Author Note: Second-person narration is from one character to another, as if they are retelling their stories.

This was intended as the first chapter in a larger part 5 backstory collection, but I've decided to post each "chapter" separately since they are episodic and quite long. Heads up, everyone is gay (but I'm pretty sure that's canon). If you have three hours to binge read, you can find all seven chapters and a preview of a Giorno-era retelling under my author name.

Like a Hurricane

(Fugo)

After your first big fight with Bruno? But you knew that Bruno sent me – I told you at the time. He showed up at my place, noon on a Sunday, and declared that he needed to be black-out drunk within the hour. He also – well, you know how Bruno can be. Certainly back in those days. No, I told him we were friends and that's how it should stay. I told him I wanted no part in the drama between you two. On a team of three? Are you kidding me?

"Bruno, what happened? What's going on with you today?"

"It's Leone."

"Again?"

"Worse than ever."

"That's why I didn't see you at all yesterday?"

"Sorry about that."

"It's alright. You know I'm a shut-in nerd without you. I got some reading done. Drank my little chamomile tea in peace. Didn't even think about my bad habits. It was nice."

That earned a smile. Okay, I thought, this might be a bad one, but clearly not the worst ever.

"Come on," I told him. "We're going out and having one drink and you're telling me everything."

He glanced at my closet.

"No dresses today."

"Why not? I just want to forget everything."

"A, because you're going to tell me everything, not forget everything. B, because straight guys always try to pick you up and I'm not dealing with that today."

"But they're fun to play with."

I pushed him at my mirror. "Is that your play-with-straight-guys face? No. That's your tell-a-friend-everything face. Tears don't just evaporate."

"Can't I just bottle them up for later?"

"No! Now come on. As we are. The café down the street is open until five. They have nice wine and they don't do mixed drinks, so you won't even be tempted."

"Fine. You win. Fugo?"

"What?"

"You're a good friend."

"No one else thinks that, Bruno. You're probably delusional."

By the time we got there and settled at a table, Bruno looked a little more like himself, especially with a wine glass in his hand.

"One glass," I reminded him.

"You don't need to remind me. I don't have a problem."

"Right, you just binge every time you drink."

This was a younger Bruno, before he got that under control.

"Maybe a bit."

"You realize how unfair it is that you expect me to stay clean and you won't even acknowledge that you may have a problem with alcohol?"

"Fugo, Fugo… When is life ever fair?"

"As long as you know it's unfair. What?"

At the table next to us, a young man eating alone had just paid his check. Instead of leaving, he was hovering just beyond my personal space.

"Oh, um… I couldn't help noticing you, and, um… I was just wondering…"

I rolled my eyes. Clearly one for Bruno again. I mean, this used to happen all the time. Still does, to be fair.

"Yes?" Bruno blinked innocently up at him.

The man swallowed several times, then said it all in a rush – "I really never do this, but could I get your number?"

Bruno smiled and handed him a napkin and a pen, sipping elegantly while the poor thing figured it out, wrote his own number, and handed it sheepishly to my hot best friend.

"Thank you, darling. I'll call you tonight. Maybe."

As the man walked away, darting glances over his shoulder, I hissed at Bruno, "He's left-handed."

"So?"

"And married."

Bruno shrugged.

"And almost certainly straight."

Bruno swirled the half-empty glass. "Is that a real thing? Half the men I fuck are straight."

I rolled my eyes. It was just such a Bruno perspective. "Don't come crying to me when he's clingy, domineering, and useless in bed."

"Okay, if I can remember which one that was."

"I can't believe that just happened. Again. Now tell me, popular friend, what's going on with you and Abbacchio? You remember, your actual boyfriend that you're besotted over and totally broken up about."

"Oh… He's stopped speaking to me."

Yeah. That's how he told me. Early days, right? It's hard to remember a Bruno who didn't understand your silences. He didn't know yet that you're off-and-on with the whole damn world.

"What? But that's so childish. Abbacchio's not like that. Why would he do that?"

"I don't know! It's been two days!"

"Did you guys have a big fight or something?"

"The same fight. I wanted him to go out someplace, Friday. Remember we took the day off, since we hit quota early last week? But he wouldn't, so we stayed in. His place. But he didn't even talk to me, all day. It was like I wasn't even there. Like always. And I tried to do the right thing and talk to him about it instead of skiving off to a club on my own, but he didn't want to talk about it and then I couldn't get another word out of him. And that was it."

"Is that a fight? Because last time I dated someone, that was me every day."

"But you're not like that now. You're fun, you go places, you listen when I talk!"

"Yeah, because I'm back on medication. Do you even know me?"

"Leone doesn't have your problems. He's just… not even trying anymore!"

"You sure about that?"

"I don't know!"

"I don't know either. Hey, deep breaths. What have you tried?"

"I did everything right yesterday and I got nothing back. I slept in with him but he just ignored me when he woke up. I made us breakfast and he wouldn't touch it. I tried to get him to take a long walk or go to one of the cafés where they have live music – stuff he usually likes! He wouldn't even say 'no.' He just looked right through me. He broke out the wine early and started writing his damn letters to dead people. Which I'm not allowed to look at."

"Okay. So then?"

"So then? I got mad, what else? I yelled, and I told him everything that was going wrong, and he just… watched me. I walked out and spent the afternoon being mad all different places around town until I felt bad, then I came home. And by home, I mean his place. And he was the same. Literally. I don't think he left his damn writing table all day – and his damn drinking, and his thrice-damned letters."

