Chapter Text
Bruno Bucciarati was one of the most respected men in his field.
He had skill, experience, a coveted spot next to Don Giorno, and the intelligence to utilize all of it. His kindness was unexpected and abundant, making him a friend to everyone; famiglia and citizens alike. His job kept him affluent, busy, and well known. Unlike most mafioso, his face was a welcomed sight to shopkeepers and restaurant owners, earning him a special spot in his city’s heart. On top of that, he had gone through Hell and lived to tell the tale. The dismantling of Passione's drug trade was celebrated by folks all around Italy and made his name even more revered than before. To anyone outside, it would seem as though he had everything.
And for a while, Bruno tried to convince himself of that. That the void in his chest could be filled by food, clothes, money, and anything but what he dreaded it was from. In truth, his success required a sacrifice he never expected to make. He could still remember your face in perfect detail despite the years separating you.
You stood in the doorway of your now half-vacant home, all of your belongings thrown messily into two suitcases. Everything looked so empty without your touch. Bruno was staring at you from the pitch black living room, his cerulean eyes being just visible in the streamlines of moonlight. He followed you as you rushed downstairs, much to your surprise.
"Bruno," You started without much to say. Nothing sounded right. The crickets nestled in the bushes outside your home filled the deafening silence. You could still smell his signature cologne over your clothes. The charming house that you had come to love now made you nervous. Anything that brought you comfort regarding Bruno made you feel awful. It was nightmarish.
He was everything you wanted until the last year or so. It was like magic; all the color drained from his face, his work hours increased, and he never engaged with you. Worst of all, he refused to elaborate on the very obvious change he was going under. You begged him, much to his annoyance, to open up to you in any capacity. You held onto him in every way you could, but eventually, all the tension culminated in one night. You threatened to leave and he didn't object. " Why ?" You asked for the 100th time. "Is your stupid job so important?" You could only assume.
"It's not stupid ." He spat back. It was the first time you saw Bruno display an emotion that wasn't disinterest or exhaustion in months . "Just because you can't understand it doesn't mean it's stupid. Sei un pazzo ." (You're a fool.) You recoiled. Even as your relationship began to sour, he never outright insulted you. Tears stung your waterline.
“Please Bruno." Your voice cracked. “I want to get it. I love you."
"If you're going to leave, then do it." Any trace of softness in his voice was gone. The man you loved was nowhere to be found. You wanted to collapse on top of your bags and cry until you couldn't stand it anymore. You knew that things would turn out this way if he continued to neglect you, but nothing could've prepared you for this confrontation. Losing Bruno felt inconceivable. You thought that if you gave him some space and time, he'd come to you on his own. Instead, he shut down more and more until he was unreachable. You blamed yourself, you blamed him, you blamed everyone around you. You weren’t going to allow his bitterness to swallow you as well.
You stared harder into the darkness and tried to make out his face one more time. You searched for any sign of remorse– any sign that he didn't mean to be so cold. You came up empty-handed. You refused to waste another word on him as you walked out the door.
Bruno tried to repress the memory of you leaving just as he repressed the event that caused him to be so frigid in the first place– his closest friend’s death.
Losing Abbacchio on his watch tortured him endlessly. It was a routine mission. No matter how many times he was told that it wasn't his fault, he couldn't shake it. He was supposed to be his Capo. It didn’t matter if Abbacchio was aware of the risks, he was supposed to protect him. There was no use for a Capo who couldn’t do the bare minimum. Abbacchio had so much time left, so many people to meet and love. He hadn’t even begun.
Why was he so incompetent? Why was he so slow? Why couldn’t he have blocked the attack? Why didn’t he just take the damage for him? He knew the answers to those questions were impossible to know at best but it didn’t matter. Abbacchio was gone and he wasn’t. He sorely misplaced his trust in Bruno and it was a death sentence.
