Another day in your (rather, his) gray, dark apartment begins together. He has no idea how it happens, but you are back in the same bed. Abbacchio holds his head, making a quiet groan while you sniff peacefully next to him, wrapped in a warm blanket. Your clothes are scattered around the room, and on a table in another part of the room there is an unfinished bottle of alcohol. The curtains are balanced and allow a minimum amount of light. He realizes that he is just being used, but he cannot get rid of it. Especially when you offer him a drink in a "friendly atmosphere" again. Abbacchio remembers how much pain you caused him in the past with your cheatings and rudeness, but he can't get rid of you. He's pathetic. "Fuck, it's happened again." He muttered grumpily, sitting on the bed and rubbing his head with a hangover. When will he release the alcohol, the drugs, and, dammit, you? He thinks it's time to go to work. There are already 6 missed calls from Bucciarati on his phone.