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The soft beeping of machines and monitors flickered in and out as Giorno sat in the hard chair beside Bucciarati's bed. He was mostly focused on the mechanical sound of Bucciarati breathing with the tube down his throat, filling his lungs manually and keeping the oxygen flowing in and out at a steady pace.
Giorno paid attention because he remembered the terror he had felt when Bucciarati had stopped breathing. When his lungs had frozen because of the poison mercilessly attacking his body. Taking away his ability to walk and talk and, finally, to breathe.
He glanced up briefly as Abbacchio stepped into the room, but more guilt crashed over Giorno at the worried look the older gangster didn't even try to hide as his eyes fell on the unconscious figure in the bed.
Giorno curled up, unable to meet Abbacchio's eyes. The man probably hated him more than he ever had before for what had happened.
"I'm gonna go get a coffee," Abbacchio finally said, startling him. "Can I get you anything?"
Giorno shook his head silently, staring at his hands. Abbacchio lingered for what seemed like an eternity before he gave a long sigh and left the room.
Giorno turned back to Bucciarati's pale face, framed by lank hair that was not in its usual braid. Giorno briefly reached into his pocket to feel the smooth metal of Bucciarati's hairclips. He'd taken them out to make the man more comfortable, but it just made him look even more vulnerable.
The worst part was that the poison that had very nearly killed Bucciarati had been meant for Giorno. Resulting from a hit that Bucciarati had taken on his behalf, stepping in front of Giorno to take a dart in the shoulder.
It seemed like such an insignificant wound to look at it. Even now there was only a small square of gauze taped over the area. Seeing it, no one would think that it had been the deadliest blow the enemy could deal.
And Giorno could do nothing to fix it. He could repair torn flesh, replace severed limbs, damaged organs, lost blood, but he couldn't stop the poison from assaulting Bucciarati's body.
He had tried. In the wake of the attack, after they had taken down the enemy in what turned out to be a short and brutal fight, Giorno had tried everything in his power to fix Bucciarati while they waited for the others to come. Counting down the seconds as Bucciarati's life slipped away. All too reminiscent of a time Giorno would rather forget.
But with all of Gold Experience's power, he couldn't fix this. He'd only been able to watch, feel as Bucciarati sagged heavier and heavier against him while Giorno tried to get them out of there in case their enemy had more men waiting in the wings. Heard his breathing get more labored. Felt his pulse weaken.
And, worst of all, he'd clearly seen the growing terror in Bucciarati's eyes as his body started to numb, hands clumsy, feel dragging. Tongue refusing to work. It had only been six months since Bucciarati had been little more than a walking corpse after his death at the hands of Diavolo. Only six months since Giorno had somehow been able to reverse the effects permanently with his acquired Requiem power. Surely, six months hadn't been long enough for Bucciarati to forget that feeling. It hadn't been long enough for Giorno.
And now Bucciarati had been forced to feel it all over again. Because of Giorno.
It had only been by a small miracle that Abbacchio and Mista had showed up when they had. Giorno could imagine the scene: Bucciarati crumpled in a heap on the side of the road, Giorno desperately trying to hold onto him, to get some response out of him. It was only after the others had helped load the dying man into the back of the car, as Giorno cradled his head, begging silently for a response, that Bucciarati had given a choking gasp and proceeded to stop breathing all together.
The rest was a blur. Abbacchio running red lights to get to the hospital. Bucciarati being pulled from Giorno's arms as the hospital staff surrounded the car at Mista's shout.
Giorno had barely had the presence of mind to hand over the dart that had been the delivery method of the poison to Abbacchio as he hurried into the emergency room to pass it over to the doctors.
Giorno tried to follow before he realized he was shaking too much to even walk, collapsing on legs that refused to work. For a moment he had wondered if he had been poisoned after all, but it was Mista's firm grip on his shoulders, pulling him to his feet to sink, instead, into a nearby chair that pulled him back into reality.
"He'll be okay, GioGio. He's gonna be fine," the gunman assured him, voice far away.
Giorno shuddered as he stared once again at Bucciarati's face, impassive in his unconsciousness. At least he no longer looked terrified. Mista had thankfully been right. They'd had the antidote at the hospital, and were able to administer it and stop the poison's effects, get Bucciarati breathing again.
Giorno was relieved, of course, but there was something deep and slimy inside of him that kept him from feeling better. Because he knew this had all been his fault. He had almost gotten Bucciarati killed. Again. And this time, he wasn't sure he could have reversed the effects, even with Requiem.
The sight of Bucciarati hooked to tubes and wires was suddenly too much. He tore his eyes away and pushed himself to his feet, desperate for fresh air before the crush of his guilt suffocated him.
Mista had long since gone back to the house to inform the others about everything. Abbacchio was currently standing down the hall, talking to the doctors in a low voice.
Giorno slipped from the room unnoticed and made his way out of the hospital.
