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The light was blinding.
It was so bright, it practically pricked his skin.
Leone Abbacchio shielded his eyes. He did not know what was happening. All he felt was the light enveloping over him. It felt like being submerged in the ocean, but the water was warm and made your skin tingle.
He realized he was laying down. He got up from the rock which he laid. Everything was still white, but his surroundings slowly began to materialize.
A lighthouse revealed itself in the distance.
Its presence should have been welcoming, its role is to guide ships to shore. But looking at it, Abbacchio did not feel welcomed. The light which used to be a pleasant warmth enveloping him stopped. It was harshly replaced with a new feeling, a bitter cold that licked at his face and crept across his body.
Sadness . With the realization of emotions, Abbacchio found himself hollow, and numb.
Where was he? His surroundings only became hazier, and with the lighthouse’s disappearance soon he was left alone again.
Standing in this desolate void of nothing, he only felt loneliness.
Suddenly, he turned around. Someone was there.
Who was it?
This man was in a uniform, hat shielding his face. Lips were painted dark, contrasting the blinding white that still surrounded them. The man looked up and brought his hand to his face, and Abbacchio realized the stranger in front of him was a reflection.
It was a reflection of him, all right. Before joining Passione. A new police officer. Before learning the cruelty of the world.
The reflection was him, yeah. But they shared different minds. The eyes in the reflection were hopeful, determined. The sunset of lilac and gold shone with the desire to make a difference in this world, to help his city, justice.
Abbacchio knew this was not the case. His eyes would be hollow, void of this. The same sunset of lilac and gold would be dull. They no longer had the ability to be filled with such desires.
The lighthouse was back. Its presence screamed itself to Abbacchio, despite no noise being emitted. He turned towards it.
Another man was there. This one Abbacchio recognized immediately. Himself, but more recent.
Dishevelled appearance, tired. The bags under his eyes told paragraphs of late nights alone, the light of the television and bottles of wine. And drunk. This Abbacchio could not handle the thought of processing any sort of events around him. Being sober meant having to face his issues, and he much preferred the easy way out.
But himself who was staring back at him changed expressions. Before he was exhausted with life, choosing to drown his sorrows in the nearest liquor available. You could see it on his face, practically imprinted. But the new expression was soft, and he saw his face was wet with tears.
Abbacchio reached up, the reflection copying his movements, and his own face was damp with tears as well. Yet he knew these tears were not ones filled with sorrow. This Abbacchio which he reflected on was new. This was after he joined Passione. This was after he met—
Who did he meet?
A new thought swarmed in his brain, overcoming everything else he was feeling, overcoming his contemplation on his life experiences and only focused on one thing. The reflections were no longer there, and the white around him was empty once again.
With a lurching movement, he started to move forward. He had to find him . The only desire he felt was the need to find out who it was that came into his life, who it was that changed him.
He was not running towards anything specifically, but something screamed in his mind that moving forward would help satisfy the urge he felt: He wanted to meet them again . With a determination that can only be excused by a violent passion, he wanted to meet them again, to be saved by them again.
Now running, he felt his body respond for the first time since waking up in this desolate void. His legs felt the response of solid ground, and his surroundings started to fade into view, like a painter working vigorously to complete the work that would define his career.
The background that formed around him was still hazy, but Abbacchio finally recognized it. Grands of the sun-bleached sand and shards of seashells cracked under his feet as he continued to run. The waves crashing against the shoreline eagerly answered the sounds of his footsteps.
The beach.
Memories flooded back to him. Passonie. Moody Blues. Giorno Giovanna . The mission.
But something—someone, was missing. Everything was coming back to him, yet he felt more lost with every name remembered.
He slowed his pace when he came upon a familiar location. A plateau of rocks, overlooking the ocean. The salty breeze from the ocean made his hair whipped around his face, and he took a deep breath.
I was using Moody Blues. I was searching for something. Clues about the Boss. But for whom?
Girono Giovanna? That brat.
But it wasn't him I was working for .
Who was it?
