Chapter Text
It’s a little after midnight when everyone returns from the mission.
Trish sits in her room, bored out of her mind even with the Britney Spears CD in constant rotation after having stayed home to let her shoulder have more time to heal fully after the last meeting turned Stand fight. It’s a pain in the ass having her arm in a sling, making many things a struggle– as such any source of entertainment was limited in the guy’s absence which is why hearing the car pull up to the driveway was quite literally music to her ears. Standing up, she goes to greet the others.
She starts to make her way to Narancia’s room first, intent on hearing his play-by-play of the mission. Though when she hears snores already drifting from his room, she changes her course to go to Fugo’s. He is still awkward around her. The guilt of staying back still lingering, and if Trish is being honest; she’s quite over it. Which is why she does what she can to get to know him more.
Knocking on the door, she waits until she hears a response before walking in. Fugo sits on the edge of his bed, already in his sleepwear and in the middle of taking out his strawberry earrings for the night, though Trish immediately zones in on the gauze patch taped to his left eye.
“Jesus, what happened?” She asks, sitting down on the chair at the desk and keeping her eyes trained on the bandage as if she could see the injury through it.
“Got slashed in the eye.” Fugo says simply, “Abbacchio already cleaned it.”
Trish hums in response, though she furrows her eyebrows in confusion. “Couldn’t Giorno just heal it?”
The question makes Fugo go tense, but it’s too quick for Trish to call out and demand an explanation before Fugo responds with a bullshit answer, “It wasn’t as bad as it looked, there was no reason to use Gold Experience for something as little as this.”
Trish narrows her eyes in suspicion, but Fugo is stubborn as he simply stares back at her blankly. Trish knows that no matter how much she questions, this the albino won’t cave in and tell her. So for now, she’ll let it go.
“Okay…How was the mission overall?” The room is still tense to the point Trish starts to wonder if something had gone really wrong, but as quickly as it grows, it disappears. Fugo launches into the play-by-play she had wanted to hear, though it’s clear something off.
“It wasn’t too bad. We got the information we needed, though it did escalate into a fight– the strategy they were using was simple to see the pattern of along with their stands so it proved nothing but useless. I was really the only one who got hurt. The others just had basic scrapes.” It’s when he’s talking about who got hurt that sounds off. Trish isn’t dumb. She can read between the lines and senses someone else got hurt. While conflicted, she decides to brush it off for now.
She’s going to greet the others and she can weed out who’s the third party through there.
Fugo continues going through the mission, Trish listening intently though it sounds the same as their usual ones. Eventually, when Fugo’s remaining eye starts to droop, she decides to make her leave– the two trading goodnights as Fugo slips under his covers and Trish closes the door.
She makes her way to Bucciarati’s and Abbacchio’s room next, the two men talking quietly to one another about not only the mission but the organization as a whole as she slips in. Bucciarati warmly greets her as he always does, though Trish’s smile drops slightly seeing the barely concealed somber look on the man’s face, and if she squints closely, his eyes are just slightly puffy and red. Just another thing that is off.
Trish sits down on the bed next to him, tucking herself underneath his arm as he embraces her with a chuckle, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Abbacchio nods in greeting from where he stands in the open bathroom in the midst of removing his makeup– Trish can’t get a read on his body language.
“How’s your shoulder?” Bucciarati’s voice brings her away from her analysis. Trish groans at the question.
“Annoying.” She sighs. “Can barely do anything without this stupid sling in the way.”
Bucciarati laughs lightly, his mood seemingly lifting Trish observes. “Tell me about it. I was just as annoyed when I had one. Just a few more weeks, though, then we can have it removed.” Trish only groans again, hearing Abbacchio snort in the background at the dramatics.
The two men continue their talk as Trish simply listens in. She almost feels herself succumbing to sleep in the loving, warm embrace, though she ultimately untangles herself.
“I want to go greet GioGio and Mista before they go to bed.” She explains, making her way over to the door.
However, she completely misses the way Bucciarati’s expression drops and Abbacchio’s face twists in anger– the subject of the blonde being a tense topic after what happened on the mission.
Trish makes her way to Giorno’s room first as it’s closer, though it’s empty when she walks in; the bed is stripped of his pillow and blankets, and his hair supplies are vacant from the vanity. She is quick to realize what this means.
“Bastard.”