"And that's when you went home to your place."

"No… I stayed over again. I put together dinner and he wouldn't eat, and he's still being weird about the windows and the lights. I told you this, right?"

"Yes, I remember. About casting shadows that someone might see from the street."

"Right. So I had to eat in the dark and I just went to bed early while he kept up his damn writing. And then today, the same thing. Only he started this weird project and he won't explain it to me. It's taking up the whole living room floor."

"What kind of project?"

"I don't know! It looks like something a paranoid detective would make. So that's maybe not surprising. Fugo, I have no idea what is happening in this man's head!"

"Okay. What did you do this morning?"

"I… This isn't great, but I stole his letter paper and pen and I tore up part of his project, and I told him I wouldn't give it back until he talked to me."

"Not great. Did it help any?"

"Not at all. He went back to bed and just stared at the wall. Totally unresponsive, no matter what I did. So I put his stuff back, as best I could, and I did the dishes and left."

"And came to find me."

"Right. And tried to kiss you, and cried on your good clothes, and now here we are."

"Right. So next time, find me the first time you walk out, before you have a dire need to drink to excess and commit some infidelities."

"Yes, that's a smart idea."

"So you won't remember to do that?"

"Not I."

"Great. Don't get off the crazy train anytime soon, or I'll be lonely. Now, let's summarize. Abbacchio's not speaking and he's not eating?"

"Not around me."

"When's the last time he ate?"

"That I know of? It must have been Friday morning."

"It's Sunday afternoon."

"I tried to feed him! Every meal!"

"I'm not blaming you. Am I blaming you?"

"No. I'm blaming me."

"Right. And he's drinking. Is he drinking water, too?"

"I don't know."

"Okay, that goes on the list. Is he hurting himself again?"

"No. Actually, maybe. I wouldn't know. He stopped doing it when I'm around, after I tried to talk to him about it. So I don't know anymore."

"Are you being bitter about that? That's a totally normal decision. I mean, cutting isn't a normal habit, but privacy is. It's weird he ever let you in on it in the first place."

"Fugo, do you–?"

"Is that something I'm sharing with you?"

"Why? I mean, why do it? Does it help?"

"I'm not discussing it. Didn't I lend you a book about boundaries last month? Did you read it?"

"So you do."

"You know what? Fine. Maybe someday we'll both have some self-respect, but it is not this day. Yes, Bruno, I self-harm, and no, it doesn't help."

"Then why do it?"

"Because it feels like it should. It's like taking a break from everything else."

"But if you know it doesn't help, why don't you just stop?"

"Why don't you just stop getting too drunk and making out with everyone? Why don't you just stop waking up in random strangers' beds and sneaking away in the morning so you don't have to talk to them ever again? Does it help, Bruno?"

"In the moment? Yes. So much. But I see your point."

"Yeah. It's like that. Besides which, I already quit everything else. It's the last thing and I guess that makes it that much harder to quit."

"See, that makes sense to me. I can't make sense of Leone. Six months ago, we were… not perfect, but good. This was a good relationship! The first good one I've ever had! Now he's telling me to leave him and giving me the silent treatment for days at a time, keeping things from me… Fugo, I can't take it. I'm so angry at him!"

"For…?"

"What do you mean, for? For everything!"

"Be precise."

"Jackass. For the silent treatment. For ignoring me. For giving up on us!"

"Are you angry or worried?"

"I've just told you that I'm angry!"

"Your face says you're worried sick."

"Why would I–?" He collapsed into tears - not some weak bout of crying, but emphatic manly tears, the kind that take your breath away and require multiple restaurant napkins. Looking up at me through this barrage, he told me, "I don't know where this is coming from. I can't believe I'm crying this much – am I losing it? I'm not even sad. I'm not worried. I'm just so mad."

I shrugged. Bruno never knows where tears come from, which is stupid because it's obviously accumulated trauma from ages twelve to nineteen. He's so dissociative, I love it. "So what's the plan?"

"What do you mean?"

Still mystery-crying. No idea why, huh?

"I mean, you're going to meet with Polpo tonight for our week's assignments."

"Oh, God! Why did you remind me?"

"You usually go out on your own after that. That's fine. I can head over and keep an eye on Abbacchio if you like. Make sure he eats and drinks something. Keep him safe."

"Would you? Fugo, that would be amazing. I can't take another second, but God, I don't want to walk in tomorrow and find him…"

"He's fine, Bruno. Just because you've never seen him this way doesn't mean it hasn't happened before."

"Is that somehow better? Oh, Fugo, I'm so mad at him! Doesn't he know he's all I've got in this damn life?"

"Hey, don't be dramatic. Just because everything's crap doesn't mean you have nothing. What you have is crap, that's all."

"You're right. My life's not empty at all. It's brimming with awful things."

"That's the spirit. Hey. Don't go home with anyone tonight."

"You think Leone cares anymore?"

"It's not for him. I'm telling you to take care of yourself."

"Why, though?"

"Because you're my only friend and I don't want you wrecking yourself. Okay?"

"You're right. Okay. I'll take care of me if you'll take care of Leone for a little while?"

"Count on me."

You knew most of that already. Isn't it crazy, though, looking back on how we were – before Narancia, before Mista? So yeah, that's what I knew when I came over.

