[ He does pick up on it. It's a very common tactic in the members of his gang, as it turns out - when things become difficult, they become more formal, particularly Fugo and Abbacchio. The basis for it is easy enough to trace in both of them, too. So it's a bit of a relief when Abbacchio stops, addresses him normally. Bucciarati might want his respect, but he certainly doesn't want to represent the same kind of authority that the police did to him.
The apology is harder to swallow, though not for the reasons Abbacchio is thinking. ]
I'll accept your apology. But you don't need to offer it. [ he shakes his head slightly. ] Nothing I told you then was easy to hear. Your feelings aren't "wrong," either. All of us have to cope in our own ways, and we've got a lot to deal with here as it is.
[ pausing, he regards Abbacchio in silence for a moment, then steps aside, opening the door wider in an invitation in. ]
You and I more than the others, perhaps.
[ they're the oldest, and, more pressingly, the only ones who can't go back and try to make things right. Bruno is under no illusions that whatever magic brought them back here can spirit their souls safely back to Italy, too. ]
[ It takes him a moment of awkwardly loitering in the hallway before he steps into Bucciarati's room. A thought flickers through his mind that perhaps whatever it is Bucciarati has to say to him is something that should be kept behind closed doors – he knows that's not that case; it's an invitation, not an order. ]
I do owe you an apology, though.
[ There's a heavy pause, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, allowing tense muscles to relax as he thinks over what to say. He's unsure of the best way to word himself, and he decides that maybe, sticking with honesty is the best route. Bucciarati deserves more than for Abbacchio to stand here, continuing to put up walls and maintaining a bullshit facade. He sees right through it all at the best of times, anyway.
He has the foresight to at least wait until he's in the room proper, and for Bucciarati to close the door, before he continues. When he does, he meets Bucciarati's eyes with resolve, not once daring to look away from him. And though his tone is a touch more vulnerable than usual, his voice is unwavering, and there is no hint of uncertainty in his words. ]
I was hurt, and I lashed out at you. That wasn't fair. I know that's no excuse, but I still shouldn't have spoken to you like that. [ Not because he is Bucciarati's subordinate, but because he is his friend. ] You're right – it wasn't easy to hear, but it couldn't have been easy for you to talk about either. I should have been more considerate of your position.
[ Abbacchio doesn't want to apologise for the sake of easing his own guilt; that shouldn't be the point of an apology – rather, he wants Bucciarati to know that he understands. He understands that Bucciarati had to make the tough calls; that he and he alone had to be the one to burden the knowledge he'd gained. Abbacchio would have been distracted had he known, and while he will never be able to know for certain that the knowledge would have been a hindrance to their overall end goal, he knows that it was a risk Bucciarati couldn't take.
All of that loyalty and trust he has in Bucciarati is as present as it ever was, and his words are carefully chosen to leave no room for doubt. ]
I meant what I said to you in Venice. All of it. I still do.
[ Listen to him. One would think Bruno was his commanding officer in the military. Considering Abbacchio's background, he supposes it makes sense - and normally, he's happy to be treated with the respect his rank invites, but now, it leaves him uneasy. The matter in question is wedged so squarely in the space where personal and business overlap that there's probably no way of talking about it that feels right. His actions were chosen and justified by his work; the fallout from them is purely emotional. This kind of stiff apology isn't quite what Bucciarati wants to hear from him. But, frankly, Bucciarati doesn't know what he wants to hear. It's just the same way it was with Fugo: things can never go back to the way they used to be. Perhaps the root of all of it. Bruno wishes they didn't need to have this conversation, and that all could be as it was, but that possibility was eradicated the moment Abbacchio hit the sand. No -- before then, even, when he'd collapsed on the marble floor of San Maggiore.
They're standing in the ruins, and they have to start building again somewhere. For all the formality, the unwavering determination and carefully-chosen words, Bruno can hear the vulnerability in his voice, too. He's quiet for a moment, returning Abbacchio's gaze; his expression eases just a little, and his voice is gentle when he replies, linking his claws behind his back. ]
I know.