He breathed after he got outside, looking up at the sky.
It was after midnight now, and the moon was half full, pale light falling down onto Giorno's face, accusing. He couldn't hide his sins from the moon and he didn't try to. He simply hunched his shoulders, shoving his hands in his pockets and started walking.
He left the hospital parking lot and kept going, footsteps quickening, no destination in mind. He just needed to get away.
Unfortunately, he couldn't run from his thoughts.
He didn't know how long he had been walking, caught up in his inner turmoil, before he became aware that he had ended up on a more populated street. Clubs and bars lined the way, and he was no longer alone out here. Others were around, either enjoying the nightlife or running from their own dark secrets.
He could hear the heavy thrum of music coming from one establishment and finally slowed down, knowing he should turn back, but not wanting too. Not yet. He couldn't face Bucciarati again right now.
"Well, hello there, handsome. You looking for a good time?"
Giorno jerked his head up to see a scantily dressed woman approaching him with a smile. She stopped as she saw him look up, however, smile wavering as her brows pulled together.
"You look a bit young to be out here, darling."
Giorno swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders. "I'm not interested," he muttered.
The woman hurried forward as he started to move away. "I didn't mean to offend you," she cooed, back to trying to please as she reached out to wrap her arms around his, trapping him briefly. "If you're nervous, I promise I'll be gentle…"
Giorno pulled his arm away from her. "Please, leave me alone," he snapped.
She kept her distance this time, looking surprised, but also seemed to respect his boundaries. "Look, honey, I can see you're having a rough time of it," she said quietly and Giorno flinched, wishing she would just leave him alone. "It's a slow night. How about you just buy me a drink and you can talk to me? You look like you might need someone to talk to."
Giorno gritted his teeth even as his chest clenched. "I don't."
"Are you sure?"
He hesitated, mouth open to retort when he thought about it for a long second. Maybe…maybe it would feel good to tell someone. Especially if he never had to see them again.
"Alright," he finally relented. "One drink."
She smiled and looped his arm through hers again, drawing him toward the door of the club.
Inside was a fug of smoke combatted by the thrum of bass-boosted music from the stage at one side of the room where a woman danced in front of a throng of ogling men. Giorno felt a headache start instantly, but ignored it. The hazy atmosphere obscured both his body and his mind and at the moment he was okay with that.
The woman led him up to the bar and plopped herself down on a stool there. Giorno tentatively took the one beside her.
"What can I get you?" the bar-tender asked, barely glancing their way.
"Your best whisky—the gentleman's buying," the woman said with a wink at Giorno.
The bartender finally turned to him and his eyes narrowed. "You got some ID, kid?"
Giorno flushed, not wanting the embarrassment of getting kicked out, but not quite knowing what to do. He glanced down and suddenly remembered the ring on his hand. He curled his fingers and the ring caught the light.
The bartender's eyes followed his own and widened as they saw the ring, the Passione crest obvious, settled between two golden ladybugs.
"What'll you have?" he asked with no other preamble.
Giorno let out a long exhale. "The same."
The man turned and took down a bottle from the shelf, pouring two glasses of whisky over ice.
Giorno took a long moment staring at the amber liquid as his companion took up her glass and drank a large gulp.
"What a nice treat," she said with a smile as she turned back to Giorno. "Now…why so sad tonight, darling? Your sweetheart leave you?"
Giorno looked away. "No." How he wished it was only something so trivial.
The woman reached out and tapped the glass in front of him. "Whatever is troubling you, this helps. Take your time." She finished off her glass and motioned for another.
Giorno stared at the drink again, before he finally wrapped his hand around the glass, ice tinkling in the liquid. He wasn't fond of liquor. Never had been. The smell reminded him of his mother…and worse.
But his aim tonight wasn't to make himself feel better. He took up the glass and brought it to his lips. It was only a small sip but it burned all the way down, causing his eyes to water slightly. He took another sip and felt the fire reignite his insides.
"Good, isn't it?" the woman asked him as she sipped at her second glass.
Giorno couldn't say he agreed, but the ball of fire that was settling in his belly was working to burn away the tar-like ball of guilt and he couldn't say he was ungrateful for that.
The woman leaned forward, breasts nearly popping out of her tight shirt as she put a hand on his arm. "Tell me your troubles, sweetheart. What brings you out here tonight alone?"
Another drink to fan the flames again. "Everyone around me gets hurt, and I can't stop it," Giorno admitted. He was surprised at how easy it was to say it out loud. "I'll never be able to stop it." A secret fear, out in the open now. He found he didn't even care.
The woman gave him a look of sympathy. "I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"
"No," Giorno said, voice choked. He buried the sound, the welling tightness, with another drink, feeling the fire burn away everything else. He was down to the ice now and the fire in his belly had grown, but there was a longing to build it up, to fan the flames until it consumed him, burned his flesh on a pyre of his own making. A sacrifice to save everyone he cared for from the dangers of being around him.
