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“You’re not nervous about being alone with me, are you?”
Bucciarati raises his eyebrows. “Why would that make me nervous?”
Abbacchio shrugs.
Tilting his head one way, curious and concerned, “Hmm…”
“I mean…” Abbacchio pulls up his leg, so his foot is on the couch and his knee is bent in front of him. “It’s your birthday, Bruno. And it’s just the two of us…”
“That’s right…”
“And… I don’t want you to think I expect anything to happen…” shaking his head, “I don’t expect anything. You know that right?”
“Of course, Leone… Why would you expect anything?” Bucciarati asks, eyebrows still raised, “It’s MY birthday, you know.”
“Oh,” he grins, “right…”
Bucciarati wraps an arm around his shoulders. “I’m the one with the expectations.”
“Hm…” Abbacchio leans closer.
Bucciarati pats his shoulder, smiling a big, warm smile. “Leone…”
“Yeah?”
“I could never be nervous about being alone with you…” he pulls him in for a hug, “ It’s really the opposite…”
Hugging him back, pushing his face into his shoulder, “Really?”
“Really.” He rubs his back, “Leone… you’re like my other half…”
Speaking into him, breath warm, “Bruno…”
For a minute they just sit there.
“Will you do something for me? For my birthday…?”
“Anything.”
“Will you go check on the pasta?”
Snorting and smiling, Abbacchio gets off him. “Sure.”
Bucciarati watches him head for the kitchen, and smiles to himself.
They had originally planned to go somewhere and stay the night at a hotel for Bucciarati’s birthday. But after some consideration they decided to offer the trip to Trish and Narancia— that gets them out of the house. They’ll probably make better use of a little vacation anyways
Bucciarati and Abbacchio are fine staying where they are. They mostly just want to be alone, and cook dinner together, and hang out.
It’s just what Bucciarati wants for his birthday. To be alone with Abbacchio.
But he needs a second to himself, to feel what it’s like on his own, so he can really savor their time together.
He takes a deep breath.
“It’s ready—” Abbacchio calls from the kitchen.
Bucciarati gets to his feet.
When he gets to the kitchen, Bucciarati sees Abbacchio setting bread and salad on the table.
“I’ll get the napkins, and silverware,” he offers, “go ahead and make your plate.”
“Okay,” Bucciarati smiles, agreeably. He gets his pasta first. Abbacchio finishes setting the table quickly, and sits down with his own plate of food.
As soon as Abbacchio joins Bucciarati, he goes, “Hmph.”
“What is it?”
“I dunno… I feel like…” Abbacchio looks down at the table before them, “we should have candles or fancy plates or something… something to make it more special…” he looks at Bucciarati, “it’s your birthday, Bruno…”
“Leone…” he reaches out for his hand.
Abbacchio takes it.
“This dinner is special. We made it together, so it’s special to me.”
“Bruno…”
“It’s exactly what I wanted,” he adds, genuinely, “I wanted to make dinner with you…” sighing, “it feels like forever since we were able to sit down and eat like this, just the two of us…”
“Yeah… well,” Abbacchio smiles, “glad that’s what you wanted… cause I didn’t get you anything.”
Bucciarati chuckles for a second, then stops, and asks, “Really?”
“Yeah…”
“Even Narancia got me something…”
“He got you a shitty toy…”
“I guess I’m not the easiest person to buy gifts for…”
“You’re not.”
“Well... I appreciate your honesty…” quieter, “but I also appreciate the toy from Narancia.”
“Hm.” Abbacchio takes a big bite of pasta.
“What do you think?” Bucciarati asks, eating a forkful himself.
“It’s good…” Abbacchio shoots him a smile, “I think… there is something special about it.”
Bucciarati smiles back, big.
And they keep eating for a while.
And when they’re done they clear the table together.
And then Abbacchio goes to start the dishes, but Bucciarati stops him. “Leave it…”
“It’ll just take a minute…”
“Not right now.”
Amused— “Bruno. They’ve gotta get done eventually.”
“Not right now.” Bucciarati pulls him away from the sink. “Not on my birthday…”
At that, Abbacchio lets Bucciarati pull him in for a hug. And for a minute they just stand there in the middle of the kitchen wrapped up in each other’s arms.
“Are you having a good birthday?”
“I am.”
