every inch of me is full of pain
luigi mangione/fem!reader
idgaf how anyone feels abt the ethics of writing ff for luigi, ppl literally be writing for the worst individuals ever so… 🤷🏻♀️ and i will add that this fic is not a reflection or representation of luigi, i aim to humanise him in the ways the media won’t. tumblr pls don’t ban me 🙏🏻 (1.1k words)
caution. rpf, reader and lu have matching chronic pains lol, ambiguous relationship (yearnful situationship type 😈), flower symbolism, set before his incarceration.
THE grip held on your own palm is unbearable. The metallic stench of blood breathes through the crevasses of your skin. The pain of the wounds has generally died down now, leaving only the numbing sting of regret.
Luigi is asleep; you couldn’t bear to wake him up.
It was a deal the two of you shook on. If the pain was too much to endure alone, you’d let the other know. It was mutually beneficial, this relationship.
No, you weren’t dating; he introduces you to others as a friend, and you do the same with a racing heart. It was more of an oath, a pledge between two bodies, tied to the earth by a turn of phrase.
His body is warm beside you, rising softly with each breath. His back faces you head-on, the ripples of muscle and skin stretched with growth are prominent in the dim light of your bedroom.
A breath hitches in your throat. How domestic it is for him to be like this. Safe and content in the comfort of your bed. Normally you’d laugh at the scene of him swaddled up in the blush-coloured sheets—teasing him at the idea of the forget-me-not flower patterns. But now, all it does is let guilt pool in your gut.
Your hand trembles under the weight of your form as you press it against the mattress. He is safe here; you hope to keep him safe for as long as possible.
With a dismissive scoff, you pull up off the bed, and it squeaks under the release of your form. These thoughts aren’t good for your conscience; you'd hate to let it make you keel over.
The hallway is dark, but after the past month and a half of living here, you’ve become used to it. While you navigate the length of your apartment, an all-too-familiar pain builds in your lower back.
The winter weather fell short on aid when it came to your aches; you could only pray that the wind wouldn’t shatter you whole.
A faint light bursts through the kitchen curtain, leaving a hollow glow of orange. Regardless of the chilling air, the light brings warmth to the room. Non-fluorescent lights were always a must in your living spaces; they were the most efficient to your mind.
Green tea typically helped with the heated fuss of pain, but you had forgotten to grab some during your last stop at the grocery store. Luigi had been kind enough to offer to go and purchase some for you, but you had declined. It was a rainy day when he did; you wouldn’t ask him to go forth into it just because of your poor decisions.
The effects are more placebo-like in your mind anyway.
Cinnamon has always been a common item in your pantry, on account of your mother’s teachings. Paired with the acidic juice of a lemon, the tea proves worthy to combat the stir of aches and pains.
The water will take a few minutes to boil, and even then it will be too loud. Perhaps it would be best to have lukewarm tea, just so the squeal of the kettle doesn’t wake Luigi up.
He bears a similar inflection to you. That’s really the main reason as to why you both get along so well. There’s a reciprocal understanding, one that is unknown to everyone else. You don’t expect anyone else to be aware of it—nor do you want them to be.
No words have to be shared for the pair of you to understand.
The moment the kettle starts to let out a faint whistle, you pull it off of the stove.
A rich aroma of cinnamon fills the space, and you already start to feel the tension leave your spine. As you reach out for the handle of the refrigerator door, a pair of mellow footsteps sounds out from the dark hallway. Despite your mindful precautions, you still somehow managed to wake him up.
The jug of milk is heavy in your grasp as you briefly lock eyes. His are sleep-ridden and squinty; it almost causes a smile to form on your face.
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
The hushed tone leaves your throat, croaky with lack of use. Luigi stands to the side of you, blinking away the sleep from his eyes. The shirt he has on is straining over his shoulders; it’s one you recognise as yours. He had a habit of raiding your wardrobe whenever he was over.
“You should’ve.” Was all he said back, voice equally as quiet. From the corner of your eye, you see as he brushes a hand through his messy curls. He’s stood beside you now, lent down so he could rest against the kitchen counter.
In a show of guilt, you smile lacklusterly. It was a part of the deal to make sure the other knew when it got particularly bad—but something in your heart was telling you to act differently.
How would you know if he were to do the same? How many sleepless nights has Luigi gone through merely because he didn’t want to burden you with it?
The tea is hot against your lips; the cinnamon is overpowering, but you like it; at least that makes you feel something. The liquid is murky; the milk manages to convince you that it’s anything but a placebo-featured remedy. Hot chocolate would be nicer.
You tilt the mug towards Luigi as an invitation. He takes a moment to peer into your eyes, like he’s searching for something so specific it’s unseen to the naked eye. The eye contact makes your heart pound wildly, the intensity of his gaze picking at you like one would whilst analysing a century-old painting.
Unfazed by his own sudden actions, he takes the mug from your hand with a hushed “Thanks,” and you lean back against the counter. You subtly push at your sternum, aiming to quiet your racing heart.
Silence envelops the room once more, and somehow, you couldn’t be more at ease. Luigi has a knack for making you flustered but always manages to keep you sane. His presence beside you is anchoring. It’s a lingering feeling, warmer than any cup of cinnamon tea. You wonder, does he feel the same about you? Does he feel content, just alone, in your company?
The mug is handed back to you with a gentle brush of touch. He doesn’t flinch at the contact, so you don’t either.
“Lu,” you start, teeth tugging at your lips, “I’m.. tired.”
He hums, bringing his hand up past your shoulder. His fingers start to toy with the baby hairs at your neck.
He says nothing, and neither do you.
No words have passed, and yet, you’ve both said all that was necessary.
literally had someone on here yell at me for "disgusting behavior" for my ff and it's like... you're clearly on the wrong website