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Abbacchio watched, leaning on the hood of the car, as Giorno knelt on the grass where a very loudly complaining Mista was lying. Bruno could probably tell he was glaring, but what the fuck was he going to do? The Capo had been telling him to go easier on Giorno for nearly a year now, but in Abbacchio’s defense, Giorno had indirectly murdered him. Technically , he had also brought him back, but like hell he was going to forget what it had been like to die.
A single stab of panic, his brain’s last attempt at a distinct emotion, before a switch flicked and he was drifting, slowly floating off into the abyss. After he was brought back, recovery was shit, and Giorno had taken the role as Don as opposed to the- in his humble fucking opinion- much more capable Bucciarati.
Who, he recently found out, has also died and been revived at the hand of Giorno Giovanna. He was pretty sure Bucciarati was trying to set an example of how it was okay to not be angry with Giorno, but if anything, it just made Abbacchio more bitter and resentful.
So excuse him if when Giorno started walking over, Abbacchio folded his arms more defensively over his coat, eye twitching with annoyance as the Don approached.
“You fought well today, Abbacchio,” Giorno smiled politely, stand flickering behind him. He held his hand out for Abbacchio to take so he could be healed, but Abbacchio just glared down at it with distaste.
“Thanks, you ran out in the middle of a hopeless battle and had to cut off your damn hand to survive,” he replied bitterly.
Giorno quirked an eyebrow, lifting his newly repaired hand and flexing his fingers. A thin scar remained across his wrist, but Abbacchio knew it would fade by the morning. Giorno’s stand didn’t leave scars for minor injuries, because of course it didn’t. For other injuries, however, say getting punched directly through the gut, the bastard just had to leave an enormous red mark marring his abdomen and stretching out across his body.
“Well, you’ve got me there,” Giorno smirked, placing his hand back in his pocket. “But it’s alright now. Did you sustain any injuries?”
Abbacchio folded his coat tighter across himself. The truth was, he had. Giorno had arrived before he got a chance to assess it, leaving him in the dark as to what the pain tearing across his midsection was, but like hell he was going to let Giorno try to heal it.
“Nothing that I want your grimy hands touching. I’ll be fine. Where’s Bucciarati?”
Giorno pressed his lips together with concern, as if he had any right to be concerned about Abbacchio now . Where was that sincerity, worry in his eyes when Abbacchio was being impaled on a beach in Sardegna? “He’s with Mista. We’re going to be heading back soon.”
“Thank fucking god,” Abbacchio grunted, getting up off the hood of the car. Pain fired across his ribs, but he kept himself from wincing in front of Giorno. As he walked back in the direction of where Mista and Bucciarati were sitting, he realized how really not good he felt.
It wasn’t just the pain, but a horrible nausea was slowly building, making the world tilt the slightest bit too much. It was just a bit of it, swirling in his gut if he made too sharp a move, but it was definitely there. It was a little while later that his head started pounding, something really fucking annoying and disorienting, but he didn’t give a shit. He had survived the battle, and like hell he was going back to the golden brat to let him fix up whatever injury was slowly soaking his coat in blood. He’d fix it when he got back, and since he was feeling decent today, he might even let Bucciarati help.
But for now, he was toughing it out. He walked over to where Bucciarati was kneeling over Mista, still keeping his arms folded to hide the blood shining on his coat.
Bucciarati pressed his lips together. “It’s healed, but the pains are still bothering him,” the Capo frowned, hand wrapped around Mista’s. “We’ll need to keep him lying down if we want his leg elevated. Giorno might have to drive the other car to Trish’s place with him, and I’ll drive you back home,” he offered, squeezing the gunslinger’s hand reassuringly after he let out another hiss of pain.
Bucciarati looked up, gaze flitting to the way Abbacchio wrapped his arms protectively over his torso. “Are you injured, Leone?”
“Fine,” Abbacchio replied, feeling only a twinge of guilt for lying to the man. What was he supposed to say, ‘yeah, feels like there’s a bulldozer carving into my side that could be easily fixed by Giorno but as I fucking hate him I’m going to make life four times harder for you’?
Bucciarati frowned at him skeptically, sighing. “Alright. I’ll go get Giorno, if you’d like to meet me at the car.”
