.” He held the corners still, and it took her too long to realize she was supposed to hold onto them, keep the blanket tight around her. But when she did, he only relaxed his grip, his touch remaining as he stared through her, as he added, quietly, “It wouldn't have been fair to you.”
His brows furrowed for a moment, before his mind seemed to return. He glanced up, his eyes finding hers again as he said, “So, for keeping me from that fate, I thank you.”
His gaze harpooned her in place, and she thought she’d wriggle under it like a fish, but the brush of his breath on her face hushed her nerves, muzzled her words, “I- I’m not some kind of hero. I don’t like how everyone keeps acting like it. I... I just... I hated seeing you like that, is all.”
She watched him think for a moment, and then a light played across his eyes. “So, you decide to suffocate me the moment I do wake up?”
“T-That’s not fair!” She dropped a blanket corner to point, “You were dead!”
“And you were kissing a dead person as though they were very much alive.”
“I- I- Y-You were alive though- You kissed me back!”
As soon as she said it, she shut up. Fast. His eyebrows had shot up, questioning her statement with all the certainty of those two piercing eyes. Always calculating. Watching. Knowing. He was a hawk that could pick out any stray mouse in the brush, could estimate which branch would snag on what tuft of fur, which corner to pluck it from the ground. All in an instant.
She had no chance at hiding. So, she offered up herself willingly.
“I- I mean... I was pretty delirious from adrenaline and whatever else and totally could’ve just been-”
“Dreaming it?”
It threw her. She had watched him. How he’d titled his head, how he’d let his eyebrows settle, no longer teasing. His gaze was kind. Delicate as an orchid but twice as vibrant. Thrumming with life but holding onto the reigns tight, so their driving horse wouldn’t even think to try bucking them.
And it heated her cheeks like a broiler and her lips fell open, only to feel his breath from across the gap that she swore was now smaller. No, she was right. He had come closer, so very close to touching her nose with his, and she worried her chest would combust and there’d be nothing left of her but butterfly wings and warm bones.
“Y-yeah.” She breathed. “A dream.”
His eyelids sank. She thought he’d closed them until she felt his touch on her hand, his gaze cradling their fingers as he nodded gently, so as to not bump her nose, “I liked your dream. What was there again? Meadows?”
He had let his hand stay there, resting, waiting patiently. So, she rotated her palm to face up, slipping her fingers into his, twining them as the stems and blades of grass that she remembered whispering in the breeze.
“Wildflowers. Wildflower meadows.”
His eyebrows furrowed as he asked, “Wildflowers? I don’t remember those. Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
His brows furrowed, almost worried, like she’d lost her mind, and Giorno practically whispered, “You do realize those are weeds? Why on earth would you dream of fields full of weeds when you could’ve pick anything? They’re... Well, actually...”
She watched him think, lean back a bit and rub his chin even, before something clicked, and he bounced back, right in front of her face, words pushing fresh pink back into her cheeks, “That’s what you are!”
“What?”
“A weed.” He said. Rather happy with himself.
“I’m... a weed? Really?”
“Yes. You’re stubborn, resilient, and persevering...” He seemed to rethink it, after seeing her look. “Would you like to be called something else?”
“W- Well, it’s just usually guys go for naming off pretty flowers is all.”
He thought about it for a second, before asking, completely genuine and full of curiosity, “What kind of flower would you like to be, then?”
Despite the off-thump she felt behind her ribcage, she attempted a to sit up straighter, smile and try to bring back that confident, teasing tone, “Well, definitely n-not a weed. Maybe something more...”
More... what? Her heart sunk. Romantic? Was she really that naive? She sees a guy pepper her with a few cute flattering lines as thanks for saving his life and she just immediately thinks she can throw her heart at him, her arms open and ready to accept his? She had kissed him , and had just apologized for it. Sure he was being cute- she dare say flirtatious- but she didn’t want to think of it as something more when it was just a coy game for her to play along with until they both laughed and moved on, friendship intact and unharmed.