"Then how about we just drink?" the woman asked, motioning for the bartender to refill the glasses.
Giorno watched the cup refill with a sudden sense of resignation. Acceptance. He took the glass in his hand and carelessly tossed it back. His throat almost closed and the burn was almost unbearable this time, but in a way, it felt good. Like a proxy for the poison Bucciarati had suffered for him.
He gasped in a breath once the burning had stopped and placed the glass more decisively down on the counter. "Another," he said.
That one turned into another, and another. Giorno lost count in his attempt to keep the fire burning, to burn away the guilt that had threatened to eat him alive. It was a lot easier to not think about it when the fire was burning him, clouding his mind with smoke so much that he almost forgot why he was here.
He didn't even realize when the woman left to seek other clients, but he vaguely recalled her pressing a kiss to his cheek as she leaned in. "It's not a bad thing to have others care for you, darling. Not all of us have that luxury. Enjoy it while you can, despite the heartache."
The words were lost somewhere between the fourth and fifth glasses. Giorno felt lighter than he ever had, so light he might just float away, a spark among the smoke from the fire that burned away all his care and pain.
~~~~~~~
Abbacchio thanked the doctors before heading back to Bucciarati's room, half-drunk cup of coffee in his hand, tentative relief loosening his limbs slightly. They had assured him that Bucciarati would make a full recovery. That his vitals were already looking good. It was lucky that the bastard Bruno and Giorno had gone after hadn't gotten fancy with his poison darts. Abbacchio didn't want to think of where they'd be now if the poison had been the result of a Stand power or some specialty concoction.
He ran a hand tiredly down his face as he stepped back into the room, glancing to the far side of the bed.
And Giorno wasn't there. The seat was empty.
Abbacchio sighed and briefly thought of going to try to find the kid, but realized Giorno probably needed a few moments alone. Abbacchio hadn't missed just how much this whole thing had rattled Giorno. And, well, he understood all too well. He was well acquainted with Bucciarati's self-sacrificial methods and the grief they could cause whoever happened to be on the receiving end. But especially so soon after Bucciarati had nearly died—or, had actually died—Abbacchio could see that Giorno was taking it particularly hard. The trauma alone of watching that happen to a friend—or, in Giorno's case, something of a father figure—was bad enough but with the added context and the fact that Bruno had taken a blow meant for Giorno…yeah, Abbacchio was a little worried about the kid's mental state.
He remembered vividly what Giorno had said when he handed Abbacchio the dart once they got to the emergency room.
"It was supposed to be for me."
Eyes haunted, shaking, it left a bad taste in Abbacchio's mouth.
But Bruno would be okay. He just hoped that Giorno would.
He finished his coffee and idly looked through a magazine with little interest. He glanced at his watch and realized how late it was. How long had Giorno been gone?
A small shift from the bed caught his attention and Abbacchio looked up, seeing Bruno's fingers twitch and his eyelids flutter before he seemed to return fully to unconsciousness.
Abbacchio sighed and glanced toward the door. He probably should go find the kid, but if Bruno was about to wake up, he needed to stay here. Bruno would be less than pleased to wake up in a hospital, especially with a tube down his throat. Abbacchio would give Giorno a little more time before going after him. Someone would be here in a couple hours to spell him anyway.
Abbacchio rubbed his eyes and went back to the magazine.
He dozed off, and woke with a crick in his neck when the nightshift nurse came in to check on Bruno.
He frowned, stifling a yawn as he glanced at his watch again, seeing it was almost 4 a.m. A quick glance around told him that Giorno was still missing.
Abbacchio stood, excusing himself as he stepped out and headed toward the waiting room, looking to see if Giorno might be there.
When he didn't see anyone, he continued outside, checking around the building but there was still no sign of Giorno.
Worry growing despite the fact he had no real grounds for it, Abbacchio headed back inside the hospital, checking the cafeteria and the vending machines, but still no sign of Giorno.
Wondering if maybe they missed each other, he headed back to Bucciarati's room, but found it empty aside from Bruno himself.
Abbacchio pulled out his phone and called the house.
It took a few minutes for someone to answer, but finally Mista did, not sounding as if he had been asleep.
"Hey, everything okay?" the gunman asked.
"Bucciarati's fine—stable," Abbacchio said. "But I wanted to ask if Giorno headed back home?"
"What? No, he's not here, did he say he was going to come back?"
Abbacchio sighed, the worry gnawing more insistently. "He didn't say anything to me. I stepped out for a few minutes and when I got back he was gone. That was hours ago now and I can't find him."
Mista exhaled on the other end. "You know how he gets when he's upset."
"Yeah, I do, which is why I'm worried," Abbacchio muttered. Giorno had a bad habit of hiding. Abbacchio was sure he would come back, but would it be before the kid did something stupid?
