[Fugo nods, then doesn't needle Abbacchio with more questions. He does understand. There is an emptiness in Abbacchio, a dark mineshaft of unhappiness cut into the soft meat of his heart, and it recognizes a similar emptiness in Fugo. They have never spoken of it, never directly, but they both know.
Sometimes, misery loves company. They have spent a lot of nights together, sitting without speaking.]
[So Fugo is surprised when Abbacchio speaks. His tells aren't as obvious as they usually are; a slight downturn of the corners of his mouth, an almost imperceptible pinch of his eyebrows. And then he's just ... confused. It's not like Abbacchio to repeat himself, or to circle back to a part of a conversation that has already finished. Especially something that is, more or less, a social nicety. There is naked emotion in his voice, as bare as his pale and thin face. His throat works.
Abbacchio ... is glad that he is back in the house. That he is safe. If anything had happened-- something did happen; the double drew blood, but it's fine, he took care of it, the wound is wrapped and disinfected and only distantly aches, the pain is nothing really, he's survived much worse-- Abbacchio would have ... what? He doesn't know. Abbacchio can't get those words out, whatever they were; they got stuck, so he had to swallow them back down with the water. Abbacchio would have something, because Fugo is too... important?]
Me?
[He doesn't understand. He genuinely doesn't. He thinks he can see the shape of what Abbacchio means, but it doesn't ... fit. Not for him. It would make sense if he said this about Bucciarati, or-- ... ... or Trish, maybe. Trish is important; Trish hasn't woken up yet. But him? Fugo?]
no subject
Sometimes, misery loves company. They have spent a lot of nights together, sitting without speaking.]
[So Fugo is surprised when Abbacchio speaks. His tells aren't as obvious as they usually are; a slight downturn of the corners of his mouth, an almost imperceptible pinch of his eyebrows. And then he's just ... confused. It's not like Abbacchio to repeat himself, or to circle back to a part of a conversation that has already finished. Especially something that is, more or less, a social nicety. There is naked emotion in his voice, as bare as his pale and thin face. His throat works.
Abbacchio ... is glad that he is back in the house. That he is safe. If anything had happened-- something did happen; the double drew blood, but it's fine, he took care of it, the wound is wrapped and disinfected and only distantly aches, the pain is nothing really, he's survived much worse-- Abbacchio would have ... what? He doesn't know. Abbacchio can't get those words out, whatever they were; they got stuck, so he had to swallow them back down with the water. Abbacchio would have something, because Fugo is too... important?]
Me?
[He doesn't understand. He genuinely doesn't. He thinks he can see the shape of what Abbacchio means, but it doesn't ... fit. Not for him. It would make sense if he said this about Bucciarati, or-- ... ... or Trish, maybe. Trish is important; Trish hasn't woken up yet. But him? Fugo?]
... I'm fine, Abbacchio. I handled it.