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Some days, he still drifts back into the listless state he’d been in, before. Back when all he could do was pick himself up, every morning, and present himself to the citizens and his team with a calm and collected facade. Back when he was only able to do the little he could for his ideals, and for his team’s sake pushed them deep within him.
Back when his soul withered, slowly, until all that was left was ashes and dust. Until Giorno came into his life that day like a brilliant flame, with his dream of taking over Passione, stirring and relighting the dim embers of Bruno’s soul. Until he was living again, properly alive, instead of existing as a mere ghost or shell of himself.
The water trickles down Bruno’s back, beating an erratic pattern against his skin. It’s set to a temperature just shy of scalding, and he watches the water absently as it swirls down the drain.
He’s tired already; not a sleepy kind of tired, but a bone-weary type that pulls him down, drags him under. He can’t focus on anything. Thoughts drift about in a haze, despite his efforts to collect them.
Logically, he knows. He knows that they are doing everything in their substantial power to eradicate drugs, amongst other things. He knows it is and will continue to be a long process; nothing can be done overnight. These are facts he reminds himself of.
And yet. Sometimes he finds himself back in that state of mind, and it feels as if he’s drowning slowly, powerless to do anything, watching the days meander pass in a fog. As if he’s still just a pawn working for a despicable organisation, and detests himself for it. He still slips back into that cloud of ash on some days; they are scattered and sporadic, but relentless, refusing to let him go completely.
“Bruno?” A quiet knock at the door. He startles.
What is he doing here again?
...Right, taking a shower. He’s been standing here for a while already.
“Are you okay? You’ve been in there for a while.”
Yes, he wants to reply. His voice doesn’t comply. A moment later, footsteps fade away on the other side of the door.
He rests his head against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, vaguely aware that the water is still running. Turning it off takes more effort than he thinks it should, but he does. The lack of heat is immediately noticeable, but Bruno stands there all the same, until all the warmth has gone out of his body.
He shivers. Water droplets cling to his skin, trickle down his face.
Pull yourself together, he reprimands himself, but the thought dissipates into the leftover shower steam. He pulls himself upright and steps out, where the frigid air hits him.
By the time he’s finished dressing, his hands have gone cold. His movements feel oddly detached; he glances at the clock, but the numbers don’t stick, and he finds himself reading it over and over again. The information slides off his mind, wriggling out of his grasp. Eventually, he desists and makes his way to the door.
When he steps outside, he is greeted by a blast of warm air that wreaths itself around his chilled body. The room is dim. Outside the window, the first rays of sunlight have yet to pierce the sky, but the encompassing darkness of the midnight sky has given way to a somewhat lighter shade.
The bedsheets are rumpled, Bruno notes absently, and slouching on the side of the bed with his legs dangling over the edge is Giorno. His eyes are half-lidded, and his hair, twisted over one shoulder, is loose and messy. In short, he looks barely awake, and guilt flickers through Bruno.
“Did I wake you?” he hears himself ask. His voice sounds like it’s underwater, or coming from a place far, far away. “I’m sorry.”
Giorno shakes his head. “Was… awake already.” The words are mumbled, punctuated with a stifled yawn, but when he sits up properly his gaze, as he regards Bruno, is clear. A few strands of hair dislodge themselves from behind his ear. Oddly enough, Bruno finds himself watching their movement as they sway, then settle; then he releases them from his scrutiny.
Giorno doesn’t comment about Bruno’s choice of taking a shower. Instead, he nods at the wide expanse of the bed behind him.
“Come over?” The words don’t register at first, and Bruno looks at him blankly for more than a few seconds before it clicks. When it finally does, he tries to nod, but ends up giving a stilted movement of his head instead.
…He supposes he has to move now.
The process of taking those few steps towards the bed is tedious and exhausting. Surprisingly enough, the action of moving is much less simple than it appears.
Bruno makes it there and sits down, sinking into the mattress. He can feel movement through it as Giorno closes the space between them.
When Giorno touches him at first, it is a hesitant, questioning brush of fingers against his back through his shirt. He doesn’t recoil, but involuntarily tenses at the sudden warmth, and Giorno’s hands falter. A movement behind him, conveyed by the mattress, is followed by the rustling of the blanket being pulled up.
Giorno’s hands appear at the edge of his vision, drawing the blanket around his waist. He is taken by surprise when its heat soaks into him; he hadn’t realised he’d been so cold.
“Do you mind if I...?” The towel draped around his shoulders is tugged at, gently. He shakes his head. A strand of wet hair sticks to his face, but he can’t bring himself to care about it. In truth, he can’t bring himself to feel much of anything, except the hollow emptiness and the occasional twinges of guilt.
“...Thank you.” He mumbles. It’s not enough, far from it, but Giorno makes a humming noise, low in his throat, like he understands.
Bruno wonders if he does.
He lets his gaze drift to the window.