Abbacchio nodded, turning on his heel and trying his best to at the very least look okay as he strode back to the parking lot where the two cars were parked. As soon as he flopped into the passenger seat, though, he suddenly felt like he was on the verge of passing out. In fact, he was pretty sure he did black out for a second after he shut the door, the glovebox suddenly falling a lot closer to him before he regained control over his senses and body.
As Bucciarati helped Mista and Giorno get situated in the other car, he slowly unraveled his arms from around his middle, the pressure being lifted sending a huge wave of dizziness over him. Fuck, this was bad.
He swallowed harshly, everything he learned throughout his pretty nasty history of hangovers telling him to just get home, get some water, and go back to sleep. The headache in his skull had pierced even further down, sharp pain throbbing right behind his eyes along with fucking everything else a headache could affect. God, everything hurt and he couldn’t think, but if he passed out, it would be Giorno and his obnoxiously perfectly stand and his stupid arrogant ‘I told you so’ smirk and everything the rest of the team loved about him. Really, it just made Abbacchio feel sicker than whatever the blood loss was doing to him.
He slowly forced himself to look down at the damage, peeling away the coat he had pressed so tightly against himself.
Three stab wounds. Lovely. They were all still bleeding, a sure sign of something being fucked, but what was he gonna do right now, sitting in the passenger seat of Bruno’s car, already having turned down help? He was going to deal with it , that’s what.
He heard the door open and Bucciarati slid into the driver’s seat, managing a tired but teasing smile over at Abbacchio. “Too tired to drive?”
“Didn’t feel like it,” Abbacchio grunted, folding his coat tightly over the wounds again. The pressure made pain bloom across his abdomen, but he knew he had to keep it there. He could deal with it .
Bucciarati nodded understandingly, beginning to talk absentmindedly as he pulled out of the parking lot. From what Abbacchio could tell through the building haziness of slowly bleeding out, he was talking about a conversation he had with Fugo or something. That would make sense, as Fugo had taken up the job of teaching quite a few of their members basic math. Really, it had only extended from Narancia to Bucciarati, as their Capo never had finished his education.
He was pretty sure the very one-sided conversation moved on from there, but Abbacchio wasn’t really listening. He was more focusing on trying not to pass out, instead grunting noncommittally in response to the occasional important-sounding phrase.
When they finally pulled into the driveway, Abbacchio snapped awake, having forgotten where he was for a moment. He forced himself to open the car door and get up, even the slightest movement very painfully reminding him of the stab wounds in his side. He could feel the blood staining the sleeve he had pressed over them, seeping through the cloth yet still mostly hidden by the dark fabric.
Bucciarati walked around the other side, digging into his pocket for his keys, and his gaze suddenly caught onto Abbacchio, shifting with concern.
Stepping out onto the driveway, Abbacchio tried not to hiss with pain, but he couldn’t help it, and he was more focused on the face that he very much felt like he was going to throw up. It had only intensified from the car ride, everything suddenly moving the slightest bit too sickeningly. He swallowed harshly, trying to take a deep breath, but still needed to reach out and grip the car door to stay standing.
“Leone?”
“Fine,” he repeated again, though his lips didn’t quite move as quickly as he had hoped they would.
He had closed his eyes, but could feel Bucciarati’s gaze boring into him. “Do you need help getting inside?”
Abbacchio’s grip tightened on the car door, head pounding and only making the dizziness and pain worse, but he shook his head. Fuck, there was blood dripping down his side. It was warm and viscous as it slipped down beneath his coat, but he could barely feel it over the pain.
“‘Told you, m’fine-” he drew in another horribly shaky breath, hand trembling as he realized his hold on the car door was the only thing keeping him standing. “Jus’ need to…”
His fingers were slipping. Fuck. He tried to open his eyes, but everything was still black, head swimming and the nausea finally taking over. The last thing he heard was Bucciarati gasp before he wasn’t holding onto the door anymore.
A light gust of wind had drifted across the beach right before Abbacchio realized something was wrong. He remembered it so awfully fucking clearly, the single, brief breeze floating across the shore.