You didn't answer my knock – you would never need to, if you were expecting Bruno and Sticky Fingers – so I used Purple Haze to stand inside your apartment door and undo the eight hundred locks you always used. Not my subtlest move, but hey, it did the trick. I opened the door to find Moody Blues blocking my way, mirroring my every movement. Your floor was one huge web, thumbtacks and string linking dozens of scraps of paper – scribbled notes, newspaper clippings, photos. Paranoid detective, indeed. It was a film noir classic.

"Hey! Abbacchio!" I waved over Blues' shoulder, assuming the guard duty was intended for Bruno, if you two were in a fight. Blues mirrored my wave faithfully, making me feel the fool.

You were kneeling in the middle of the floor, comparing two images clipped from the newspaper – an advertisement for a girls' boarding school and another for a set of chef's knives. You looked up at me over your photos and I saw surprise register on your face, then nothing more. You didn't call off your stand. You didn't say a word. You didn't even get up. I just watched you around Blues and eventually you pinned the photos side by side and tied them to a loose string from a headline that read "Swiss plane hijacked."

Supposing your "silent treatment" had extended to me, I tried in vain to get past your stand and into the apartment. No matter how I turned, feinted, or shoved, Moody Blues matched my moves synchronously and with identical force. It was as good as a solid mirror between me and your home.

"Come on!" I said, panting. How would I appeal to you? "Bruno sent me!"

Nothing.

"He said you stopped eating. He cares about you, so he told me to come watch you until you're acting normal again."

You took up the scissors and began snipping a house from a realtor's publication.

"I'm not leaving until you do."

Snip, snip, snip.

"That's my orders. I can't let the team down, can I?"

Finished snipping, you added the house to a small collection of tourism advertisements for the Neapolitan countryside. You locked it in place with a pushpin. I grimaced at the damage to your wood flooring.

I looked at the layers of newspapers tacked up on all your windows, covering the closed blinds. Joining this to my awareness of the nine thousand locks on your door…

"You don't want me standing here with the door wide open all day, do you?"

You glanced up at that. With a wave, you set Blues in action to remove me – admittedly the simplest solution to the problem I had proposed.

"Wait. I can help. I know something about the case."

It was a shot in the dark, but for a split second, I thought it had worked. Blues hesitated, glancing over its shoulder for your order. You had glanced my way again – but no. You only waved Moody Blues back into action.

But that moment – the imperfect communication between you and your stand – told me what I needed to know. Purple Haze is usually like my right arm; I can move it with a flicker of a thought. We're seamless. But when things get worse, we get out of sync. I might have to talk to it in my head, and it might even argue back. On a bad day, we can't even hear each other and I have to give its orders out loud. Sometimes my stand is so distracted, I can only get its attention by shaking it by the shoulders. Those are the worst times; I shouldn't be outside on those days, and I certainly shouldn't be risking using Purple Haze when I'm like that. So in that moment, I knew I was right. You weren't just angry. You might not be angry at all. I also saw my opportunity.

"Wait," I told Blues, speaking quietly. "You're a stand. Your duty is to protect your user, right?"

We were struggling in the doorway. I had my left foot, shoulder, and arm jammed in the door; so many backdoor arguments had prepared me for this exact moment. Blues paused at my words and I laid a conspiratorial hand on its shoulder.

"I can help him. This isn't the first time he's gone down a rabbit hole like this, is it? You're worried how long it will last. How bad it will get before it gets better."

Blues glanced over its shoulder to check that your attention was back on your clippings and string – confirming my theory that you and your stand were alienated at the moment. Blues stopped applying force to the door and rested its gaze on me, as if to say, tell me more.

"I've been down there. I know some ways out. Let me help."

Blues eyed me a long time, perfectly immobile, then it gave the subtlest nod. It flickered out of existence for a second and I slipped back in. Behind me, Blues reappeared and clicked the door closed, then took your form and methodically secured all the locks and deadbolts. When it finished, it reverted to its own violet figure and stood facing the closed door – an exemplary guard. I was impressed. I wondered whether Purple Haze was capable of such duplicity.

I took a moment to survey your apartment. The door opened onto a spacious living room with the kitchen along one wall. Besides your all-encompassing web of paper and string, the room was almost bare. A simple wood table with two chairs stood patiently to one side. On the table, a stack of lined paper, a ballpoint pen, and a heap of tightly crushed paper balls that spilled over onto the floor. Blue and green wine bottles, empty, crowded the table's edges; I saw that you had an open bottle and a graceful stemmed glass, currently empty, close at hand where you worked with your scraps of paper on the floor.

Sunlight flooded your blinds and seeped through the newspapers that thickly layered yours windows; it should have been an airy and cheerful room, not this stuffy, dim lair.

The kitchen was spotless, unlike my own. Bruno had left the clean dishes stacked by the sink and you hadn't put them away. Or used them. My duty was clear.

Through the room's other door, I could see that your bedroom was dimmer still and in complete disarray. Bedsheets tumbled across the floor like waves clashing with the shore, and clothing, clean or discarded, heaped over the few furnishings like seaweed tossed up on the rocks.