"Fugo and I will drive over there and look around the area," Mista offered. "If he left the hospital, I doubt he went far."
Abbacchio exhaled in relief. "Yeah, that would be good. I'll let you know if he shows up in the meantime."
Abbacchio ended the call and returned to the hard chair by Bucciarati's bed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He really hoped Giorno hadn't resorted to something stupid.
~~~~~~~
Mista drove past the hospital as Fugo watched out the window, both of them looking for any sign of their missing Don.
"Is there a park somewhere?" Mista asked. "That seems like the kind of place Giorno might go to be alone."
"Not anywhere nearby," Fugo replied, a furrow of worry between his brows.
"He might just be out walking," Mista said, hopeful. If he were being honest with himself, he was really worried. He wondered if he should have stayed at the hospital longer, but he had assumed that Giorno would have been glued to Bucciarati's bedside all night. He hadn't thought he would run away until things had settled a little bit.
"You really think he ended up here?" Fugo spoke up as Mista glanced around, realizing they were on a street that was mostly bars and clubs. They were all closing by now, but there were still plenty of neon lights to illuminate the way for drunken stragglers.
"I don't know," Mista said hesitantly before he caught sight of a familiar figure ahead, sitting on a bench, and slammed on the brakes, causing Fugo to swear at him as he braced himself against the dashboard.
"What the hell, Mista?"
Mista pointed out the windshield and Fugo's eyes landed on the same figure Mista had.
The gunman parked and they were instantly out of the car, hurrying down the street toward the bench.
The blond figure in the rumpled blue suit sat, swaying to a disjointed tune he hummed to himself, something Mista couldn't quite place. His hands were cupped in his lap and his eyes were closed. Perhaps strangest of all was the unimpeded smile that spread across his lips. It shouldn't have been so unnerving.
"Giorno?" Mista called tentatively as he and Fugo stepped forward.
Giorno's eyes flew open with a delighted gasp, blinking several times as he recognized them and the smile turned into a full grin. "Mishta, Fugo—you came!" he slurred, throwing his arms wide as they approached. Before they could react, Giorno had thrown his arms around their necks, pulling them into a clumsy hug.
"Whoa," Mista grunted, as Fugo made a sound of protest, catching himself on the bench so they all didn't topple to the ground. "Hey, buddy."
He could smell the liquor on Giorno, practically dripping from him. As Giorno's arms unwound themselves from the two, Mista turned to look at Fugo with shock. They'd definitely never seen Giorno drunk before.
"What are you doing out here, Giorno?" Mista asked him.
Giorno's head lolled to look over his shoulder at the bar behind him. He made a brief gesture toward it. "They shaid I couldn't stay there an'more. So I turned the shtools into flowers and the cups into frogs." He giggled, and picked up a small green frog that had been sitting in his lap. "Shee? Frogs are good friends. Always s'there when I need them. 'cept, can't help me home. So…just sat down here." He swayed again and Mista reached out to steady him. "Might jusht sleep here," Giorno confided.
"Wouldn't you rather sleep at home in your bed?" Mista coaxed.
Giorno cocked his head to one side. "Home?"
"Yeah, GioGio, back at the mansion," Mista pressed.
"Hmm." Giorno started humming several more notes of a song, then said, "'Bacchio will be mad."
"He was just worried about you," Fugo said.
The smile slid off Giorno's face and he gently opened his hands to let the frog hop out onto the ground. "'S'better I stay here. Jusht hurt ev'yone if I see them again. Like a curse." Mista and Fugo could only watch, stunned as Giorno formed two guns with his fingers and pressed them against their heads.
"Bang," he said softly, before he blinked and was suddenly grinning and giggling again.
Mista swallowed hard and reached out to squeeze Giorno's shoulder. "Come on, man. You're completely hammered. You don't want anyone to see you out here like this, do you?"
"Who cares?" Giorno suddenly shouted, shoving Mista in the chest so hard the gunman staggered back a step. "I don' exist an'more, see?" He spread his arms and tried to do the same for his legs but wobbled on the bench. "Jusht smoke, flying away."
Fugo swore under his breath and with a silent look between them, Mista and Fugo each took one of Giorno's arms, carefully lifting him up. "That's right, GioGio, you're flying away."
Giorno's head lolled and his legs nearly gave out under him as Mista and Fugo wrapped his arms around their shoulders and practically carried him over to the car between them.
It took some work to maneuver the giggling Giorno inside since he wasn't doing anything to help. He finally sprawled across the backseats, staring woozily up at the ceiling.
"Sit tight buddy," Mista told him, folding Giorno's legs in before closing the door.
"What the hell are we going to do with him?" Fugo demanded. "We don't even know how much he drank."
"Too much, obviously," Mista muttered, glancing over at the sound of another muffled giggle as he watched flowers start to creep over the window. "Let's go tell Abbacchio first. He might be able to help us out with the…situation." The situation currently filling the back of the car with flowers while giggling like some gleeful fairy creature.
