Work Text:
“Are you okay?”
Such a simple question, as it stands. It hangs in the space between the pair of them, the gentle breeze from the open window bringing a coolness to the room, yet it does nought to abate the tense air brought about by those words.
Are you okay?
Giorno smiles - it’s not a genuine smile, it never has been - but he smiles all the same.
“I’m fine, thank you.” He says, softly.
He’s glad to have the privilege to lie.
---
“Giorno, are you okay? Can you hear me? Are you hurt?” Bucciarati asks as he places a hand on Giorno’s back tentatively, trying to help him to sit up. Giorno hacks up a cough into his hand, spots of blood tarnishing mottled and pale skin as Bucciarati winces.
“Are you alright?” Bucciarati asks once more, hopeful for more of a response this time. Giorno manages a wheezing, rattling breath.
“No, I’m not okay. I can hear you. I’m scared. Everything hurts.” He says, the words so matter-of-factly, completely out of place with his calm tone.
His eyes grow wide, as he wheezes another breath, and he’s sure that there must be tiny pieces of gravel rattling around in his lungs - it’s difficult to breathe and he doesn’t know if it’s from the pain or panic as he looks up at Bucciarati, face paling more than either of them would’ve thought possible.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” He gasps out the words as if they’re a promise. “I swear I didn’t mean to say that.”
---
Even with the mask that Giorno has so finely crafted, gilded in threads of gold and rose, Bucciarati seems to be able to see right through it - seems to be able to rip it from his face, from his shaking hands. It’s not on purpose that Bucciarati stomps it into the dirty ground as he sits himself down on the edge of Giorno’s bed, but it certainly seems like it is.
Giorno turns away from him, back to the pages littering his desk, a mess of clean white papers, covered in dark ink and sprawled across the place - what was once a neat pile, once in order, has yet again been destroyed by Giorno’s own hands.
“Do you need any help with those?” The man sitting behind him asks, and Giorno does his best not to jump in his seat at the man’s voice breaking the silence and the tranquillity of the room.
“No, thank you,” Giorno says politely. “I can manage on my own.”
He expects that to be the end of the conversation - for Bucciarati to sigh, gather himself to his feet with one last pitiful look, before leaving the boy be, preferably to waste himself away for another day, but of course, there is no such luck.
Bucciarati remains where he is seated.
“That’s not what you said on Tuesday,” He says, pointedly, and it’s those words that cause Giorno to spin around in his chair, eyes piercing Bucciarati like daggers.
“You can’t hold Tuesday against me.” Giorno hisses, venom lacing his tone. Bucciarati shrugs - he has the audacity to shrug - before looking out of the window.
The man hums lightly, seemingly ignoring Giorno’s bitter protest. “It looks as if it’s going to rain.”
Giorno sighs, rubbing at his aching forehead as he tries to calm himself. “I suppose it does,” He says, quietly.
Bucciarati likes to try to provoke him, but he can’t bite. He doesn’t have the right.
---
“You shouldn’t be working, Giorno. You’re unwell. Until the others find the stand user, you should be resting.” Bucciarati offers quietly, setting a mug of peppermint tea on the desk next to Giorno’s papers.
“If I’m not working, then I’m useless. Besides, finding the stand user shouldn’t be their burden. It’s my fault.”
The words spill from his lips like sand, gritty and a little off - it’s easy to tell they’re not coming out quite right, especially with the way that Giorno’s cheeks flush as soon as he’s done speaking, and the way that he pulls the soft blanket tighter around his shoulders.
“It’s not your fault,” Bucciarati says, gently. Even if Giorno is being forced to tell the truth, that doesn’t mean that Bucciarati has to, and he blurts out just as much.
“I don’t believe you. I think you’re lying to make me feel better.” Trembling hands reach out for the mug of peppermint tea, and Giorno takes a tentative sip. “And now I’m scared that you’re angry at me for disagreeing with you and I’m scared that you’re going to leave.”
He takes another sip of the tea - as if that will do anything to stifle the words.
Gracefully, Bucciarati glosses over Giorno’s unwitting confessions with a quiet “I’m not angry,” as he leans down to peer at the papers.
“Do you need any help with these?”
“Yes, please. I don’t want to bother you, but I’m really struggling. My head hurts and I don’t understand.”
Bucciarati nods slightly, plucking up one of the papers from in front of Giorno, as well as a pen.
“I’m sure it will be easier with two sets of eyes on it, anyhow.”
---
“Is there something you needed, Bucciarati?” Giorno asks, eventually - losing both patience with himself and the other man in the room, staring out of the window thoughtfully.
“I just wanted to check that you were alright after everything, really.”
“That’s it.”
“Truly, that’s it.”
---
“Is that it, Bucciarati?” Mista asks, his eyes darting around the scene, the blood, the gore, the debris littered haphazardly around the area.
“Apart from Moretti, that’s it. We must’ve got all of his goons,” He answers, rubbing at his forehead, frowning at the blood and grime on his hand as he takes it from his forehead. “Where is everyone? Is Fugo still back at the car--”
“Bucciarati!” Narancia’s cry breaks through the air, panicked, and not-too-distant. “Bucciarati, help! Please!” It comes out of more of a desperate wail, and Bucciarati quickly glances across to Mista, the gunman already heading off in the direction of the shout.
Bucciarati follows quickly after, dread filling his chest. Had Narancia been injured…? Where was Giorno to heal him--?
Oh. There was Giorno.
Propped up against a rock, golden hair splayed around him like some sort of awful halo, bright pink suit stained with dirt (Their dry cleaner certainly wouldn’t be impressed by the state of it.) - was Giorno Giovanna. Narancia stands next to him, Aerosmith’s radar up - presumably to track someone’s breathing, as Abbacchio kneels next to Giorno’s… body?
