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That was the thing about chasing shadows for so many years. Abbacchio knew their old haunts, bending to peer into those doorways. He knew where they would choke up, where they can be caught by their coattails as they try to slip away. And he knew all the dark crevices of Napoli more than he knew the labyrinth that was his own heart. His old partner, oh god not this again— please stop invading his dreams, would say: “You’d think we’re being trained how to be the perfect criminal. We learn all the little mistakes they made. How not to be caught.” And Abbacchio would remember that dumb smile he would offer. No amount of drink would blot it out, even if he begged.
And if he had anyone to ask, he’d let it tumble forth: “How do you make those voices stop? That cacophony of laughter I hear when the sun finds me again every morning. How haven’t I fallen down to Hell yet?” But maybe Hell would be a relief compared to the sickly pale light that fell through his window. God didn’t hear. Could one expect Hell to be so personal? Did the devil have time to personally chase after every captive and know them by name? Was he in a police uniform, too, reading the names off a list, or was he relishing every moment of torment that fell upon him?
Did he expect heaven? Of course not, because it would be such a joke if it opened its gates for somebody like him. Imagine. Choruses or tables of feasts or whatever they were, but all people like him, with coal-blackened hearts weighed down with all the shackles that were never clasped around their wrists.
Then there was Buccellati. When Abbacchio found himself lying beside him, the dreams finally stopped coming. He could imagine heaven filled with people like him: someone who still held a knife, but his heart still beat, not tar, but molten gold. Nobody would complain.
“Are you the devil?” Abbacchio was always murmuring into his ear, brushing aside the silk curtain of hair that fell over Bruno’s face. He could never believe he was actually in bed with this man. Maybe he’d cut a deal for a moment of reprieve. But what could he have traded? He doubted his soul was worth much.
“No.” Bruno’s lashes brushed across Abbacchio’s cheek as he leaned close to his face. His fingers caressed Abbacchio’s jawline as he lifted his face into a kiss.
“Are you an angel?” Abbacchio’s lips kept moving against Bruno’s.
Bruno frowned, his kiss thwarted, propping himself up on his elbows. But then the smile crept forth, blinding Abbacchio with a beam of sunlight. “No.” But then he dragged a thumb across Abbacchio’s cheek. “Does everything have to fit into your Catholic extremes?”
Abbacchio averted his eyes and exhaled. Always foolish. He set his hand heavy over Bruno’s, then buried his face into his neck.
Bruno laughed his intoxicating laugh. “Cause believe it or not, we’re the same. Whenever we die, we’re likely to go to the same place, no? Wherever that may be.”
Abbacchio didn’t agree, but he let that be a comfort to him anyway as Bruno settled down beside him. How could Bruno not worry about these things? All night he laid awake, listening to the man beside him sink easily into his peaceful sleep. Abbacchio felt lost even though Bruno was only leaving him for a short time. He couldn’t help but feel like he was about to trickle through his fingers and be gone for good.
x-x-x-x-x
So he did all he could do, following him to the ends of the earth, quietly at his side for every mission. A shadow.
Bruno always managed to see him, though. “You were really smooth back there, Abbacchio.” He sat with his effortless poise against the back of the café chair. Abbacchio doubted it would ever leave him, even in the most dire of circumstances. The sun shone behind him, painting a glowing crown around his head as if he were the subject of its canvas. Abbacchio saw the single stress line finally lift itself from his brow. “It’s thanks to you the deal went through.”
Abbacchio’s brow fell heavy instead, squinting as the sun hit his eyes. He guessed this is what it was to view the divine, gazing at Bruno’s face. He had a sinking feeling there was a limited amount of time. The stare wore on too long, though, so he lifted his glass and stared down into it. “I’m familiar with the sludge in the bottom of the barrel.”
Bruno tutted at his seriousness, his familiar smile perching on the edge of his mouth, a bird ready to flit away. He flicked two of his fingers from the side of his glass and tilted his head to the side, the sunlight glinting off his hair. “We both live in the bottom of the barrel. It’s nothing new.”
Abbacchio finally smiled, crooked and less practiced, almost menacing. “Well look at you, then. They must serve nice wine down here.”
Bruno squinted, smiling wider, the only time fine lines stretched from his eyes. “I’m fine with it. As long as the wine isn’t from the bottom of the barrel. You have to draw the line somewhere.”
Abbacchio huffed. “Imagine what the wine would be like in heaven, then.” He took the last sip of his and let it sit on his tongue for a moment.
Bruno laughed, rolling his eyes at him through his smile. He set his glass down on the table, then stepped over, settling onto his lap. “What does it matter?” His voice fell lower, rough grains of sugar forming in the caramel. “We’ll still get drunk, no?”
Bruno gazed at the sneer that accompanied Abbacchio’s laugh when it finally came. His lashes brushed his cheeks, then he bent to kiss him, tasting the wine on his tongue.
Abbacchio’s eyes followed him as he broke away, and the grief came back to plague him as it always did, regardless of where he was. “....Don’t ever leave me, okay?”
Bruno’s smile crept up the side of his face, gentler, his eyes almost sad. “Of course not.”
Abbacchio ignored the lie. It was all he could ask for, a brief connection between two souls. So they shared a breath, then turned to watch the birds fly away.