"Hopefully we get there before Giorno turns the whole car into a garden," Fugo muttered.
Mista wasn't worried about the flowers, though. He was worried about what would happen once the initial effect of the alcohol wore off and Giorno came back to reality. He had a feeling their currently flying companion wasn't going to do well when it came to the crash landing.
~~~~~~~
Abbacchio paced the room as he waited to hear any word from Mista and Fugo. He was surprised, when, instead of a call, Fugo himself showed up in the room, a grim look on his face.
"Well?" Abbacchio demanded.
"We found him," Fugo said. "But…"
The worry took hold of Abbacchio guts and started gnawing again. "But what?"
Fugo hesitated. "Come see."
Not feeling any better, Abbacchio followed Fugo out to the parking lot where Mista stood, leaning against the car, looking into the backseat. The door was open and a pair of familiar shoes stuck out, twitching every once in a while as if to some unheard beat.
Frowning, Abbacchio hurried over to peer into the backseat, trying to make sense of the scene presented before him.
It was…oddly ethereal. Giorno lay sprawled across the seats in a bed of flowers, staring upward in a strange sort of awe as he watched several butterflies flutter against the roof of the car, a childish smile stretched over his mouth.
"What the hell happened to him?" Abbacchio demanded, though he could smell the tell-tale waft of alcohol from where he stood.
"He's drunk," Mista provided unhelpfully.
Abbacchio scoffed. "That's putting it extremely lightly. How much did he have to drink?"
"We don't know," Fugo grunted.
Giorno's eyes landed on Abbacchio then, and he pulled a face, turning to shush the butterflies as he waved a hand at them. "Shh, he's here. You need to go now. Fly away!"
His arms spread as if he too wished he could fly away. The flowers began to dissipate and the butterflies found their way outside of the car to head off into the early morning light.
"We weren't sure what to do about him," Mista said quietly.
Abbacchio sighed, closing his eyes briefly before glancing back at the hospital. He held his hand out to Mista. "Give me the keys. I'll take him home and get him taken care of. You two stay with Bucciarati for now."
"Are you sure you can handle him?" Mista asked as he handed over the keys.
"Trish and Narancia are home if I need help," Abbacchio muttered, not looking forward to the task ahead of him.
"Are you sure you want to handle him?" Fugo asked.
Abbacchio narrowed his eyes. "I may not have as much experience on this side of things, but I think I can handle one scrawny drunk teenager."
Mista and Fugo nodded and made to leave before Giorno somehow forced himself up into a sitting position, practically falling out the open door.
"Don' leave!" he cried, reaching out to them. Mista and Fugo had to grab his shoulders to keep him from falling on his face. "Have t'protect me from Abba…Abba-Babba…" He curled up in a sudden fit of giggles, before he sobered and gripped a fistful of Mista's sweater, blinking up at him. "S'mad at me."
"I'm not mad at you," Abbacchio grunted.
Giorno shook his head. "Scary."
Abbacchio closed his eyes. "Kid, we'll talk about this later when you even know what we're talking about." He helped Mista extricate himself from Giorno who pouted like a child and slumped against the seat.
"Hey, at least he's a happy drunk," Mista smiled half-heartedly in Abbacchio's direction before he and Fugo made their way toward the hospital entrance.
Abbacchio glanced back to see Giorno attempting to get on his feet, using the car door as leverage.
"Where do you think you're going?" Abbacchio demanded, grabbing his shoulder as Giorno swayed violently.
"Flying away," Giorno crowed, tipping his head to the sky. He pulled away from Abbacchio and took a couple steps, hands firmly planted on the car.
"Come on, Giorno, we're gonna get you home and get some black coffee into you."
"Can't go home," Giorno said with a tired sounding sigh.
Abbacchio paused. "Why not?"
Giorno gave him a look, swaying. He opened his mouth as if to say something but instead he paled and doubled over, vomiting right on Abbacchio's shoes.
Abbacchio just barely caught the kid before he could land on his face, but had to sacrifice his shoes for it. Okay, maybe he was a little mad right now.
"Must be fucking karma," he muttered to himself as he eased Giorno back into the car, grabbing some discarded fast food napkins to wipe his mouth. The kid looked miserable, and Abbacchio knew that he would be feeling it even worse soon.
"Come on, kid," he muttered, making to close the door on him.
But Giorno looked up at him, swallowing hard, eyes surprisingly defiant.
"Can't hit me," Giorno slurred, shaking his head.
"What?" Abbacchio asked, not sure he heard right.
Giorno stared at him. "Can't hit me. 'Cause I'm drunk. Not you." He poked Abbacchio firmly in the chest, swaying backward. "Doesn't work, see?"
Abbacchio didn't even want to try to unpack that one right now but it opened a whole other warehouse of worries. He had to fix the initial problem at hand first though.