It was cold. It was cold as the frigid wind his warm blood, the blood that he hadn’t even noticed until it was too late. He felt the odd, ghostly sensation of a stand passing through him, but nothing else. It was hollow, there was nothing, nothing…
Then there was pain.
Abbacchio had always hoped that he would die painlessly. Preferably not during a torture session, or for something on Passione business, maybe ending up drinking himself to death. At least then he would have died as he lived- desperately trying to forget all of his problems and mistakes and royal fuck-ups over the years. That would have been nice.
But no. Not only had he been cursed to retain consciousness while a stand’s arm tore apart about half of his vital organs right through, he had been woken up again to remember it. It would’ve only been a few moments, but somehow being able to remember it felt like he had been cursed to feel that pain another however many years he was unfortunate enough to live.
All over again, his gut was being torn open, his own blood dripping off the closed fist right in front of him. He felt himself choke on his own shock, barely even able to register what had happened, let alone that it was going to kill him. But it hit him in its own time. The realization crawled insidiously upon him, invisible until it, too, plunged its freezing cold hand directly through his gut and turned his blood to ice. As if it had already spilled out onto the ground and left to go cold as it sank deeper into the crimson-stained sand.
It felt like he was being given too much time, the absolute agony suddenly ripping through him before he could think any longer. He would have bitterly called it merciful if the pain had allowed him to piece any words together in his head.
Instead it was burning, burning , the pain screaming at him to fix it, to repair yet another mistake he had made in his miserable, failure-ridden life, but the arm kept him trapped in its hold, his panic only tinder to the flames spilling out into the remains of his chest. The blood spilled atop it, a desperate attempt to put it out, suffocate it as it poured thickly over the arm right in front of him, but it did little. He knew the arm would retract, leaving it to burst from his gut and try fruitlessly to fill the enormous hole in him, but only drain him of his remaining life-
Abbacchio wanted it to be over. A pitiful gasp choked itself from his throat, but he knew there was no one there to hear it. They would have helped him, thinking that he might have deserved to be spared from such an agonizing experience.
He kept his eyes pressed shut, unable to stare at the blurry, scarlet blanketed arm in front of him, and wished he could die already.
“It’s alright, Leone.”
Bucciarati’s voice.
He nearly melted with relief, never more grateful that Bucciarati was dead. Hearing his voice meant Abbacchio was too, finally free from the agony of his fate. Except- the pain wasn’t gone. He realized he couldn’t speak through it, heaving breaths tearing themselves from his slowly closing throat. That wasn’t alright. Why was Bucciarati telling him it was alright?
“Deep breaths.”
Despite how the man had just lied to him, Abbacchio so blindly obeyed, the voice his only comfort in the dark. The breaths hitched, dragged, and choked, and weren’t all that deep, yet Bucciarati let out a hum of approval.
As Abbacchio continued to draw in shaky breaths, he realized to do so, he would have to have lungs, a diaphragm, a mostly-working respiratory system. Something had happened, and there was no longer an arm through his gut. He didn’t open his eyes, though. The pain was still there, and he knew there would be blood if he tried to look. He had seen enough blood.
“Just a little longer, amor.”
A little longer of what ? Until he died? Until he was freed from this horrible in-between where the pain of death still existed, but the scene did not? Until he had the courage to open his eyes and see where the cruel hand of fate had thrown him this time?
But yet again, so damn faithful in an echo of Bruno Bucciarati’s voice, he let out another breath, trying to nod.
As he did so, he realized the back of his head was pressed against something soft. There was something around him. He was somewhere at all .
Curiosity and confusion taking over, he pried his heavy eyes open and saw-
Red. Bright red and shiny, covering his entire vision, reflecting strange patterns and faces he couldn’t identify, as if he was wearing crimson contacts that stole away his vision, poured thick, fresh blood over every image and handed it back to him. He was still there.
He was still in the center of his own murder, where blood and the ocean rushed in his ears, where his blood ran cold beneath his skin, where he had no full spine for a shiver to run down.
Panic flowed through him, stealing away his slowly recovering breaths as he lurched forward, eyes widening with pure horror as they only took in more red.
