@andthatsthepiss
Fugo had not slept all that much before the mission, and after the events which transpired, he’s admittedly exhausted. One of the nurses, a small boyish thing, had come by a while ago to tell him that visiting hours were over and shouldn’t he maybe go home and get some rest? Fugo had stepped towards him, fist raised, eyes wild. He wasn’t leaving. He wouldn’t leave.
The nurse opened his mouth as if to say something, but he scurried away as Fugo blinked back tears.
He paces at Abbacchio’s bedside, staring at the cords and the IV hooked up to the man’s arm. It smells like antiseptic.
Abbacchio shouldn’t be alive, but he is. Because of this, Fugo will not allow this second chance to go to waste. He doesn’t believe in fate, leaving such irrationalities to Mista, but at the same time, he feels as though he’s defied something.
Abbacchio is still and pale in his bed.
Part of him wonders if he should leave. It’s his fault, after all, that Abbacchio is here. He knows, he knows he should keep to himself, that he shouldn’t get close to people because he is violence and he will hurt everyone he cares about. But he is selfish, in his desire to live despite what he is, and in his longing to keep loneliness at bay just a while longer.
His eyes study Abbacchio now, not truly believing the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He thinks he sees Abbacchio stir.
Why is he waiting? What can he even say?
But he stays, and he waits.