But- she checked again, rubbed her thumb against his- and noted how his hand still twined with hers on the chair so gently and-
She just wished she could stick her burning ears in sand, put the fire in her brain out. Instead, she sighed, “I don’t know what kind of flower I’d want to be.”
“How about mine?”
Air stuck in her lungs. Her spine became a tree trunk. Limbs became branches. Her heart skipped a beat. Not to mention it skipped town. Picked up and left her and in its place began to pound a juiced-up machine that just wouldn’t stop begging to race and race blood through her every vein and limb at high speed.
‘Mine’ he says.
She as his. And he hers .
If his insides were newly formed clay, hers were baked to cracking, heat breaking them apart with the pressure.
Lost in her mind, she almost startled at his touch slipping under her jaw, lifting her gaze up from him playing violin on the soft of her wrist.
His brows rose in question again, but light and delicate this time, like he knew she was made of crumbling clay, knew she would break easily. He asked, “Or would you rather be something else?”
And there Giorno waited. Patiently. Close enough she could see the rims of his irises and call them seashore.
Waiting. Only as something like chivalry would hold him to.
He knew what she wanted, he had only asked as to hold out a formal invitation.
So, she kissed him.
Carefully and measuredly. A handwritten rsvp in ink that she dared to press onto his soft lips, no longer bleeding that sickly violet, but now flushed a fresh pink with sweet sugar wine.
After a moment, a wordless moment neither of them wanted filled with anything but what they shared, she signed his bottom lip at the fissure with her signature, before parting from him, leaving the letter at the door, ready to run and flee and return to what had been if she’d overstepped and-
Giorno looked confused. Like she’d done something unexpected.
Oh God- her heart lodged in her throat, a gulp catching there- she had misread him- she had dreamt it all alone and-
His touch slipped up to hold the bends of her neck, thumbs sliding up and over her heartbeat racing below.
Then he pulled her in, pushing his lips over hers.
Touch pressed and seared on her lips and cheeks and nose like a brand, his reply clear and written with flowery prose in every kiss he placed on her. She pulled him closer-
and they melted.
Giorno snaked his fingers up behind her neck, the other hand wrapping under her arm and pressing into the small of her back. Pulling her into him further, his lips travelled to her cheek, almost her ear, and she let him. The bare of his shoulder pressed into her neck, and she kissed his cheek in return.
They fell back, or for her it was forward. Gold fell as rivers, rolling out across the comforter, the silk puffing up on impact, almost pushing lace up past his ears.
Giorno had winced when they landed, and she propped up on her elbows to kneel over him, asking, “Oh- God- wait- a-are you ok? Jesus, I forgot you’re still hurt and I just...” She bit her bottom lip, “I’m sorry- about... M-maybe you should just, um, rest for now and I’ll-”
A knuckle brushed under her jaw, stilling her, guiding her gaze back to his.
“I don't want you just stealing a kiss later, while I’m asleep.”
His hand rose to her cheek, cupped it and she smiled, stifled a short giggle. Tilting her face, she pulled his palm to her lips, kissing it once before dipping back down. His touch welcomed her back, his arms enveloping her, and they returned to sharing smiling breaths between tugging lips.
She thought just one more, just one more, but each only drowned her deeper in the clouds they danced through, her thoughts brought to nothing more than feeling where skin bled warmth between them. Their faces, necks, the bare patches of his stomach under the gauze pressing on what her short sweater didn’t cover-
Trish heard the question mumble out of her, between breaths, “Is this a dream?”
Giorno ran a hand up into her hair, parting from her to tilt up, kissing her nose, and opened his eyes to gaze up at her. He asked kindly, like he could grant it for her, “Would you rather be back in a dream?”
Softly, she shook her head, her nose rubbing his, “Not if this is real.”
He grinned up at her. “It’s a dream come true, then?”
She propped herself up to look at the face below her, the one always brimming with layers of paint, the one that never let any peering eye know each and every brushstroke that made up him.
She smiled at that face, the one that only now lay bare before her, as real as he could be, all for her, as she said,
“Only if I don’t ever have to wake up.”
“Stay, and you’ll never have to.”
~
THE END