Last, I turned my attention to the web you were weaving from snatched images and words. I could not discern a theme or theory, and if Bruno had torn out a section this morning, clearly you had repaired the damage. Nearest me lay a scattering of glossy color images clipped from magazines: a tourist-industry shot of Naples from the sea, a dusty road along a vineyard, a jewelry advertisement displaying classic pendants on gold and silver chains, a shot of a chef looking proud in his well-equipped kitchen, a straight couple laughing together at a shaded café. With these, you paired the headlines, "Third stabbing victim found at rail depot; police warn caution" and "SSN debates MRI for cancer screening." I was utterly non-plussed.

I tiptoed in among the strings, tacks, and clippings, betting you wouldn't risk your precious handiwork to drag me out of there.

"Hey," I said quietly, trying not to startle you. I needn't have bothered; you were deep in your focus. "Hey! Abbacchio!"

You looked up and sighed.

"I'm staying over until you feel better," I told you matter-of-factly. "Can I sleep over there by the wall? I don't sleepwalk or anything, I promise."

You shook your head, then turned your eyes back to the article in your hands – a report on rates of juvenile delinquency.

"Well, Bruno's staying at my place, so I don't have anywhere else to go. How much do you mind if I crash here?"

That earned me a brief, smoldering stare and your first word – "Lies."

You placed the article over to your right and connected it to the girls' private school.

"What's the web for?"

"Ghosts."

I shrugged and went to check your fridge and pantry. The situation wasn't dire. You ignored me while I put together a plate of what-have-you: cheese, olives, crackers. I found a glass for water and took a moment to put away the dishes before trying my hand at feeding you.

It was pointless. The food and water sat untouched at your side for fully an hour while I watched you weave your web. It only grew more complex, never any clearer. Eventually, you had worked your way over to the side near the door and the food was simply abandoned in the middle of the floor. I decided to try talking again.

"Hey, Abbacchio."

You gave no sign of acknowledgement.

"If you don't eat, your blood sugar will start to drop. That means your body won't have enough fuel to keep your brain running at full efficiency."

Thumbtack. String.

"You might make a mistake. Or you might miss a connection that would be obvious if you were taking care of yourself."

Your glance at me conveyed cynicism.

"If you go too long without food and water, you'll get lightheaded and dizzy. You might fall when you try to stand up. That could ruin a whole section, and you'll get a concussion that will impair your work for days, even weeks."

You shook your head. I crossed my arms. At least we were communicating.

"A one-minute break for water now might improve your efficiency by one-hundred-twenty percent. Does that seem like a reasonable figure?"

I couldn't tell if you were considering the figure or the paper in your hand.

"That means that in the course of the next five minutes, you will amortize the cost of your water break and then race ahead of your non-hydrated self's potential progress."

You paused. I could see my crystal-clear reasoning sinking in. Or at least, my worrywart chatter was annoying you more than the prospect of food and water. In one smooth movement, you reached back across the floor and took the water glass, downed it in a single go, and replaced the empty glass.

"One cracker," I said.

You glared daggers at me.

"It's the price of my silence."

A quick expression, maybe a silent snort of laughter, and you scooped the crackers off the plate and ate them, one after another. Then you resumed your work and ignored me entirely.

An hour later and I was sitting at your table, wishing I had brought a book. Idly, I reached for the nearest paper ball and began to uncrumple it. All I saw was that it was a letter, as Bruno had said – Dear… – before you lifted me out of my seat in a headlock and tore the paper from my hands. I dropped the half that had stayed in my fist.

Still wordless, you released me and swept the rest of the crumpled pages from the table to the floor. Your eyes dared me to touch a single one.

"I won't read them. I swear on my life. I didn't know, that's all."

You shook your head and backed off. Back to the web of truth.

You stood in the center and gazed down over your creation. The way you shook your head, the way your eyes roamed over it – I realized you were as lost as I was as to its meaning.

I came to stand beside you, hoping you wouldn't mind. You didn't resist.

From here, the strings ran out in three directions. That much was clear, at least.

"Naples, Florence, Switzerland, and a life of crime?" I asked.

You nodded.

I skimmed your headlines.

"Crimes from decades ago. No shortage of metal and something about a girl."

A silent 'ha' of laughter; this time I was certain it was a laugh.

I turned to face you. "Why aren't you talking? Seriously, I'm not here to argue. I know you don't much care for me, but you're making your life much harder to stay silent like this."

You shook your head. You just looked tired. For an extra moment, you held my gaze and I read it in your eyes – the old, familiar misery. My old friend of so many restless nights and lethargic days. I saw it and that was that.

"You can't help it. Something happened and you can't handle it."

You shrugged. Close enough, I thought you meant.

"You want me to tell Bruno?"

You shrugged again. It wasn't a headlock, so I guessed that was yes.

"It would spare him a lot of pain," I told you. "He thinks you're doing this on purpose."

You rubbed your eyes and reached for the glass and bottle at your feet.

"That bad, huh?"

After pouring half a glass for yourself, you eyed the bottle, then offered it to me.

"Yeah. Thanks. Don't mind if I do."

As I stepped carefully over to the kitchen for another glass, I noticed some of the images and words on the Naples branch.

"More of a nautical theme on this side," I remarked. "Hey. Is that us?"

Next to a review of the restaurant where I first met Bruno, you had placed a couple articles and snippets about mafia activity, a new wave of opiates hitting the city, an unsolved murder under a date I recognized. Next to that, a local interest story about the Chamber of Commerce hosting several city celebrations, thanks to an anonymous new benefactor.

"What exactly are you trying to solve here?"

