Chapter Text
On Mondays, they met for lunch at Rodolfo’s. The logic was sound; Rodolfo’s was known for its seafood, and fishermen didn’t work on Sundays, so the dining room was usually empty without the star ingredient to draw diners in. They’d have the place to themselves, and Rodolfo was so glad to have the business that he’d overlook the sometimes unsavory conversations going on under his roof.
This particular Monday, most of the gang tucked into their meals eagerly; Rodolfo was still a fine cook even when he wasn’t preparing seafood. Only Bruno left his plate untouched, and glanced out the window with increasing frequency, until finally he cleared his throat and raised his voice to be heard over the other three: “Where’s Abbacchio?”
Mista looked at Fugo and Fugo looked at Narancia. Narancia shrugged.
“Sick?” Fugo offered.
“Nah,” said Mista, “I went out drinking with him last night, and he seemed fine then.”
Narancia slammed his hand on the table in glee. “And you’re still alive? Shit, that guy can really put it away.”
“Yeah, I’ll say,” Mista grinned. “He’s probably hung over, then.”
“No way, I’ve never even seen him hung over-”
“I don’t think he has the time,” interrupted Fugo, in a strangely quiet voice. He was staring at the untouched second carafe of house wine, the one they always ordered because otherwise none of them would get very much of the first. Abbacchio would drink the second one by himself and then go to work on whatever the four others had left over, and none of them thought to question this arrangement. It didn’t seem to affect his duties, and he was more relaxed when he had a couple of drinks in him.
They should have thought about it more closely, in retrospect.
He didn’t show up at all that day, or the day after that. Bruno went to his apartment and cautiously zipped himself inside when there was no answer. Empty. The bed had been slept in, the dishes recently eaten off of and piled in the sink. He was probably still alive, then, although Bruno wouldn’t rule out the possibility that someone else was using the apartment. It just wasn’t like Abbacchio to disappear like this - he was unwaveringly loyal, and even when he vocally disagreed with Bruno, he would faithfully follow his orders. Something had to have happened.
On the evening of the third day, Bruno was getting ready for bed when he heard a clatter against the window. He turned to investigate and heard another clatter, saw a small object, a pebble or scrap of rubbish, strike the pane. Crossing over to the side and looking out at an angle, always conscious of the possibility of attack from a rival gang or ambitious individual, he squinted down at the dark street and saw Abbacchio preparing a third throw.
He sighed and descended the staircase to the entranceway, opened the front door and shouted, “I have a doorbell, you know.”
Abbacchio looked at him blankly. “Couldn’t find it,” he mumbled.
Bruno glanced suspiciously at him and at the doorbell, there on the wall by the side of the door where all doorbells are normally located. He motioned Abbacchio indoors, heard him stumble on the stairs behind him, became aware in the enclosed space of how much he reeked of liquor, how incredibly drunk he was. They’d all seen him like this before, of course, though infrequently - he usually drank to a comfortable tipsy level and stayed at that point. Right now, though, he seemed barely aware of his surroundings.
They entered Bruno’s apartment and Abbacchio blinked in the glare of the lamp, stood in the middle of the room, slightly swaying. He looked tired and washed out; it took Bruno a moment to realize that he wasn’t wearing makeup as he usually did. His eyebrows were white-gray against his face without pencil, he had a mist of unshaven stubble that was barely visible on his pale skin. He looked at Bruno with no indication that he even recognized him.
“Where have you been?” Bruno asked, trying to keep his voice steady, neutral.
“Around,” he slurred, with a shrug that set him off balance.
“No you haven’t.” It had been days now, had he been drunk this entire time? Bruno approached him and was surprised to see him drop clumsily to his knees, shocked when he began fumbling with the button and zipper on Bruno’s slacks. “What are you doing?”
“Wanna suck you off.”
“No.” He pushed Abbacchio away with a firm hand on his forehead, held him at arm’s length for a moment, then let go. The man before him lurched forwards and crumpled to the floor, where he lay still. His breathing deepened and Bruno realized that he’d fallen asleep and tried to rouse him with no success. Swearing to himself, he brought out Sticky Fingers, and between the two of them they were able to deposit Abbacchio on the apartment’s one bed. He sprawled there, unresponsive, as Bruno muscled a blanket out from under him, turned his head to the side so that he wouldn’t choke if he vomited.
Bruno slept on the couch that night, equally angry and concerned.
He awoke to the sound of Abbacchio noisily vomiting up the contents of his stomach in the small bathroom. His back ached, the couch wasn’t designed for sleeping on, but he got up and stretched, boiled water for coffee in the kitchenette and toasted some bread. He was halfway through breakfast when Abbacchio appeared, still pale, eyes bloodshot, but more present than the night before. Bruno pulled out a chair for him at the table and he sat down gingerly, rested his head in his hands.
“What happened last night?” he said after a few minutes, in a voice that was weak and apprehensive.
“What do you remember.”
A pause. “...Not much.” There was a cautiousness in his tone; between Abbacchio’s actions the previous evening and his attitude now, Bruno was beginning to put a few things together.
