Abbacchio opened his eyes to a set table on a shaded patio with tan tiles beneath his feet and a wooded canopy above his head with what looked like grape vines dripping off the sides next to hanging potted plants.
There was a meal laid out before him, a plate of spaghetti caprese and a charcuterie platter with prosciutto and salame in front of him, a bottle of red wine to the side. A full wine glass glistened before him in the sunlight as he reached for it, fingers closing around the cold glass that he brought it to his lips. Soft and sweet, the taste of plum, a smoky quality, and the dark red color, Abbacchio knew this wine. Piedirosso from Lacryma Christi del Vesuvio. One of his favorite reds.
The taste washed over him, a strange soothing quality to the flavor that, oddly enough, put him in a state of unease. Why… Why did he feel soothed? There was something he was missing…
He looked around him with a watchful eye. The peaceful scene of a city street was what met his gaze but there were no other people to be found, just the silent storefronts of the white-washed buildings across from him and the gray street. In fact, everything seemed to be sort of dark, a strange washed-out tint to whatever he looked at. The sky was bright but light gray and something told Abbacchio that it was supposed to be blue.
A vehicle caught his eye; an orange bus across the street about half a block behind him with darkened windows that sat ominously still. Before he could think about it any further, the sound of clinking met his ears, the first thing he'd heard aside from silence since he'd opened his eyes. There was nothing on the street though, and when he focused, Abbacchio could swear it was… coming from beneath him?
He hesitated for a moment before cautiously scooting his chair back to peer beneath the tablecloth, lifting it out of the way with the back of his hand. A man was knelt under the table across from him, brown hair poking out from under a familiar navy blue cap that Abbacchio recognized as part of a police uniform.
The man was holding what appeared to be a piece of glass in one of his white-gloved hands and a metal tool in the other.
"Uh…" Abbacchio paused for a moment before deciding to just act anyways. He wasn't known for his tact or beating around the bush, after all. "What are you doing under there, officer?"
The poliziotto seemed to move at Abbacchio's voice before glancing at the white-haired man, face obscured from the dark shadow cast by his cap under the table.
"Sorry to bother you while you're eating," he said sheepishly, as if slightly embarrassed he was caught on his knees on the ground. "I'm conducting an investigation. I'm looking for fingerprints."
Abbacchio's brow furrowed, not really having expected an answer due to the polizio code of privacy but he was glad to know all the same. His curiosity wasn't a trait he had managed to shake off from his old polizio days and that habit of always needing answers was both a blessing and a curse.
He pushed his chair out to kneel on the ground, moving the tablecloth back further to get a better look at what the poliziotto was doing as the officer continued to speak, his attention focused on a dark green bin in front of him.
"There was a robbery across the street last night," the man was explaining. "The victim was struck with a bottle. It shattered, and shards went everywhere. But all the shards weren't on the sidewalk."
He glanced back at Abbacchio, as if thinking about something before adding, "Particularly the part that was being held. We heard that the suspect threw something away here, so I thought I might find something in this recycling bin. I should be able to get some fingerprints. That's the part I'm looking for."
Abbacchio's gaze shifted to the contents of the bin and a grimace crossed his features as he saw the large amount of broken glass and metal cans in the recycling bin. "You're going to look through all that?" he asked incredulously.
"Well, it's my job," the poliziotto replied simply as he went back to examining the piece of glass caught within his tweezers.
"I see," Abbacchio acknowledged, moving his hand from the tablecloth as he turned to stare at the street before him. That ease of response, as if it was truly that simple, sent a ripple of painful familiarity through him. "Yeah…" he muttered, half to himself as he remembered the days when he too was that straightforward of a man. When doing his duty simply because it was was all he had to do.
He saw the poliziotto set the piece of glass down out of the corner of his eye, lifting up another piece and raising the magnifying glass to examine the next one, methodical and slow and so painstakingly effortless.
"Uh…" The word was out before he could stop himself and Abbacchio could tell by the way the man's head tilted towards him that he was listening. Screw it, there was no point in keeping mum now. Maybe… maybe if he could talk to this man… Would that help this feeling of uneasy familiarity?