He found himself walking backwards and sitting on one of the rocks. He realized something soft on the rock and looked around him. He was surrounded by a vibrant display of yellow flowers, and their sweet, almost sickly, smell contrasting with the salt from the ocean.
Yellow Sultans. Abbacchio was surprised he recognized them, but familiarizing himself with the language of flowers was a small hobby of his he picked up from his mother. He ran his hand across them, feeling their pillowy petals and his hand is being covered in a thin film of pollen.
They represent strong wills.
And...loneliness. How fitting.
His memory and surroundings were all still a haze, practically dream-like.
Was this all a dream?
Everything was happening at once, but nothing at the same time. Time was still, but at the same time, everything felt like it was accelerating at an inhuman speed.
Sitting in the flowers, a numbness crept up from his chest, a feeling like a million needles prickling his skin blossomed from his chest like the flowers that surrounded him. He was laying on his back now, and something warm began to cover his chest. He didn’t even realize if he was breathing up until now, but now he rasped for air and his chest felt like it was hollow.
I’m dying.
This realization was not pounding in his brain like his earlier ones. It was a soft reminder, he had accepted the thought even before it occurred to him. His eyes fluttered everything started to collapse in on itself, the beach, the flowers, the lighthouse, the lighthouse—
And darkness. But not the total darkness, and nothingness that one would expect to feel when death finally encompasses them. Instead, it was as if he had just been sleeping and could not open his eyes. He felt nothing in his surroundings, but he could still feel his body, he was still here. The pain from his chest has diminished, and he sits, or maybe lays—just exists for a bit.
What the fuck is this.
Limbo? Am I in purgatory?
I’ve never been into religion, and I’ve committed a fair share of crimes. I should have paid attention in Church when I was younger. I guess there is a God, and he’s banished me to live in the eternity of whatever the hell this is.
And I didn't even find out what I was searching for.
Eternity passes.
Perhaps dying alone is what I deserve.
Wait. Something changed. Perhaps it wasn’t an eternity, and only a short moment passed.
Abbacchio felt his face was wet again, but not from tears. He felt a drop on his chest, too. Then everywhere. The cold rain pattered over him, and he opened his eyes again.
Where am I now?
It wasn’t the beach. It was an alleyway.
Abbacchio was laying in a dark alleyway, the heavy downpour soaking him inside and out. He instinctively grabbed towards his chest, but the only thing he felt was his clothes, frigid from the rain.
Dark clouds flooded the night sky, like the water which pooled in the uneven cracks in the pavement around him. The moon refused to show its face, so only a flickering street lamp in the distance provided a minimal source of light.
Abbacchio used the side of the building which he was sitting against to prop himself up, and he realized his other hand was firmly grasping a bottle of wine. He squinted at it, trying to recognize what exactly he was drinking. The words on the label danced, and he couldn't tell if it was because of the darkness, rain blurring his vision, or if he was simply too drunk and his mind couldn't catch up. Probably a combination. The way his mind floated and his train of thought jumped from track to track, he was already disoriented enough.
Though the words on the wine bottle were incomprehensible, judging by the small amount of liquid remaining, the past Abbacchio enjoyed it quite a bit.
I’m probably dead right now. Might as well enjoy the ride.
He took a swig out of the bottle, alcohol burning as it travelled down his throat. Okay, not wine. Something much stronger.
He stood in the alleyway, trying to figure out, once again, what the hell was happening.
Did I just pass out in this alleyway, everything was just a dream? Am I hallucinating?
He drank a lot, sure, and woke up in strange alleyways, not knowing where he was. But this time was much different. Maybe this time he tried something more intoxicating.
Trying not to stumble, he moved forward through the thick sheets of rain, his feet dragging in puddles and seeping into his shoes.
An intense wave of familiarity overcame him. He had been here before. Well, this experience was not uncommon. But this exact same experience. He remembered that trash can, those burnt-out street lights, the distant wail of a police siren that brought back unwanted memories. He was reliving a memory. Like the reflections.
Coming out of the alleyway, a street with the same gloomy atmosphere revealed itself. He knew where he was, but the exact name of the street lost itself in his memory. Before he could recall, he was distracted by something far more important appearing in front of him.
