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But does anyone notice? But does anyone care?
And if I had the guts to put this to your head…
Next to nothing can convince Abbacchio that the Bruno Bucciarati he sees now is the same Bruno Bucciarati that he knew then. The way he moves, speaks, makes silent smiles that don’t quite reach his eyes, stands emotionlessly beside Abbacchio. All of it is so completely unlike the loving but put-together man that Bucciarati once was. Now he is but a vacant shell of what he used to be.
Abbacchio knows that it has to be something to do with when he’d gone to see the Boss, but he doesn’t have a clue what happened then. The Boss will pay for this—he knows that much—will pay for tearing Abbacchio’s sweet Bucciarati away from him.
But does anything matter if you’re already dead?
With Bucciarati, Abbacchio now feels cold. He feels soulless. Bucciarati’s words are empty, and so are his kisses, and his expressions of love. They are all hollow.
He sits stiffly inside of Coco Jumbo with Bucciarati lying on his chest, his face buried in Abbacchio’s neck, his breath tickling along his skin. He plays idly with the long strands of his white hair, leaving occasional kisses on him. Abbacchio should feel a subtle heartbeat beating against him, but he doesn’t. Not even when he puts his ear directly to his chest to listen and Bucciarati complains. He still hears only silence.
Even when Bucciarati tries to tell him things that should mean so much to Abbacchio, the only sounds he can make out are still just words, words that aren’t coherent, and words that he will never be able to comprehend again.
“You know I’ll always love you, Leone,” Bucciarati mutters as he kisses him again and again, but continues to fail to get any reaction or response. “No matter what happens to any of us. I won’t ever stop loving you.” It’s like he knows, like he knows exactly what’s happened to him. Maybe he does. But these words don’t mean anything sensical anymore; they’re but a shallow repetition of the things Bucciarati used to say, used to mean.
And should I be shocked now by the last thing you said?
Would it be completely wrong to finish him right here and now? With the last words that Abbacchio says being a silent plea for forgiveness? Maybe after they’re both gone peacefully, they can reconcile. And love in tranquility. Finally.
Then they may be free from the shackles of reality. The pain; the fear; the anguish.
So would it be so awful for Abbacchio as to relieve Bucciarati from his pain, and then relieve himself from his own misery in response?
Before I pull this trigger, your eyes vacant and stained.
The world isn’t real anymore. Enveloped in Bucciarati’s love, Abbacchio doesn’t ever want to go away. He kisses him deeply, his tongue sliding into his mouth past his gentle lips. This isn’t Bucciarati lying underneath him. This isn’t Bucciarati kissing him back just as passionately, just as lovingly. Abbacchio takes Bucciarati’s suit jacket off, tosses it to the ground. He breathes in his scent, kisses his neck, his shoulders, his chest. He runs his hands across his torso, brushes his slender fingers across scars in his skin that should bleed but don’t. Bucciarati hums into his touches, his breath feels cool. He mutters “I love you” under his breath, however the sentiment is not true anymore. For how can a corpse love?
And in saying you loved me, made things harder, at best.
Bucciarati’s asleep now, his face fallen peaceful on Abbacchio’s stomach. As he breathes, Bucciarati’s head rises and falls slowly against him. Abbacchio strokes his hair.
If only, if only, if only. If only everything was still okay; if only everything was still how it used to be; if only they were still just in the young days of their relationship, when they had nothing to worry about save for Abbacchio’s drinking problem and the kids—Fugo as well, because everyone’s been more lost since a member of their team, their family, went away. When Passione was still worth being a part of. When the constant empty pit in Abbacchio’s heart had filled itself for the time being.
And these words change nothing as your body remains.
This is the worst Abbacchio has potentially ever been. He’s picked up drinking again. Drowns out his sorrows. Bucciarati is upset with him because of it. He takes every bottle Abbcchio manages to get a hold of, begs him to tell what it is he’s so miserable about.
Does he know? Does he know that he’s piloting his own corpse? Abbacchio looks at him, takes his freezing hands and kisses them as many times as he pleases.
“Bruno,” he hums. Bucciarati’s face has softened completely. “I know you’re not you anymore. I know you’ve gone on without me. Wait for me there, okay?”
Tears streak down his cheeks.
And there's no room in this hell, there’s no room in the next.
Without him, he’s nothing. He’s simply nothing. And it doesn’t matter what anyone else says—what Giorno tries to address, what Trish tries to assume, what Narancia tries to question, what Mista tries to prove. He’s entirely a “nothing” being without him. And Abbacchio knows that depending on a person like this is unhealthy, but he’s never been a healthy person anyway. Bucciarati knew what he was going to have to deal with when he invited Abbacchio to join their team, and he’s dealt with it all so well. He’s managed to not just keep Abbacchio together but keep him somewhat happy. So now, now he can’t be happy when he’s gone.
Do the kids notice? Do they see Bucciarati not bleed and then cry? Do they feel the emptiness too? They rely on him as well. He’s like a father to them. He’s grasping onto the life that he doesn’t have anymore, all for them. He’s still here, for them.
Abbacchio depends on Bucciarati too much. He knows that. This is the consequence.
But does anyone notice there’s a corpse in this bed?