"Say, uh…"
The poliziotto pulled back to shift towards him, staring at Abbacchio as he asked, "Yes?"
"For reference…" Abbacchio trailed off, deciding to add, "I'm just curious," to make it clear the officer didn't need to reply. He didn't want to disturb polizio business, despite wanting to meddle anyway. He pushed back the tablecloth to look the man in the eyes - or at least try to since it was still too dark to see his face clearly beneath the table.
He held out one hand in question as he asked, "What are you going to do if you don't find the shards? You might not get any fingerprints." Well… that wasn't really what was on his mind though. And for some reason, he felt like, if it was this man…
"No…" Abbacchio decided to clarify. "Even worse, if you do find them, and the suspect hires a crafty lawyer and is found not guilty…" He trailed off, remembering the criminal that paid him off, the trial, how that asshole had used the money he'd made as a pimp to get off scot free… how his partner's death had been ruled an accident, despite losing his job, his friend, his purpose, it was all a simple accident!
He had nearly lost his mind because of it. If it hadn't been for… Abbacchio shook his head, looking back at the poliziotto.
"What makes you keep working so hard despite all those problems?"
"Well…" the officer trailed off, a strange expression crossing his lips as he explained, "I'm not just after the result." He shifted, moving back from the recycling bin to edge towards the end of the table, a gentle eye revealed in the light of the gray sun above them.
"When all you want is the result, you start to look for shortcuts."
That shot through Abbacchio like a bullet to the gut and he almost crumpled in on himself. This poliziotto, this man, did he know? No, no, he couldn't possibly, Abbacchio had left that far behind him but…
"And if you take that shortcut, you might lose sight of the truth," the officer continued, his visible eye fixed directly on Abbacchio as every word he said ripped through the white-haired man. "You'll become less motivated. I think the most important thing is the will to find the truth. As long as you have that, even if the suspect gets away this time, you'll get them eventually, right? Because that's what you're after. Don't you think so?"
Abbaccho couldn't help but bite back the noise rising in the back of his throat, coming out more as a strange grunt that was both a laugh and a sob.
"I envy you," he murmured, violet eyes fixed at a point on the tiled ground as he got to his feet, pushing himself out from under the table to stand beside it. "I used to think I wanted to become a police officer."
Abbacchio took a few steps towards the edge of the canopied shopfront as he said, "Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to become a distinguished police officer." The poliziotto got out from under his own table as well, staring at Abbacchio as the man continued, "At some point, I even had the same will you have. But I messed up."
Part of him just wanted to stop there, didn't want to recall all his mistakes and all his flaws that ate away at him every single day from the inside out. The guilt that would never fade as long as he lived.
"You see," Abbacchio murmured bitterly. "People like me are worthless. We never see things to the end." Was that ever going to change? Despite all his efforts, nothing ever seemed to go the way he wanted and he only seemed to make things worse and what else could he do to fix things? To fix himself?
He already knew the answer.
Nothing.
"We always mess up somewhere along the way."
A firm voice uttering, "That's not true, Abbacchio," cut through the racing thoughts in his mind and Abbacchio couldn't help but jerk his head over to stare at the officer in shock. His name? How did this man know his name?
"You're doing great," he continued despite Abbachio's confusion. "We have the same will."
Why? Why did that 'we' sound so familiar, why did it sound like an old friend from times long lost to him, like a schoolmate on the playground throwing out a 'we' so casually, like a lover talking about the future in 'we' and 'us.'
"That will you had when you first became a police officer resides within your heart again now…" The man looked up, his muted greenish-blue eyes gentle and kind as he murmured, "Abbacchio."
"Why… do you know my name?" Abbacchio squinted, trying to place that face, those weathered smile lines and warm eyes and curly brown hair. The poliziotto just chuckled, a soft sound full of nothing but the gentlest kindness possible.
"Come to think of it…" Abbacchio staggered backwards, memories burgeoning at the edge of his brain as his hands clenched tightly. "I think we've met before."
