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abbacchio thought he knew grief.
surely he did after his old partner’s untimely demise. the weight that comes with knowing they’re gone. the confusion of not knowing where they ended up. and in abbacchio’s case, the guilt of knowing that it could’ve been avoided, but everything that could’ve gone wrong did.
textbook grief at its finest. abbacchio knew it well. he struggled, lost himself, but managed to recover a few fragments with the help of bruno’s ever-present light. occasionally dulled, but never out.
among other things, abbacchio was wrong about this as well. that light he had grown to depend on to find his way was gone, leaving him alone in the dark once more.
it didn’t make sense. nothing about anything made sense. he remembers the panic on giorno’s face, realizing something was very very wrong before anyone else had time to comprehend. he remembers watching the boy dash into the bell tower, leaving the rest of them behind in utter confusion and a tad bit of annoyance on abbacchio’s part. was that where he messed up? yelling at giorno to stop for a moment; to wait and follow orders. if giorno hadn’t stopped and listened for a split second, would things be different now?
he remembers cautiously entering the tower himself, mind deadset on giving giorno the beating of a lifetime while also avoiding the boss’ rage himself. he remembers hearing giorno’s staggered breaths long before he could even see the boy as he descended the stairs. he remembers how his eyes took in everything but him. maybe it was his subconscious avoiding reality, or maybe it was just how his eyes adjusted to the dark. the broken pillars spread amongst the floor, entirely too much blood seeping through the floor tiles, and a hand far too pale to be bruno’s grasping limply onto…
that’s where the memories ended. four walls painted a disgusting shade of yellow were the only thing surrounding him when abbacchio was himself again; if you could even call it that. deep down, abbacchio knew that he would never be whoever he was before that day. honestly, it felt like he would never again be anyone.
apparently, many events took place after the incident at the bell tower. they managed to all flee back to the boat, bringing bruno’s lifeless body and trish’s disembodied hand along. they arrived back in naples, performed some type of burial for their lost capo and friend, and at some point ended up on a farm deep in the country. abbacchio had heard that they were somewhere close to where they had boarded trish after they met her, but he didn’t ask. he never asked any questions about any of it. he just didn’t want to know.
and that farm is where he had spent the past week, shut up inside of a room with four yellow ugly walls. the room was quite barren, most likely a guest room. there was a queen-sized bed, a wobbly bedside table that abbacchio was nervous to even sit a glass of water on, a bookshelf ridden with dust, and a wooden chair worn from use and age tucked into the corner. the floors were cracked and splintering, a mildly alarming stain clung to one of the upper corners of the room, and the whole place smell vaguely of mildew. but it was a room that abbacchio could lock himself away in, so he did.
the days had gone by slowly, day phasing into night and then back into day. abbacchio hadn’t slept a wink, and if questioned, he couldn’t even tell you what time it was. not that anyone was asking him questions. for a while, he wasn’t even sure if anybody else was in the house. but eventually, the sounds of human life reached his ears. the familiar sound of narancia whining, fugo yelling, and mista chuckling to himself; just like old times. it seemed almost disrespectful how quickly they moved on, but on occasion, his ears picked up a sob or a sniffle. they missed him too.
sometimes, he would hear feet approach his door, but no one ever entered. sometimes they would pause in hesitation before continuing down the hall. once or twice or maybe more than that, he’s even heard someone rest their back on his door before sliding to the floor. each time, they had stayed there for hours, breathing evenly but never dozing off. sometimes they would drum their fingers on the door, or tap out a little beat onto the floorboards. one time, he even heard the sound of book pages flipping. no matter what activity they chose to do, they never talked. they just stayed. keeping him company, he supposed, though company isn’t what he needed.
eventually, they would get up and continue on with their day. mista and narancia didn’t read books, and fugo would never willingly waste precious time like that being unproductive. of all people to keep him company, it of course had to be the one he hated most.
oh, how he hated giorno. he was brash, arrogant, and an overall pain. his entire existence was an insult to everything bruno had built. every idea the boy had offered was a slap to the face in abbacchio’s opinion. but yet, bruno took him in. he brought him along; allowed him to aid in one of the biggest missions they had ever been assigned, and look where they ended up.
giorno was no good, and abbacchio was sure to let him know.
but even now, here he was. wasting precious hours sitting in front of abbacchio’s door waiting on something. did he want abbacchio to come out? did he want him to open up? allow him to rush into his arms for some sentimental hug full of tears and forgiveness? not going to happen. giorno had lost a capo. abbacchio had lost bruno.
honestly, abbacchio didn’t even need help. he was coping just fine, thank you very much. sure, he hadn’t exactly showered, eaten, slept, or even really left the room in the past week, but that was okay. he wasn’t drinking, which meant he was doing well.
