Si Dolce È'l Tormento | A BruAbba Story

Abbacchio

Abbacchio blinked awake to the feeling of cold tile beneath him. An unfamiliar ceiling slowly swam into focus above him.

Where the hell was he?

He moved his head a degree to the side and a fearsome pain flared at the back of his skull. Abbacchio was well acquainted with the feeling of having fallen and cracked your head against the floor, and this was it. Missing, however, was the pounding headache that usually went with it. He sat up slowly, and the pale walls, nearly glowing in the sunlight pouring through the window behind him, finally clicked into place. The safe house in Tuscany. That's right. And he had fallen – he had been shouting at Giorno for wasting all the hot water on one of his exorbitantly long showers, and then suddenly the pale walls and the sunlight and the bathroom door had all dissolved into black.

Except that that had been on the second floor, and he recognized the dark wood desk to his right as the one in Bucciarati's study. And there was something else – something about the movements as he peeled himself off the floor that set off alarm bells in the back of his mind.

The pounding in his head certainly wasn't helping. Abbacchio reached up gingerly to inspect the damage, but his fingers froze at the back of his neck. Ice-cold horror thrilled through his veins. His hair was gone. If Giorno was somehow involved in this, not even Bucciarati could get in his way –

Thoughts of vengeance were derailed by the appearance of a slightly disheveled figure in the doorway.

"Narancia." Someone who knew better than to participate in Giorno's scheme. Good. "What the hell is –"

Narancia glanced over his shoulder and back to him with confusion. "I haven't seen him, but I'm sure he's fine." His eyebrows drew together slightly, studying Abbacchio. Something about the expression was very un-Narancia. "You alright, capo?"

Abbacchio stared at him.

"You might have a mild concussion from the fall, but I'm sure it's nothing Giorno couldn't fix."

There was only one person Abbacchio knew who would be talking about concussions, and it certainly wasn't Narancia. "Fugo?"

Abbacchio could see the pieces click together on his face. But he missed the ensuing transformation from understanding to horror as he yielded to the morbid curiosity and looked down himself.

A slim, muscular build, several inches shorter than it should have been. A familiar white suit, down to the black markings and the gold zippers. Even the tattoo disappearing beneath it, the details of which Abbacchio had long since burned into his brain through many hours of covert staring.

He lifted a hand – Bucciarati's hand – in front of his face, inspecting the callus where the pen rested against the side of his finger, the nails just slightly longer than Abbacchio ever let his get out of force of habit from years playing the violin. He turned the hand over and felt a little dizzy.

Fuck, I'm too sober for this shit.

Abbacchio shook himself. If they had swapped bodies, it could only mean one thing. He looked up again to Fugo standing in the doorway, his expression sharpening. "Stand attack."

His heart hammered as he pulled himself to his feet. Idiot. How long had he just been sitting there on the floor? What if something had already happened to the real Bucciarati, or Trish? Or anyone else? He didn't even know how long he'd been out before Fugo showed up –

They burst into the main room as Mista sat up from the floor with a groan. His eyes froze on his outstretched hand when he reached up to pull himself up with the coffee table. After a moment, he turned a mystified expression to Abbacchio and Fugo.