A breathless gasp tore itself from his throat, bringing with it the only word his mind could form. “ NO-”
“Shh, shh…” Bucciarati’s voice cut him off again, the gentleness of it so painfully dissonant as one hand fell onto his chest, guiding him to lie back down, and the other wrapped gently around his cheek. “You’re right here, amor.”
Abbacchio clung to the comforting words like they were the last steady thing in the world, leaning into the gentle touch against his face.
“Wh- where…?” he rasped, the inside of his mouth still dry and coppery. He remained, staring up into the shimmering red above him, vision pulsing.
“The turtle,” Bucciarati replied, voice still impossibly soft. The words were so calm and articulated, slowly paced and positioned so neatly. It nearly felt like mocking him, to speak so eloquently while Abbacchio choked on every rushed, breathless word. “I would’ve taken you inside, but here was closer.”
They were in the turtle. Abbacchio might have been able to grasp that if he could actually fucking see where he was. “The- the red-” he gasped, barely in the state of mind to realize how stupid he sounded.
There was a pause, the sound of someone shifting, then a soft exhale. “Ah, my apologies. I suppose a room with a red ceiling isn’t quite the place to let somebody injured wake up in. Here-”
The hand resting on his cheek shifted, reaching to turn his chin to the side and direct his gaze over to… something else. That wasn’t red. White and black, instead, stripes of gold across it like a chipped piece of pottery that had been repaired to be more beautiful than before.
Bucciarati, kneeling beside the couch inside the turtle, worry tight across his expression as he drew his hand back from Abbacchio’s face.
Abbacchio felt so much of the tension drain from him, even the pain that was still throbbing across his gut had faded slightly, so much more bearable as his blurry gaze finally focused on the Capo.
A warm, soft hand wrapped around his, their fingers interlacing as he heard Bucciarati take a deep breath. “We’re both alive. All of that is over now. You are not going to die, and we won’t have to be scared like that again.”
That wasn’t the first time Abbacchio had heard that. Every nightmare, every panic attack, every hitching of his breath when they stepped onto a beach that felt the slightest bit too familiar- he had felt a hand slip into his and those same words echo comfortingly in his mind. It was the same now, the words melting away the panic that had frozen over all of his thoughts as he remembered what had happened.
Watching Giorno from afar. Getting in the car, feeling awful, seeing the stab wounds and doing nothing.
“That being said -” he heard Bucciarati continue, unrolling a set of bandages as he sat back onto his heels, “I hope you know how unhappy with you I am for refusing to alert any of our multiple team members of the three stab wounds beneath your coat here.”
...And there was the lecture. Abbacchio let his head sink back against the pillow. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to focus on- the pain tearing through his abdomen or Bucciarati relentlessly scolding him for being a reckless dumbass.
He decided on Bucciarati, as the man’s voice was somehow always pleasing to listen to, and at least he deserved to be reprimanded.
“I understand you’re not a fan of Giorno, but I intentionally split us up between the two cars to give you the chance to discuss things without him. Things such as, say… admitting to the fact that you took a knife to the gut three times and were in serious need of medical attention. But I suppose you preferred to wait until you collapsed in our driveway to make me aware of that?”
Abbacchio grunted noncommittally, mostly just feeling sick and in pain and still wayy too fucking slowly coming down from his panic.
“Your stubbornness astounds me, Leone.”
“Says the bastard who refused to die, twice,” Abbacchio muttered.
Bucciarati sighed with a hint of amusement, finishing wrapping the bandages and reaching over to brush a lock of hair out of Abbacchio’s face. “I simply decided I wasn’t ready. Now, do you think you’re strong enough to stand?”
Abbacchio thought through it. “No,” he replied. “But if it’s to get to an actual bed, I’m sure as hell willing to try.”
Bucciarati helped him up, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and pulling the goth to his feet. It was a slow walk out of the turtle, up the driveway and into the house, but soon enough, Abbacchio was lying down on his own bed with a glass of water and Bucciarati stooping to draw a light blanket over him.
The Capo squeezed Abbacchio’s shoulder again before standing, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. “By the way, as those were Giorno’s pillows that you bled all over back in the turtle, it’s only fair that you make an apology to him.”
“Jesus fuck. You should’ve just let me die.”