“Can I do anything to make it better?”
“Sure.” Bucciarati moves his hands up so he’s holding Abbacchio’s head in his hands, his fingers sliding up into his hair.
And Abbacchio holds onto him tight around the waist, and they’re kissing each other, deeply.
And as they break apart, Abbacchio lets out a pleased little, “Mmm…”
Bucciarati runs his fingers through his hair, smiling softly. “That’s better.”
Abbacchio smiles back at him. Then he draws away, and pulls himself up so he’s sitting on the kitchen counter. “Hey. Bruno.”
Leaning on the counter next to him, “Yes?”
“I’m gonna get you a birthday present.”
“Well…” he glances at the clock by the oven, “most of the stores around here are closing soon…”
“I might have to give it to you a little late…” Abbacchio admits, “but, it’s not exactly something you get at a store, anyways.”
Intrigued now-- “What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
“Okay then…” Bucciarati shrugs, “sounds good. But… you know you don’t have to, right? You know that all I really want, for my birthday, is to spend time together?”
“Sure,” Abacchio shrugs, as if that wasn’t the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. He reaches down the counter, where there’s a bowl of fruit sitting out. Kinda absentmindedly, he grabs a banana and starts peeling it. “But… we spend a lot of time together anyways, so, I feel like I should give you something more… special.”
“Leone…” quietly, “It is special, though…”
Abbacchio’s eyes go a little wider at the sincerity in his voice.
“It’s special to me, to spend time with you like this… just the two of us.” He leans a little closer. “Making dinner… It’s kinda like we used to… remember?”
There was a time, what seems like a lifetime ago, when cooking and eating pasta together was Bucciarati and Abbacchio’s go to date night. Simple, and cheap, and intimate, and fun.
“Of course I remember, Bruno,” Abbacchio tells him, smiling, raising an eyebrow, indignantly.
Bucciarati nods. “Of course.”
Abbacchio bites into the peeled banana in his grip.
Bucciarati watches him eat for a moment.
“Want some?” Abbacchio offers.
“No, thanks.”
“Geez…” Abbacchio groans, “I didn’t even get you a cake or anything…” he takes another bite, then, through a mouthful of fruity mush, “What a fucking let down…”
“Not at all,” Bucciarati assures him, taking his hand.
Abbacchio smiles at him a little as he swallows. And takes another bite.
“Leone…”
“Mhm?”
“Did you get enough to eat?”
Abbacchio’s chewing slows down, suddenly.
Bucciarati’s eyes are on him-- concerned.
“Uuhh…” there’s something strange-- something guilty in Abbacchio’s voice, “Yeah.”
Bucciarati glances at the dishes in the sink, then back at Abbacchio. Still concerned, and doubtful on top of that.
“I just wanted some fruit, I guess… It’s not a big deal.” He tosses the last bite of banana in his mouth, and chews, slowly, not meeting Bucciarati’s eye.
But Bucciarati’s not looking at him anyways. He’s looking off. Thinking.
He’s thinking about how back then they made this same meal together a dozen or more times. He’s thinking about how it was the same recipe, the same amount they made tonight. He’s thinking about how he made his plate first. He’s thinking about how he can’t remember Abbacchio ever eating fruit after dinner like this.
Abbacchio squeezes his hand. “Bruno…”
“Mhm?”
“You okay?”
“Sure…” Bucciarati shrugs, “I guess…” and he tries to keep his voice even, “I guess I ate more than my fair share…”
Immediately-- “No, Bruno…”
Barely hearing him. “I didn’t notice, before…” mystified, “has my appetite really changed that much…?”
Abbacchio just shakes his head. Not really trying to say ‘no’. More like trying to say ‘stop’.
Once again, Bucciarati looks off. But he’s not really thinking this time. He’s just looking off-- Stunned.
And after a minute of sitting there on the counter, watching Bucciarati look off, holding his hand, Abbacchio says, quietly, “Bruno… it’s not a big deal.”
“I wish you had told me.”
Stung and guilty: “Sorry…”
Bucciarati pulls his hand in close, “It’s okay… just. Tell me, next time… please,” he kisses his hand, delicately.
And the stinging is gone, but the sadness sticks. “Okay. I will.”
Bucciarati keeps holding his hand, tight. He leans harder against the counter, looking down, for a little while.