"I'm not gonna hit you," Abbacchio assured him, making sure none of Giorno's limbs were still outside the car before he closed the door and headed around to the driver's side, getting in after cleaning his shoes as best he could.
Giorno lolled in the backseat as Abbacchio drove back to the mansion.
"Where're we going?" Giorno slurred, leaning up against the front seats.
"Going home. To get you in bed."
Giorno groaned and curled up again in the backseat. "Don't want to go back there. 'M bad luck."
Abbacchio sighed and made the last turn toward the driveway, pulling up in front of the house. He got out and went around to help Giorno from the car.
Unfortunately, standing seemed to be too much for him and he groaned and turned away to retch into the bushes. His body was desperately attempting to expel the alcohol, but Abbacchio wasn't hopeful it would do much at this point.
"Come on," he murmured as he helped Giorno up the steps and through the door.
Trish and Narancia were already up in the living room and hurried over as they came in, worried looks on their faces.
"What happened to him?" Trish demanded.
"Shh," Giorno cringed before he smiled dopily. "Had some drinks. Our secret."
"Oh, shit, he's really out of it," Narancia said, eyes wide.
"Yeah, he is," Abbacchio muttered, pulling Giorno closer as he tried to escape again and this time simply picked him up and put him over his shoulder. "I'm gonna get him cleaned up."
"Is there anything we can do to help?" Trish asked.
"Make some dark coffee," Abbacchio said as he carried Giorno upstairs.
The kid was giggling again, trying to put his arms out. "See? Flying away, just like I said!"
Abbacchio nudged the door to Giorno's room open and sat him on the side of the bed. Giorno instantly flopped back and Abbacchio let him, bending to take his shoes off.
"No, don't, m'toes will get cold," Giorno murmured, attempting to sit up again.
"I'll get you socks," Abbacchio said. He looked around and found Giorno's pajamas. His suit was a wreck, covered in spilled liquor. He also realized for the first time that there was a smudge of bright red lipstick on Giorno's cheek. What the hell had the kid been doing?
"Here, arms up." Abbacchio propped Giorno into a sitting position and changed him into his pajama top. The bottoms were a little more difficult but he wrestled Giorno into them eventually and shoved socks onto his feet as well.
"Alright, stay here for just a minute. I'll be right back, then we'll figure you out."
Abbacchio hurried to his own room, swiftly changing in case any of his clothes had vomit on them before heading downstairs to the kitchen.
Trish and Narancia were standing there watching the coffee finish.
"Why is Giorno drunk?" Trish asked.
Abbacchio sighed as he got a cup down from the cupboard. "Best guess is he ran away to drown his guilt for what happened to Bucciarati. I knew he was beating himself up about it, I just didn't think he'd resort to…that. Should have kept a better eye on him."
"It's not your fault, Abba. We've never seen him do anything like that before," Narancia pointed out.
"Yeah, well, first time for everything I guess," Abbacchio said and turned around.
"Just let us know if you need help," Trish told him, folding her arms across her chest.
Abbacchio nodded in thanks and headed back upstairs to Giorno's room.
He almost had a heart attack when he saw the bed empty.
"Giorno?" he called, setting the coffee on the side table as he looked around.
He heard a soft grunt from somewhere below and went around the side of the bed, only to see Giorno attempting to crawl underneath of it.
"What the hell are you doing?" Abbacchio demanded, unable to keep his voice level.
Giorno flinched and glanced over his shoulder with a guilty, and genuinely scared, expression on his face. "Oh, y'found me."
"What, are you playing hide and seek?" Abbacchio demanded, bemused.
Giorno pushed himself up to sit against the side of the bed. "No. Just hide. Didn't want you t'seek. S'posed to leave me alone."
Abbacchio sighed, closing his eyes briefly and really wishing Bucciarati was here. But then, if he was, they probably wouldn't be having this conversation at all. He lowered himself completely so that he was sitting opposite Giorno, trying to look non-threatening. "Why are you trying to hide from me, Giorno?"
"'Cause you hate me. You're mad."
Abbacchio frowned wondering why Giorno kept insisting he was mad. "I'm not mad at you. Why do you think that?"
"Should be."
"Why?" he coaxed
There was no more drunken joviality in Giorno's face, if it wasn't for his swaying and the fact he was actually admitting to things, talking about things, Abbacchio would have thought he was completely sober.
"'Cause I killed him. Killed Bucciarati."
Abbacchio frowned. "Giorno, you didn't. He's going to be fine. You know that, right?"
"I could have!" Giorno suddenly shouted. "Everything! Everyone I touch gets hurt!" He let out a strange sound like a whine and a laugh. It sounded like it hurt. "Every. One. Dies. You all died. Maybe…maybe I can't save you next time? What happens then? Bucc'rati saved me, but I can't save him?" His face crumpled and he ducked his head, gripping fistfuls of his hair and pulling it out of its already disheveled braid. "What good am I? Should just go back to being no one. Should leave before I kill all of you."
