#thisanger

the light is fading from his eyes. time is running out. bucciarati is dying, there are confirmed whispers from the ghoulish choir of metallica. there is no oxygen - rich blood, no heartbeat, no signs of life that he would sense long before anyone else would. he is hollow, vacant ( long vacant; the death of a love, death of a son, the loss of another having taken his will to live ) and he is more of a ghost than risotto thought of himself as. for that, he has earned his rare sympathy. even more remarkable, given all the resentment built up from years of a rigged competition.

risotto wished for bruno to suffer as he did once. evidently, his wish has come true. it's not nearly as fulfilling as he hoped it would be.

❝  i think it was always destined to end this way. ❞ he answers sadly, refusing to look into the other man's half - blind gaze where all light has faded. we will always be rivals, we will always lose, we will always realize too late. it's a terribly dark and unfair sentence to leave things off on.

giorno blinks once, twice to register what he has just heard. he is astounded & nearly slack - jawed, his composure held together like a splintered window, the cracked glass threatening to shatter and crumble. there is a part of him somewhere deep down that has only ever wanted to love & be loved. but that dream was set aside in favor of others; as the golden don, he has the love of the people, and he'd hoped that would have been enough.

but this, this is like flowers sprouting from the thin cracks of a stony pavement. this is a glimmer of sunlight peeking through the depths of unrelenting storm clouds, slowly parting them. this is his heart forgetting its beat, sloppily regaining its pace. a strange warmth spreads through him, he thinks that if he opens his mouth, butterflies will fly out from it.

you love me? he'd asked, uncertain and barely concealing the true emotion. he was almost afraid to even ask. he wonders if he'd somehow entered a sleep - like state before death without even knowing it, and that this comes to him in a dream.

( for the first time in a long, long time, the requiem's song chords are silenced. he does not have the intrusive thought protesting or suggesting otherwise. giorno will not let it speak, not this time. there is no force, in this world nor the one beyond understanding, that will intrude on this moment. )

❝  . . . ❞ he wishes he something else to add, something to follow up from his earlier -- admittedly pointless & childish remark -- don't be afraid. he'd like to promise her, respond to her, reciprocate her feelings. clenched tightly in his hands is a slow growing seed, it will be the key to their escape. they will not die today. he will not allow it. but it seems words are unneeded anyway, for trish is leaning intently towards him. her sea green gaze is hypnotic, he cannot bear to tear away. she is the sea and all its tides, pulling him closer.

he used to be a master at reading others without giving away himself. sharp emerald eyes would cautiously scan someone's face & body language, expertly gauging their thought process based on that behavior. he would act with caution, perhaps at times, unintentional coldness. it is only around those that he is closest with that he lets vulnerability bleed into every single one of their interactions.

❝ it's not that, ❞ he quietly disagrees, shaking his head and golden locks gently bounce. he looks to her and it is a sight that would be immortalized in a renaissance painting ; her rose petal hair and her sea green eyes, she is a flower plucked from the garden of eden. ❝ you've memorized my quirks, and i have been careless. ❞

carelessness is not something he's ever allowed himself to be before. it is foreign, it is dangerous in a position like his own. trish herself could thrust the fatal dagger into his heart at a moment's notice, striking like a viper, and still he'd smile at her as he does now. a dopey, boyish smile of sorts that he lets himself feel. ❝  you make me enjoy being careless.  ❞

IT'S  NOT  HIS  RELIGION,    BUT  IT'S  WHAT  TOSHINORI  HAS  PUT  HIS  BELIEF  IN.    belief  requires  faith;   belief  requires  sacrifice.   his  master  taught  him  that  much   —   and  he  hopes  the  message  has  been  passed  onto  midoriya,   but  not  to  the  extreme  level  that  toshinori  had  been  taught.    sacrifice  has  never  been  what  makes  a  good  hero.      -—   that's  the  lesson  he  wished  this  quirk  they  shared  would've  spared  the  boy.