Abbacchio doesn’t know what to do.
Eventually, Bucciarati looks up, slowly meeting his gaze, and saying, “I’m sorry, Leone… I’m sorry you didn’t get enough to eat.”
“Bruno. Listen.” He places his hands on Bucciarati’s shoulders, and pulls him in closer, so he’s right in front of him, between his knees, “It’s not a big deal. We can make more pasta next time. Okay?”
There’s a pause. Bucciarati looks down, frowning. Quietly, clearly unconvinced, he says, “Okay.”
Abbacchio takes a second to consider him. To consider this whole thing. “Or…” he slumps forward a little, “if it’s easier… we can just keep making it exactly like we always have…”
Bucciarati looks at him, confused, “Don’t be ridiculous, Leone…” he shakes his head, “we’ll make more next time. We’ll make plenty, for both of us.”
“Okay,” quietly, patting his shoulders, “whatever’s easier, Bruno.”
Bucciarati maintains eye contact. He maintains an even expression for a few more seconds. Then, his face starts to twist with sadness and frustration, and he leans into Abbacchio’s chest.
And Abbacchio holds onto him.
Moaning, “Leone…”
“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
He takes a shaky breath. “Leone… you’re so good to me…”
“Sshh…”
“I… I ate your food…” sniffing, not quite containing the tears on the edge of his vision, “I-- I ate as much as I wanted, and you were-- Still-- Hungry.”
“SSSHHH,” Abbacchio squeezes him, tight.
Ignoring his pleas to stop— “It’s not fair Leone… it’s not…” grabbing onto his shirt, “IT’S NOT FAIR TO YOU.”
Left without any other real options, Abbacchio lets him cry into his chest, and keeps holding onto him. And he pats him, occasionally, and there are tears in his own eyes, but he feels too tired to really cry-- tired, but not physically.
He sits there, on the counter, that miserable sound in his ears, wishing with all of him that he hadn’t eaten that stupid banana, until the sobbing starts to die down.
“Bruno.”
He manages a “...Yeah?”
“It’s okay.”
He sniffs.
“Do you want to go to bed…?”
Bucciarati pulls away from him, and looks down.
Abbacchio hands him a paper towel off the counter.
“Grazie…” he wipes his eyes.
“Sure.”
“...I’m not really tired.”
“We don’t have to go to sleep… I mean,” Abbacchio shrugs, “We could just lay down together…”
After a moment’s consideration, Bucciarati nods, “That sounds nice.”
Abbacchio slides off the counter.
Bucciarati goes from looking slightly up at him, to just slightly down.
“But—” Bucciarati continues, “Actually… I think I’d like to watch some TV first…”
“Okay.” Abbacchio nods, encouragingly.
“I think, that might help clear my head…”
“Sure,” he holds him by the arm, “whatever you want, Bruno…” trying a small smile, “it’s your birthday, after all.”
Bucciarati lets Abbacchio tug him over to the living room. And they sit down on the couch together, close to each other. Once they find the right channel, Abbacchio tosses the remote on the coffee table, and pushes even closer.
He’s slouching sideways against Bucciarati, his body pressed against his, his head resting against his chest.
Bucciarati places his hand on Abbacchio’s shoulder.
And Abbacchio’s comfortable. And part of him wonders if he should check in with Bucciarati-- make sure he’s comfortable like this too. But he decides against it. He thinks they’re at the point that, it should go without saying: they’re comfortable like this.
He hopes so, at least.
He just wants him to feel comfortable.
Pretty soon Bucciarati’s hand ends up moving from Abbacchio’s shoulder, over to his head, and he’s smoothing down his hair.
It puts them both a little more at ease.
And for a while, they sit there together.
It’s just what Bucciarati needs, really. Being close to Abbacchio like this, while the flashing lights on the screen distract him enough so that he can’t overthink anything. So that he can just be in company with the person he loves, and enjoy it, quietly.
After a while, Bucciarati scoots out from under Abbacchio.
Abbacchio collapses against the couch for a moment, then straightens up, and looks at Bucciarati, curious.
“Bathroom…”
Abbacchio nods, and goes back to looking at the TV.
So, Bucciarati goes to the bathroom. And when he’s done with his business, and goes to wash his hands, he washes them slowly, looking down at the running water. And he dries them on the towel sitting nearby. He picks up the towel, and wipes his face, and as he pulls the towel down, he lets himself look at his reflection.
