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Even months later, Leone Abbacchio still longed to hear Bruno Bucciarati’s voice catching rhythmically on the wind. He still looked to see if those golden clouds ever moved gently across the sky again, even after everyone else had moved on from them. He missed Narancia too, as well as his police partner from even longer ago. But he didn’t miss them like he missed Bucciarati; missed him like he had just lost him yesterday, or like he had just delicately faded away from Abbacchio’s very arms.
There was a sort of quiet after Bucciarati. One that couldn’t be filled with lively chatter from the three other surviving members of their family-like team, nor even what used to be Abbacchio’s favourite music. Nothing felt the same anymore; he couldn’t feel anything at all now.
Alcohol had made its way back into his life, and Giorno in particular had made efforts to prevent Abbacchio from falling back into his former ways, but they were all useless attempts, constantly ending with shouting from Abbacchio’s end. As guilty as he felt seeing the frown on Giorno’s face deepen even further, nothing mattered to him anymore. Giorno bothered him less, and so Mista and Trish also slowly stopped glancing worriedly towards him.
Abbacchio would have loved the consolations… if only they were from Bucciarati. He was the only one who was able to console Abbacchio in a way that worked for him. No one else could ever make him feel how Bruno did, could look at him that same way, could kiss him as gently as Bruno used to.
Abbacchio sat in Libeccio, drinking wine amongst the loneliness of the empty seats across from him. He remembered so clearly how that table used to look with everyone sat at it: Bucciarati, Mista, Trish, Giorno, Narancia, even Fugo. Abbacchio stared blankly at the empty chairs. If he focused hard enough, he could see faint outlines of everyone, or even hear their voices again. He could hear Giorno’s particularly loud, calling his name. The chair beside him made a scraping noise on the ground and there was a tap on his shoulder. “Abbacchio,” Giorno stood there with a frown on his face, dressed proper in that mafioso suit. He was just 15. “Are you feeling alright?” He sat down gingerly on the chair that he had pulled out, awaiting a response from Abbacchio. “Perfect,” Leone muttered, pouring the rest of the wine he had in his glass down his throat. Giorno visibly clenched his jaw. “Please don’t drink,” he said carefully, but Abbacchio made no efforts to even look at him. “It can’t be good for your injury.”
“I’m healed,” Leone muttered. This kid had no right to tell him what he could and could not do. Except Bucciarati used to always beg him to at least try to get along with the teenager….
He put down the glass slowly and didn’t call the waiter over for a fill-up. “I know you miss Bucciarati,” Giorno said with no filter, crossing his leg over the other. Abbacchio noticed how he always sat so straight and proper, while he slouched lazily like some tramp off the streets. “I do too. So much.” He stared straight ahead, waiting. “You don’t get it,” Abbacchio said under his breath. “You don’t miss him like I do. You’re just a kid.” He was just a kid. Abbacchio felt instantly guilty, like he had betrayed Bruno for being so cold to Giorno. It wasn’t his fault that he reminded Leone so much of his adolescent self. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. It felt greasy. When had he washed it last? His clothes smelled of stale cigarettes and cheap boxed wine. “Yeah,” Giorno said quietly. He stood up and slid the chair under the table again. “Don’t drink yourself sick.” Abbacchio watched him as he left the restaurant. His eyes then slid back to the table, the silence, once more.
Abbacchio didn’t realise what he was doing until it was too late.
He was drunk: light-headed and toppling over as he stumbled down an alleyway off the side of a quaint, little street he recognised well. He remembered walking down that street with Bucciarati one night to look at the pretty lights that were always strung through the nearby trees, remembered how Bucciarati’s hand had found its way to Abbacchio’s in such an easy way.
He threw a glare at the thugs that were disrupting the calm silence of the alley and counting wads of cash in their fingers; they pushed off the wall before he even got his fist ready. He was alone again, this time alone and intoxicated and very, very lonesome. He called out for Moody Blues. It appeared in front of him in a bit of a haze, glitching faintly at the edges. Abbacchio had never thought of using his stand this way, of feeding his inevitably impossible hopes for the future, hopes that Bruno would somehow find his way back into Leone’s arms. Abbacchio took hold of his stand in a shaky grip and stared at it. He hoped that it wouldn’t do what he was making it do, that it would somehow become sentient and refuse to obey his mind’s commands. His eyes weren’t focusing properly. Maybe his drunkenness would prevent Moody Blues from changing. He hoped it would.
But then Moody Blues made that wretched rewinding noise and started to change, its once faceless visage forming into someone else. Abbacchio was now holding Bruno Bucciarati by the shoulders again, a warm Bruno Bucciarati, that had a feel so incredibly alike to his once living body.
And fuck, he looked so lifelike, like he was really, truly there and back from wherever he had gone and right in front of Abbacchio. He could just reach out and would be touching the once soft skin of his cheek. He stood there like the real Bruno, Bruno fucking Bucciarati, with shiny, black hair cascading to his chin, and that white spotted suit with that damn cut-out at his chest. He looked like something out of some expensive museum, always had. All Abbacchio could do was throw himself at Moody Blues and take in the scent of Bucciarati at least this once, the scent of his hair, his skin, the fabric of his clothes.