His body bowed with painful sounding sobs and Abbacchio shifted forward to pull the boy into his arms, holding him tightly, feeling for the first time that maybe Giorno was right. Maybe he was just smoke and if Abbacchio didn't hold onto him, he would fly away.
But Giorno was pushing at him, trying to get free. "No, let me go. Don' pretend. Don' pretend to like me. Know you hate me. I hurt Bucc'rari." He looked up, eyes red from tears and bloodshot from drink. "Y'can hit me if y'want. Don't care an'more."
Abbacchio took his face firmly between his hands so Giorno would look at him. "I'm not gonna hit you, kid—god, why the hell would I hurt you?"
Giorno cringed, but Abbacchio allowed his face to soften, still holding Giorno in place. "It doesn't fix anything, you know," he said. "The drinking, the pain. You think it will help you forget, or hurt in a way that you deserve, but it just makes everything worse. Especially when you wake up the next day and all the pain is still there and so the only thing you can do is fall into a constant cycle to dull the pain. Don't be like me, kid. Don't get into that shit."
Giorno's hands latched onto Abbacchio's arms, nails digging in. He again tried to pry himself away but Abbacchio still wouldn't let go.
"You did everything you could tonight. It wasn't your fault."
"I didn't take the shot!" Giorno screamed, shoving hard enough against Abbacchio to break contact, falling back against the bed. "Don't you get it? That was mine! I should be there, not Bucciarati!"
"I do get it," Abbacchio snapped. "You know how many times Bruno's saved my life at the risk of his own? That's what he does. You don't have to get used to it, but you're gonna have to accept it. And you're a kid, Giorno. You're just a kid. So let us fucking protect you once in a while. Okay?"
Giorno shuddered, sobs escaping his throat every once in a while as he sloppily scrubbed his eyes. "I can't lose him," he whispered. "Thought I did once, but I can't…not again."
"I know, trust me, I know." Abbacchio shifted to sit beside him and pulled Giorno into his arms, holding the shaking body tightly. This time Giorno didn't try to get away, only nestled closer, curling into Abbacchio. The older man ran a hand through his hair, letting him cry for the moment. Regardless of the situation at hand, Giorno needed to let this out, probably had for a long time. He was always so reserved, Abbacchio wondered just how much he had bottled up in there.
The sobs finally started to subside and Giorno shifted, trying to sit up with a hand going to his mouth.
"Feel sick," he murmured.
Abbacchio hurriedly got Giorno up and helped him to the bathroom just in time for Giorno to collapse in front of the toilet and start vomiting again. There didn't seem to be much left in his stomach by now. He sagged and whimpered before simply lying down on the bathroom floor.
Abbacchio grabbed a washcloth and bent to clean up Giorno's face.
"You ready to go lie down?"
Giorno shook his head carefully. "Stay here f'r now," he murmured.
Abbacchio sighed and got a towel, folding it to allow Giorno to rest his head on something.
"Don't feel like flying an'more," Giorno murmured. "Too heavy."
Abbacchio huffed a wry laugh and sat down beside Giorno with his back against the bathtub. He reached out to rub the kid's back soothingly, a vague memory of someone else doing that for him in a similar position coming through. "If you want my advice, try to sleep off as much of it as you can. Hate to say it but you're gonna feel worse in the morning."
Giorno groaned, burping sickly, and squeezed his eyes shut. He was silent for a long time before he turned painfully and looked up at Abbacchio.
"Bucciarati…he's really gonna be okay?"
"The doctors say he will, yeah," Abbacchio told him. "He might even wake up by tomorrow."
Giorno groaned and buried his face in his hands again. "Don' want him to see me like this."
"Don't worry about it," Abbacchio said as he went back to rubbing Giorno's back. "He's seen worse."
Giorno's eyes shut again and he buried his face into the towel. Abbacchio watched his breathing even out until he was deeply asleep. A surge of both exhaustion and affection spread inside Abbacchio as he watched and listened to the kid loudly mouth-breathe. He really was too young for this shit, but maybe they all were. Their lives called for different rules that normal people couldn't even fathom. And yet, at the end of the day, here he was helping a teenager through his first bout with alcohol. Maybe their lives weren't so different after all. He just wished it had been the result of some stupid party. If only their lives were so trivial.
With a tired sigh, Abbacchio stood and carefully eased Giorno up into his arms before carrying him to his bed. He tucked him in, then made sure to grab a bucket as he was positive there would be need of it later.
He then pulled the chair from Giorno's desk over to the bedside and sat down to watch over the kid for the rest of the night. Just another bedside vigil.
~~~~~~~
Giorno had a hard time waking up. His body just didn't seem to want to cooperate, like there was some vital disconnection between his brain and nerves. Not to mention the fact that it felt like his head had been split in two. There was also a knot of nausea in his belly that made him afraid to move and disturb it.
