#purplehazedistorted

Oh, so Fugo thinks he’s the only one with Emo Music™? Well, he’s got another thing coming. Akira quickly turns up this song. Let the games begin... 

Continued from: {x}

☁ “I don’t whine…” Narancia muttered, though already tensed for the oncoming pain. Reckless as he was, Ghirga often came worse for wear out of any fight. The range of his stand notwithstanding, it was truly a miracle he’d not yet lost any extremities until Giorno arrived. Despite the warning, the smaller mafioso still winced as the swab ran over his open cuts, cleansing them with a sting. It hurt because it was working though, that’s how it always was.

Or maybe that was just what he’d been lead to believe and the aching was actually not a good sign. Narancia wouldn’t know. He trusted that Fugo knew though. Fugo usually knew, at any rate.

Water comes as a relief in comparison. He sighs as the slight burn of peroxide fades against the cooler press of clean water (or most likely clean), relaxing slightly where he sat. Lips still pursed to keep himself from complaining, Narancia instead chuffed a light retort. “I’m pretty sure I’ve had it worse, this little cut’s not going to kill me.” He’s not that vulnerable. He’s not that delicate. At least he sure as hell doesn’t think he is.

he doesn’t mind getting hurt most of the time. it’s unpleasant, sure, he’s not a huge fan of the actual pain part, but-- maybe someone will actually manage to kill him sometime and then he won’t have to worry about it. and what’s the problem if he fights dirty and gets himself cut in the process? both fugo and buccellati were doing fine before he ended up on their doorstep and they’ll be fine without him in their hands. why fugo cares enough to put the effort into bandaging him is a mystery.

(it’s appreciated in the part of abbacchio’s head that’s coherent enough to appreciate anything.) (the rest of abbacchio’s head says it’s because it’s best not to bleed on the floor and he should be able to take care of himself, idiot, etc..)

he offers his arm to fugo almost mechanically when it’s requested. it’s a decidedly nasty cut across his forearm, but probably not the worst abbacchio has ever had.  “it’s not bad,” he says anyways, which he knows is a lie even when he’s barely mentally present. the motion tugs the other injury around his shoulder blade. he’s pretty sure it’s started bleeding anew from that. well, damn. no need to worry fugo, probably (also a lie, how the hell is he going to reach or see what he’s doing to clean that one. fuck it. whatever.)