“Bruno,” Abbacchio choked out through the tears that had began to wash down his cheeks, streaming his makeup down his face like he’d been caught in a rainstorm. “Bruno, don’t leave me all alone, you selfish creature.” Abbacchio knew Bucciarati was the furthest possible thing from selfish. He was an angel in his desperate grasp. Leone slid slowly down to the ground. He still gripped Bruno like a lifeline, burying his face into his stomach like a child might. “Talk,” he whispered to him. “Please let me hear your voice just one more time.” Moody Blues made a sound, rewinding the current playback it had been paused on. It rewinded Bucciarati’s body to a similiar position, but his face was the opposite of the blank stare it had been. His lips were now turned in a smile, a proper one, with his eyes crinkling and a dimple showing through. “Leone,” he said in a crackly mumble. “Leone, look at the lights.” Abbacchio felt instantly sick to his stomach. He couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t see properly, nothing. He wondered if he might be dying. He hoped he was dying.
He grasped the sides of Bucciarati’s face. It should have felt cold like a corpse under his fingers, but Moody Blues replayed things with the utmost accuracy, down to scent and warmth and feel. That damn stand.
“Come back,” he croaked even though it was futile. Bruno would never come back. He was dead. Cold. Still.
But right now he felt so full of life before Leone, looking past that thin screen on his forehead that was almost covered fully by his hair. Seeing it was like a grounding feature, bringing him back from the dream he had been hoping was reality. Moody Blues could only rewind something for so long before it went back to its original form. His stand now appeared before him, faceless once again, feeling cold like it hadn’t just been a warm, living being. Abbacchio fell to his knees on the damp cobblestone, dropping his head down to the ground. Moody Blues faded away and the soft glow disappeared with it, plunging the alleyway into the slowly darkening evening navy again.
He sobbed so hard against the floor he thought he would be sick. His mostly-healed wound ached like it was fresh, like King Crimson had plunged its fist through his middle just yesterday. He had to remind himself that Diavolo was gone, dead, not something anyone had to worry about anymore. He ghosted the wound through his shirt with the palm of his hand, felt where it had narrowly missed blowing a hole through his heart and vital arteries. He avoided death by the skin of his teeth that day, it felt terrifying to think about.
A cat meowed by his bowed head, a tattered stray with raggedy white fur turned cream with dirt. Its eyes were big and blue as Abbacchio lifted his head to watch it purr and rub against his body. He smiled slightly and petted its head; he had always liked cats. The cat rolled onto its back on the cobblestone, rolling around from side to side against the dampness. Abbacchio let out a tearful laugh and petted its soft belly.
The alleyway was suddenly filled with a golden glow from the sunset, and Leone looked up into the sky from where he was crouched to see an array of yellow clouds moving gently across the sky. He felt Bucciarati might be there. As well as Narancia and his police partner.
Abbacchio saw a set of shoes slowly come to a stop in front of him, and then crouch down to his level. The person didn’t say anything, didn’t catch his eye, nothing, just crouched there with him and stroked the cat under the chin. Giorno Giovanna: a 15 year old mafioso carrying a hundred burdens on his shoulders with no complaints. Abbacchio wished he had considered that more.
Giorno didn’t try to console, didn’t try to berate Abbacchio about drinking again, none of it. He just stayed silent, and let the silence speak its words. Giorno was smiling as the cat rolled around on the floor and tapped at his shoes with its paws. He liked nature and stuff, didn’t he? Abbacchio felt bad for knowing nothing about the kid: Bruno probably knew lots about him down to his favourite type of flower or dessert; he actually made an effort with people, after all. Leone was sick of not making efforts.
Eventually Giorno lifted himself off of the ground, and put a hand out for Abbacchio to get up with him. Leone looked up at the teenager — such a young teenager with such a heavy burden to carry — and he felt like an idiot, a child crying so shamefully in front of someone who held himself strong no matter what. “Come on,” said Giorno with a smile as Abbacchio ignored his hand to stand up anyway, brushing himself off to try and regain his balance. “Let’s go have dinner at Libeccio. Trish and Mista are already there waiting for us.” Giorno started to walk out of the alleyway, and so Abbacchio took slow steps following him. He stopped for a moment, looking down at his shoes and where the cat had been rolling around. Where had it gone?
“You know,” He sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat. “You’re not so bad.” Giorno gave him a smile from where he stood in front of the slowly fading yellow clouds, illuminating his face with golden glows. Abbacchio had to turn away from the brightness. This kid… Just who the hell was he?
While Mista and Trish were occupied with ordering food, Abbacchio, uncharacteristically unabashed, thought aloud,
“You remind me of him sometimes.”
Giorno didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. He smiled and sipped his tea.
And in the comfortable silence that followed, Abbacchio suddenly felt so incredibly grateful that he had ever had the privilege to meet Bruno Bucciarati, and all of the other people that came along into his life afterward. He wouldn’t forget Bruno for as long as he lived, and he had a feeling that none of the people sitting at this table would either.
He hadn’t healed; not at all, really. But he had started, and that was better than nothing. Leone knew that Bruno would want him to heal, to start making an effort with those around him who did care about him no matter if he yelled or snapped or didn’t communicate. Bruno always used to say things like that; that it wasn’t just him who cared for Abbacchio, but also Giorno and Mista and Narancia and Fugo and Trish. Abbacchio needed to start believing him, because it seemed that he always had some way of knowing things would turn out okay, even if that meant losing his own life.
The impacts Bruno Bucciarati left behind were to always be with those who knew him. He had been a capo for the organisation of Passione but, Abbacchio thought with a small smile on his lips, he was the best damn capo the mafia had ever fucking known.