It’s probably not right to call it a shock, at this point, but there’s no doubt something unsettling about the feeling of looking in the mirror. Something’s not right. Something that, on some level, he understands completely. But on some level, his mind still can’t quite put it together.
He takes a deep breath.
And he tells himself its not so bad.
He’s getting used to being like this. He knows he is. He knows its easier than it used to be. And it’s going to keep getting easier.
He hopes its going to get easier when his hair grows out a little more.
Right now Bucciarati’s hair hits him just above his chin. And it’s kinda familiar to him, the way his hair frames his face right now. But the face itself doesn’t match up with this haircut. And the idea of trying to recapture some element of his previous appearance just feels ridiculous, and futile to him. Part of him wants to cut it all off. But he’s decided to grow it out. If it grows out, he’ll never have to worry about it being this length again. And besides, he always kinda wanted long hair.
He pulls open the drawer in front of the sink. They’re still relatively new to this house, but this drawer has already started to fill up with junk, from all four people who live here. Nail clippers, and flosser sticks, and lipstick.
And hair things.
Hair ties, must be Abbacchio’s, no one else really has hair long enough for that anyways. Hair clips… Trish’s. Or Narancia’s, maybe. But hopefully they won’t mind.
Bucciarati takes a couple of the little clips in his hands. And there’s something familiar about them too, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on it.
He pushes his hair back, clipping it down so it sticks to his head-- changing the shape so that it’s less familiar-- Less ridiculous.
And somehow it helps. For some reason, when he looks in the mirror, it doesn’t bother him as much as before.
It still kinda bothers him, though.
Bucciarati straightens up, and breathes, slowly, steadying himself, telling himself to just suck it up.
He’s already made a big enough mess of tonight.
There’s a knock at the door to the bathroom.
Bucciarati raises his eyebrows. “Leone?”
From the other side-- “Yeah… uh…”
Kinda amused, Bucciarati pulls open the bathroom door.
“Just checking on you…” Abbacchio says, standing there, with a shrug.
“I’m okay,” Bucciarati tells him, reassuringly, “Sorry--I didn’t mean to be gone so long…”
Abbacchio shakes his head, “You probably weren’t. I just… missed you…” he shrugs some more, “I was just worried about you…”
“I’m okay.”
“I like your hairdo.”
Smiling, “Thanks.”
Abbacchio steps in, “Bruno…”
Bucciarati takes his hand, still smiling, in a strained way, “I wish you wouldn’t worry about me.”
Patting their clasped hands, “Too bad.”
“Hm.”
They hug each other.
And in that embrace, Abbacchio can feel the tension in him that he could already sense in the air. “Bruno…”
“Yeah?”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Bucciarati considers whether he does or not, for a second.
Abbacchio just holds onto him, giving him time.
“I don’t know if I want to talk about it… I think, I just want to lay down with you.”
“Okay.”
They make their way upstairs, to their bedroom. And they each change into sleeping clothes, and get ready for bed.
Abbacchio climbs into bed first. He watches Bucciarati get in next to him, and he notices the hairclips again, and he thinks it kinda strange, but decides not to ask.
Bucciarati sighs, and looks at Abbacchio, kinda tired, but completely gentle.
“So…” Abbacchio reaches out for his hand.
Bucciarati takes it. “We should probably talk about it, huh?
“Probably.”
“That would be the mature thing to do.”
“So. Are you still upset about the pasta?”
Maybe the way he asked it was a little too blunt, a little too exasperated.
In any case, it takes Bucciarati a second to reply. “I guess so… but… it’s not just that…” he trails off, looking down.
“We can talk about it some other time…”
“Hm.”
Abbacchio looks at him, thoughtfully, “I think you do better with the kids here…”
“What do you mean?”
“They… make noise. They take up space. They need things, sometimes. They’re a decent distraction, I guess…”
“Yeah…”
“I feel like, it’s almost too quiet, right now… like. I can hear a pin drop.”
Bucciarati raises his eyebrows, “You miss them, huh?”
