[It's a foregone conclusion. Of course he's going to catch him. This is what he does: catch people on their last legs, at the end of their rope, and raise them high again. Stiles loses consciousness, tumbles forward, and Giorno is there.]
[This is what he does.]
[It takes him a moment to get properly stabilized, to adjust his posture so they aren't about to fall over in the street. Once he does, he tips Stiles's chin up a bit, pulls his eyelid back to check his eyes, tests his pulse. Clucks his tongue, sighs.]
I am not very happy with you, cucciolo.
[Gold Experience lifts Stiles into the backseat. Giorno could, probably, but he doesn't want to hit Stiles on the doorframe--that's absolutely the last thing he needs--so better safe. And this way, he can sit in the back, too, with Stiles's head in his lap, and work.]
[Gold Experience watches anxiously from the front passenger seat, close enough to reach out and touch when Giorno needs him to. It isn't difficult work, at least; he's healed worse before. But it's tedious. And there's something in the midst of the normal things, the broken bones and the concussion and infection, that seems wrong. Feels wrong.]
[He's just being paranoid, probably. Probably, right? He just has to focus.]
[There isn't any hair on Stiles's forehead to brush back, but the gesture comes automatically, more comforting to Giorno than Stiles, who won't be able to feel it for a bit. His brow furrows as he works, a soft glow of gold rising under his hands, under Gold Experience's, as the bone resets itself, the concussion damage reverses.]
[After he's done, all he can do is wait. So he sits in the car, with Stiles in his lap, idly smoothing down his hair and singing. He doesn't know any lullabies, or he'd sing those. Instead, he hesitantly, imperfectly hums Ode to Joy, while he looks out one window and Gold Experience looks out the other. Always watchful.]
no subject
[It's a foregone conclusion. Of course he's going to catch him. This is what he does: catch people on their last legs, at the end of their rope, and raise them high again. Stiles loses consciousness, tumbles forward, and Giorno is there.]
[This is what he does.]
[It takes him a moment to get properly stabilized, to adjust his posture so they aren't about to fall over in the street. Once he does, he tips Stiles's chin up a bit, pulls his eyelid back to check his eyes, tests his pulse. Clucks his tongue, sighs.]
I am not very happy with you, cucciolo.
[Gold Experience lifts Stiles into the backseat. Giorno could, probably, but he doesn't want to hit Stiles on the doorframe--that's absolutely the last thing he needs--so better safe. And this way, he can sit in the back, too, with Stiles's head in his lap, and work.]
[Gold Experience watches anxiously from the front passenger seat, close enough to reach out and touch when Giorno needs him to. It isn't difficult work, at least; he's healed worse before. But it's tedious. And there's something in the midst of the normal things, the broken bones and the concussion and infection, that seems wrong. Feels wrong.]
[He's just being paranoid, probably. Probably, right? He just has to focus.]
[There isn't any hair on Stiles's forehead to brush back, but the gesture comes automatically, more comforting to Giorno than Stiles, who won't be able to feel it for a bit. His brow furrows as he works, a soft glow of gold rising under his hands, under Gold Experience's, as the bone resets itself, the concussion damage reverses.]
[After he's done, all he can do is wait. So he sits in the car, with Stiles in his lap, idly smoothing down his hair and singing. He doesn't know any lullabies, or he'd sing those. Instead, he hesitantly, imperfectly hums Ode to Joy, while he looks out one window and Gold Experience looks out the other. Always watchful.]