His moods and sensations were stuck in those final moments; the adrenaline, the fear, the dread. They were all affixed to his person. He wanted so desperately to crumple into your arms and sob the night he returned home, but he knew if he overspoke he could endanger you as well. Realizing the truth by speaking it out made bile rise to his throat.
When he saw Leone lifeless, something in him clicked. All of the years of violence and pain came back to him tenfold. His life felt like a landmine of smarting memories; all of them triggered by the smallest things. Just like you, he couldn't process the feelings he had. Your begging for any kind of explanation only frustrated him more. He couldn’t give you what you wanted– what he wanted– no matter how hard he tried. His pain ate him from the inside out.
He had seen so many of his friends die and even done the deed himself. It was cruel to think, but why was this one death trudging up every negative feeling he ever had? Night terrors, flashbacks, outbursts. His body and mind didn't feel like his own. When he looked at you, he felt numb. All the feelings he had for you were veiled behind impenetrable self loathing. He couldn’t bear to interact with you. The woman he planned on marrying now only arose static feeling and longing.
If it weren't for Giorno and Mista, he was sure that he would've wasted away after you left. He lost all motivation. The guilt purveying him was now paired with heartbreak and even more regret. He thought your leaving would be dampened by whatever was going on with him, but it only amplified his issues. Without your caring, he began to eat and sleep less. Work less. Talk less. Take up less space. He had thrown away the love of his life, whether he meant to or not. He obsessed over the night you left. Every cruel word he said, every moment he failed to comfort you, every moment he wasn’t treating you like you deserved and needed. He was the fool.
After a while, Giorno urged that he be evaluated by a professional. His physical evaluations all showed up perfectly, which boggled Bruno but confirmed something for Giorno. With a solemn face, he insisted that his confidant see a psychiatrist.
He couldn’t help but be hesitant at first, and not out of disbelief of his mental pain. He had spent months convincing himself that he was broken. That there was something irreversibly wrong with him. It was almost easier to resign himself to failure.
When he finally found an answer, relief and terror washed over him once more. He had never heard of what he had– PTSD– but knowing gave him the most clarity he had felt in months. He wasn’t insane. The accumulation of trauma over the years unleashed itself at the sight of Abbacchio’s dead body. He felt like he was reliving those moments of terror over and over again because he was . His body was fighting a battle that was long over and you were a casualty.
The idea of living outside of Passione scared Bruno, but Giorno wouldn’t hear any objections to time off. The young Don justified it by saying Bruno was more useful to him when he was at his absolute best.
But this wasn’t something that could be cured with a pill or time off. PTSD, as he’d come to learn, took work to unravel. Consistency was the hardest part– waking up every morning to face a seemingly insurmountable problem was exhausting. New memories were popping up every day, each accompanied by panic attacks and overwhelming survivor’s guilt. He had to reach deep inside of himself to gather the strength. A few months after your split, he finally found himself making progress.
He could talk about what happened without bursting into tears. Abbacchio’s story, and the story of many others that he had witnessed, came back to him. But instead of them being overwhelming and assaulting, he was able to cope and rationalize him. He accepted himself for who he was; a traumatized 20-something who was forced to shoulder responsibility far bigger than him. Slowly but surely, he was able to work himself into normalcy and in the end, monumental accomplishment. But still, it wasn’t enough.
Or more accurately, it wasn’t what he truly wanted. He never intended to leave Passione , but he didn’t think he’d be in such a high position. He always thought he’d be busy with you. Being your husband, raising your children– that was his true aspiration. But inspite of his aching heart, he didn’t dare to even imagine reconnecting with you.
He had hurt you so badly. He wouldn’t forgive his actions– how could he expect you to? All you wanted was to connect with him, to share his pain and grief. To help him through a traumatic event. If he had, he might’ve even progressed quicker. Everytime he pushed you away, you came right back with patience. It was only when you stopped that he realized the damage he had done to you and your relationship. To him, his actions were the same regardless of the diagnosis. Nothing could justify them. He was sure you’d punch him on sight if he were to show up on your door step. And well, he was partially right.