[ there are few things he holds in question, and Abbacchio's loyalty is certainly not one of them. Perhaps Abbacchio would have lost trust in him, or lost faith in him, or even walked away from him after this, but he knows Abbacchio is a man of his word. He'd said as much when they spoke before. ]
Despite what you might think, you're a good man, Abbacchio. I'm lucky to have you with me. So let me say this not as your capo, but as your companion. [ he dips his chin towards his chest, shutting his eyes with a sigh. ] I'm sorry for what I took from you.
[ home, family, life. Narancia. Himself. Wise decisions in the world of the mafia, strategic, made without regrets - decisions that led to a victory in both ideals and physical strength. But on an individual level, it cost everything. ]
[ This isn't the first time Bucciarati has called him a good man, and it doubtlessly won't be the last; even if it's something Abbacchio struggles to believe about himself, he believes that when Bucciarati says it, he means it. He believes he was good, once; and he had wanted to prove to both Bucciarati and himself that with a little effort, he could be good once again.
In effect, those are all things that Bucciarati gave to Abbacchio. Somehow, by finding some shred of worth in him, even when he was at his worst, at his lowest point, that was what gave him a second chance at life in the first place. That chance is what led him to his home and his family, and so much more – the respect offered to him as a person after he'd long stopped thinking he was deserving of it, the simple freedom and ability to be himself with no questions asked, and the comfort in finding a confidant and companion within Bucciarati himself.
It wasn't Bucciarati who took those things away. No, that blame falls squarely with the boss, because no matter what decisions Bucciarati had to make as their capo, his hand had already been forced.
He isn't used to having people apologise to him, and in truth he doesn't feel he needs one from Bucciarati, but he accepts it with a quiet nod all the same. He understands the need to apologise, to acknowledge an awareness of your actions, and he won't begrudge Bucciarati that opportunity.
Bucciarati's words are almost overwhelming, and Abbacchio has nothing in response that would be nearly sufficient enough to convey the importance of hearing them, not really, so he offers all he can. ]
… Thank you.
[ For the faith, for the years of trust, for considering him a friend. For everything in between. ]
[ it's a relief to hear Abbacchio accept him at once like that - more of a relief than he's letting on. Being prepared for Abbacchio to leave is not the same as being all right with it. Every member of his gang is someone he handpicked, even if they put themselves in his hands first, like Giorno and Narancia; his work is his life, and letting them in means making them part of it. He's not ready to let any of them go. He wasn't on the day Abbacchio died, either. Bruno's shoulders relax a centimeter or two - barely enough to be noticeable, but enough.
"It's difficult, isn't it? Being the one to survive." With Abbacchio's past, he can't say it out loud. But he likes to think that he understands how the other man feels a little better now. ]
Mm.
[ there's no response he can offer outside of acceptance. He nods, and then he's quiet for a little while. It doesn't feel appropriate for him to offer comfort when he's the cause of the heartache; besides, he's never been much good at it. That, he thinks, is why they're having this conversation, too. ]
It's harder than I thought it would be, [ he admits after a few moments, a bit quieter. ] I didn't think I'd have to feel it.
[ Feeling it is always the worst, isn't it? Before Bucciarati, Abbacchio had done everything he could to numb those feelings he felt – the overwhelming grief and pain, the crushing guilt of being the one to survive, knowing he wasn't supposed to be. That because of the consequences of a singular misguided and stupid decision, a good man had lost his life; a family had lost someone they deeply cared for.
How long had he spent in a blurry haze of consciousness? With days and weeks passing by in no time at all, barely aware of his actions as he desperately sought a way out of the pit of suffering he'd made for himself – not that he'd have ever acted on it, not really. In a way, perhaps that's what all the drinking was about, more than just a way to numb everything down, but an elaborate slow suicide.
And then, in a gloomy street, while the rain poured down around him; Bucciarati appeared. A stark contrast to the rest of his surroundings, and to his drunken gaze, the man was illuminated, and it seemed even the rain itself couldn't touch him, creating an odd halo around his silhouette. He knows that's not the case; it was just the street lamps and his umbrella. The image is still ingrained into his memory, as though he were sober; it is as vivid and as clear as Bucciarati's words.
"Don't die bound by your past." ]
It may be cliche, but… It won't always feel like that. [ He's pensive as he speaks, quiet. ] It never truly goes away, but it gets smaller, easier to manage. That doesn't mean there won't still be days when it's just as big, just as consuming, but it won't happen as often. At least… in my experience.