Abbacchio shrugs. “I mean… I’m glad we get to be alone… but I think it makes things harder, kinda…”
“I guess I am less distracted, but… I can’t spend the rest of my life trying to distract myself, Leone.” He shakes his head, pulling Abbacchio’s hand in close. “I think… we should talk about it…”
There’s an emotional edge to his voice that makes Abbacchio nervous. “Okay… but, we don’t have to do it tonight…”
“Why not?”
“It might make you sad…”
After a pause, Bucciarati goes, “Hmmm…”
“And, I don’t want you to be sad tonight, Bruno…” softly, leaning closer, “I don’t want you to be sad, on your birthday…”
It warms Bucciarati’s heart, it makes him smile a little.
And Abbacchio smiles back.
But a second later, Bucciarati’s smile starts to fade, and he’s looking off, “We might as well talk about it tonight…” he shrugs, “it’s not like it’s really my birthday, anyways.”
Abbacchio’s smile is gone. Sternly: “Bruno.”
“It’s not…” he pulls his hand away from Abbacchio, “I don’t know what day this person was born,” placing his hands on his chest, “but I really doubt it was today.”
“Bruno.”
“And I know it was more than twenty-six years ago…” he closes his eyes. “I figure, more like… forty or so,” he covers his face with his hands, “Christ. I’m so much older than you.”
“No, Bruno.” Determined and quiet. “We’re the same age… I’m a little older, but, it’s your birthday. So we’re the same age again.”
Maybe Bucciarati doesn’t hear him. Maybe he’s just ignoring him. “I don’t even know how old I am,” he shakes his head, “I don’t even know my own appetite.”
His voice isn’t even sad, exactly. It’s just empty.
Abbacchio doesn’t know what he can say to make it better. So he just sits there, something sad and frustrated boiling deep inside him.
“It’s just one of those nights, Leone…” Bucciarati shrugs. “I don’t feel like myself… I don’t really know who I am…”
Abbacchio asks, quietly, “Does it happen a lot?”
“... Sometimes.”
“I wish you’d tell me.” Abbacchio’s voice comes out with an edge of anger.
Bucciarati looks at him, kinda surprised by his tone, “Leone… Are you okay?”
A slight sneer starts up on Abbacchio’s face. “I wanna punch something.”
“... Do you wanna punch me?”
Completely indignant: “NO.”
“Hm…” Quietly. “Sometimes I wanna punch myself…”
Abbacchio grimaces, deeply, looking down. “Fuck...”
Bucciarati watches him for a second. “Leone.”
“Huh?”
“This isn’t fair to you…” he shakes his head, and his hands are shaking too, a little, “I know it’s not fair to you… I’m so sorry.”
“Bruno.” Abbacchio’s eyes are stinging. “It’s not fair to you either…” completely angry now, “it’s not fair that you have to go through this SHIT.”
“Hm…” Bucciarati considers this for a second, “maybe. But…” and his throat feels tight, suddenly, “I just wish you didn’t have to go through it with me…”
“Too bad.” Abbacchio takes his hand, sad and defiant. “We’re in this together.”
Bucciarati looks right at him. And he sees how sincere he is. And it’s a little comforting. He wishes it was more comforting. He leans closer. “Okay.”
Abbacchio wraps him up in his arms. “We have to be in this together.”
Slightly more comforted. “Yeah.”
“I love you.”
Bucciarati hugs him back, and he is comforted, but there are tears in his eyes anyways. “I love you too.”
“I love you.” Abbacchio reiterates. “And I KNOW YOU, Bruno.” Quietly, “even if you don’t… I do. I know it’s you,” desperately, “I know it’s your birthday…”
Bucciarati slumps against him, resting his chin on his shoulder. And he’s too busy trying to contain the tears to say anything.
Abbacchio strokes his back. “Do you remember last year? What you told me about your mom?”
It’s not what Bucciarati was expecting. His stinging eyes go a little wider.
“You told me about how she’d throw you these really nice parties, when you were a little kid… remember?”
“Y--yeah…” Bucciarati sniffs.
“You told me you’d always cook with her, on your birthday back then. Remember?”
Bucciarati pulls away a little, and looks at Abbacchio through mystified red eyes. “Are you trying to make me miss my mom?”
Abbacchio shakes his head, indignantly. “NO-- I mean-- not really,” he groans, frustrated, “I’m just… trying to…”
“It’s okay,” Bucciarati smiles slightly, strangely. “I miss her anyways… I always miss my mom on my birthday.”
