[ For all the thinking he'd done about their conversation, he wishes he'd put more thought into this when Bucciarati opens the door and addresses him. ]
Bucciarati.
[ He responds in kind, but the sight of Bucciarati already has Abbacchio straightening his back into a familiar rigidity, and it's immediately clear that he's here as Abbacchio, and not as Leone, for all the difference it makes. It's subtle, but Bucciarati will no doubt pick up on it – it's in the way he dips his head out of respect, or how his hands remain stiff at his sides rather than stuffed into his pockets.
Abbacchio doesn't expect to be invited inside, and he doesn't expect that Bucciarati would want to converse with him at length; and why would he, after the way he'd spoken to him? The least he can do now is to say his piece as clearly and concisely as he can and try to take up as little of Bucciarati's time as possible. Wherever the dust may settle after that is out of his hands, he'll simply have to accept it. ]
I just wanted to apologise; the way I spoke to you was out of line, and–
[ His shoulders slump, and he heaves out a deep exhale; as if he's been holding his breath the whole time he's been standing here. The shift is as clear as day, the distinction between Abbacchio, the soldato and… Just Leone, a man who is tired, and hurt, and confused. He brings his head up, eyes meeting Bucciarati's. ]
no subject
Bucciarati.
[ He responds in kind, but the sight of Bucciarati already has Abbacchio straightening his back into a familiar rigidity, and it's immediately clear that he's here as Abbacchio, and not as Leone, for all the difference it makes. It's subtle, but Bucciarati will no doubt pick up on it – it's in the way he dips his head out of respect, or how his hands remain stiff at his sides rather than stuffed into his pockets.
Abbacchio doesn't expect to be invited inside, and he doesn't expect that Bucciarati would want to converse with him at length; and why would he, after the way he'd spoken to him? The least he can do now is to say his piece as clearly and concisely as he can and try to take up as little of Bucciarati's time as possible. Wherever the dust may settle after that is out of his hands, he'll simply have to accept it. ]
I just wanted to apologise; the way I spoke to you was out of line, and–
[ His shoulders slump, and he heaves out a deep exhale; as if he's been holding his breath the whole time he's been standing here. The shift is as clear as day, the distinction between Abbacchio, the soldato and… Just Leone, a man who is tired, and hurt, and confused. He brings his head up, eyes meeting Bucciarati's. ]
I'm sorry, Bucciarati.