Work Text:
Bruno was currently in Florence, his dad's will had turned up, and needed to collect some things from his old home. He would only be gone for two days, so Abbacchio and Bruno decided that Abbacchio would just stay in Naples. Abbacchio was all alone in their big villa, happy to replay concerts using Moody Blues and re-read the books on their shelves. On the evening of the first day, he remembered to do the one thing Bruno asked of him. He left a care package for the old gardener, who had retired yesterday. Today he was just collecting his bags from the shed, which he would probably be doing about this time. Abbacchio rustled through the care package, curious to see what gifts Bruno picked out. There was an assortment of dried fish and cheeses, gardening manuals, and at the bottom, the man's favorite wine. Abbacchio stared at the bottle. He was one month sober three days ago, but every day had been increasingly difficult and today was no break from that. Usually, Bruno would distract him from his urges, but with no Bruno, he had been anxiously distracting himself all day. He stared at the bottle. It was a rich, dark red, the color of fresh blood. It hurt him that he instantly recognized it as a particularly expensive brand. His heart panged as a ghost of the taste crept onto the back of his tongue. Sweet, bitter, elegant. He picked up the bottle. First regret. It was all downhill from there, his mind just begging him to smell it.
*Smelling it will satisfy the urge.* He thought. But he also knew that no, it wouldn't, it would just make it worse, yet he ignored that part of him. He nervously uncorked the bottle with ease and took a whiff. He sighed, letting the smell envelope his nose. He put his mouth to the bottle and inhaled a little of the pungent smell, the air from the bottle teasing his tastebuds. He smelled it for a good five minutes, the very loud, annoying, persistent devil on his shoulder telling him to take a sip.
*It's your reward for staying sober for a month.*
*You can restart tomorrow, it'll be easy if you've gone a month.*
*You don't have to go completely sober, you can have one glass a day starting today.*
His heart was racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He could feel his mouth salivating as he kept smelling the wine. He sighed and took a quick sip, not even enough to swallow. Second regret.
*Well, you already broke your sobriety, might as well indulge.*
*This is your one glass a night, remember?*
*Drink some more. Forget about the regret you're feeling.*
Rushed with instant regret and a feeling of helplessness, no Bruno to tell him to ignore those thoughts or tell him it's all okay, Abbacchio tilted his head back and began chugging from the bottle. He took a break when the bottle was a third empty. It tasted so good, the alcohol stung the back of his throat, so he drank more to soothe it. Before he knew it, two-thirds of the bottle was gone and felt a warmth creeping into his brain.
*Great,* He thought.
*An addict on top of being a lightweight.*
He tossed back the remaining alcohol, slumping down on the floor to cry and kill himself for ever listening to his temptations. He needed Bruno. He needed someone who wouldn't shame him for his mistakes, who would kiss him all better, bandage the wounds in his mind that reopened.
*Those feelings can go away. You just need more.*
Those feelings only went away while he slammed back alcohol, but right when he took that last swallow, they would burn harder in his mind. It perpetuated a never-ending cycle, drinking more and more and more. It was numbing for a moment. Just a moment.
*A moment is all you need. Those moments will add up.*
His thoughts lagged behind his motions, his mind registering he had gotten up when he was already at the door. He pushed it open, digging through his pockets for a fifty, and trudged down the bustling streets of Naples. The lights were painfully bright, staying in his eyes even after looking away. There were too many couples, too many people playing different songs that all melted together into what Abbacchio at the moment, thought was an abysmal melody. His feet carried him to the closest liquor store, like a routine. The familiar bell jingled as he walked in.
*A new cashier. New displays.*
He pulled out the crumpled fifty and bent down to read the bottles of the new display, losing his balance and almost falling over at the sudden drop. The price wasn't bad, the brand wasn't bad either. He put a bottle between his elbow and body and carried the other two with his hands. He shoved the fifty toward the cashier.
"I don't need a bag. The change is your tip." He could smell the alcohol on his breath. He shoved the bottle between his arm in the pocket of his jacket. The walk home felt long, cold, and grueling. Once the traffic was behind him he uncorked a bottle and took large drinks from it. A couple was side-eyeing him as he rounded the corner. Judging him. Shaming him. He felt tears in his eyes, longing for Bruno once more. He shamed himself for relying on Bruno, how broken he was without him, how helpless he was.
*Bruno might break up with you, seeing how unfixable you are.* He felt the salt of tears mix with the wine as he chugged more. He finally reached the steps to his villa, tossing an empty bottle into the trashcan. His world was a blur now, the tears creating a filter over his eyes, and one over his mind from the alcohol. His throat felt numb and coated, he felt regret well up in the form of nausea. He quickly tossed the bottles on the couch then ran to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet, feeling the cold porcelain against his cheek. It felt nice for a moment until his tears lubricated the seat and his face slipped and hit the wall. The pain was barely registered, just a dull ache on the side of his head.
*You feel empty now, after that. You need more.*
He flushed the toilet, needing the sour taste gone. He slumped on the couch and turned on the TV while he drank the other bottle. Some newsreel was droning on about who knows what. Italian sounded foreign to him at the moment. The haze completely enveloped him now. One side of him longed for Bruno and his touch, he felt so unnaturally warm and just wanted his soft body next to his, massaging his shoulders. Bruno knew how to deal with him when he was black-out drunk, but what about a relapse? Would Bruno stare at him in disgust? No, no. He would be hurt of course, that his love was so broken, but that's what Bruno does. He fixes broken things, no matter how many times it takes. Abbacchio finished off the latest bottle and struggled to open the last one. A wave of fatigue washed over him. He lay back on the couch, barely bringing the bottle to his lips for one last sip before succumbing to the wave, drowning in his drunken haze. Hoping it will all be okay tomorrow, worrying for a moment about what Bruno's reaction will be. Suddenly, black.
*A dreamless sleep for a hopeless man.*