Taking a detour, she goes back into her room– ultimately copying the motions Giorno had done as she pulls at her blankets and tucks her pillow underneath her arm before grabbing the basket on the dresser drawer and making her way to Mista’s room.
Knocking on the door lightly, she waits for the call of acknowledgement before slipping in, a smile adorning her face.
“Told you she would find out.” Mista jokes, as he waves her into the room.
Sleepovers are a common tradition between the three, something each of them looks forward to nearly every week– sometimes Narancia or Fugo would join them, but for the most part, it’s mainly their little trio. Abbacchio regularly makes jokes about their clique.
“You can’t just have a sleepover without me. I would kill you both in your sleep,” Trish says nonchalantly as she dumps her bedding next to Giorno’s. It feels almost useless to bring them if you ask her, as most of the time they just end up packed together in the bed or even upright against the wall after a full night of talking.
Mista sits on the edge of his bed– leaning forward– Giorno’s in front of him reading a magazine as the oldest of the three is delicately doing the younger night braids. Mista motions for her to pass him the familiar item sitting on top of Giorno’s blanket pile. With a nod, Trish walks back over with the silk cap in her hand. Mista setting it and the hair rollers Trish passes forward for herself next to him.
Giorno hasn’t said anything since she entered the room and, looking closer, Trish sees that he’s merely staring blankly at the magazine page, unaware of her presence.
Furrowing her eyebrows, she sits next to him, resting her head on his shoulder as she loops her arm with his. Giorno jolts at the other sudden touch, the blonde blinking the clouded fog from his eyes rapidly as he comes back to the present. Once he notices Trish, he gives a small smile although he looks absolutely exhausted. Mista says something, but Trish doesn’t pay any mind, keeping her gaze locked on Giorno’s tired expression.
“Are you okay, GioGio?” She questions softly. Giorno tries to give the okay symbol, but Mista beats him to the punch.
“He did the stupid fucking hand trick again. Oh, and let’s not forget all the other injuries! He’s exhausted from all the healing.” Mista tries not to sound angry when he says it, but it’s moments like these where Mista worries about the sheer recklessness Giorno always displays.
He had never thought about it much when they had first met considering the danger they had been in at the time it had made sense when Giorno needed to lose his appendages but now Giorno treats himself like a damn Starfish with barely any thought behind the actions. It’s become a constant battle between the two, along with Bucciarati being as equally worried about the behavior, though they can’t seem to drill it into the blonde’s head about how reckless he is being.
“Oh, God dammit, GioGio.” Trish sighs as she realizes why Fugo had been so tense when Giorno was brought up, why he wasn’t able to be healed, and why parts of the mission had been cut in the retelling. While she doesn’t bring it up often like Bucciarati and Mista, even she’s concerned about the way Giorno hacks off his body limbs during fights or altogether puts his wellbeing on the back burner; constantly pulling off risky moves, all the while ignoring any warning from the team or the consequences the results could bring.
Giorno predictably waves them both off. He goes to speak, though he finds his energy completely lacking, so he switches to sign language instead. After Fugo had found out about his selective mutism and being nonverbal, Giorno hadn’t seen a reason to keep it from the remaining three anymore. Bucciarati and Abbacchio had already been well aware, especially since Abbacchio was the one who had bought the sign language books and learned alongside Giorno in the first place. Giorno still finds it shocking.
“Not a big deal.” Giorno waves his pointer finger, then links his hands together before pulling them back apart and finally, with both hands, making a fist and a motion similar to holding a steering wheel before going up and down as if banging on a piano.
Mista scoffs quietly, the room becoming cold and tense– an argument on the horizon that all three of them can sense.
‘It wasn’t a big deal.’ This is exactly what Giorno had been repeating to them, brushing everyone’s concerns away– completely ignoring just how serious it was.
Admittedly, it had been more than just a hand; Giorno had cut off a majority of his arm in the midst of battle after having it pinned in the rubble. Giorno had fully ignored Bucciarati’s warning shouts as the man had tried to get to him in time. In the end, Giorno had done it anyway, continuing to fight as if it were nothing, and ultimately, the group had to ignore it for the time being to continue with the mission.
The aftermath didn’t prove to be kind, with more injuries popping up. Giorno was completely unaware of the part of his side that had been obliterated and the fight had ended with Giorno taking out the last remaining stand user by throwing himself off the balcony of the church they were fighting in as a way to gain height. While successfully eliminating his target, Giorno hadn’t been able to regain his footing and reach out for the railing in time instead crashing to the ground and falling into the church pew below– a sickening crack echoing as Giorno’s lower spine broke in the fall.