Giorno dislodges the towel from his shoulders completely, then begins to dry his hair. Instead of rubbing, he gathers a lock of hair and squeezes it with the towel to get the water out; his movements are gentle and unhurried, so careful that Bruno barely feels it.
He tilts his head back slightly to give Giorno better access. A part of him rebukes himself, says this is an undeserved luxury, but he’s too empty and tired to do something about it.
His thoughts feel sluggish, as though they’re wading through maple syrup, but at the same time they’re as insubstantial as wisps of fog. He closes his eyes.
In his husband’s touch- he lingers over that word for a moment, husband- he finds himself relaxing. Giorno takes a moment to pull the blanket up over his shoulders, adjusts it so that it covers Bruno completely. Parts of it have been warmed by Giorno’s body heat, and he feels those patches settle against his skin as he takes hold of the material to keep it from slipping.
It’s soothing, the rhythm of Giorno’s movement. When he opens his eyes, just a slit, his gaze is drawn to Giorno. There is a quiet intensity to his expression, as if he’s completely focused on the menial task.
Bruno thinks he feels regret, maybe, that he can’t appreciate this properly. He thinks he feels it, at least. The feeling of frustration surfaces for a moment. It’s a small, pale flash of colour, but he clutches at it anyway, tries to hold on to it, because anything is better than nothing-
But it drifts past and disappears, and he’s empty again. Cold, too, in places where the heat from the blanket doesn't reach. The fog in his mind swirls about, obscures the emotions that have been hidden away somewhere deep within him.
He retreats into himself.
Fingers suddenly threading through his damp hair take him by surprise, and he starts a little, opening his eyes fully. Giorno winces in apology as his fingers catch and tug on a few strands, though the little pinpricks of pain are faint.
“Sorry, sorry,” Giorno murmurs, gently disentangling them. “Do you…?” Bruno must make some noise of assent, because Giorno’s hands resume their movement, shaking out Bruno’s hair to air it. It feels lighter, less clumped together.
A shiver runs through him when Giorno kneads his scalp, applying gentle pressure with his fingers. Bruno can’t help but lean into his touch; the warmth from his hands seems to spread through to his hair and head, chasing away the beginnings of a headache. An involuntary noise escapes from deep in Bruno’s throat, and he hears as much as feels Giorno’s half-laugh of affection.
Soft lips are pressed to the top of Bruno’s head in a quick kiss, and he feels its lingering touch long after Giorno has slid his hands out of his hair.
“Stay still.” Giorno instructs, and his weight shifts away. The absence strikes something in Bruno, makes his stomach drop, though he knows Giorno’s not leaving. And his husband, true to form, returns within a few moments, wielding something in one hand as he clambers back across the bed.
Bruno, obediently, faces forward again. He can feel the teeth of the comb on his skull as Giorno combs his hair, attentive and meticulous. Every time a strand of hair snags, he can feel Giorno working it out of the tangle before the comb tugs at it.
A pang shoots through his heart from somewhere deep within him. It crests, encompassing and unidentifiable as it expands.
“Don’t change your mind,” he murmurs, barely audible. His gaze is on the window, looking without seeing. “Don’t… give up on me.” It is yet a half formed thought, mortifying and humiliating in how direct it is when it makes its way out of his mouth, but Giorno replies without missing a beat.
“Never.” The words are quiet, but there is a note of firm assurance embedded within them. The comb slides through his hair one more time, smooth and unhampered in its progress, and Giorno sets it down. Bruno exhales, a silent sigh, and leans backward, where he assumes Giorno is; a trust fall, of sorts. His back rests against Giorno’s chest.
“Are you sure?” The words feel small; they escape from him, evaporating into the air. “I don’t want to disappoint you.” He doesn’t look at Giorno; it’s easier to say things when he can pretend he’s not speaking to anyone.
Absently, he notices that dawn has not made its presence known yet. The room is still swathed in shadow, turning familiar objects into unfamiliar shapes.
Giorno rests his head in the junction between Bruno’s neck and shoulders. He settles into the crook of Bruno’s neck, as though that is where he belongs. When Giorno leans forward and wraps his arms loosely around Bruno’s waist, his body melts into Bruno’s; his heat seeps into Bruno’s body, warming him to the core.
Neither of them are touchy people; they fit perfectly like that, understanding each other’s boundaries, and Bruno is grateful for the loose embrace. Close enough to comfort, without becoming restrictive.
“I will never give up on you,” Giorno promises. His breath fans over Bruno’s skin, soft and warm against his collarbone. Bruno can feel the vibrations of his voice when he speaks. It travels through him as he closes his eyes, relaxing completely into Giorno, whose lips brush against his cheek as he speaks. “I’ll be here with you, and for you, forever.”
The numbness within Bruno hasn’t lifted or abated; the soul-weary fatigue is still there. He knows from experience that it won’t go away so quickly or easily. But Giorno helps.
He nods, and trusts Giorno to understand.