Abbacchio just looks at him, making sure that he heard it.
And Bucciarati did hear it. But just in case, he says it again, a little louder, “I miss her. I ALWAYS miss my mom on my birthday…” for some reason, it brings him some peace of mind.
“Bruno.”
The sound of Abbacchio saying his name helps too.
Abbacchio smooths down Bucciarati’s hair, and when he gets to the little clips he unclips them, and sets them on the nightstand. He then runs his fingers through that freed black hair, and says, in a sigh, “Ooh Bruno…”
Bucciarati takes a deep breath.
They lay down close, Bucciarati’s back to Abbacchio’s chest. And Abbacchio pats his side, and speaks near his ear, almost singing it-- “Bruno Bruno Bruno…”
The stinging in Bucciarati’s eyes is gone. He lets his eyes slip close.
***
When Bucciarati wakes up, Abbacchio’s not where he was right behind him when he fell asleep. He twists around in bed, looking for him, and sure enough there he is-- sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away.
And at the sound of Bucciarati shifting around, Abbacchio turns to look at him, and smiles. “Hey.”
Sitting up, scooting closer to him. “Hey.”
Abbacchio offers his hand.
Bucciarati holds onto it. “Leone…”
“Yeah?”
“What’s that?”
Abbacchio looks down, and sees the notepad in his lap, the pen in his hand. “Uh... well…”
Bucciarati raises his eyebrows.
“It could use some more work, but, I don’t really feel like working on it anymore.” He puts the pen on the nightstand, and hands the notepad to Bucciarati. “I know it’s late, but, here ya go.”
Taking the notepad, Bucciarati looks at it, then back at Abbacchio, uncertainly.
“Happy birthday.”
“Huh.” Bucciarati scans the open page of the flimsy book, and sees it’s filled with Abbacchio’s handwriting. And he keeps looking at it, just looking at his loose scripty penmanship for a minute, smiling, fondly. “Thank you, Leone.”
After watching his eyes dart around the page aimlessly, Abbacchio asks, “did you… read it? Are you reading it?”
Bucciarati looks at him, eyes big, feigning innocence.
“... It’s a poem, Bruno.” Abbacchio explains, smirking. “You’re supposed to read it…”
“Okay.” Bucciarati nods. “I will.” He glances at the page for a second, then back at Abbacchio, smiling big. “I love it.”
Abbacchio raises his eyebrows.
“I haven’t read it yet…” shrugging, “but I love it.” He squeezes his hand. “I love that you wrote it for me. I love you.”
Snorting, and smiling back. “Okay. Cool.”
There’s a pause while they sit there. Holding hands. Bucciarati holds the poem close.
“I know it’s kinda lame…” Abbacchio says, looking down, “but… I wanted to write you something. And I figure, maybe it’ll help you remember…”
And the way he says it makes Bucciarati’s smile fade away some.
“It’s like,” Abbacchio scratches his face, absentmindedly, “I made you this thing, because I love you. And you can keep it, and read it, if you want, and it’ll remind you, that I love you. And…” shaking his head, “I could never love anyone like I love you, Bruno.” He reaches out and holds his hand over the paper with the poem on it. “I couldn’t write this for anyone else… So, it has to be for you. Bruno.” Soft and uncertain, “Does that make sense?... Do you get it?”
After considering it for a second, Bucciarati nods. “I get it, Leone…” his eyes are wide with disbelief, and he’s smiling again. “Thank you.”
“Sure.” Abbacchio gets out of bed. And he stretches. “Lemme know if it makes you feel better, or something… Maybe I’ll write you another one.”
With a slight chuckle, “Okay.”
“I was thinking,” Abbacchio puts his hands on his hips, “I wanna get you a cake. The kids’ll be back tonight, and we can have cake… and, ya know, celebrate a little longer.”
“That sounds lovely, Leone.”
“Great. Well… guess I’ll shower.”
Bucciarati watches him go. And as the door closes behind him, and he’s left on his own, he looks back at the notepad. He runs his hand over the paper. “Hm…”
Carefully, Bucciarati pulls the page out of the book. He folds it in half. Then, he unzips right in the middle of his chest, and puts the poem inside him for safe keeping. When he zips himself back up, he holds his hand over the spot— right over his heart— for a second.