2. If today was your last day
(TRIGGER WARNING. This meme deals heavy with death and also possibly with strong violence or with suicide/depression. If you are not comfortable reading about that, please PLEASE do not proceed further.)
( It's long and you had warnings. Proceed? )
( It's long and you had warnings. Proceed? )
There's a strange numbness radiating from his shoulders, from his hips, as his extremities give out on him. On the outside, he appears to be just fine, but he can tell that it's only a matter of time.
Why can't he just eat? His body... has given up completely.
It's not how he wanted to die.]
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...We can't keep on going without you. None of us would concede to that.
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And for all his talk about things being useless, he dislikes attributing the word to himself, more than anything.]
We can't just leave you here.
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You can, and will.
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But he puts on a strong face, because if anything, he's determined to carry Bruno's graceful attitude towards fate, his operative's unflinching ability to pass on his graces towards the future-- Giorno'd always admired that, and he always will admire that, no matter what happens.
He doesn't say anything to his superior's assertions, and only deigns to take Bruno's hand and press his lips to the knuckles in that sign of unrelenting respect.]
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[An emotion somewhere between relief and intense sorrow tries to edge its way into Buccellati's voice. He fights it off. He can't regret anything, never has regretted much until now, but Giorno has decided to make this impossible.]
What are you going to tell them? Word for word, I want to hear it.
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He lets go of Bruno's hand, slowly, though that doesn't mean that he'll ever shake Bruno Buccellati from his memories.]
That we need to move on. For you, and for all of us.
[He states it simply, though his expression is pained.]
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It's pathetic, and it's not really his thing. But he has a solution for that.]
Don't make that face. Don't look that hurt, Giorno. We all die. We're gangsters, so we die. It's how this world of ours works.
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Giorno will take it, without Bruno's sanction or no, but having his blessing would be a source of unshakeable power to him in the future.]
Your spirit will never deteriorate, Buccellati.
[And though his expression is still pained, his voice is smooth and even, like the first breeze of spring, cleaving through winter air.]
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[There's something artistic, almost beautiful about Giorno right now. It's the last thing Buccellati is going to see, and he's glad it is something so bracing. He fears nothing.
The hand Giorno kissed rests over his heart, and he whispers.]
Sticky Fingers.
[He slowly pulls a zipper across his chest.]
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Giorno almost wants to chide himself on always being the one that has to have something entrusted to him, but he knows that that kind of self-deprecation is useless. Useless, useless, a word that he hates, a word that he'll cast aside for the future. He'll take whatever is entrusted to him and see to it that it doesn't go in vain: he'll never let Buccellati's spirit die. His inheritance is his golden wind, and his role is to make sure that wind keeps on flowing.
He doesn't close his eyes, only watches as Buccellati opens up his chest.]
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This is the truth. This is the harsh reality of what they are and what they work toward and how they will always be. They are only glamorous when things are good, when things are peaceful and no one looks under the surface. Nothing they ever want to do that is good and righteous will ever be easy, and someone will always have to pay the price for the chances they take every day.
He's glad, as he swiftly begins willfully dismantling his heart, that Giorno can understand everything he ever wanted Passione to be.]
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Maybe Giorno, ever the hopeful one, ever the one who refuses to sacrifice anyone but himself (Fugo and the key, Mista at the river, Narancia and the shark), should find a way to restore life into the situation, to reach out and draw on his gold and breathe new hope into the inanimate.
Maybe Giorno shouldn't be standing there, his eyes open and hardly blinking, not letting himself look away from his caporegime-- no, his friend's-- death, and should instead be reaching out, pulling his future away from himself and back into the body of the man he respects so much ( ... )
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