Giorno had been completely out of it. Damn near delirious, barely awake, and on the verge of bleeding out. Mista had come running down the aisle upon seeing the youngest had been laid on Bucciarati’s lap. Giorno had been spasming while letting out the most hideous of gurgles with deep raspy breathing, both of which he had tried to choke back. Bruno had desperately been trying to keep him awake as Mista pressed the new arm against the rest of the severed appendage, the two trying to get Giorno to summon Gold Experience to heal himself.
With the way his body had been jerking, Mista had sincerely thought Giorno was going to die.
–
The car is tense.
No one dares to speak as they make their way back to the house. Bucciarati is driving, Giorno and Mista sit in the middle row of the van, and Abbacchio sits in the back with Fugo and Narancia. Abbacchio presses a torn cloth to Fugo’s eye to mop up the blood as Narancia stares out the window with headphones on– eyes drooping as he starts to drop off into sleep, oblivious to the tension. It makes the other two sitting next to him jealous.
Giorno glances at Fugo out of the corner of his eye, seeing the blood starting to seep through into the cloth and his jaw clenched in pain.
“I can heal you.” He breaks the silence, getting everyone’s attention back on him. He’s about to summon Gold Experience– pushing through the still lingering pain he feels on his side and back, along with the numbness of his arm.
“Don’t you dare.” Comes out Bucciarati’s clipped yet strained voice, the man gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are pure white. Giorno raises an eyebrow in confusion.
“Why not? It’ll be quick. I don’t think it would be wise to let him remain injured when I can simply heal him.”
Bruno’s about to respond when Abbacchio steps in. “It’s not as bad as it looks.” He says, Fugo nodding in agreement though it feels like a lie with the pain. He’s not about to admit or show that in front of Giorno, though. “I’ll clean it for him once we get back.”
Giorno only stares before nodding, letting Gold Experience fade away. The car dips back into the previous tense silence once again before it’s re broken.
“I don’t see the big deal,” Giorno says, lack of filter leaving him after everything as he stares at Bucciarati in pure childlike confusion. It stuns Bruno,
“You don’t see the big deal?” He repeats lowly. He pulls over, sensing how this talk is going to go, and he wants his full attention on Giorno. “Are you being serious? I was two steps away from you! Two! I told you to wait, and you dismissed me!”
Giorno understands what he’s talking about now, though it doesn’t clear up the confusion. “I did what I had to do. It was a risk, I’ll admit, but it did the trick and it got you out of the crossfire! I’m fine, Bucciarati, there’s no use harping on it anymore.”
Bruno scoffs, “Do you know what Agonal Breathing is? Agonal Respiration? The Death Rattle?” He asks, turning to stare Giorno directly in the eyes. The blonde doesn’t respond. As such, Bruno continues.
“It’s a person’s dying breath. When they don’t get enough oxygen, they begin gasping for air. In some cases, the person only has a few minutes to spare, at least five minutes before brain cells die and ten minutes before prominent organs and brain damage occur.” He takes a breath to steady himself. “That was you, Giorno. You were quite literally taking your last breaths in my arms.”
Everyone in the car cringes, though Bruno carries on.
“Do you know what Myoclonic Jerks are? It’s when a person loses muscle control when they’re close to death. That was also you. You were spasming in my hold so violently that I almost thought it was a seizure. Do you not realize how close to losing you we were? You were missing an arm, there was a hole in your side, and your spine was severed!” He says it all so graphically and clinically, though there’s a deep pain shooting through him, replaying the way Giorno had been in his arms. His blood is still soaked into his suit and stains his hands.
Giorno looks away, remaining quiet as he slowly feels his voice die. Even with the details Bucciarati has given him, he still maintains his position. His brain is not willing to see reason.
“I’m sorry. I still don’t see it as a big deal. It was painful, yes, and I knew full well I was dying, but I had you– It wasn’t like I was alone, though I am sorry you had to see it. Death is normal. I have never seen it as a big deal if I die. I don’t think you should either. Simply speaking, I see myself as disposable.”
Mista’s heart drops at the words, jaw-dropped in utter shock. Fugo stares wide-eyed before swinging his head to look at Abbacchio to confirm what he has just heard. Leone's face contorted into something akin to a mix of disappointment and anger. Narancia looks confused over the thinking, not understanding why Giorno plays it off the way he does. Bruno feels sick, staring back straight forward as he tries to think of what to say, and how to approach this.