He groaned, trying to press himself further into the bed, away from whatever light was nearby.
A blessed shadow moved over him and a voice said, "Really feeling it, huh?"
Giorno winced and finally pried one eye open to look up at a blurry figure. It came into focus as Abbacchio after a few agonizingly long seconds, and Giorno groaned, reaching up with a clumsy hand to paw at his face.
"Wha…?" he tried.
Abbacchio sat on the side of the bed and the sudden dip made Giorno moan sickly.
"You're hungover, remember?" Abbacchio grunted. "Now, come on. You really need to get some liquids into you."
Giorno moaned another protest as Abbacchio reached behind his head and levered it upward. Giorno's head split a second time, agony behind his eyelids.
"Nuh…" he tried to protest as he felt the lip of a water bottle against his lips.
"Sip," Abbacchio commanded. "You'll feel better after you drink."
Giorno really didn't believe him but he did sip a little water. His mouth was insanely dry and swallowing was hard, his throat raw. He managed a couple more sips before the bottle was pulled away and his head was settled back on the pillow.
"We'll let that settle first," Abbacchio muttered. "Do you remember anything from last night?"
Giorno frowned, trying to think, but his head hurt, and his brain was just a jumble of random thoughts. Flowers, floating, fire. Then he remembered the bar and…
"Bucciarati," he groaned, trying to lift his head again. "Is he…?"
Abbacchio gave a slight smile. "He's doing good. Fugo called and said he woke up a couple hours ago."
Some relief flooded in at that and Giorno relaxed slightly. But he still couldn't shake the memory of holding the man as he lay dying, of watching Bucciarati jump in front of him as the enemy sent the poisoned dart his way…
"So you don't remember anything that happened last night?" Abbacchio asked, eyes searching as if he were expecting Giorno to say something.
Giorno frowned, flashes of memories that were honestly too embarrassing to dwell on went through his head. "Are you mad?" he asked hesitantly, because for some reason that was the main thought running through all the others.
Abbacchio pressed his lips together. "No. I told you that last night. Do I think getting yourself extremely drunk was a good decision? Hell no. But I can't claim that I don't understand it, either, because I know all too well what it's like to do whatever possible to erase the guilt."
Giorno looked down at his hands. "I feel…awful," he admitted.
"Good, then maybe you won't do it again," Abbacchio said, then sighed. "Look, Giorno, all of us live dangerous lives and we're all here to look after each other. We also all know the risks, you included. Trust me, if you were the one in the hospital, I'd be having this conversation with Bucciarati right now. I know it's scary as hell to think you're gonna lose someone like that—and I'm not gonna lie, it fucking hurts when you actually do. That's not the kind of guilt you can get rid of easily. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
Giorno felt sick to his stomach, closing his eyes briefly as Abbacchio continued, "But you can't let that cloud your judgement. If shit happens, you grieve and move on like that person would have wanted you to. And if you're lucky enough to still have them after the dust settles, then you thank the powers that be for it and try a little harder next time."
Giorno appreciated Abbacchio's bluntness on the subject and actually felt a little better. "Thank you," he murmured, not knowing what else to say.
"Well, you can thank me by getting me a new pair of shoes," Abbacchio grunted.
Giorno cringed, cheeks flaming in embarrassment. "Sorry," he mumbled.
Abbacchio snorted and finally stood. "How about some coffee and dry toast? You really should get something in your stomach."
He left to go to the kitchen and Giorno stared up at the ceiling, thinking about what Abbacchio said. He wasn't sure he could always be so pragmatic, but maybe it would help to try a little harder in the future.
He knew for certain that he didn't want to feel like this again.
~~~~~~~
It took most of the day and a lot of water and strong coffee for Giorno to sleep off his hangover and he still didn't feel in top shape by the time Abbacchio drove him to the hospital that evening to see Bucciarati.
Giorno walked up to the room, head still aching, knowing full well he looked awful, but relief filled him all the same when he saw Bucciarati sitting up in bed against several pillows.
The dark-haired man looked up as Giorno came in and offered a tired smile. "Giorno, how are you?"
Giorno didn't hesitate. He simply ran over to the bed and threw his arms around Bucciarati. He wasn't usually the one to initiate physical contact, but with the memories of the night before, Giorno found he needed to hold Bucciarati, feel that he was warm, that his heart was beating in his chest, lungs expanding his ribs. When he realized there was all of that, he relaxed a little, burying his face into Bucciarati's shoulder with a long exhale.
The capo let out a small sound of surprise, but wrapped his arms around Giorno in return. "Giorno, what's all this? Are you all right, ragazzo mio?"
Giorno held on for another long second before he finally pulled back, meeting Bucciarati's eyes with a wan smile. "Yeah…I'm just…really glad you're okay."
And, per Abbacchio's suggestion, Giorno said a prayer of thanks, and promised to do better protecting his famiglia next time.