He- he can't. He can't stay here any longer, a feeling of concern, of fear and urgency washed through him as he backed away a step, eyes shifting to that bus, that familiar orange that he felt like he'd known before.
As he stepped towards it, feet faltering as his mind began to attempt to work over everything he was supposed to know that was rushing in faster than he could process it, the officer said gently, "Where are you going, Abbacchio?"
Abbacchio jerked his hand out, pointing fiercely at the orange bus as he snapped, "I'm getting on that bus!" When he looked back at the poliziotto, things started to come together as memories flooded his senses to the point of nausea.
"I'm starting to remember…"
The second he uttered those words, everything came back.
Those despondent days drinking himself to death, joining Passione, meeting the others, that annoying newcomer, their mission, the new mission, the Boss, Trish, replaying that photograph, Narancia leaving him at the beach as he left with - Bucciarati.
Bucciarati.
He had to get back.
"That's right! I have to go!" Abbacchio cried desperately, staggering towards the bus as he made sense of the rest of the things in his mind. His steps grew firmer and more determined with each one and soon he was rushing towards it.
"I need to get back to my comrades!"
He was just a few steps from the bus when that voice spoke up again.
"Did you forget, Abbacchio?" He stiffened at that sentence, something ice cold running down his spine. "You came here on that bus. This is the last stop."
Abbacchio stopped. He drew in a sharp breath, preparing for whatever he's going to face when he turns around because he can feel it, that the last piece will come together when he turns around and sees-
That kind face that never once stopped believing in him.
"Y-You're…" he stammered out, voice choking as the officer's eyes soften in recognition and affection. "That's right! You're…" Abbacchio couldn't help it; he had to stop, had to take a moment, just a single second before he admitted it to the officer. To himself.
"You're the one who died because I took that bribe…"
His partner just smiled kindly at him, that same expression he wore the day Abbacchio had confessed to him how scared he felt of the apathy that filled him when he thought of his job. How he wondered if he could really protect anyone at all, if this city and this country were even worth it in the end. And his partner hadn't said a word but had held him in a firm embrace and Abbacchio had wondered if maybe that was what love felt like.
"Abbacchio, you did very well."
Don't. Don't say that with that voice, with that warm tone that sounded like he could do no wrong, with that same voice that had died choking out his name on the blood welling in the back of his throat from the gun wound Abbacchio might as well have inflicted on his partner himself.
He couldn't help it.
Abbacchio never cried, not since that day, not for anything, but he couldn't stop himself.
As he bit back a sob, tears streaming down his cheeks, he heard his partner utter, "That's right… So well that I can say I'm proud of you."
"Don't…" he whispered, arms tightening around himself as he tore his gaze away from the brunet. "Don't lie to me… not looking like that."
"Abbacchio…"
He felt a touch against his shoulder and he looked up to see his partner standing beside him and it was like the grayscale world Abbacchio was trapped in washed away. The faded brown hair became that chestnut color that was so perfect against his tan skin, the vivid teal eyes that would crinkle with each smile and show each emotion with startling clarity.
"I would never lie to you," he said gently, hand squeezing Abbacchio's shoulder. "You know how I feel about dishonest people."
It was true; Abbacchio remembered a patrol they did together when a boy, no older than fourteen or so, had been caught passing out cigarettes to children that appeared no more than half his age. He'd tried to write them off as candy sticks and Abbacchio's partner had spent just as long lecturing the boy on living an honest life than on dealing cigs to youths.
"Then what about me?" Abbacchio rasped, staring at his former partner despondently as the lies that piled atop one after the other during his time as a poliziotto formed a wall in his mind between his hopes and his expectations.
"You know that as well," the man murmured.
Abbacchio couldn't face him any longer when he said that; those small moments during patrols when they would talk about what they wanted out of the future, of a small cottage in the countryside of Piemonte growing grape vines, when they'd share a glass of Piedirosso to go with their spaghetti caprese during lunch break at their favorite cafe, when Abbacchio would laugh a little too loud at his partner's joke and his partner would only smile wider.