“Is this just passive suicide for you?” His voice cracks as it drops into a whisper, a question Bruno meant for himself, though everyone has heard it and Giorno stiffens. “Do you really see your life as meaningless? You–...you know we care about you, right?”
Giorno looks away. The silence is crushing.
Everyone looks at Bucciarati in shock when they hear a dry heave that turns into a sob coming from the front seat. Bruno hides his face in his hands as he desperately tries to get his composure together. Giorno stares, frankly, in horror upon seeing that he has made the man cry, though he’s confused why. He goes to reach forward, unsure of the reason– maybe to comfort him? Apologize? Apologize for what? He doesn’t know. Mista pulls him back though,
“Don’t,” He whispers, his voice coming out as hoarse and Giorno wonders why he can barely look at him. “Give him a minute.” So Giorno does.
No one says anything when Bruno puts the car back into motion, driving back in pure, horrific silence. Bruno intends to speak on this more once they get back so he and Giorno can have privacy. Pulling into the driveway, Bruno goes to help Giorno out, but Giorno immediately throws himself out of the suffocating car and rushes into the house faster than any injured person should. Bruno sighs, knowing he hasn’t handled this as tactfully as he would like. He starts to go after him, but a hand on his shoulder stops his movement.
“I think it would be best to wait till morning, let you both have time to calm down and think clearer,” Abbacchio says softly to his partner, taking in the unshed tears Bruno has in his eyes and it’s there Bruno realizes just how much he’s shaking. Once the others walk back inside the house, Bruno is quick to hug his partner, burying his face into his shoulder as the shaking picks up. Abbacchio dutifully comforting him the while.
–
Mista had thought he wouldn’t see Giorno for the rest of the night, assuming he would lock himself in his room. Though he had been pleasantly surprised when Giorno had knocked on his door, dragging in his sleepover gear without a word. Mista had been relieved to have him close for the rest of the night as he grabbed Giorno’s hairbrush and had him sit on the floor. He had almost taken it as a wave of a white flag, but he had ultimately been wrong seeing how the blonde was still stubbornly defending himself.
“Have fun explaining that to Bucciarati in the morning then,” Mista says, bordering on snide before he forces himself to shut up knowing how sensitive of a topic it would be. Mista sighs, sliding off the bed to tie Giorno’s nightcap on. “Sorry. It’s just– it’s worrying.”
Trish nods in response, taking in the explanation Mista has given. Utterly shocked at the way Giorno had viewed himself. Giorno glares at them both, not liking the conversation– hell, not liking the night.
“I still do not see it as a big deal.” He rapidly signs, “Our jobs always mean our lives are on the line. We all get hurt. This is normal.”
Trish wonders if they need to check for a concussion with that sentence.
Mista’s not even mad anymore, can’t find it in himself to be even with Giorno not understanding instead he stares in sympathy and tries another way that might break through, “Would you feel the same if it was us?” He asks ever so softly, gauging the reaction.
Giorno’s face drops.
Mista knows Giorno doesn’t. He was there for the aftermath of Diavolo. He may have been disassociated and binge-drinking to get blackout drunk to cope, but he was still there, even just barely. There were things he noticed, one of them being just how Giorno had been about almost losing three team members, even if he only knew them for a week. The lingering guilt and sadness stuck to him like a plague.
Mista had stood outside Narancia’s room one night, alcohol bottle in hand. Mista remembers the cries echoing from the room and he had thought it was Narancia dealing with chronic pain again however looking through the crack of the door he had been met with the sight of Giorno sobbing in Narancia’s hold, apologizing and desperately begging for forgiveness as Narancia had practically pleaded with him that there was nothing to be sorry for.
He knows this still haunts Giorno.
It extends to the entire team. Giorno freaks out when anyone gets hurt. Mista remembers nights when the blonde had practically clung to him after rough missions where he had been shot multiple times, doing the same with Trish and Fugo.
“That is not fair,” Giorno signs, hands becoming shaky.
Trish takes this all in, simply observing from the background. “It is fair.” She shoots back, Giorno indirectly answered the question they already knew the answer to.
“Why are you any different?” Mista knows this isn’t about missions. He knows that this thinking is nothing new and has simply been drilled into him. Trish could easily tell that Giorno had thought about himself this way for a while, that someone had made him feel this way and she knew it was hard to undo.
