[The sound of that voice behind him does not startle Abbacchio so much as pull taut something in his chest, the thing that's coiled around his heart for three days that never really goes away but can sometimes be calmed—and abruptly lets it go slack. Relief washes over him completely, overwhelming for a moment and then smoother, simpler; manageable. Whatever Abbacchio thinks he is, as a man, as a person worthy (or not) of living any kind of life and whether or not any of it is true, what is true is that he is better with Bruno around.
Not great. Not really even good; but better. He remains something of a mess, something fractured into pieces and put back together incorrectly. Sure, he functions - he breathes and walks and gets through the day, somehow, but he doesn't ever feel right without Bruno beside him. Or at least—at least nearby, at least somewhere Abbacchio can see him and feel his presence and grasp onto that little modicum of peace.
It isn't something he can express in words, not good ones; but even he knows it's fairly obvious. It's obvious now, when instead of turning around to look Bruno in the face he stands there with his hands on the roof's ledge, knuckles white, staring at the street below with his shoulders hunched and oh, god, it's been three days. Abbacchio takes a deep breath.
And then he turns around, and he's scowling as per usual, but something in his eyes softens for just a moment as he, too, feels like he's come home. God.]
Fuck, [he says again, and he's still a tiny bit drunk but that's mostly three days of anguish talking, packaged neatly into one word. For emphasis, he adds,] Fuck you in particular. What took you so long?
[Besides the obvious - the usual? Whatever. Despair filtered down into anger he has nothing to do with still seeps through Abbacchio's very footsteps as he moves away from the ledge toward Bruno, one of his hands raised before he's fully crossed the distance to land squarely on Bruno's shoulder. The other, more tenderly, brushing his cheek.
So it's been a long three days and he kind of smells like his very own liquor store, but besides that: finally.] You look like shit, you know.
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Not great. Not really even good; but better. He remains something of a mess, something fractured into pieces and put back together incorrectly. Sure, he functions - he breathes and walks and gets through the day, somehow, but he doesn't ever feel right without Bruno beside him. Or at least—at least nearby, at least somewhere Abbacchio can see him and feel his presence and grasp onto that little modicum of peace.
It isn't something he can express in words, not good ones; but even he knows it's fairly obvious. It's obvious now, when instead of turning around to look Bruno in the face he stands there with his hands on the roof's ledge, knuckles white, staring at the street below with his shoulders hunched and oh, god, it's been three days. Abbacchio takes a deep breath.
And then he turns around, and he's scowling as per usual, but something in his eyes softens for just a moment as he, too, feels like he's come home. God.]
Fuck, [he says again, and he's still a tiny bit drunk but that's mostly three days of anguish talking, packaged neatly into one word. For emphasis, he adds,] Fuck you in particular. What took you so long?
[Besides the obvious - the usual? Whatever. Despair filtered down into anger he has nothing to do with still seeps through Abbacchio's very footsteps as he moves away from the ledge toward Bruno, one of his hands raised before he's fully crossed the distance to land squarely on Bruno's shoulder. The other, more tenderly, brushing his cheek.
So it's been a long three days and he kind of smells like his very own liquor store, but besides that: finally.] You look like shit, you know.