[ If it were anyone other than Abbacchio - if it were anything but this moment - he might find the advice patronizing. Bruno doesn't need advice. This isn't the first time death has taken someone from him; it's not even the first time Bruno's been indirectly responsible for it. But he knows Abbacchio, and he knows he just wants to help. And Bruno's not sure why he said anything, now. Maybe he just wanted Abbacchio to know that he wasn't suffering alone. Bruno's bad at it, too, the suffering. Maybe it's just that he'd never said anything before, and he's not sure he will again. ]
I wanted you to hear it. I'm not any different from you.
[ to be strong and logical and deaden his feelings - these are things Bruno has taught himself to do, things that help him take care of others and protect himself. He has a modicum of self-awareness, enough to know how he can come off because of it: cold, distant, aloof. Underneath it, though, he's still very much human. The weight of what's happened has been pressing down on him since that encounter with the boss, getting heavier and heavier with each new tragedy, and he simply doesn't know what to do with it other than put it aside. But if hiding it might hurt Abbacchio, too, then he'll share it. Just a little. ]
Abbacchio doesn't know Bucciarati's history, not really. Sure, there are things he could make educated guesses about, things he could draw logical conclusions from, but he doesn't attempt to. Has never really seen the point of doing so, in spite of that part of him that wants to collect every piece of information and store it away for a time when it might be relevant. It isn't his place; Bucciarati is his boss first and foremost, which means it never was his place; nor will it ever be. Not unless Bucciarati decides it is.
Similarly, he isn't exactly forthcoming with his own history, and what Bucciarati does know are things that were pulled from police files and records that he definitely shouldn't have had access to, or loosened from Abbacchio's own mouth when the days were too much and alcohol was the only relief. (And that was never on Bucciarati, not once.) So he doesn't know just exactly what Bucciarati means, when he says they're no different from one another.
He's deflecting though, and Abbacchio can't blame him. ]
… Yeah.
[ He exhales heavily. It's easy to imagine how upset Narancia would have been, and that's not to be conceited– that's just the kind of kid Narancia was. ]
Having attachments within our lifestyle. It never really ends well, does it?
[ he makes a sort of noncommittal gesture with his head - not quite a shake, not quite a nod. Attachments end poorly whether you're in the mob or you're a regular person. How many times has he seen it...? Abbacchio isn't wrong, of course - their job is dangerous. Just knowing them is dangerous. Many times, he's thought it would be easier if he could close off his heart. He'd been trying for a while, too, before Giorno joined - to shut his eyes to what was happening to the people around him. It's no wonder he'd bent so easily when the opportunity presented itself.
Of course, that ended badly, too. Abbacchio isn't wrong. His voice is somber but gentle when he replies, his commanding tone still absent. ]
Every ending's a tragedy.
[ divorce, death, betrayal - there's nothing but heartbreak waiting at the end. Still... ]
The rest of the story is what matters. I'm glad that I met him. That's worth enduring this pain for.
[ Abbacchio had tried too. To build walls around himself and shut others out, push them away, to protect both himself and others. It was futile in the end. Cracks appeared in those walls as soon as Bucciarati had offered him a second chance, and they'd only gotten more sprawling with every act of compassion, had grown bigger in size with each new addition to their team. He'd never been very good at keeping himself emotionally detached, anyway. It was something he could do when necessitated. When he was on the job and there were clear-cut lines between business and personal. Those lines became blurred within their small team though, and over time it became harder to compartmentalize and maintain those walls. ]
Mm, you're right.
[ Sometimes, it feels like that's all he knows. Enduring pain. Letting it build, and build until it's an unbearable weight on his shoulders. Before eventually, it causes him to buckle, to keel under the burden that he can no longer bear, and it has him crawling on his hands and knees; seeking absolution for past sins. He knows this, and he knows it never ends well for him. But endure he must, and so endure he does. ]
I get the feeling he'd probably be pissed at us if he knew we were sitting around on our asses moping.
