The scene in Abbacchio's apartment is just about what Buccellati expects, when he lets himself in.

All of the lights are off. The curtains are closed tight, blocking any lingering sunshine. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, and he waits to let them because he's half afraid of what he'll trip over if he goes in blind.

The floor is clean, though. Or at least, the path from the front door to the living room is, and that's better than nothing.

And it turns out to be the only path that Buccellati needs, because there's Abbacchio. Sprawled miserable on the couch – his tall form taking up the entirety of it – and watching the ceiling with vacant eyes. A position that makes Buccellati's stomach start to hurt the longer he looks.

This particular picture won't get any better just by watching, so Buccellati wanders into the room and takes a heavy seat on the coffee table.

…Closer proximity doesn't help the whole sympathetic stomach pain thing. All Buccellati has now is a front row seat to dark bags under dull eyes, and the drooping way Abbacchio's body sinks into the couch. Like something is dragging him down.

A soft intake of air through quivering, lipstick-stained lips is the only sign Abbacchio gives that he's noticed Buccellati's presence at all.

"We missed you today, Abbacchio," Buccellati tries.

Now those dull eyes shift toward him. Their usual glimmer is nowhere to be seen, and he distantly wonders if it would return to them, if only he went over and opened some curtains. Let some light in to reflect off of tarnished purple-gold.

Abbacchio doesn't say anything. Just presses his mouth into a tight line.

One of his arms is dangling off of the couch, and his fingers twitch around the neck of a wine bottle on the floor between him and Buccellati. That's all the more he moves.

With a deep breath, Buccellati deflates.

Slumping in his seat on the coffee table, he lets himself have a moment. He's too exhausted to care, and Abbacchio is likely too drunk to remember or really be able to tell what's going on, so it'll be okay. Just for a second. For Buccellati to let his guard down and just be tired.

His shoulders curl down so far that they're already getting sore – or maybe that's from holding them rigid all day – and he lets his head fall into his palms.

Healing is a process. This, he knows.

Abbacchio will hardly get better overnight. Just because he was doing well last week doesn't mean he won't suffer setbacks. It's natural, it's normal, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

…Buccellati hasn't been feeling so hot himself lately, either, which isn't helpful. He tries. Pushes himself through it because that's the only thing he can really do, and he'll be enough for himself, but Abbacchio –

Some days it feels like Abbacchio doesn't want to be saved. Like he doesn't want to heal.

Rubbing his hands down his face, Buccellati looks at him again. Those eyes are back to being fixed on the ceiling, and his jaw is clenched, ticking like it's trying to hold back words or vomit or both. His fingers squeeze tight around the wine bottle.

"You can't just stay like this."

Abbacchio makes an ugly snorting sound. "Who asked you to care, anyway?"

Nobody. Not in so many words. No one ever does, least of all in this situation, but Buccellati can't help himself. He can't leave well enough alone when he's close enough to make it better – as long as it's in his power to help, he will.

But in this case, he can't help unless Abbacchio helps himself first.

All of the money he's paid goes to alcohol. Or a good chunk of it, anyway. No matter what Buccellati does, nothing changes that. If a good week goes by, or even a good few weeks where Abbacchio is sober – they're always followed up by bad days.

That's to be expected. Not every day can be a good one, after all, but dammit if Buccellati isn't tired of this cycle.

And he hates that he doesn't have enough patience.

The only thing he can do is stick around. Make sure Abbacchio doesn't give himself alcohol poisoning – again – or wallow for too many days in a row. Sometimes he hauls Abbacchio to the shower. Makes him eat something. Throws out all of his secret alcohol stashes, and the not-so-secret ones. Cleans his apartment.

Today, though, Buccellati leaves things be. His legs are too leaden to stand on, and his insides are iced over.

That bottle of wine is still there, clutched in Abbacchio's hand in an almost taunting way. Reminding Buccellati that he must be failing on some level, for all of this to wind up back to square one so soon.

What a selfish thought –

He leans forward and snatches the bottle out of Abbacchio's grip. Then he brings it to his lips, tilts back, and drinks deeply. Whatever this is, it's too bitter. Something you drink to get drunk off of because it's cheap, not something you drink for the flavor.

Abbacchio is staring at him with wide eyes.

Buccellati downs over half of what's left, until he has to come up for air. "What?" he asks those stunned, shining eyes that suddenly can't look away from him. "I'm finishing this."

"Do whatever you want," Abbacchio snarls, his face scrunching on a scowl.

So Buccellati does just that. Sucks down the rest of the wine, no matter how sour it settles in his stomach. When he's done he lets the bottle hit the floor and roll away under the coffee table; he'll throw it away properly later.

Long minutes stuffed with heavy silence pass. Buccellati feels barely buzzed. The wine did nothing at all to help his mood, and the lingering taste in his mouth is vile besides.

He's tired and hot and he can't do this, but he has to pull himself together, soon.

Abbacchio is lying there. His mouth is trembling again, and his eyes are focused upward, suspiciously wet when he mumbles, "I'm trying, you know."

Buccellati's stomach ties itself in a thousand knots all at once. His heart aches in his chest. An overwhelming sense of guilt near strong enough to bowl him over hits, and he clenches his hands into tight fists.

"I know."