it wasn’t until day six that someone finally decided to test the fragility of abbacchio’s current state. without a prior knock, the door to his bedroom creaked open. for a moment, nothing happened. it would’ve been more annoying if they had opened the door just for the hell of it, but eventually a slender hand slipped a plate of food into the room along with a glass of water before gingerly shutting the door. abbacchio listened as the person waited a second before trudging away back down the stairs.
abbacchio never got up to retrieve the plate.
on day seven, the door creaked open again. a fresh supply of food and water was placed down before the old serving was removed. this time though, the hand reached back in to plaster a note onto the wall before slipping away and latching the door shut once more. abbacchio planned to ignore this meal entirely as well, but the note was something to think about. every time he would consider retrieving it though, he sank further into his sweat-soaked sheets. the note had nothing he wanted to read on it. what he wanted was something he could never get back.
on the eighth day, the door never opened. it did, however, carry the sound of gentle knocks against it straight to abbacchio’s ears. it was only four knocks, and abbacchio hoped whoever it was would soon give up and go away. he should really know by now not to expect such miracles.
“abbacchio.”
abbacchio grimaced at the sound of the blonde’s voice. did this kid just not know when to give up?
“i’m not coming in. i’m just gonna leave this here, okay? it’ll help you sleep.”
he lay in silence for a moment, confused as to what was supposed to be aiding him at this moment before he heard the gentle melody of a music box muffled slightly by the door. the short lullaby it sang was nice, but the little piece of machinery was obviously past its prime.
abbacchio groaned, grabbing a pillow from the other side of the bed and covering his ears. the last thing he wanted to do was sleep. god knows what he’d see if he were to drift off into a dream at this point. a part of him was afraid even his own stand would betray him if given the chance. he didn’t want to imagine the horrors his brain would create to relay a scene to him that he so desperately wanted to avoid. he doesn’t know what happened in the bell tower that day, and he would like to keep it that way.
despite his best efforts, the tune of the music box continued to disturb his current idea of peace an hour later. it wasn’t annoying by any means. it just seemed…sad, and abbacchio wanted none of that. against his better judgment, he rolled out of bed, weary of the splintering floor beneath his knees. his vision was spotty, and hunger-induced nausea made his stomach roll. for a moment, he just breathed. the stuffy, moist air was by no means comforting, but it served its purpose. using the headboard as support, he strained to lift himself to his feet. there was no way he was going to make it to the door on his own. but the music had to stop by any means necessary. if he had learned anything from the past couple of weeks, he knew exactly where his unfortunate help rested.
“gior..no.”
the boy’s name came out in a low groan. it was pitiful, and even the music box produced a more stable sound. abbacchio sank to his knees once more, resting his head on the mattress.
“giorno.”
it was easier this time. a slight shuffle could be heard before the familiar creak of the door and the much clearer song of the music box flooded his ears. giorno eased into the room, pushing the door shut behind him before moving quietly to abbacchio’s side. without a word, giorno squatted down, securing abbacchio’s torso in his arms before lifting; struggling to get the full-grown man back into bed on his own, but he would manage. he maneuvered his teammate into a sitting position with his back resting against the headboard before taking a step back, giving him some room.
“i’m going to get you a glass of water.”
giorno’s voice was monotone, almost how it always is. he turned on his heel, before disappearing into the hall, leaving the door open just a crack. abbacchio found it very hard to breathe again.
leaning back, abbacchio let his eyes fall shut for a while. he knew he was playing a dangerous game. completing the first step toward an inevitable goal was an obvious path marked with failure, but he needed to do this. even if just for a moment, he needed to take a break from the physical world around him and just think. it wasn’t a fun task, no, but he felt like it was necessary. at least before giorno returned.
but what was there to think about? too much. way too much. but also not enough? thinking about the situation itself is out of the question. he knew what he needed to know.
bruno buccellati was dead, and there was nothing more to it.
but what of trish? nothing of her remained at the scene besides her pale severed hand. had she been holding onto bruno when she was attacked? how could her dad do this to her? why had he done this to her? had they fought for their lives together? had he tried to save her? knowing bruno, it’s likely he did. but where did that get him? he was dead, and trish likely followed suit, robbed of her life by the same person who gave it to her. the person who should’ve loved her the most.
abbacchio vaguely noticed the shift in his breathing, moving from shallow, frustrated breaths into deep even ones. the thought of sleep seemed more appealing now. the vaulted memory of drinking himself into oblivion seemed to resurface, reminding him of how nice it was to simply be unaware. anywhere but there, in the present, was a safe place for him. locked away in the realm of dreams, he’d be able to dodge reality once again. though, a more selfish, stubborn part of him wished to sleep for eternity. to simply never face the real world again was a dream in itself. after all, what would there be to wake up to? there was no reason to beat around the bush. hope had long ago fled abbacchio’s mind when life beat the optimism out of the young cop.
with the soft song of the music box still guiding him to rest, he accepted the inevitable devastation that would arise when he woke up. bruno would still be dead.