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Abbacchio sat at the edge of his bed and looked out the window nearby. Droplets of water trickled down the windowpane refracting light from the illuminated streets below.
Rain. Abbacchio hated the rain— especially on nights like this.
Abbacchio stood up from where he was seated and before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s rummaging through his mess of a closet and reaching into his hidden stash of wine.
Perfect. This’ll get me through tonight.
He pops off the cork with ease and puts the entire bottle to his head. Without stopping for air or getting a feel of its taste, he downs the red liquid and what he couldn’t swallow fast enough spills from the corners of his mouth.
I want to forget that rainy night.
He stumbles forward towards his bed with a tight grip of the half empty half full wine bottle. The tall long-haired man falls, letting his back hit the cold hard mattress. Perfect for a guy like him. Abbacchio laughs at himself mockingly, a twisted smile paints his lips as he takes one last swig of wine. He deserved no comfort, no warmth.
With the wine now finished, Abbacchio let the bottle drop from his hands, crashing onto the floor and shattering into pieces. Tch. He’d have to clean that up later.
The wine wasn’t strong enough. The unrelenting feeling of helplessness and despair, self-hatred and regret continued to invade his mind. He couldn’t make it stop. He could still hear the sound of the drizzling rain. He needed more to drink but the heavy weight of his body prevented him from getting back up. With one last look at the darkened starless sky, Abbacchio closed his eyes, letting the light buzz of alcohol do its thing and warm the insides of his cold shivering body.
Abbacchio tossed and turned in his sleep. Although several years have passed since then, he kept going back to that night. Even in his dreams he’d never forgotten it; the residual scent of rain, gunpowder, and blood mixing in the thin air choked him. He could still smell it as well as taste it after all this time.
The rain that beat down on the pavement, the sound of two gunshots ringing in his ears, and the vivid color of red that stained his vision; the scene laid out before him as if he was stuck on rewind.
However, something felt different this time. He remembered it was a cold and rainy night but his body was somehow warm. The police cap that he once wore so proudly should have shielded his face from the rain yet his face was oddly wet.
Something was wrong here.
Sensing he was asleep, or perhaps somewhere on the cusp between dream and reality, Abbacchio’s eyes shot open and what he saw surprised him.
There he was, Giorno Giovanna watching over him. Those unmistakable golden curls, his blue-green eyes filled with tears falling from his face and landing on his own. Giorno was also surprised to see Abbacchio’s moonlit eyes looking back at him. He wiped his face. It felt like time had stopped as they stared at each other; neither of them knew what to say or how to read the other’s mind. Giorno was quick to collect himself but Abbacchio broke free from the blanket that covered him and reached his hand to touch Giorno’s face.
Soft, warm, and wet.
Abbacchio moved his thumb gently across Giorno’s cheek, drying what was left of his tears, aware of the friction between his calloused hands and Gio’s soft skin, he didn’t want to cause him any more pain.
“You were crying?” he asks. There was no bite to his words, a tenderness in his voice.
“I thought you wouldn’t wake.” Giorno answered back.
Giorno was crying and he was crying for me?
Emotions stirred in Abbacchio’s chest. The happiness at having someone care whether he was alive or dead, the embarrassment that it was Giorno of all people to see him in such a weakened state. He must have looked pitiful to a kid like him.
“I was only sleeping. You were worried over nothing.” Abbacchio averted his eyes. What kind of expression was he making when he said that? He acted nonchalant when he was really scared. He dropped his hand from Giorno’s face, leaving behind its warmth.
“I know–” Giorno continued, “But when I knocked at your door and called out to you, you did not answer. Then I came in and saw you like that and the room like this. You were out cold Leone, and unresponsive. My emotions got the best of me and I–“
Stop it.
Abbacchio couldn’t stand it any longer. He shot up from the bed and wrapped his arms around Giorno, effectively shutting him up. He would not let go of Giorno’s warmth a second time.
The hug came unexpectedly to Giorno but he quickly sank into Abbacchio’s touch. They laid down like this, without parting. Abbacchio could no longer hear the pitter-patter of the deafening rain but the rhythmic beating of their two hearts. He didn’t need the alcohol to get him to tomorrow, all he wanted was Giorno there with him.
“Will you keep me warm tonight?”
“Of course.”
Giorno nuzzled into Abbacchio’s chest and Abbacchio dreamed of a brighter future.