At some point, the title of partner had begun to take on a different meaning for them.
And Abbacchio had only realized it after the man was gone.
But now he was here, standing right next to Abbacchio and suddenly, all the things he'd given up years ago seemed tangible again and if he reached out, if he just took the man's hand, could he have all that again?
Probably, he thought to himself. Probably, but…
There was so much he hadn't done, Abbacchio realized. So much to regret if he chose to stay here. He would never get to yell at those idiots for stealing his wine or waking him from a delirious hangover or just bully them in general for being so damn irritating even though he secretly enjoyed each and every second with them all. He'd never hear Fugo and Narancia's far too violent arguing over the stupidest topics he'd ever heard of, or how Mista would try to stop them but inevitably get involved and take sides and then things would devolve further until someone got hurt. How they'd all mutter soft apologies and even though they'd be scowling the entire time, the warmth in their eyes would be clear and it was obvious that they'd mean it and Abbachcio would wonder if this was what raising kids was like. He would never get to bitch at Giorno again and damn, he still had so much to say to that prick, he couldn't just up and leave like that without giving that guy one final piece of his mind.
And then there was Bucciarati and… and everything else just seemed to fall away when Abbacchio thought of him.
It was all too easy to step away from his partner, to pull out of the man's gentle grip and take another step towards that bus.
Everything he could've had with his partner was just that: a 'could' of a future that would never happen, and when Abbacchio finally gave a moment to just consider it… a future he didn't really want anymore.
There was only one person he wanted right now, and that man wasn't here.
"I… I have to go," he whispered, voice cracking on the last word as he stared at his former partner in heartbreak.
The poliziotto looked startled for a split second before his features dissolved into the one expression Abbacchio had always wished for ever since that day.
Forgiveness.
"You'd better hurry then," his partner said warmly. "That bus is only supposed to go one way, but… you might be able to catch it, after all."
Abbacchio nodded sharply, eyes turning to that orange bus that seemed to be running all of a sudden, exhaust coming from the pipe in the back and an elderly man leaning out of the entrance, face obscured in the now-vivid sunlight.
Waiting. For him.
Abbacchio swallowed thickly, backing towards the door as he heard the driver shout something unintelligible but he only had eyes for his partner.
The man was smiling at him with nothing but the softest affection Abbacchio had ever known when they'd first met, and yet it was lacking all the same. There was no passion, no adoration, no hint of something else that the two of them had never voiced before but that burned brightly inside each of them.
He needed to tell him.
"I…" Abbacchio couldn't think of anything to say but, "Thank you."
His partner's smile widened and he offered a wave as Abbacchio stepped onto the bus, the driver getting in his seat and shifting the gear into drive.
As he stared out the window of the back of the bus, the vehicle pulling away from the curb to drive down the vacant streets, the man's smile parted to form words that Abbacchio felt in his soul even if he couldn't hear them.
Tears welled up again, from an emotion he recognized as relief, and as he closed his eyes, Abbacchio felt like he could finally smile again.
Cloudy gray sky filled with the sounds of crying, desperate and broken as it resonated through Abbacchio's body, the only thing he could feel aside.
There was nothing but the noise for a while, that and the sky above his head that seemed to push the gray clouds through it like a spoon through molasses. An empty, vacant feeling in everything but his mind that was slowly, painstakingly giving way to a kind of pain he'd never known before.
But it didn't compare to the pain of that face that came into view above his distant eyes and it took far too long to focus on the man's features.
Bucciarati's eyebrows were pressed tightly together, gorgeous blue eyes filled with unshed tears and a kind of desperation expressed through them that Abbacchio had never seen before. He was pale, too pale to be alright, and his lips were moving but no sound was coming from them and Abbacchio wondered if he wasn't speaking, but even the sound of sobbing had stopped, replaced with silence.
The kind of silence that he'd only ever felt when his world was colliding with something he'd never felt before.
Bucciarati mouthed three syllables, Abbacchio's name, with such familiarity, that Abbacchio couldn't do anything else but open his mouth in return.
"I love you."
