Snake Bite

Chapter 2

Abbacchio feels the writhing mass of snakes coil a little closer, a few forked tongues darting against his cheeks. He tries not to let his breath quicken. Buccellati's voice helps with that. It is soft, casual, meaningless murmurs saying things that Abbacchio already knows.

"Be still, Abbacchio. I won't let them strike you. Breathe steadily. They only want warmth." The snakes worm past Abbaccio's collar, and he feels the air catch in his throat, threatening to escape in a soft whine. Buccellati sees the discomfort. "Only looking for warmth, Abbacchio. Just be still. I'm going to come a little closer now. I'll try not to provoke them." Abbacchio has always liked Buccellati's voice.

Abbacchio remembers skinning his knees when he tripped as a child, running to his mother so she could kiss them all better. He wishes that she were here now. The snakes move faster, reacting to Buccellati's approach. Abbacchio might be crying, a little. He wants his mother. At the very least he wants to be able to see Buccellati. Abbacchio does not dare open his eyes against the scales slipping over them. The snakes flick their tongues out and squirm away when they sense his tears, letting others take their place in a macabre dance. Buccellati's voice is the only indication Abbacchio has of where the other man stands.

"Don't cry, Abbacchio. You're alright. Just be still. I'm nearly there."

Abbacchio focuses again on breathing steadily and keeping his mouth shut.

"I have the first one." Abbacchio wishes he could tell Buccellati to be careful. "It's not fighting." Buccellati's voice changes abruptly. "These aren't very much like snakes. It's a dangerous Stand," he warns. He drops back into the reassuring cadence. "You really can't let them strike you. I saw what they did to Giorno's squirrel. I do need you, you know. Preferably conscious."

Abbacchio sucks in a slow breath as he feels another snake lifted away. He wonders what Buccellati's doing with them. It doesn't matter, Abbacchio decides. As long as they're no longer on him.

"You're doing great, Abbacchio. Just be patient. We can get them all. You'll be fine."

This is much worse than Abbacchio could have imagined. There's something viscerally unsettling in the mass of snakes wrapped around him, with sharpness dragging too impersonally to be painful. He keeps imagining needle-stabbing fangs, punching through his skin...

It's silly, he tells himself. He's been through worse. The snakes aren't even inflicting damage. Under other circumstances, he might even find them pleasant. But all the rational thought in the world can't drive away the prickling terror that is sinking through his flesh to pool nauseatingly in his stomach.

Buccellati's fingers are gentle against Abbacchio's face. "Come along, love. There's a dear. This isn't so bad, no? Nice and warm as well. You don't need to stay clinging to him for so long. Come along, come along. You have such pretty scales. Off you go, now. That's it. Another one gone, Abbacchio, you're doing so well."

It takes everything Abbacchio has to hold back a shudder. He listens to the gentleness of Buccellati's voice, alternating between crooning at the snakes and soothing Abbacchio. His legs are aching with exhaustion. It must have been hours since the snakes first appeared. Days. Years.

Abbacchio's willpower falters just as the last snake disappears from his face. His eyes fly open, drinking in the abruptly beautiful sight of Buccellati zipping the snake under the bark of a tree. Buccellati pauses in his removal of the snakes to brush away the tears on Abbacchio's face. Abbacchio appreciates it. The touch seems to melt away the lingering echo of scales from his skin.

"You're doing marvelously, you know. It can't be easy, holding still. Not much longer now. Just keep breathing steady like that and you'll be fine."

Abbacchio does not risk speech. He simply watches Buccellati reach for the next snake before it can wind its way up Abbacchio's neck.

"Beautiful slitherer, you. Look at the shape of your snout. You're a marvelous creature. Away you go, now, so let go. That's it, that's a love, let go. Exactly like that."

Then: "Forgive me."

Buccellati slips his hand past the fabric of Abbacchio's shirt. Abbacchio's breath nearly hitches at the satin-soft warmth of the flesh, such a contrast against the cold snakes. The panic bubbling up in his throat recedes a little.

Buccellati's fingernails scrape against skin, followed by an apology in the same placating tone that he has been using this whole time. "Sorry about that. I'm trying not to hurt you, but I do have to get these off."

Abbacchio wishes he could reply. He wonders if it's safe yet to risk speaking, but he remembers Giorno's squirrel and Buccellati's warning: A bite is too dangerous. He does not move. He must not move. His mouth presses shut on the scream that has been building in his chest since the snakes began to slither up his legs.

Eternities pass, long enough that Buccellati's voice fades into the background of Abbacchio's mind, nothing more than the rustle of leaves in the wind. Abbacchio's shirt falls slack against his chest when Buccellati draws out the last of the snakes there.

"Thank you," Abbacchio mouths, taking a slightly deeper breath.

"Of course. It's only your legs now. Nearly done. They don't seem to be too interested in moving at this point. Do you, my pretties? But you must let go. You can't stay all day. Yes, I'm sure Abbacchio's nice and warm, but I really need him back." Buccellati's left hand braces steady on Abbacchio's hip, the right following the motion of a red-striped snake that has settled in tangles around Abbacchio's thigh.

Abbacchio still has mascara-black tears slipping down his face. When the last snakes are gone, he's going to find the nearest body of water and scrub his skin with sand until the crawling sensation leaves his flesh. He's going to sit down and stretch out his tired legs. He's going to tremble from head to toe, and to hell with what Buccellati thinks of him after that. He's probably going to curl up in Buccellati's arms and sob like a toddler. He's never, as long as he lives, going to go near a snake again.

By the time Buccellati works his way down to the last half-dozen snakes, Abbacchio firmly believes that he has been set on fire. The snakes themselves are uncomfortable lukewarm things that feel both too hot and too cold on Abbacchio's skin. His muscles are burning with the effort of staying still. His skin, prickling with terror in the pattern of weaving scales, feels raw and scalded.

Buccellati lifts away the head of the last snake. Abbacchio can't help himself. He shudders as its tail drags on his thighs, and that's all it takes. The snake - not a snake, snakes can't do that - whips its scorpion-like tail into Abbacchio's leg. Buccellati wrenches it away. Abbacchio's vision goes momentarily white with pain. The not-snake's stinger hurts, hurts more than severing his own arm, hurts more than the burn of healing flesh when Buccellati zipped it back together. Abbacchio slumps back against a tree. It's such a nice tree. So soft. He thinks of his mother tucking him into bed after she kissed his knees all better. His mother isn't here now, but her voice is. He can hear the soft purple of her lullaby. Abbacchio realizes: He must be dying.