[ The corners of his lips quirk upwards, barely visible for long, but it was there. He's trying. He doesn't want this to devolve again, to let his emotions get the better of him, and he doesn't think Bucciarati wants that either. ]
[ the gentle humor from Abbacchio, as thin as it may be, is enough to ease more of the tension out of his shoulders, and he smiles, too - light but sincere, the way that most of Bucciarati's smiles are. It's a hint of normal. Nothing's been normal, nothing will be normal again - not the way they knew it - but this, the ability to share a smile, to talk again without feeling the unspoken weight of everything that happened that week bearing down on them, is close enough. It's the same as it had been with Fugo. They're on the same page again, and it's that much easier for him to breathe. ]
Pissed at you, maybe.
[ for all his hot-headedness, Narancia almost never yelled at Bucciarati. He idolized him too much. It concerned and flattered Bucciarati in equal measure; he went out of his way never to treat Narancia differently or take advantage of it, but he was well aware of it, evidently. Thinking of it now simply fills him with a sort of sad fondness. ]
But you're right that he wouldn't want that. I think he'd want payback and pizza, in that order.
[ and one of those things has already been done, so... ]
Well, someone's always pissed at me, anyway. Nothing new there.
[ It's true that Abbacchio would be the most probable target, as he often found himself being. As infuriating as it was, it all began to just blend in with the background noise. Besides, Narancia likely wouldn't have dared subject Bucciarati to any of his annoyance, it's almost endearing when he thinks about it like that — but to let himself linger on the thought too long just serves as to circle back around to things he shouldn't be keeping on his mind right now, reminders that he deserved better, that they all did. It leads him ever closer to moping, the very thing neither of them should be doing right now. ]
If he could figure out a way to somehow combine the two, he probably would have.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The apology is harder to swallow, though not for the reasons Abbacchio is thinking. ]
I'll accept your apology. But you don't need to offer it. [ he shakes his head slightly. ] Nothing I told you then was easy to hear. Your feelings aren't "wrong," either. All of us have to cope in our own ways, and we've got a lot to deal with here as it is.
[ pausing, he regards Abbacchio in silence for a moment, then steps aside, opening the door wider in an invitation in. ]
You and I more than the others, perhaps.
[ they're the oldest, and, more pressingly, the only ones who can't go back and try to make things right. Bruno is under no illusions that whatever magic brought them back here can spirit their souls safely back to Italy, too. ]
no subject
I do owe you an apology, though.
[ There's a heavy pause, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, allowing tense muscles to relax as he thinks over what to say. He's unsure of the best way to word himself, and he decides that maybe, sticking with honesty is the best route. Bucciarati deserves more than for Abbacchio to stand here, continuing to put up walls and maintaining a bullshit facade. He sees right through it all at the best of times, anyway.
He has the foresight to at least wait until he's in the room proper, and for Bucciarati to close the door, before he continues. When he does, he meets Bucciarati's eyes with resolve, not once daring to look away from him. And though his tone is a touch more vulnerable than usual, his voice is unwavering, and there is no hint of uncertainty in his words. ]
I was hurt, and I lashed out at you. That wasn't fair. I know that's no excuse, but I still shouldn't have spoken to you like that. [ Not because he is Bucciarati's subordinate, but because he is his friend. ] You're right – it wasn't easy to hear, but it couldn't have been easy for you to talk about either. I should have been more considerate of your position.
[ Abbacchio doesn't want to apologise for the sake of easing his own guilt; that shouldn't be the point of an apology – rather, he wants Bucciarati to know that he understands. He understands that Bucciarati had to make the tough calls; that he and he alone had to be the one to burden the knowledge he'd gained. Abbacchio would have been distracted had he known, and while he will never be able to know for certain that the knowledge would have been a hindrance to their overall end goal, he knows that it was a risk Bucciarati couldn't take.
All of that loyalty and trust he has in Bucciarati is as present as it ever was, and his words are carefully chosen to leave no room for doubt. ]
I meant what I said to you in Venice. All of it. I still do.
no subject
They're standing in the ruins, and they have to start building again somewhere. For all the formality, the unwavering determination and carefully-chosen words, Bruno can hear the vulnerability in his voice, too. He's quiet for a moment, returning Abbacchio's gaze; his expression eases just a little, and his voice is gentle when he replies, linking his claws behind his back. ]
I know.