“You passed out.” Visible relief. “I put you in bed and slept out here.” Abbacchio nodded and stood up, headed for the kitchenette where he poured himself not a cup of coffee, but a generous portion of gin in a juice glass.
“Just taking the edge off,” he explained as he sat back down.
Bruno frowned, lips pressed firmly together. “How long have you been drunk?”
“What day is it?”
“Thursday.”
Abbacchio took a sip. “I mean, what’s the date.”
Bruno jerked the glass out of his hand, splashing gin all over the table. He stomped over to the sink and poured out what was left, as well of the rest of the contents of the bottle. Abbacchio watched him in shock.
“We’re staying here until you’re sober.” He took the rest of his liquor down from the shelf, opened all the bottles and emptied them into the sink as well, creating a foul smelling cocktail in the drain. No temptations. He’d have to restock later, but he wasn’t much of a drinker himself. Abbacchio still stared at him, obviously fuming, but holding his tongue. Even now, he was following orders, like a good soldier.
“Fine,” he finally said, through clenched teeth. He left the table dramatically and stormed off to the bedroom; Bruno grumbled under his breath and looked at the final bottle in his hand. A very fine bottle of scotch, older than him and having set him back a good five hundred pounds when he’d had a job in the United Kingdom earlier that year. It would be a shame to get rid of this one before he was able to enjoy it. He finally ended up wedging it in his fireproof safe, on top of the one picture he had of himself as a baby, cradled by his parents, and the stack of cash he kept on hand in case of emergency.
He’d gotten where he was essentially by not dying. “Gangster” wasn’t a job he’d ever considered as a child, he’d just assumed he would become a fisherman, but he’d been good enough at staying safe and not asking the wrong questions that he was now in charge of his own squad, as unprepared as he was for this responsibility. And he found himself acting as a therapist as much as a boss, he tended to gather troubled children of the kind he’d once been, seesawing between practiced toughness and the need for emotional support. Abbacchio hadn’t caused him much trouble yet, though - he had an attitude, and he could get drawn into squabbles between the younger ones, but he was mostly past the drama of the teen years, and usually kept to himself when it came to personal matters.
And now here he was, sulking in the bedroom with the shades drawn. Bruno sat carefully on the bed, put on his Caring Older Brother demeanor. “Abbacchio.” No response. “Leone.” A head turned, two glazed eyes focused on him. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Something has to have happened, why else would you-”
“I drink until I can deal with things. Then I drink to stay that way. I just fucked up this time.” ‘Fucked up’ was an understatement, if he’d really stayed that drunk for that long.
“What can’t you deal with?” said Bruno, in the voice he’d use after one of Fugo’s meltdowns, or when Narancia was struggling with a difficult task.
“Everything.” Simple, and final, and explaining nothing.
“Leone, talk to me.” Bruno reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, but Abbacchio rolled away, lay facedown on the bed with a pillow clenched over his ears.
“I already told you.” Well, this was going nowhere. Give him some time to cool down, and then try again. He left the bedroom and busied himself with the small chores of the day - cleaning up after breakfast, showering, opening the mail. Abbacchio stayed in bed all morning but emerged for lunch and managed to keep down half a sandwich. He moved slowly, senses dulled by the hangover; Bruno tried to engage him in a game of checkers in the early afternoon, but he made inexplicable moves and dropped the pieces, and they gave up halfway through. In the late afternoon, he took a shower, and at least looked a little better when he poked his head out from the bathroom, hair wet and a towel around his waist, to ask if he could borrow some clothes.
Bruno was careful to avoid the vices that had brought down many of his peers. He drank infrequently, never took drugs, didn’t gamble, accepted the services of the occasional call boy when they were gifted to him but mostly stayed away from prostitution. Too much of any of these could take over your life, as was evident by the shell of a man currently dripping all over his bathroom floor. But he had a weakness for clothes. As he’d grown up and had more money at his disposal, he’d poured most of it into the coffers of designer labels, and at this point, had quite the collection of high-quality pieces. And all of it was custom-tailored, fitted to his specific body. Abbacchio was a little taller than he was, broader in the chest and more muscular in the shoulders.
“I don’t think I have anything that’ll fit you,” and it was another hour before Mista showed up, collected Abbacchio’s keys, and returned with a bag full of clothing.
“I tried to pick out some comfortable stuff,” he said, in the overly-cheerful voice of someone who wanted nothing to do with the situation at hand. “You’ve got some pretty weird clothes.” Bruno prepared himself for a crack about Mista’s “endless fucking parade of cropped sweaters”, and possibly having to separate the two, but Abbacchio, sitting uncomfortably on the couch in the clothes he’d arrived in, simply glanced at Mista and accepted the bag without a word. He pawed through it and winced at a sweatsuit with the logo of the Napoli Police Academy, but pulled it out and went to the bathroom to change.
“Right, well, see ya around,” said Mista to the closed door, then said his goodbyes to Bruno and left. And that ended up being the last conversation for the time being, they ate dinner in silence and Abbacchio went to bed early, dodging any attempt by Bruno to discuss what was going on.
One day down. How long did it take for someone to sober up, anyway?
When Bruno woke up the next morning, he peered into the bedroom and saw Abbacchio still in bed, tangled in the covers, sweating and shaking violently.