You favored me with a brief, ironic smile and then you got back to the business of snipping, contemplating, pinning, and tying.

The wine was quite good; you always had excellent tastes, even when you were drinking to forget. After a moment's consideration, I inserted myself next to you and began looking through the newspapers and magazines that you had piled at the web's center.

Whenever I found any mention of Naples or Florence, I tore it out and passed it to you for consideration. Not every instance made the cut. After watching you turn over each page I gave you to inspect the back as well, I began handing you references to your broader themes, to the best of my understanding – police and crime, the ocean, local food scene, medical practice, jewelry, art, music. It still meant nothing to me, and other miscellany caught your eye unpredictably – a picture of a mouse on its wheel, an airline company's ad for American beaches – but we were working together and that was a big improvement.

When night fell, you refused to let me turn the lights on. Instead, you lit a single candle and placed it on the table where its shadows would fall into the apartment, not onto the blinded window. You shooed me away and began to write.

I made dinner with what I could find – salad with anchovies, olives, and boiled egg. The writing continued, sheet after sheet balled up and cast to the floor. Eventually, I caught you with a fresh, blank sheet and set a plate of food firmly on top of it, quickly wresting your pen from your fingers and replacing it with a fork.

You looked ready to stab me with the fork, but I handed the pen to Purple Haze and sent him to wait in the corner until you ate. You knew better than to defy my toxic stand. I crossed my arms like a jail warden and counted your bites out loud. When you reached fifty and downed a glass of water, I gave back the pen and cleared the plate.

I stayed out of the way until you were several glasses into the wine and your writing had slowed to a trickle. You turned out to be a melancholy drunk, easy to manage.

"Up we go," I announced. "You've done enough damage for one night. Bedtime."

I pulled your arm over my shoulder and heaved you up. Ever your crutch, Moody Blues appeared on your other side and together we had no trouble dragging you safely to bed, even navigating around the web of truth. If you suffered insomnia, the alcohol clearly overpowered it, because you were snoring by the time I was out of the room. Blues gave me a small salute before fading out and I closed the door gratefully behind me.

I snuck out of the apartment, trusting you wouldn't wake from that overburdened slumber, and visited home to grab some of my things. Then I found Bruno and delivered my report. I have to say, it was strange speaking normally after a day in your silent world. You probably guessed this, though we never discussed it – Bruno decided to keep me at your side, handing me the team's accounting and reporting while he covered our assignments on his own.

"As long as it takes," he told me. "I can handle Passione, no problem. I just can't handle seeing Leone like this and knowing it's my fault."

You two were always such a mess. In some ways, it was a mercy when you actually broke up.

A week was how long it took. A week of stealing your pen, your scissors, your tacks, and counting off fifty bites of whatever I had managed to concoct. A week of sleeping on blankets under your writing desk, as the web of truth crept up the walls. A week of keeping your wine in the hallway outside your apartment door, choosing one bottle per day to place within your agoraphobic reach.

On day four, there were pauses in your concentration as we worked on the web, like breaks between storm clouds. You listened as I read to you from the novel I'd brought, even quirking a smile at the funny parts.

On day five, you sat for hours with Moody Blues at your side, glances passing between you, silent communication. Wordless even in your head, you told me later – Moody Blues only speaks to you in waves of color and emotion, flashes of memory, sudden insights.

On day six, you started talking again, your voice dusty as the tomb.

"I wanted to thank you," you rasped at me over breakfast – scrambled eggs, the apex of my cooking abilities. "For being here."

"Anytime. Like I told Moody Blues, I've been where you are. I wish someone had been there for me. Glad I was around."

"So that's why he let you back in."

"I didn't like to trick you, but I couldn't see another way."

You waved away my concerns.

"So what is all this?" I asked, waving my hand at the web of truth, the masked windows, the poly-locked door, the series of melted down candles.

You ate in silence and I wondered if that was it for the day.

"Solutions," you said at last.

I've had my share of solutions that looked a lot like problems, so I didn't comment on that. "Solutions for what?"

Eventually, you said, "Problems."

I waited.

You waved at the windows, the candle. "It feels like the outside is staring in. I don't want to be seen and the blinds aren't enough anymore. I know, it's stupid. I can't help it."

The door with all its locks. "Unwanted visitors. That one's not a superstition. My ex still sends people to kill me sometimes."

I nodded. Bruno had mentioned the ex before, though I knew very little.

The letters, all crumpled on the floor. "I'm writing to everyone I've lost. It used to help."

The food on your plate. "Doesn't feel like I deserve it, when I'm like this. I… wish I wasn't here. Food's the first thing to go."

"I get that. It's not food, for me, but… yeah."

"Yeah. And you already know about the case." You gestured at the strings and paper that by now fully occupied your floor, walls, doors, and kitchen surfaces.

"Is it a real case?"

"Yes. A missing person. Cold a long time, but I found a lead a couple months ago. It's hard to work on when I lose my words. That's why I broke out the string and tacks. I know it drives Bruno nuts, but…"

You shrugged, looking helpless. Your eyes wandered away over the strings and pictures that you had been organizing and re-organizing for days. I thought you were getting lost again.

"Hey. You owe me ten more bites."

You ate ten quick little bites, then passed me your plate. "Damn, I feel like a child when you do that."

"So count them your own damn self." I finished the eggs, since it's the best thing I know how to make. "I didn't tell Bruno about our deal with food, by the way. So you can just count in your head and he never needs to know."