[ there are few things he holds in question, and Abbacchio's loyalty is certainly not one of them. Perhaps Abbacchio would have lost trust in him, or lost faith in him, or even walked away from him after this, but he knows Abbacchio is a man of his word. He'd said as much when they spoke before. ]
Despite what you might think, you're a good man, Abbacchio. I'm lucky to have you with me. So let me say this not as your capo, but as your companion. [ he dips his chin towards his chest, shutting his eyes with a sigh. ] I'm sorry for what I took from you.
[ home, family, life. Narancia. Himself. Wise decisions in the world of the mafia, strategic, made without regrets - decisions that led to a victory in both ideals and physical strength. But on an individual level, it cost everything. ]
no subject
[ This isn't the first time Bucciarati has called him a good man, and it doubtlessly won't be the last; even if it's something Abbacchio struggles to believe about himself, he believes that when Bucciarati says it, he means it. He believes he was good, once; and he had wanted to prove to both Bucciarati and himself that with a little effort, he could be good once again.
In effect, those are all things that Bucciarati gave to Abbacchio. Somehow, by finding some shred of worth in him, even when he was at his worst, at his lowest point, that was what gave him a second chance at life in the first place. That chance is what led him to his home and his family, and so much more – the respect offered to him as a person after he'd long stopped thinking he was deserving of it, the simple freedom and ability to be himself with no questions asked, and the comfort in finding a confidant and companion within Bucciarati himself.
It wasn't Bucciarati who took those things away. No, that blame falls squarely with the boss, because no matter what decisions Bucciarati had to make as their capo, his hand had already been forced.
He isn't used to having people apologise to him, and in truth he doesn't feel he needs one from Bucciarati, but he accepts it with a quiet nod all the same. He understands the need to apologise, to acknowledge an awareness of your actions, and he won't begrudge Bucciarati that opportunity.
Bucciarati's words are almost overwhelming, and Abbacchio has nothing in response that would be nearly sufficient enough to convey the importance of hearing them, not really, so he offers all he can. ]
… Thank you.
[ For the faith, for the years of trust, for considering him a friend. For everything in between. ]
no subject
"It's difficult, isn't it? Being the one to survive." With Abbacchio's past, he can't say it out loud. But he likes to think that he understands how the other man feels a little better now. ]
Mm.
[ there's no response he can offer outside of acceptance. He nods, and then he's quiet for a little while. It doesn't feel appropriate for him to offer comfort when he's the cause of the heartache; besides, he's never been much good at it. That, he thinks, is why they're having this conversation, too. ]
It's harder than I thought it would be, [ he admits after a few moments, a bit quieter. ] I didn't think I'd have to feel it.
[ he's not supposed to be here. ]
cw alcohol abuse, references to suicidal ideation
[ Feeling it is always the worst, isn't it? Before Bucciarati, Abbacchio had done everything he could to numb those feelings he felt – the overwhelming grief and pain, the crushing guilt of being the one to survive, knowing he wasn't supposed to be. That because of the consequences of a singular misguided and stupid decision, a good man had lost his life; a family had lost someone they deeply cared for.
How long had he spent in a blurry haze of consciousness? With days and weeks passing by in no time at all, barely aware of his actions as he desperately sought a way out of the pit of suffering he'd made for himself – not that he'd have ever acted on it, not really. In a way, perhaps that's what all the drinking was about, more than just a way to numb everything down, but an elaborate slow suicide.
And then, in a gloomy street, while the rain poured down around him; Bucciarati appeared. A stark contrast to the rest of his surroundings, and to his drunken gaze, the man was illuminated, and it seemed even the rain itself couldn't touch him, creating an odd halo around his silhouette. He knows that's not the case; it was just the street lamps and his umbrella. The image is still ingrained into his memory, as though he were sober; it is as vivid and as clear as Bucciarati's words.
"Don't die bound by your past." ]
It may be cliche, but… It won't always feel like that. [ He's pensive as he speaks, quiet. ] It never truly goes away, but it gets smaller, easier to manage. That doesn't mean there won't still be days when it's just as big, just as consuming, but it won't happen as often. At least… in my experience.