Who is that?
A figure stood in the distance, on the other side of the street. A black umbrella blocked the front of the person from Abbacchio’s view. He wanted to scream, WHO ARE YOU? Too many questions flooded his mind throughout whatever the hell he was experiencing, and he was getting frustrated.
I just want answers, please. Give me something.
That was what he wanted to say, but his voice was lost. He could only stand there, longing for whoever was on the other side of the street.
The figure raised its umbrella.
Is that me again?
Wait, no. They are wearing white.
(I haven't owned a piece of white clothing since I was able to dress myself.)
Is that… him? The person I have been searching for?
Abbacchio still couldn’t make out the person’s face. Damn this weather, damn whatever drugs he was on. Damn whatever God punished me into this state.
The man only a couple feet in front of him wore a white suit that donned an inky dotted pattern. The front of his suit was open, revealing a delicate lace pattern. Gold accents—giant zippers, Abbacchio noticed—but they complimented the entire look pleasantly. And his hair form-fitted at a sharp angle, darker than the night around him, covered his face which remained a mystery and Abbacchio urged so much to see.
The white of his suit reminded him of the blinding light he was encompassed in for so long when he woke up for the first time, and it contrasted beautifully with the darkness of the lace and of his hair. But this time the white did not bring loneliness.
Abbacchio found himself able to move again, and took a step closer.
His blue eyes pierced through the dark of the storm, like a blue sky that reigns triumph after the storm. Abbacchio found himself lost in them, although the colour was cold he knew the ocean which he swam from of these eyes filled him with so much warmth that the chill of the rain did not bother him anymore.
And it was the revelation of this man’s eyes, and the rest of his face, that Abbacchio was blessed with the knowledge for which his entire journey began to find.
Bruno Buccellati.
Abbacchio would have been angry with himself, frustrated he let his mind forget someone so important to him. But it was Bruno. His mind could never formulate a sense of anger towards that man. His only feelings now were relief, and it was like ecstasy.
Abbacchio knew what Bruno was going to say. This memory was vivid for him, and not just because it was a turning point in his life, where he first met the man named Bruno. He had replayed it on Moody Blues many more times than he would be willing to admit.
‘Abbacchio, was it?’
But that isn’t what came out of Bruno’s mouth. In fact, he still stood there, staring at Abbacchio.
The umbrella he was holding fell to his side, splashing as it hit the ground.
This isn’t right. He was supposed to ask me who I was, and then asked me to join his team.
Why is it different?
Bruno’s face crinkled, and his breath stuttered. At the same time, Abbachio began to feel hot tears start to roll down his face, and he brought his hand up to his mouth.
Bruno mouthed something, but his voice was not heard. But he did finally speak something, and his voice cracked a bit when he spoke.
“Leone?”
--
Engulfed in each other's arms, not exchanging much meaningful dialogue, but the connection between them allowed for the passing of information without needing to voice them.
I missed you so much.
I was so alone.
They pressed their foreheads together, smiling through the hot tears that now flowed freely out of both of them. It was an embrace filled with the comfort of a reunion but there was an undertone of sadness to it.
Instinct took over and the two began to move to the rhythm of a song which didn’t play out loud, but one in which they shared so many dances together that it rang familiar with every step they took.
It wasn’t raining anymore, and their surroundings seemed to fade around them. As they moved in a waltz their only thoughts were ones of outstanding relief and passionate love for each other.
Their bodies moved together, as one, complementing each other with each step they took. Bruno and Leone danced like this for a while, and then embraced once again.
Leone took his gaze away from Bruno one final time. He saw the lighthouse again. The melancholy which filled his heart when he first looked at it was no longer there.
He was only filled with the love of another, the man that was contained in his arms. His gaze returned to the man, and Leone never intended to move his eyes away from him again.
“I finally found you, Bruno.”
--
It's all over now, nothing left to say,
Just my tears and the orchestra playing.
I had the last waltz with you,
Two lonely people together.
I fell in love with you,
The last waltz should last forever.
(The Last Waltz - Engelbert Humperdinck)