figlia_morbida | Ryslig

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WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, TRISH UNA. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 867.53.099.99 * Zigazigah has joined 867.53.099.99 <Zigazigah> Don't talk to me. <Zigazigah>** Thanks.

Main Username: < Zigazigah >

Public Appearance UN: < Western_Horizon >

Anon: < sharpdistance > , < kidcharlemagne > (not actually anon now because of Hinata)

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[That's a good enough answer for her, honestly. Not that it moves her anywhere closer to actually helping him, but for whatever reason he's decided to submerge himself in the border between where the white of her paw ends and the pink of her forearm begins, and she's not about to pry him off.

Rather, she holds her forelimb steady and sits surprisingly patiently for a bear pestered at ass o'clock in the morning by bat spam.

So it's kind of rude that he changes back with no warning, the werebear nearly teetering over with a surprised yelp when an entire vampire boy drops from her arm onto the floor. Do you want her to crush your bed to bits, Giovanna?!?!

She'd have half a mind to be offended if he weren't looking a lot more like the boy she met in Capri than a leafy green approximation. Well, sort of. The red eyes are certainly new.

She looms over him for the express purpose of giving him the flattest look a bear can manage.]

I suppose you were overdue for a change, hm?

[Atem and Steve are like, addicted to it.

How's that Mana request taste, sir?]

[In terms of posture, he looks like nothing so much as an insect in the process of dying upside-down on a windowsill, arms still sort of scrunched up in the clinging posture. After a moment he does unclench and roll over to sit up. In the process, he does feel the instinctive need to bare his teeth at her, but he has the good sense to look mortified afterwards.]

. . . Sorry.

[Once he's up, he scoots backwards to put his back in the corner made by the edge of his bed and the bedside table, wrapping his arms around his knees. He looks genuinely miserable.]

I did not do this on purpose. If I could fix it quickly, I would. Trust me, I'm much more unhappy about this than you are.

[Imagine being a vampire!!!!!!! Disgusting!!!!!!!!!!!!]

[The way he lays like that is honestly...cute. What a dumb, ridiculous boy.

She can only blink at the show of teeth, because coming from him after he chittered at her from the keyboard of a laptop and clung to her arm like a powder puff with wings? It's hardly scary. Not to mention she's twice his size.

She watches him curl up into a humanoid facsimile of his prior form, balled up and small and none too happy. Her ears flick, once, and she rubs where he'd been clinging to her forelimb, smoothing the fur out.]

Hm? I'm not unhappy. Atem told me most monsters change forms for practical reasons, so I was about to assume you'd done so as well.

[Translation: she was just giving you shit, bro.]

It's only annoying when I can't recognize someone because of it.

[Steve is the worst about it, honestly. Atem and Giorno are too distinctive to ever lose track of.

Trish gets up again, then, but only to settle a little closer, lying down on her belly because honestly? Looking down all the time hurts her neck, and this boy has chosen to sulk on the floor, as one does.]

Am I allowed to know what you asked her for?

[After some thought, he decides to take it as a compliment that he's recognizable. That seems like a good thing. He doesn't want to annoy her, at least not without meaning to.]

[But then, of course, she lies down, and he's briefly mystified. She's really very big — not that he'd say that — and majestic, which he also wouldn't say, because he's pretty sure she wouldn't take it the way he means it. The temptation to pat her on the nose is powerful. He doesn't.]

There's nothing practical about a vampire.

[His mouth twists, one long canine poking out as it does.]

. . . I think it's less what I asked her for and more, eh, that I tried to haggle, perhaps? [He's got the good sense to look shamefaced about it.]

[It's definitely not not a compliment. And it goes without saying that she's almost envious of how human he looks, until she remembers that vampires are supposed to be undead.

Well, that, and she remembers how Atem's hand shriveled over the front door's threshold, and nearly makes a face. But he chose to return to that form, so by her estimation:]

Now, that's not true. If it was, Atem would never have changed back.

[She's heard most changes are temporary, but apparently some can be permanent? So ever-practical Atem would have permanently swapped to a different base form and rotated from there, which he emphatically has not done. This is what she's thinking about while Giorno is politely thinking nice things about her bear self, and it's tragic, isn't it?

That speckled snout is so close and eminently tempting to pet, and yet is cruelly off limits.

As for his admission, she wrinkles said speckled snout.]

And he would also know better than to haggle with someone infamous for japery. [ smh ] But that's neither here nor there.

[Because he's already suffering for it, isn't he? Speaking of:]

...Are you going to be okay? I don't want to leave in case you turn into a little bat again.

[Which is very cute, but he was clearly freaked out considering how long he clung to her forelimb.]

[There's a strange prickle of offense with a soupcon of jealousy, something he very rarely feels, at the comparison. Logically he knows he deserves worse ribbing, but — he doesn't like it. He doesn't like the comparison to Atem, who he already knows Trish considers more sensible than him. It would be hard not to notice after August. It's something he can't forget.]