[ You just have to let the right people in. ]
no subject
[ If it were anyone other than Abbacchio - if it were anything but this moment - he might find the advice patronizing. Bruno doesn't need advice. This isn't the first time death has taken someone from him; it's not even the first time Bruno's been indirectly responsible for it. But he knows Abbacchio, and he knows he just wants to help. And Bruno's not sure why he said anything, now. Maybe he just wanted Abbacchio to know that he wasn't suffering alone. Bruno's bad at it, too, the suffering. Maybe it's just that he'd never said anything before, and he's not sure he will again. ]
I wanted you to hear it. I'm not any different from you.
[ to be strong and logical and deaden his feelings - these are things Bruno has taught himself to do, things that help him take care of others and protect himself. He has a modicum of self-awareness, enough to know how he can come off because of it: cold, distant, aloof. Underneath it, though, he's still very much human. The weight of what's happened has been pressing down on him since that encounter with the boss, getting heavier and heavier with each new tragedy, and he simply doesn't know what to do with it other than put it aside. But if hiding it might hurt Abbacchio, too, then he'll share it. Just a little. ]
... He missed you a lot, you know. Narancia.
no subject
Abbacchio doesn't know Bucciarati's history, not really. Sure, there are things he could make educated guesses about, things he could draw logical conclusions from, but he doesn't attempt to. Has never really seen the point of doing so, in spite of that part of him that wants to collect every piece of information and store it away for a time when it might be relevant. It isn't his place; Bucciarati is his boss first and foremost, which means it never was his place; nor will it ever be. Not unless Bucciarati decides it is.
Similarly, he isn't exactly forthcoming with his own history, and what Bucciarati does know are things that were pulled from police files and records that he definitely shouldn't have had access to, or loosened from Abbacchio's own mouth when the days were too much and alcohol was the only relief. (And that was never on Bucciarati, not once.) So he doesn't know just exactly what Bucciarati means, when he says they're no different from one another.
He's deflecting though, and Abbacchio can't blame him. ]
… Yeah.
[ He exhales heavily. It's easy to imagine how upset Narancia would have been, and that's not to be conceited– that's just the kind of kid Narancia was. ]
Having attachments within our lifestyle. It never really ends well, does it?
no subject
Of course, that ended badly, too. Abbacchio isn't wrong. His voice is somber but gentle when he replies, his commanding tone still absent. ]
Every ending's a tragedy.
[ divorce, death, betrayal - there's nothing but heartbreak waiting at the end. Still... ]
The rest of the story is what matters. I'm glad that I met him. That's worth enduring this pain for.
no subject
Mm, you're right.
[ Sometimes, it feels like that's all he knows. Enduring pain. Letting it build, and build until it's an unbearable weight on his shoulders. Before eventually, it causes him to buckle, to keel under the burden that he can no longer bear, and it has him crawling on his hands and knees; seeking absolution for past sins. He knows this, and he knows it never ends well for him. But endure he must, and so endure he does. ]
I get the feeling he'd probably be pissed at us if he knew we were sitting around on our asses moping.
[ The corners of his lips quirk upwards, barely visible for long, but it was there. He's trying. He doesn't want this to devolve again, to let his emotions get the better of him, and he doesn't think Bucciarati wants that either. ]
no subject
Pissed at you, maybe.
[ for all his hot-headedness, Narancia almost never yelled at Bucciarati. He idolized him too much. It concerned and flattered Bucciarati in equal measure; he went out of his way never to treat Narancia differently or take advantage of it, but he was well aware of it, evidently. Thinking of it now simply fills him with a sort of sad fondness. ]
But you're right that he wouldn't want that. I think he'd want payback and pizza, in that order.
[ and one of those things has already been done, so... ]
no subject
[ It's true that Abbacchio would be the most probable target, as he often found himself being. As infuriating as it was, it all began to just blend in with the background noise. Besides, Narancia likely wouldn't have dared subject Bucciarati to any of his annoyance, it's almost endearing when he thinks about it like that — but to let himself linger on the thought too long just serves as to circle back around to things he shouldn't be keeping on his mind right now, reminders that he deserved better, that they all did. It leads him ever closer to moping, the very thing neither of them should be doing right now. ]
If he could figure out a way to somehow combine the two, he probably would have.