[ Neither one of them had set out to intentionally hurt the other but they both had; whether it was with words or with actions, they had reached a critical point, between all the bad news and the emotion that came with it, and old wounds had been needled at unintentionally by Bucciarati's words until they were left raw and bleeding, where Abbacchio simply had to say enough, for both their sakes.
And so Abbacchio spent the next two days barely sleeping, analysing the conversation he'd had with Bucciarati from every possible angle he could before coming to a single conclusion; in his hurt and his grief, he might have over-exaggerated in some of his reactions.
He understands that Bucciarati was doing what he saw as the right and just thing to do; Abbacchio had agreed with him then – still does, even now, after everything, after he's given himself a chance to reassess his own feelings on the matter. He doesn't like it, doesn't expect that he ever will; nor that he's supposed to. The outcome was awful for all of them at the end of the day, but they did what they had to do.
It's halfway through the third day of ruminating (of moping and isolating himself in his own self-pity) that he hauls himself up out of the bed that he's made for himself, both literally and figuratively. He washes in an effort to look halfway decent; throws on some clean clothes, and stares himself down in his mirror for a good five minutes while he brushes his teeth twice for good measure, before he finally unlocks his own door and heads out into the hallway between his own room and Bucciarati's.
As much as he wants to delay the inevitable, he doesn't loiter around in the hallway. Padding quietly over towards Bucciarati's door, he knocks softly against it – whether that's because he doesn't want to disturb the man inside or is hoping, foolishly, that Bucciarati won't hear his knock if he's inside.
If Bucciarati does greet Abbacchio, he'll be met with tired, bloodshot eyes (whether from lack of sleep, or otherwise), and the overall demeanour of a man who is struggling to grapple with his own conflicted feelings. ]
action | backdated to dec. 22nd!
And so Abbacchio spent the next two days barely sleeping, analysing the conversation he'd had with Bucciarati from every possible angle he could before coming to a single conclusion; in his hurt and his grief, he might have over-exaggerated in some of his reactions.
He understands that Bucciarati was doing what he saw as the right and just thing to do; Abbacchio had agreed with him then – still does, even now, after everything, after he's given himself a chance to reassess his own feelings on the matter. He doesn't like it, doesn't expect that he ever will; nor that he's supposed to. The outcome was awful for all of them at the end of the day, but they did what they had to do.
It's halfway through the third day of ruminating (of moping and isolating himself in his own self-pity) that he hauls himself up out of the bed that he's made for himself, both literally and figuratively. He washes in an effort to look halfway decent; throws on some clean clothes, and stares himself down in his mirror for a good five minutes while he brushes his teeth twice for good measure, before he finally unlocks his own door and heads out into the hallway between his own room and Bucciarati's.
As much as he wants to delay the inevitable, he doesn't loiter around in the hallway. Padding quietly over towards Bucciarati's door, he knocks softly against it – whether that's because he doesn't want to disturb the man inside or is hoping, foolishly, that Bucciarati won't hear his knock if he's inside.
If Bucciarati does greet Abbacchio, he'll be met with tired, bloodshot eyes (whether from lack of sleep, or otherwise), and the overall demeanour of a man who is struggling to grapple with his own conflicted feelings. ]