A/N: Day 28: Holy

The afterlife has nice beaches, which is one of the best tidbits that Abbacchio has picked up during his short time here.

…At least. He's pretty sure it's only been a short time – the concept of time passing doesn't really seem to exist here, at least not in the way it did when he was alive. But he doesn't think he's been dead all that long.

Not that it matters.

This beach is nice, is the point, and Abbacchio likes to come here and sit on the sand and think and exist. That's pretty much all there is to do, in this corner he's picked out for himself. For once that hobby doesn't make him miserable. So that's good.

Life (…afterlife?) might be livelier from now on, though, seeing as Narancia showed up less than an hour ago (near as Abbacchio can calculate). He'd clung to Abbacchio and cried himself to exhaustion, babbling incoherently while Abbacchio grouched at him and griped at him and scolded him for ending up dead. Refused to join in Narancia's crying. Which may or may not have been a success.

…You're not even supposed to get tired here, Abbacchio doesn't think. Dead people don't get sleepy, right? He hasn't slept once, since he got here, but maybe it's different for everyone, because Narancia sure was tired.

Wore himself out with all his wailing, probably, so Abbacchio set him to nap in the cozy, beachside cottage he's claimed. Promised he'd be there when Narancia woke up, so he should go back inside soon – but he needed some space, and some air.

So now he's basking in the sea breeze and wondering whether he'll get off his lazy ass soon or if Narancia will storm out and chastise him first.

Abbacchio tears his gaze away from the hypnotic waves and considers that cottage. He was drawn to it, for some reason. Still doesn't know why, but after talking to his partner, wandering for a bit…he wound up here. He doesn't mind it. It's cozy and out of the way. Quiet, too.

Or it was until Narancia showed up.

Not that Abbacchio isn't happy to see him, but this whole situation is bittersweet, seeing as this is the fucking afterlife and so therefore Narancia is dead – and agh, fuck, Abbacchio's eyes are hot and stinging. He scrubs at them.

Must be sand. Or the salty air. There's no other explanation for how reddened and sore his eyes are. (The amount of crying he has or hasn't done is irrelevant.)

…

It's…strange.

First his old partner, and now Narancia. Neither of these are people Abbacchio would've imagined to wind up here when all was said and done. Because comfortable and pleasant as this place is so far (all in all, it reminds him of real life, only softer and less frantic) it has to be whatever the afterlife equivalent of downstairs is, right?

This is hell. It has to be – otherwise he himself wouldn't be here.

His partner had been adamant about this not being a halfway point. It's definitely the last stop.

But this can't be Abbacchio's final resting place, not if it's where all the good souls go, because he's pretty sure he was damned from the start.

The standards for wherever upstairs is must be pretty damn high, if someone like Narancia was sent down here. And if the angels are as picky as all that, then there's only one person Abbacchio's ever met who might be holy enough to –

"Leone!"

Abbacchio's stomach plummets. All the strength leaves his body at once. He can't bring himself to turn his head. That voice is – he must be imagining –

"Leone!"

Imagination or not, the voice is closer, now, and accompanied by the sound of frantic feet scuffing over sand. And Abbacchio's started shaking, tremors running the length of his arms and legs, but he still can't bring himself to turn his head because it can't be. There's no way in – in hell.

A heavy weight barrels into Abbacchio's side, and he latches onto it on reflex. Sand is kicked up around them, and he almost falls right the fuck over before managing to brace himself. Which is kind of a hard feat to manage with arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, but he manages, and finally turns his head, because –

"Leone," Buccellati murmurs, arms squeezing with a vice as his mouth finds Abbacchio's cheek and stays there, pressing kiss after kiss to it. "Leone, Leone –"

Right about now is when Abbacchio realizes he's crying (again). Hot tears dripping down his face, in the path of Buccellati's kisses, though he doesn't seem to care.

Trembling hands grab at that familiar spotted suit and Abbacchio presses his face into Buccellati's, trying to return even a few of those kisses. "What the –" His mouth is caught by Buccellati's for a brief second, and he revels in it before it's gone. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm dead," Buccellati says, sounding way more at peace with that fact than anyone should. His voice has a certain quiver to it that Abbacchio can't place, and his eyes are vibrant and wet.

