“A,y ay! Buccellati!” Narancia runs to his capo, grinning ear to ear. “Didja hear th’ news? It’s gonna RAIN all week! I fuckin’ love the rain – what’s your favourite weather time again?” did he ever ask him about that before? No? Well – Narancia has to know more about his hero.
———IT WAS AN EARNEST QUESTION. the man set down his folded paper, drinking from the warm lip of his porcelain mug. though he considered it kind, the rain outside their window after a long dry spell, a week of rain seemed to furrow his brow.
❝ perhaps i am a boring person, but i can’t complain about a sunny day. ❞
——— IT HAD BEEN MONTHS SINCE HE’D DIED. since the both of them had died. he still feels something in his chest, he feels fucking sand in his chest, he doesn’t know what he feels anymore. it’s hard to breathe, sometimes. even harder still to stand. yet… he was alive.
he takes in a breath. it’s shaking. he’s surprised he isn’t shaking. he closes his eyes for a moment as buccellati asks him how he’s feeling, and laughs.
❝ i feel like i died, buccellati.
❞ he mutters. lifts a hand up and drags it down his face.
❝ i feel like my heart isn’t real. i… i don’t fucking know anymore.
❞
———HAD IT NOT BEEN POINTED OUT, his death might have escaped him entirely. eyes fluttering, the man rested his head on two fingers, alert yet waning. he moved his hand to the side of the bed where abbacchio sat propped, brushing down the creases.
❝ this might be the first time i’ve heard you concerned about whether or not you were alive. ❞ the bluntness of the statement forced the man’s grip, tightening over a desire to stay his mouth. when had he become so careless with his words? had empathy been lost over these months alone…?
❝ i was starting to think we’d both rot away here while you slept. ❞
———❝ IT’S NOT A STRANGE FEELING. at times, it almost seems normal, the absence of pain. ❞ gently, the man brushed a bit of hair out of his face, realizing then that it was out of place despite the lack of sensation.
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