[He knows the notes of Bruno's tone, because it's the same voice he'd used when he'd spoken about Abdul. It's grief, still raw and hurting, an ache in your heart that you're always aware of, every hour of every day-- but there's a yearning to speak, rather than tuck the pain away. You want to talk about them, make sure their memory isn't forgotten, even if it kills you to talk about them, because they deserve to be remembered. Because they died doing what was right, and that ought not to be forgotten.

Yeah, he knows that tone. In some ways, he thinks, Bruno is stronger than him-- he can speak of Abbacchio without his voice wavering, without choking with grief or charging past the subject. That's more than Polnareff can say about himself.]

I probably would have.

[He doesn't often use a soft tone of voice, preferring to blast his emotions full-volume-- but exceptions can be made. He murmurs the words and glances up from the mirror-- meeting Bruno's eyes, his own soft with shared sympathy.]

I won't say I'm sorry, because I never liked hearing that, but--

[He pauses, glances away for a moment, trying to find the right words.]

He was here, and then he wasn't. And I don't know if I could take that, if it was me and my friend. [A beat.] I know I couldn't take that.