Corpse?
As the pair rushes over, Abbacchio looks up to them with a grim expression.
“He got hit by the stand.” The man informs, as Giorno’s face twitches in discomfort.
Bucciarati is immediately on his knees next to Giorno, stroking the boy’s hair back with trembling fingers. Giorno strains to open one eye, a glimmer of jewel tones amongst the dust and decay comes as a relief - Bucciarati breathes out a relieved sigh.
“Giorno, are you okay? Can you hear me? Are you hurt?” Bucciarati asks as he places a hand on Giorno’s back tentatively, trying to help him to sit up. Giorno hacks up a cough into his hand, spots of blood tarnishing mottled and pale skin as Bucciarati winces.
“Are you alright?” Bucciarati asks once more, hopeful for more of a response this time. Giorno manages a wheezing, rattling breath.
“No, I’m not okay. I can hear you. I’m scared. Everything hurts.” He says, the words so matter-of-factly, completely out of place with his calm tone.
His eyes grow wide, as he wheezes another breath, and he’s sure that there must be tiny pieces of gravel rattling around in his lungs - it’s difficult to breathe and he doesn’t know if it’s from the pain or panic as he looks up at Bucciarati, face paling more than either of them would’ve thought possible.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” He gasps out the words as if they’re a promise. “I swear I didn’t mean to say that.”
Bucciarati recoils a little, brow furrowing in confusion, and Giorno’s lips open and close around the air, and his shaking hand comes up to grab his throat. “N-No, I--”
“Wha- Is it like that Talking-Head stand that got me? It’s messing with what he’s tryin’ to say?!” Narancia squawks, almost as if in disbelief.
Grimly, Bucciarati shakes his head, expression turning apologetic as he looks over Giorno’s panicked expression.
“... This stand-- It’s the opposite.”
Wide-eyed, Giorno looks as if he’s about to choke, throw up, or pass out. Perhaps all of them.
“It’s a truth-serum stand. From what I can tell, Giorno can’t tell any lies.”
---
“Everyone’s been worried about you,” Bucciarati admits, and Giorno’s pen pauses on the page. After a moment, he sighs, setting it down and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He tugs the blanket a little more around himself - protection against whatever argument it seems like Bucciarati is going to start with him.
“They don’t need to be.” Giorno bites back, not deigning to make eye contact with the man. It seems as if Bucciarati isn’t going to allow him to hide away from anything though (Why would he? The bastard.) as he hears the man’s footsteps cross the room, standing next to him.
“ I’m worried about you.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Giorno answers quietly, almost scared to turn his head and face the man hovering over him. “ Please . Just forget everything I said.” It’s more of a plea than anything else - a plea to just drop it , but of course - Bucciarati would never be so considerate.
“After what you said--”
If Giorno had less respect for Bucciarati, and more energy, the man would’ve been punted across the room by Gold Experience by now.
“--About your childhood--”
---
Getting Giorno settled on the couch was more of a chore than it should’ve been - especially due to the fact of Giorno desperately attempting not to say anything at all.
“There.” Bucciarati smiled, arranging the pillow under Giorno’s head as gently as he could, what with the large bruise blooming on his forehead and all. “Do you need anything else?”
Giorno shook his head, though as he did so, words still seemed to spill out, as if he hadn’t quite got the hang of saying nothing. His usual defence mechanism seemed to rely on lying in order to people please, and that--
“I’m a little cold. A blanket would be nice.”
-- wasn’t working out so well.
Smiling, even as Giorno’s face displayed an absolutely miserable expression, Bucciarati goes to fetch a blanket from the hall cupboard to drape over him.
“This must be like when you were little, and you’d stay home from school, right?” Bucciarati laughed, a little haughtily. “When your mom gets you set up on the couch in front of the TV. Those were the days…” The man reminisces, wistfully.
“My mom never did that. She wasn’t around for me.” He confesses dejectedly. Bucciarati blinks.
“Oh. Your father, then?”
“I’ve never met my biological father,” Giorno explains, shutting his eyes, as if to spare himself the embarrassment as his cheeks turn red. “My stepfather preferred to hit me when I was unwell.”
Bucciarati’s expression falls considerably. “Giorno, I’m so sorry-- I didn’t realise. Your stepfather… He hurt you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. He abused me for almost a decade. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Giorno buried his face into the pillow under his head, as Bucciarati narrowed his lips, not daring to say another word.
---
“I said I didn’t want to talk about it!” Giorno announces, gathering himself to his feet, causing Bucciarati to step back in surprise.
“I’m not asking you to talk about it,” Bucciarati says calmly, even as Giorno steps away from his desk, and begins to pace around the room. “I just want you to know that it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay--”
“--Fine, maybe ‘Okay’ is the wrong word, it’s not okay what happened, it will never be okay, but you shouldn’t be ashamed. It doesn’t make you weak. None of this has made you weak.”
“It can’t make me weaker than I already am,” Giorno murmurs defeatedly. “But I at least didn’t want you to know about it. I didn’t want you to think less of me. I didn’t do anything to stop it--”
“--You were just a child.”
Giorno doesn’t realise that Bucciarati had crossed the room and was now standing next to him until he sees the man in his peripheral vision, arms outstretched.
“Can I hug you? Do you need a hug?”
Giorno furrowed his brow, mouth slightly open as he tried to think of how he could control the situation.
“No lies. It may not be okay right now, you may not feel okay, but I swear to you. I swear to you, one day you will.”
“I--”
“You were a child.” Bucciarati reiterates, wrapping his arms around Giorno as gently as he can.
Melting into Bucciarati’s embrace felt like home.