[Uncomfortably, he tucks his chin down into his collar, trying not to show any of that — only to stare up at her in visible panic at the suggestion of her leaving.]

Don't go!

[Instead of flushing, he pales still further, shrinking away from her gaze. For a long moment he's tongue-tied, feeling pathetic, and then he mumbles something barely audible.]

[Barely. But she can hear much better, now. It's something like:]

IdiedwhenIwokeup.

[August was awful, and there are some perceptions that have been more or less cemented, and Trish should be more charitable not to mention them after consequences so fresh. Really, she should know better in general, because there's someone to be hurt behind Giorno's usual posturing.

Not that she believed her ribbing to be that harsh, and the way he tucks his chin is a very mild response, but the panic very much isn't, and Trish's ears pin to her head as she reels it back at the sudden exclamation.

And then Giorno somehow seems smaller than he was even as a bat, his voice equally so, but she can hear him as if he's whispering directly into her ear.

Her eyes go wide.

He hadn't mentioned it, so she assumed maybe...he was already dead when he woke up. Being awake to experience it, however, is surely frightening, and she wants to comfort him, but once again she doesn't know how to help him. What can she even say?

So she crouches, and thinks, and then she's moving – moving to lie closer, curling around the corner he's sequestered himself in like she's shielding him from the world, a veil of pink in the dark.]

...Don't worry. I wasn't going to leave. I just didn't want to assume.

[Since her pride dictates that in his shoes, she would digest something like this alone.

But in this way, she and Giorno are different.]

[It happened like this.]

[Giorno went to sleep. A few hours later, he woke up very abruptly as a result of not being able to breathe. His body was fighting, frantic, spasming against a nonexistent blockage in his throat. His lungs wouldn't inflate. It felt, he will think later, much what drowning must feel like — although he's never drowned, of course. Not yet.]

[Waking was a slower process, which felt more like sleep paralysis than anything else. He doesn't know how long he was staring at the ceiling in unmoving terror before he became able to move a single finger joint at a time. All he can say for certain is that once he gained a sizeable amount of control over his body, the physical, adrenal aspects of panic set in, which must have triggered the — the bat thing.]

[That's why he needed help. He couldn't stop panicking on his own. Not like that, not feeling as trapped in his room and that tiny body as he did in his slowly resurrecting corpse. The longer he was alone, the more he felt his mind fraying.]

[It's with naked relief that he watches Trish block off the rest of the room and everything else with her body. He gives her a weak, watery smile.]

Thanks. I'm . . . sorry. To ask something so ridiculous of you.

[His hands are freezing. He rubs them together, and then thinks: my all of me is freezing. His teeth are chattering for a few seconds before he realizes, in part from his odd new body temperature but mostly from shock. He reaches fumbling hands up to the bed to pull a blanket down in a haphazard tumble, which he then wraps tightly around his shoulders.]

Do you want a — a pillow, or something? You must be tired, I woke you up—

[He's panicking again and doesn't even realize it. Doing a moderate job of concealing it, but it's all from a place of fear. He doesn't like showing this weakness, and even after everything, the fear that she'll get sick of it and leave is so, so strong. If he can just make things a little less unpleasant, surely that will help.]

[Giorno is...cold.

He's cold and he's scared, after waking up only to die. Except he was able to sit up after, feel his heart not beat, feel his skin grow tepid. It's no wonder he seems so scattered, picking up the pieces where they fell. It's when Trish realizes she's witnessing him processing a sudden, drastic change after he had gotten so comfortable in his prior body. Like someone changing for the very first time.

In that sense, the comparison to Atem was unfair, because all of those were planned. But this...was very much not, and Giorno is a meticulous person. There's no way he imagined this happening, or he wouldn't seem so nakedly caught off-guard.

And now he's speaking quickly, as if his predicament is inconveniencing her, and she huffs, ruffling the swooshy tuft of fur on her forehead.]

I'm going to make a tally for every time you apologize to me without needing to.

[Because she wasn't asleep, and more importantly – wanting company after something so harrowing is not the least bit unreasonable.

Trish rests one paw over the other then, in a position that is familiar only to her, especially when she pillows her head on them.]

Come here.

[It's not...not a command, but she doesn't say it with any force or bite. If anything, it's the closest thing to an explicit invitation that Trish Una has given anyone. After all, it makes perfect sense to her. Giorno is cold, and can no longer generate his own body heat. She is twice her usual size and twice as warm besides, so it's only natural to share it. He also wants company, and the reassurance of someone else's presence made tangible can only help, right?

The way she's curled, she's like a mirror to the corner he's nestled in right now, only she is pink and soft and warm and the tangent where he's found himself is not.]

[There's no sense in what she's saying, from Giorno's perspective. Of course he needs to apologize. He didn't mean to do this, but that doesn't make it any less his fault. If he were stronger, he'd be able to handle it on his own. He wouldn't have needed to bother her, and he wouldn't have to keep bothering her now. Of course it's his fault. Of course he has to apologize.]