His arms lift away, and Abbacchio almost shivers at their absence. They don't go far, though. Only moving enough so that Buccellati can cup Abbacchio's face in his palms, and brush thumbs over his cheeks. Probably wiping away tears. Abbacchio can't even feel them falling anymore, but his vision is a blurry mess, so he supposes he's still crying like a fucking baby.

As for his own arms, he leaves them wrapped tight around Buccellati. Clinging to him so he doesn't disappear, because if this really is hell, he will.

"You're serious?"

"Yes." Buccellati's breath hitches, but he's not crying. Despite being freshly dead. "It's fine, it's been a long time coming."

A depressing line like that would be more at home in Abbacchio's mouth, but he can't put it there or even reprimand Buccellati for saying such a thing. Because his mouth is currently very much occupied by Buccellati's mouth as he's met with a series of lingering kisses that leave him thoroughly breathless. As if all the crying wasn't enough.

Fuck. What does it matter. Who needs to breathe when you're dead? He grabs at Buccellati – holds him as close as he can and kisses him for all he's worth – relishes in the taste and feel and reality of him.

Buccellati's hands tug at his hair in a way that's only painful for its familiarity, and then he's pulling back. He doesn't go far, and his shiny, lipstick-smeared lips are close enough for a repeat performance if Abbacchio were to lean just the tiniest bit forward.

He stays put, though, because Buccellati's palms are on his cheeks again. An insistent path is kissed from Abbacchio's forehead to the tip of his nose, melting the permanent furrow between his brows along the way.

"I'm so sorry," Buccellati says, once he's at enough of a distance for eye contact. "Leone, I am so sorry."

"What the…" Oh, fuck. Abbacchio only just managed to stop crying, and here he goes again. "The fuck are you apologizing for?"

He tries, but he can't get that scowl back in place. The only expressions his face will allow are the kind that release happy tears by the thousand, apparently. He's pretty sure this is the most he's cried in his entire twenty one odd years of life combined. Being dead must loosen the floodgates.

Buccellati still isn't crying, but he looks pretty damn close to it, all of a sudden. "I left you to die all alone."

"That's not your fault, Bruno." Words fall easy out of Abbacchio's mouth for once, thank god. "You couldn't have known – it wasn't your fault."

Tipping forward, Buccellati hugs Abbacchio tight. His face presses into the crook of Abbacchio's neck, and for a long stretch of time, they just hold each other.

Abbacchio's heart is aching something fierce. It's like a hot weight in his chest, trying to melt its way out onto the beach. Because Buccellati is kind and good and wonderful, and he doesn't deserve to be dead. He doesn't deserve to be here, much like Abbacchio doesn't deserve the chance to hold him again.

"Besides," Abbacchio mumbles, eventually, "are you gonna tell me that you died in good company?"

Buccellati makes a sound that might be a laugh, but is more likely a sob. "I said goodbye to Giorno…"

"So you didn't."

With another half-laugh, half-sob, Buccellati lifts his face from Abbacchio's neck. He leaves his arms wound around Abbacchio's shoulders, but seeks out eye contact again. His eyelashes are wet, darker than usual and sticking together with tears. "The future is his, now," he says, the absolute sap.

Ugh. Abbacchio tries to wrinkle his nose to convey the disgust he feels, but is not at all sure it comes across. "Even in hell, I can't get away from him…"

Mouth tilted on a gentle smile, Buccellati leans in to press a careful, soft kiss to the corner of Abbacchio's lips, lingering there for a moment. "This isn't hell, Leone," he says.

And – damn it all – Abbacchio believes him.

A/N: I don't pretend to know anything about any brand of afterlife lore, aside from a generic Good Upstairs, Bad Downstairs, so I apologize if my keeping things simple came out offensive in any way. That was not my intention.

I also apologize for sidelining Narancia, but I didn't have the spoons to include another character.

Thanks for reading,,,