"Bruno…" You pushed your hand across your face and then up into your hair. You stared at the newsprint on the window a long time before asking, "How is he?"

"Fine. Working hard. Worried about you, but less because, you know, I tell him every night that you're still okay."

You gave me that ironic smile. "I have to stop drinking every night, don't I?"

"If you want to know what's going on, yeah, I guess so."

A long minute later: "Is he…"

I waited and you just left the question hanging there, so I tried it. "Is he sorry, you mean?"

"No. Why should he be sorry?"

I raised my eyebrows at you. "He thinks this is his fault. Is this not his fault?"

"What, that I'm nuts?"

"He thinks you had a fight?"

"What? If Bruno thinks that's a fight…" You shook your head. "He told me he wanted more from me. I've been really down lately. I told him I couldn't talk about it, because that's true, and he kept pushing the subject until I really couldn't talk about anything."

"Is that all?"

"No." You stared at your hands a long time, turning them this way and that. "He's been going out with other people."

"Yeah. About that. I thought you knew."

"I do know."

"Sorry, I guess?"

"What for?"

"For not stopping him. For not saying anything."

"It's okay. You're his friend, not mine. And anyway, I'm not angry."

"You could be!"

"No. I'm not what he needs at all. It's because I won't leave the house except for work. Not even to his place. Because I sit in silence and drink and go to sleep drunk every night, even when he bothers visiting me. Why would he want that? What would he want with me? The mystery is why he didn't leave sooner."

"I knew he was stressed about you," I said carefully. "I didn't know it was actually as bad as he says."

You snorted. "Yeah, I'm pretty far gone. But I was trying, you know, to get my head right. So I could be something for him again. I finally took care of the windows like I was meaning to, so maybe I can be better about the lights soon – I know it's ridiculous, I'm sorry – and I started on the case and tried writing letters like I used to. But he got so fed up with the silence… and the darkness… And now he's gone, and it's so hard to try anymore. So it's honestly just you doing all the work, and basically for nothing."

"Slow down there. Bruno's not gone." That was unimaginable, knowing Bruno as I did. "He talks about you like you guys are forever. He's hoping you get over this and things can be like they were before."

You groaned and dropped your head in your hands.

"What? Were you hoping to lose him?"

"No!" You looked up with the storm back in your eyes. "God, who could ever let him go? I don't want him to leave, but I'm letting him down so badly! It's not fair to either of us! I mean, look at me! Why does he keep dragging this out? I've told him a dozen times he needs to leave me! You're his friend – don't you think he deserves better?"

Your voice broke, but I was never the most sensitive person. As long as you were talking, I was going to make the most of it.

"Why don't you leave him, then? If you're so determined it's the right thing to do?"

"I can't. He ignores me when I say it's over. Pretends he can't remember I said it – maybe he actually blacks it out – and I can't keep him out, doors and locks are nothing with Sticky Fingers. I just wake up and he's back, pretending nothing happened."

"So quit the team. Transfer."

"I tried, before things got this far. He convinced Polpo not to let me change teams. No idea how."

"Then disappear. Turn state's evidence, get into a witness protection program, get a real job and a tiny apartment you can afford and drink alone in peace."

"And see you two go to jail?"

"You don't have to inform on us. You have an ex in Passione, right? Sounds like you could save some lives by sending that team to prison, and witness protection is better than this."

I waved at your locks.

"No," you whispered. "No, no, no, no, no."

The shift from grief to fear was quicker than snuffing a candle. Your breath turned into ragged little gasps and you'd gone rigid, rocking with your eyes closed. Panic attack, I decided. I brought you a wet towel to shove your face in. That's what I always do, anyway. Seemed like a new discovery for you.

The silence came back for a few more hours before you were able to try again. We worked on the web of truth together. I was still nonplussed by the connections you made, but I enjoyed puzzling over it.

At last, as the afternoon light slanted through the newspapers, you pointed at an area of the Naples section and rasped out, "It starts over here with my ex."

I looked over it. Crime statistics, some nice little cafés, daytrips within Italy, jewelry rife with chains, the closing of an iron foundry, medical procedures, a benefit for a certain hospital…

"He was hell."

I nodded. "Looks terrifying."

You bent to run a finger across an ad for a shaving razor. "Yeah."

"Abbacchio…"

"You've lived here for a week. Call me Leone."

"Nah. It stresses me out when people's names change. Why don't you go outside anymore?"

I thought I knew the answer, but I wanted to check if I was right.

"You think I think he's stalking me," you said. "I know he's not. Someone – the best person I ever met – used a stand to set up something like a restraining order. I'm honestly not that scared of the hitmen he sends after me, either. It's not that."

You kept me waiting, but I had nothing else to do.

"Those bad moments are getting more frequent," you told me at last.

"Panic attacks. They're an anxiety and trauma symptom. Don't you know?"

"Oh. Okay, whatever they are. I can't do that in public. And if I think of him, or get one of those feelings he gave me – like if my heart is too fast or my blood tingles – it'll just happen and I can't hold back anymore. I feel like people are watching me all the time when I'm out there. Like they're waiting for it to happen. It's crazy, I know no one's actually watching me."

You rubbed your hand through your hair, putting it in a right mess.

"It's okay when I'm working. In Passione, I have to put my fears aside every day anyway. With a stand like mine, my chances in a fight are – well, you probably understand, working with Purple Haze. But to go out there to enjoy it? Not a chance. Not anymore."