[So the idea she presents to him leaves him looking lost and hunted. He's done something else wrong, but he doesn't understand what or how. What he does understand is that she doesn't want him to apologize anymore, even if he doesn't understand why. He presses his lips shut against the urge to apologize for apologizing too much until they're a thin red line in the white of his face.]

[And then she tells him to come here.]

[He's already still, but that makes him freeze, the trembling of his hands going as still as it can under the circumstances. She's telling, not asking. But he's terrified he's misunderstood. His gaze drifts, uncertain, from her face to the bedside table to the door and back to her face again.]

[It . . . makes sense. Logical sense. It does. But he still can't make himself understand, no matter how hard he pushes. And at the same time, he can't refuse her.]

[So he moves forward along the floor, hands and knees, inch by inch. His eyes stay on her the whole time. He doesn't speak, but every movement feels like an unspoken apology. When he gets close enough that they're nearly-but-not-quite touching, when he's obeyed the letter of her demand but not the spirit, he stills, watching her carefully for approval or disapproval. He can feel the presence of her body heat. It helps, but—]

[But he's still shaking.]

[Trish isn't one to say sorry easily. There's a multitude of reasons for that, starting at pride and ending at the fear of being a liar. Donatella told her once, "don't apologize, just don't do it again" and Trish can see the sense in that sentiment.

Actions before words, always.

Not that such a phrase fits every situation. No, it doesn't fit this one at all. Giorno hasn't done a single thing to wrong her – no, he's been wronged himself – and he's understandably flustered, scattered. But he's like her, isn't he? Being weak, needing help...it's not what they want to be. It's not the person the people around them want or need, right?

It's not something shared easily, and if she could convince him she doesn't think a thing of it like she might have before, maybe that would help, or maybe it wouldn't matter when his perception will rest like a stubborn film on everything he sees. Something she knows she's abetted, not so long ago.

She watches the uncertainty cling to his limbs like chains in how he inches towards her, sees a reflection of the hurt boy just under the surface, and it's nearly too much. But she doesn't look away until he stops, and then her big head swivels to the side and the enormous hollow of her rib cage contracts as she sighs deeply.

The following motion is slow, deliberate.

He's given more than an ample amount of time to refuse her as she lifts a broad paw, intending to drape it over a good portion of his small-to-her frame and squish him gently against her. Because he's still shaking. Whether from cold, or something else, he's shaking.

And if it helps...she wants to help him. He hasn't said how she can help, of course, but if his behavior as a bat meant anything, then...]

[He doesn't resist.]

[She's warm. She reaches out and grabs him, and her paw is massive and warm and impossible to argue with. He would have to put effort into pulling away, and he doesn't have the energy for it; or at least he can convince himself he doesn't. It's good enough. He lets her pull him in close, and when he's been pulled in all the way—]

[He doesn't stop shaking. Not right away, anyway. But it begins to subside after a few seconds, his tremors getting less and less violent as her body heat sinks into his bones. The fur helps, too, like a big pink blanket insulating him from the cold his body seems desperate to take in.]

[Even as he stays like this, as he hunches his body smaller so he can maintain as much physical contact with her as possible, he doesn't look at her. His head hangs, gaze distant; his breathing is shallow, catching at the edges of each inhale almost like his body wants him to cry. There's a lump in the back of his throat that does feel like tears, although they don't want to fall. Nothing about what his body is feeling right now seems to want to resolve. He's on the precipice of death and life and fear and pain and tears, too, and he just wants some of it, any of it, to stop.]

[But at least she can hold him in one place. At least, if he looks at nothing but the brightness of her fur and tries to feel nothing but the solidity of her form, he can stay with her, stay anchored, stay — mostly — safe.]

[It's times like this Trish doesn't know what to do and it would be galling it if it didn't carve out a deep hollow in her chest. When someone's body has betrayed them and left their control entirely, and she can only act as some sort of ground, gripping their hand with both of hers, or holding them close.

She doesn't like to be touched, but that doesn't mean there isn't a corollary to each instance.

She doesn't like to be touched because it often meant her boundaries weren't being respected. But if she invites it...that's different. Awkward, still, but the more Giorno nestles into her fur and his shivering improves, she relaxes. Not much, because his breathing is ragged and that makes her nervous heart flutter, but there's nothing to be done for it when his lungs gasp for air they don't need, when his body is caught in a tumultuous response to the fact he's dead and yet conscious for it.

She told him she couldn't help him, and she supposes she was right.

But she can keep him close, drape him in warm pink fur on all sides, and wait. He won't be okay, but she can keep him here and present until he catches up with himself. She wants to do more, but if she can't do more to soothe him, then she wants being close to be enough.

And if she has to stay like this for hours? She will.]

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he's so cute...scrapes him off the windowsill

giorno like [whines without stopping for 2 months]

DFSDSS [trish pinching his nose shut bc Cease]

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hug hax x 2

im sorry hes so stupid

he is but i adore him and his bat spam

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