Trish Una (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
figlia_morbida) wrote2022-08-08 05:05 pm
figlia_morbida) wrote2022-08-08 05:05 pm
Ryslig | IC inbox
Main Username: < Zigazigah >
Public Appearance UN: < Western_Horizon >
Anon: < sharpdistance > , < kidcharlemagne > (not actually anon now because of Hinata)
hug hax x 2
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.]
im sorry hes so stupid
[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.]
he is but i adore him and his bat spam
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...]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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.]