Si Dolce È'l Tormento | A BruAbba Story

Abbacchio

Abbacchio opened his eyes in the dark. Not started awake, not sat bolt upright. There was no blurry nightmare fading in the dark. He just opened his eyes.

Pale moonlight streamed through the window and fell across the floor in a long bar. The clock on the wall read 4:23. Bucciarati was draped around him like a blanket, his soft, steady breathing tickling the back of Abbacchio's neck. Having always been the tallest person in the room until 2 days ago, it was a novel feeling. Then again, maybe the novel part was only that he was letting someone take care of him.

He lay there another minute, listening to Bucciarati breath and deeply tempted to let himself drift back to sleep. But. Why did there have to be a but? Why couldn't he just let himself enjoy –

The rising drowsiness evaporated. There it was again: the faint scrabble. The sound of someone moving around the house. Not the clumsy, half-awake stumbling of Narancia or Mista getting a glass of water. This was quiet and awake and cautious, keenly self-conscious. It was faint – downstairs, he thought.

Abbacchio carefully disentangled himself from Bucciarati and eased his weight onto the floorboards. The moonlit room spun as he stood, hit with a rush of dizziness. Damn. The capo's alcohol tolerance must have been even lower than he had thought. That, or... Something tickled at the back of his mind, but he brushed it away as the dizziness faded back. He didn't have time to pursue half-formed conspiracy theories at 4:00 in the morning. He grabbed a shirt off the floor and slipped into the hallway, closing the door softly behind him – if it was an attacker, and, he thought calmly, it probably was, he didn't need the added distraction of facing them in his pajamas.

In the hallway, the noise was faint but unmistakable. Abbacchio breathed out silently, gliding toward the stairs with soundless footsteps. The house was still dark. A small metallic clang came from the kitchen. The sound of someone rifling through the cabinet full of pots and pans. Looking for something. Abbacchio slunk down the stairs, keeping out of sight from inside the kitchen. He could hear someone's breathing now, rushed and irritated, and an almost inaudible curse now and then. The sound of a drawer opening slowly. The faint chiming of cutlery.

Abbacchio worked his way around to the wall outside the kitchen, just beyond the doorway. For a moment, he half expected the holster to be there at his side, the uniform to be there instead of the t shirt and sweatpants. But the thought had no place at the Tuscany safe house a heartbeat away from confronting an intruder, so he brushed it aside. All that mattered was that he remembered how to keep his body relaxed but alert, how to keep his breathing steady as he turned and stepped through the doorway.

Two sharp violet eyes darted his way. A slim blond figure stood frozen in front of an open cabinet, colanders and glass dishes spread around them on the floor. Almost every drawer in the kitchen was open around them.

"Giorno? What the hell –"

He moved before Abbacchio could process any of this – him, the ransacked kitchen, the glint of the knife in his hand. It caught him once across the chest before instinct kicked in and he lurched back. He narrowed his eyes, forced himself to keep still, and grabbed Giorno's wrist as he swung again. Without a second's delay, Giorno's other fist slammed into his cheek. Abbacchio stumbled backward into the wall. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

Giorno stayed where he was, the knife in one hand, poised. Abbacchio had seen Fugo completely lose it, but he had never seen those violet eyes quite like this – wildness honed to a razor edge, controlled, singularly focused.

"You always drove me up the wall, Giovanna." Abbacchio spat blood, straightening. "But I never thought you'd actually..."

The words died in his throat. Giorno didn't move. He was crouched slightly, like a predator ready to pounce, the moonlight glancing off the knife in his hand. His left hand. Abbacchio was pretty sure Giorno had never been left-handed. Or used a knife when he could have hit him with Golden Experience.

Abbacchio tilted his chin up. "What did you do with him?"

A cold smile spread across Fugo's face. "Took you long enough to figure it out."

"La Squadra Esecuzioni, I assume." Abbacchio spread his weight to a fighting stance, fists held ready at his sides. "Thought there were only nine of you."

"Call me Dieci, then. Not that you'll be needing a name for long."

Abbacchio narrowed his eyes. But the smile on Dieci's face only spread a degree as Moody Blues materialized next to him. Abbacchio could feel the wrongness in his bones even before he glanced over to see his Stand wavering unsteadily in the air, flickering in and out. No.

"You think Stands were designed to spend long periods of time tied to the wrong bodies? Or people, for that matter?"

Abbacchio turned back to whoever the hell was smiling at him with Fugo's face, trying not to let the flicker of panic show through. He could feel it now – the exhaustion that had been lurking just under his awareness, masked by alcohol and the unfamiliarity of this body. The weakness.

"But –" Dieci shrugged. "I know you're planning on attacking anyway. It's just how you people work. Come on, get it over wi –"

Abbacchio lunged midsentence. The high kick knocked the knife out of Dieci's hand. Abbacchio regained his balance and threw his weight into a throat punch. But Dieci's arm was already there to block, and the blow glanced off. Their other fist hit his side before he could recover his guard. The breath left him in a rush. He barely had to time to block before the next strike hit him in the jaw. Pinpoints of light danced across his vision. Everything felt wrong, too slow, too weak. Abbacchio threw another punch anyway. Dieci dodged easily outside it. Almost before he could register the movement, the heel of their hand slammed into Abbacchio's chin, snapping his head back.

Abbacchio stumbled backward, his head pounding. The darkened kitchen swam and blurred like wet ink in the corners of his eyes. A sharp, aching pain radiated through his neck.

Dieci didn't bother to keep their eyes on Abbacchio as they leaned down to pick up the knife. They straightened Fugo's suit as they stood, and dread prickled at the back of Abbacchio's neck as he realized they weren't even out of breath. He tried to force his own breathing back to a steady rhythm, but he felt dizzy and wrong all over.

Their casual grip on the knife turned businesslike. "Well. That was predictable."

Abbacchio considered shouting, but there didn't seem to be much point. It would only get his windpipe slashed even faster, and the rest of the team – Bucciarati, at least – had probably heard them scuffling in the kitchen by now anyway. Whether anyone would make it down the stairs before Dieci crossed the five feet of tile between them, though...

Dieci took a step forward, and Abbacchio felt those odds dwindle to zero.

He saw the tiny movements as they tensed, the shifting of their weight before they pounced. He would try to wrestle the knife away, he decided. He already knew there was no chance it would work, but there was no way in hell he was going to –

The muffled shout made them both start. The basement?  That couldn't be right. Another came seconds later, and  Abbacchio was fairly sure he recognized Mista's voice. Trish.

To his surprise, the coiled-spring tension eased from his opponent's stance, and Dieci straightened with a frown. "Well." They sighed. "Fuck."

They snapped their fingers.

The kitchen went black, and Abbacchio felt himself falling.

guess who's finally on winter break and has so much more time to waste on fanfic :)))

 - Wesley H.