In retrospect, it’s kind of funny when Capos complain that Giorno is emotionless and hard to read because their little family can read him perfectly.
Giorno drops his hands, looking down at the floor. “I always have been.” He furrows his eyebrows, unsure if that makes any sense, so he tries again, his eyes glistening though he tries to focus on his argument. “It was made known ever since I was young that my life was useless. I have accepted it. It hurts, but it keeps you all safe.”
“It doesn’t.” Trish says, “It only hurts us more. We care for you, everyone here does, that’s why it hurts so much seeing someone we love act so careless with his life.”
The two are nearly taken aback when Giorno starts sobbing. The pain and the words given by the two have broken his resolve and he’s reduced to the teenager he is.
Mista tugs him into a hug. Trish is quick to join, so that Giorno is squished between them.
“Your life was never useless, GioGio. I’m so sorry someone made you feel that way. We’re different, we see the meaning and we care for you so much. Don’t just shove us away, and even if you can’t allow yourself to believe it just yet, then we’ll keep showing and saying it till it sticks.”
Giorno nods, tearfully taking in the message and melting into the warmth of the embrace.
“I... I’m sorry, I just-” Giorno’s voice comes out as a strained whisper, barely audible though the two are so close they can easily hear it. He wants to give an apology and force even a deeper explanation, though Mista is quick to brush him off.
“I get it. I’m sure I look like a hypocrite-“ He ignores the snort Trish gives in the background. “But that’s why I’m harping on it. I know what it’s like even if our situations aren’t the same- I’m not trying to compare myself to anything you’ve been through. I know the line of thought isn’t true, and I know you just needed to hear it.”
Giorno can admit he still doesn’t understand how anyone could care for someone like him, but he thinks he will soon enough. It’ll just take time. The team has been nothing but genuine when showing care and affection to him. It’s not something anyone can easily fake. He knows he’ll need to have a deeper talk with Bucciarati and apologize, though for now he simply languishes in the hug his best friends give.
The hug lasts for a while until Trish clears her throat. “As lovely as this is, I brought the spa basket and it better be used.” The two laugh at her attempt to brighten the mood.
The normal sleepover routine kicks off after that, the room brightening minute by minute as the tension walks out the door. The three sit in a circle– facemasks on– Trish, with hair rollers in that Mista had done for her, gossiping about school drama as Mista paints Giorno’s nails.
Giorno grimaces at the paint job and Mista borderline shouts at him to not judge, only being subdued when Abbacchio bangs on the wall to tell them to shut up.
Meanwhile, Trish begins cutting up small portions of another facemask to see if the Sex Pistols can wear them. It makes Giorno side-eye Gold Experience.
“Oh, what the fuck?” Mista looked up from the nails. Seeing the Sex Pistols wearing tiny facemasks– buzzing around in glee, Trish’s smile brightened as her idea worked. “They better not eat that shit.” That is all Mista can say. Internally, it’s kind of adorable, though he does burst out laughing when Giorno shuffles away from him to give one to Gold Experience. Trish already has done the same with Spice Girl. It’s absolutely ridiculous.
The night keeps going; the three getting increasingly tired as the events of today weigh on them– Giorno still feeling pain from the injuries he wasn’t able to heal fully and the heaviness of the conversations, Mista’s tired from how the mission went entirely along with the overwhelming amount worry towards his friend, Trish is just the same though with the added amount of shoulder pain.
After a few more activities, the three retire to bed and, just like Trish had thought; it was useless bringing her blankets as they pile into Mista’s bed, Giorno in the middle of them.
–
Giorno finds Bruno the next morning, the two usually always being the first up in the house. Bruno sits in the early morning sun on a bench in the back garden, throwing bird seeds onto the ground. Next to him is the portable radio from the kitchen that lets warm jazz music flow through.
Giorno observes through the screen door before making his way out and walking down the path. Bruno hears the door close and turns to greet the person– expecting Leone or Fugo, but his eyes widen when he sees Giorno. The blonde struggles to make his way over with flashes of pain flickering on his face.
“GioGio,” Bruno’s quick to stand, rushing over to his youngest as he steadies him, “I don’t think you should be moving this soon.”
Giorno lets the man take most of his weight and leads him to the bench. “I know,” He grimaces. “I needed to find you, though.”
