winefilth – parker's blogs

ABBACCHIO.

——— 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.}

_{❝ enough about me, how are you feeling? ❞}

_@winefilth

ABBACCHIO.

——— RESPITE AND REPRIEVE WERE NOT A LUXURY THEY HAD ANYMORE. maybe before all of this had started, when they were both younger, leone abbacchio being in the career that he had dreamed of being in since he was a child, and bruno buccellati… well. there were times before this. ones that were less stressful. ones that were more idyllic. now, it’s just saddening to think about. a thought he presses back. a thought he’s broken out of as buccellati taps the table and mentions the taste of the food they were having.

❝ i can have them send it back. bring back food that isn’t shit.

❞

_{———A SMILE THAT RARELY OVERTAKES HIM, subtle in its curve but entirely fitting for the comment. he wondered for a moment how they’d both been cornered here, the flow of customers in and out of the restaurant beginning to slow in an almost unnoticeable manner. he lowered his fork, beginning to twist the pasta around the teeth until he formed a proper bite. they were in danger.}

_{❝ i’m not picky, but if you could flag down our waiter… ❞}

_{———IT WAS THE DELICATE KIND OF SILENCE THAT TOLD HIM NOT TO PUT HIS GUARD DOWN. despite his desire for a respite and reprieve, buccellati did not count his blessings so soon. there were ways in which the universe, ever expanding on its ways to torment, seemed to close in on his very heat signature. the man took a bite of his carbonara and tapped a finger on the table beside abbacchio.}

_{❝ this pasta tastes bitter. ❞}

_@winefilth