"But you used to. Just a couple months ago. It will probably get better if you get back in the habit."

"Not worth it."

"For Bruno, though?"

You hesitated. "He's better off without me."

"He disagrees."

We left it there. You shrugged off my company and wrote your letters, each one joining the pile of paper balls mounding under the table. I read my novel, then made dinner.

"What about the drinking?" I asked while you slowly counted through your bites.

"Keeps the nightmares away."

"The nightmares."

"Yeah. Since the police force – since my partner got killed, I guess." You left off eating and trailed a finger over the wall where the web of truth climbed past the window. "This is his section, you know. We lived in Florence. He was working this case before he got killed."

I had wondered the most about this section. News stories about the police, certainly, but also announcements about local bands, art gallery openings, photos of sunsets and architecture and the countryside. Magazine photos of inside different houses, all the colors warm and homely. "What was he like?"
You shook your head and traced the wall. "I can't remember those memories. Something like this. Humble, simple, warm."

"You can't remember? But you have Moody Blues! You can replay any memory!"

"It's all fragmented in my head, and when I put Moody Blues on it, all I get are flashes and loops, like a ruined videotape. I can't recall a single clear image." Your voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't know if it's because of my ex – he broke everything – or if it's because it was my fault, when he was killed."

The sorrow on your face was so pure. I doubted your story – everything was your fault, to hear you tell it – but I didn't have the heart to contradict you.

I tried a different approach.

"Abbacchio, what you're telling me is that you've had nightmares ever since this traumatic loss, an abusive relationship that added panic attacks to the mix, and now you're isolating yourself, practicing obsessive habits, and developing an alcohol dependency to control the symptoms. Does that seem accurate?"

You raised your eyebrows at me. "Did someone ask you to write a dossier on me?"
"You used to manage all this, God knows how, but recently, everything's gotten worse. Why is that? Can you think of anything that's changed in the last year or so?"

You shrugged. "I'm just losing my grip on reality, that's all."

"What about Passione? What's the worst thing about our job?"

"Besides the realistic chance of dying every day?"

"Is that really what bothers you?"

"Not really. If I die… well. Saves me some effort later, doesn't it?"

I laughed and slapped your arm. "See, this is why we should be friends. No one else lets me say those things."

You nodded sadly, and I thought of Bruno and how much it would hurt him to hear you talk about taking your own life someday. That shut me up.

"But really," I tried again, "what's the worst part about Passione?"

"Polpo. Hands down, the worst. And getting worser still – even worse – ever since Calamaro got killed and he moved up in the ranks."

I hadn't spent much time in the man's presence. I knew he was the capo nominally supervising our team, processing our assignments and sending off our profits. A useless, profit-skimming middle man, since he took none of our risks and none of our work – not even the paperwork. Even though it was just the three of us, I had never met with him face to face. And now that I thought about it, that was just plain weird.

"You guys are keeping me away from him. Why's that?"

"Because he's a giant homophobe and a goddamn predator, is why. He clearly hates us – both of us, Bruno and I – but he won't let us finish a damn meeting without some kind of weird comment or demand. All we need are the fucking assignments for the week and he won't hand them over if we don't play his fucked up games."

"Oh. That's news to me. You guys should tell me these things."

"Why? There's nothing we can do. I can't protect Bruno, and I can't protect myself, and it gets worse by the week. Why would you need to know that?"

"Because Bruno's my friend and I needed to know why he was self-destructing. Like, months ago! Don't keep these things from me!"

"What good does it do to know? When there's nothing to do about it?"

"We can do something."

"Like what? He's our capo and we're a new team. Bruno's in enough trouble already for stealing me off my ex's team. We won't survive a day in Passione if we act against him."

"We can find a way to get away with murder. People do; they'll respect us more if we can pull it off."

"Not really. Bruno and I were already in hot water when Bruno's patron dropped dead of kidney failure."

"What? But that's clearly a medical emergency, not homicide."

"Acute kidney failure with a puncture wound."

"Ah."

"What I'm saying is, we can't leave a trail of bodies. We can't afford to."

"Then we'll find some other way to control him, without him ever telling anyone. Blackmail or something."

"I wish we could. I just keep going around and around in my head whenever I think about him. And Bruno." You pinched your whole face, like a vice grip across your temples. "I don't want him to have access to Bruno anymore. Bruno says he's got this, but the kid's already been through hell! Sometimes I ask what happened in his meeting with Polpo and he won't tell me, and I don't know if doesn't want me to know or if he actually can't remember. He blacks out sometimes, did you know? Not drinking, just – holes in his memory. Two weeks ago, he didn't turn up the day after Polpo's meeting and I tracked him down to the docks. I found him wandering around, looking glassy-eyed, and he couldn't remember why he was there or how long or what happened. God, that scared me. The worst is not knowing why. All I know is that's how he deals when shit's really bad."

"Is that what's been going on?" I asked. "I know about his hell years, he told me. The teams he was on before he went solo. The dissociative episodes, too – but he didn't tell me he's pushing himself through that again now. I'm his crazy friend! He's supposed to tell me these things! And we're just – what, letting him go back in there, week after week? Why?"

"He won't consider an alternative. He doesn't want to risk losing our team. He says – what if they take away our charter? We'll be sent to different teams, and we'll all face the same problems he's already lived through. And, Passione's so secretive and factional – we could be pitted against each other. We might never see each other again. It's a horrible prospect."

