Vanilla and Chocolate (BruAbba Oneshots)

Fading

WARNING: CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR PART 5 AND CHARACTER DEATH




The following is a rewrite of Abbacchio's death.




Abbacchio knew. In that brief instant, Leone Abbacchio knew he was dead. No deliberation. No time to think, or to act. He didn't have time for his life to flash before his eyes, or for him to be able to look back on all the good and bad that had happened to him.
    Depending on who you ask, that fact may be considered a blessing. He suffered not in his final moments. However, that was not true. Because in fact, Abbacchio experienced the most devastating pain of all. The kind that wracks your body and mind, it can make a man insane. It was the pain of loss.

"Bruno," The name was on his lips but he could not say it, because he was dead. He screamed it, yelled it, shouted that name. But there could not be any sound, because he was dead. How was it that a man can so vehemently, stubbornly, hold on to the idea of another despite being dead?
   Abbacchio could have no final thoughts, surely, because he was dead, but his mind was filled of Bruno, and of the taste of cake and vanilla and the smell of his perfume and the sound of zippers. But plainly, as the three young men who approached the body in shock could see, Abbacchio was dead.

The power that allowed Abbacchio, despite his body being utterly destroyed, irrefusably dead, to have his last thoughts of Bucciarati was the power of love. Was it romantic? Perhaps it could have been, if everything had worked out. But the one thing Abbacchio was sure about was that he was in love with the idea of Bruno. What he stood for, what he was. A man so free he could defy all odds, defy death itself with sheer willpower, a man so compassionate he was willing to take in street brats under his wing and make them more than men. The very idea of Bruno was legend. A legend that no one else would remember, aside from Abbacchio.
   Even as he realised he was dead within his final confrontation with himself, he thought of Bruno as he walked away. He would always be waiting for that man, that legend that he adored so much.



"Abbacchio..." Mista could not talk. Narancia was beginning to cry. Giorno was as white as a sheet and slick with sweat. And Bucciarati... he suppressed a groan of agony.

"Damn it. Damn it..." He could muster no more. He was beaten. How could he carry on? Leone was dead. That was plain to see. As much as he thought he could hear him whisper "Bruno," on the still air or how much he could imagine Gold Experience perfectly reconstructing him at that very moment, he knew that if he turned around to face Abbacchio again, he would be looking at a corpse.
   How could he have let this happen? It was impossible. There was no stand that could dupe Leone Abbacchio, no man that could cross him. Or so Bruno had thought. These days they had had since rebelling against the boss taught him that Abbacchio was dependable; never to fail. But that seemed startlingly apparent now. Like a bomb that was waiting to go off, something like this was to be expected. Bruno knew they would lose people. That was the price. So why did it hurt so much?
   Was it love? The pain of loss? Bucciarati dismissed these thoughts, trying to throw them away like scraps of paper; they didn't matter. But he couldn't, because no matter how much he tried to be strong it was impossible.
   A single tear rolled down his cheek.
   A seagul whooped above on the pristine azure sea of the sky, gliding effortlessly above a scene of such unimaginable pain that it could never possibly hope to understand.

"We have to leave." There was silence. Deafening silence.

A sudden growl, "You can't just leave him here! He could be saved! Come on!" Narancia was screaming and crying so much at this point, breaking the silence, that his throat was hoarse, begging at him to stop but Narancia couldn't, because Abbacchio was dead.

"Narancia! Shut up! We have to leave!" Bruno said the words with curt anger and decisiveness, but he still did not face the group. He bit down on his lip so hard that a trickle of blood slipped down his chin and dropped onto the stony beach below him, dripping quietly. If he did not, he would not be able to contain his sobbing.

"You're a monster! It's Abbacchio! We could bury him! W-w-w-we could save him! You can't just leave him..." The conviction disappeared from Narancia's voice with every word, nerves siezing him and the stammer betraying his true feelings.

Mista stood up and sighed solemnly, "Let him go, Narancia. He's dead." There was no time to spare, so Mista could afford to spare no time for his old friend. "We have to go."
   Narancia ran and pounded Mista on his back in a hail of blows, rather futilely. None of them had the strength to continue, but they had to. They'd sworn. And at this point they were also doing it for Abbacchio. They could not fail him now.

It took another 5 minutes before Narancia was wrestled into submission. It was even longer before Giorno quietly overcame his urge to vomit. They were shattered, physically and mentally but they had to carry on.

"This place is dangerous. We've already lost too much time." Bruno wiped the blood from his lips and the tears that were welling in his eyes before he turned around. "We haven't lost everything." He turned his head with a deliberate, heavy heave of his neck to look at the death mask of the Boss that Moody Blues had been able to create in it's last moments.
"Do not allow Abbacchio's sacrifice to go in vain. He was not good enough to survive, but he was certainly good enough to do what no man has ever done before. He has given us the identity of the Boss. Remember Abbacchio for that, and remember him for..."

He could not finish. Abbacchio's corpse caught his eye for the briefest of moments before he collapsed to his knees and doubled over himself, each sob racking his body with such an incredible pain he wished for nothing but death.

Abbacchio was gone. And Bucciarati knew, in that agonizing instant as the gang gathered round to pick him up and leave, that Abbacchio was dead.