It’s surprising. Bruno had expected Giorno to avoid him for a few days, like any teen would after arguing and upsetting their parent, but then again, Giorno has always been anything but predictable.
Bruno slowly lowers Giorno onto the bench before sitting himself next to him. With Giorno’s permission, he checks over the injuries– lifting the sleeve of the nightshirt the blonde has on; he checks his arm only seeing a jagged scar in the midst of healing, his side much the same in terms of simple scarring. However, when he goes to twist Giorno slightly to look at his back, the blonde freezes in his hold.
“What’s wrong?” Bruno asks, hoping Giorno won’t be hiding anything that may have worsened.
Giorno shakes his head briefly, “My back, um–” He pauses but decides to hell with it Bucciarati will have to see anyway, “There are scars– from a long time ago, just please don’t react.”
Bruno nods. “You know I’m never one to judge.” He soothes before lifting the hem of the shirt, his eyes widen– not at the old scarring that has mangled Giorno’s back, but over the deep purple bruising covering it though when feeling the injury he doesn’t find anything broken or out of place. “We’ll get an ice pack against that once we go inside. You’re going to need a few days of recovery, though. I don’t want it to become worse. I’m sure we still have the crutches Narancia used a couple of years back. That will help you have more mobility–”
The man is really just talking to himself at the moment, going through the parental motion as he thinks of everything Giorno needs to recover.
Giorno only stares, feeling his eyes start to sting with tears as if the faucet from last night never turned off upon seeing how much Bucciarati seems to truly care about him- not even flinching away from his scars.
He had almost expected to be called disgusting, as is the standard norm on the off chance anyone has seen them. His mother and stepfather certainly made that known. He had expected for it to be the breaking point and for Bucciarati to deem him to damage and give up though the man barely blinks, instead not making it a big deal and taking it in stride.
It’s weird. Everything that has been drilled into Giorno’s head since he was a toddler has begun to crash down in flames around him with this new family.
With Bruno still mumbling to himself, Giorno can’t resist hugging him tightly– burying his face into the man’s shoulder. It surprises Bruno again, but he hugs back quickly, resting his head on Giorno’s as he soothes him.
“I’m sorry.” Giorno whispers, his green eyes glistening as Bruno gazes at him in confusion. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” Bruno whispers back. Giorno adverts his gaze, staring at the flowers the two have planted together as he tries to think of how to word this. Bruno gives him time, going back to the birdseed and humming along with the radio. Giorno keeps his head resting on his shoulder, Bruno letting him play with the promise ring he has around his finger that Leone had given him.
“For scaring you…for being reckless during a mission.” Giorno sighs shakily. “I just didn’t think it would matter that much. I viewed myself as disposable because all my life I’ve been taught my existence was useless. I had made peace with dying that I became so desensitized about it and never thought about how it would affect you all. I thought you would share the sentiment.”
Bruno sighs, though when Giorno looks up, he’s confused to see him gazing at him adoringly. “I’ll admit, it was scary seeing you that way. Not because it was a moment of weakness, but because I was worried about what would happen to you.”
The way Giorno’s body had spasmed in his hold had haunted him the whole night, the agonal breathing Giorno had been reduced to and the crack of his spine as it hit the church pew echoing in his ear. Much like Mista, he had truly believed Giorno wouldn’t be able to heal himself in time, and they would lose the youngest. It was utterly heartbreaking.
“I know I may not be able to prevent the worst, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try. There are so many choices we could have made together before resorting to self-mutilation and risky moves. You’re not alone anymore, Giorno. You have an entire team– a family– to lean back on. We care for you so much, and we’ll show you that in any way we know how. Allow us.”
Giorno feels tears well up once again, he goes to wipe them away rather embarrassed but Bruno pulls his hand down gently, “You can cry, I’m sure it’s been difficult getting used to all of this, letting your guard down and having your built-up mental foundations shaken this hard. I will always be here for you. You can always lean back on us.”
Giorno nods, tucking himself back into the man’s hold. Bruno cradles him close, running his fingers through the youngers unbraided hair. It’s not sobbing, simply just tears trailing down Giorno’s face as his body lightly shakes, though he feels so warm with the affection. Eventually, he sits back up, the two trading a smile before Bruno takes Giorno’s hand to let him dump the rest of the bird seeds.
“Come on,” Bruno says as he pulls him up, “It’ll make me feel better to dote on you.”