I looked at the problem from that perspective, and blew out a breath. "He's not wrong."

"This is why I feel like crap. I can't even stand up for the man I love. I can't even get my life together for him, even a little bit. And he wants me to go out there and have a good time like nothing's wrong?"

"That's how he keeps his head above water, though. Don't you know that about him?"

"Yeah, I know. That's why I put up with the cheating. If that's what he needs…"

"It's not good for him. I'm just saying…"

"I know. But I know I'm not what he needs. I'm drowning and I can't get it together, not even for him."

"Yes, you can," I told you, letting the edge into my voice again. "You had it together before things got worse with Polpo. I've got a plan for him – just a little baby plan, but I'll nurse it along. Count on me. If we can handle Polpo, you'll have a little control back, right? Maybe enough to cut back on the drinking. Maybe enough to face leaving the damn house."

You nodded.

"Can we cut back to half a bottle tonight?"

"It won't be enough to sleep through the dreams."

"Go ahead and scream your head off. I won't judge."

"You really don't understand."

"Yeah, I really do. But the nightmares aren't real, and drinking yourself to death is. Or did you plan to leave Bruno to deal with Polpo on his own?"

You took my hand across the table and gripped it. I gripped back.

"Deal," you said. "I'm cutting back. But you better come through with that plan."

On day seven, you let me convince you to dismantle the web of truth. We collected each branch in order and folded them up in your letter paper. You stowed them in the pantry, since you hardly used it anyway.

We picked up the crumpled-up letters and bagged them. You stored those, too, swearing you'd burn them at the beach the next chance you got.

We put your bedroom to rights. I took two huge bags of laundry downstairs and begged to use your landlady's washing machine. You put away something that looked like a first aid kit, but which I rather suspected was the opposite. I carried your empty wine bottles to the bins out back, while you had Moody Blues sweep the floors by rote.

Last, I made you choose: the newspapers on the windows, or a short walk outside. It was Moody Blues who swayed your decision, slipping through several of Bruno's expressions and pulling you toward the door. For just a moment, you held Blues close – in its own form, for its own worth – and I knew you would at least try to take care of yourself.

We sat in the park and tossed cracker crumbs to the pigeons – the last of the food in your house – and talked about how few fucks the passersby gave about your emotional state.

"Look at that guy. Hell, if I told him I wanted to die, I bet he'd knife me himself."

"He'd do it for free, even. What about that lady? Her own kid is bawling and she's not even stopping for it. Tears could be pouring down your cheeks right now–"

"Manly tears–"

"Yes, manly tears, and she would just sail right by you. Bet you anything."

"Bet me ten thousand lire." You called up Blues.

"Don't do it, you'll lose."

"Say it's a bet."

We shook on it.

Moody Blues clocked back to sometime late the night before and took on your shape – sitting next to you on the bench, sobbing uncontrollably into its hands. I put my arm around your shoulders, since we were essentially watching the aftermath of your latest nightmares. But you didn't watch yourself cry. I don't know why I thought you would. You watched the people in the park for any sign of reaction.

In fact, we attracted very little attention. I'm pretty sure one young man snapped a photo of – what? The world's coldest twin? A man literally beside himself with grief? I didn't point that one out to you, since it wouldn't have helped your state of mind any.

An older lady strolled past us and harrumphed meaningfully. That cracked you up, and you released Moody Blues and turned to me.

"The woman we were betting on left the park," you said.

"Don't worry about the money. Just say we're friends now."

"Friends. But just friends."

"That's the best kind of friends."

"Haven't had one of those in a long time."

"Yeah? Maybe that's what's wrong with you."

The last pigeon pecked around our feet and looked up at me inquiringly. Deciding I was good for nothing, it took off in a big huff, clapping its wings and dropping a couple feathers. Well, that was one bird's opinion, right?

"Hey, Abbacchio. Think you can come see Bruno with me tonight?"

"Huh. That's a big time commitment, when I should be home drinking myself to death."

"What's the worst that could happen?"

"I'll probably feel a chill and think of my ex and have a fit in public."

"That's the worst you can think of?"

"I mean…"

"What if we both get hit by a bus? Or what if we get there and Bruno never shows up and it turns out the execution squad got him while we were busy feeding pigeons at the park?"

"Fugo, you're not helping."

"Yeah, sorry. So remind me, what's the plan if you have a panic attack in public?"

"Sit down by a building and pretend to be destitute."

"That's right. Instant invisibility. And you might even get some spare change."

"Okay, best friend. I'll do it. I will accompany you to go reassure the love of my life that I have survived another day. But only because it's you asking."

"Brave man. I'm proud to know you. Just let me know when I can return the favor."

Cold streets call my name

Like old days, he walked beside me.

We were justice, relentless

As the coming dawn.

If the sun has risen

Since that night, its light

Has never warmed me, his shade

Cold in my heart.

It isn't wine I'm drinking

But a river, ever flowing

To the sea that awaits us

Where he wanders

Lost as Ulysses, and maybe

If I trace this river's course

And the islands like jagged teeth beyond,

I might retrieve him.

Beloved, beloved! Don't

Make this journey with me.

Your young feet weren't mean to go,

Your shining eyes weren't mean to know

The appalling darkness of these skies–

My starless navigation.