Chapter Text
Number 6 approached Narancia with a small piece of something orange in their hands. They thrust their arms out at him, casting a hard glare to the side.
“What’s this?” said Narancia.
“Carrot,” murmured Number 6.
“Right on,” said Narancia, taking the tiny bite from Number 6. They stalked away on stiff knees, head held high. He watched them, rolling the carrot between his fingertips.
It wasn’t a new phenomenon. He had always been kind to Number 5, so he wasn’t too surprised when the Pistol brought him a piece of their lunch. After that, though, the group had started bringing him crumbs of whatever they could find—mostly on the streets of Naples. It was a group effort to get a half-eaten tub of yogurt to him.
He waited until Number 6 had turned a corner with their stiff march before letting the carrot fall into the gutter. He didn’t want to offend the little guys, but what they brought him was hardly ever edible, especially the grime caked onto the carrot.
He was just patrolling the blocks around their base—the gang wasn’t on high alert, but they had another capo visiting to speak to Buccellati, who didn’t want to take any risks. Aerosmith flew in lazy circles far enough from Narancia to keep suspicion away from him if any other stand users appeared.
More than his situation with Sex Pistols, Narancia had been having more of a problem with Aerosmith. He’d been looking at the sideburns that stretched down Mista’s cheeks. He wondered if he had more facial hair that he was too far away to see, and as he thought about getting a closer look, Aerosmith manifested and slammed into Mista’s temple. His stand had only been causing more problems by the day, even accepting gifts from the Pistols. No one had told him much about stands, but if they were just for fighting, why wouldn’t they listen?
Narancia watched Aerosmith trace a little shape with its contrail—a pear, maybe? He didn’t have a chance to give it a second look as the mobile phone he’d been lent went off loudly in his pocket. He dug through his skirt frantically as the noisy American pop song gathered the attention of the street.
“You can come back now,” said Abbacchio’s deep voice as Narancia greeted him.
“Already?” said Narancia, but the line had gone dead. He sighed and slipped the little phone back into his pocket. He called Aerosmith back, taking just a few shortcuts to get him back to the hideout. The alleys in this part of town stunk, but he hardly noticed it anymore.
Narancia passed the threshold of the house without incident until he entered a room with Fugo, Buccellati, and Mista. Aerosmith manifested again, looping up into the corners of the ceiling.
“Get back here!” he hissed. He glanced back down, catching an odd stare from Buccellati. Narancia slunk into an open chair, Aerosmith’s engine still puttering above them.
“How’s your meeting?” he muttered.
“Hardly making progress with reorganizing after Polpo,” Buccellati muttered, letting himself fall further into his chair. “Don’t know why we haven’t made this group all stand users by now…”
“Giorno should have made you more than a capo by now,” said Fugo. “But you’re just fighting for scraps.”
“I’m thankful for what Giorno has given us,” said Buccellati. “And I like being in Naples. Any position higher than this is a desk job, practically.”
Narancia only listened to half of the conversation as he watched a scene in front of him. Number 2 was carefully pulling a crust off of Mista’s sandwich. They pulled off an entire edge before dragging the piece over to Narancia. They deposited it on the empty space in front of him before looking at him expectantly. Narancia glanced at Mista; he was absorbed in the conversation.
“Thank you,” he said politely to the stand. Mista risked a glance over at him.
Narancia pouted, pushing himself down further in his seat, bread crust in hand. If Mista could tell what was happening, why wouldn’t he do anything to stop his stand? Was he doing it on purpose? Since Narancia got his stand, he thought he had full control over them like Buccellati had over Sticky Fingers, and Mista’s was more autonomous—now, he wasn’t sure. Aerosmith broke the silence with an especially low swoop.
“Put that thing away!” Fugo hissed, feeling his head to make sure all of his hair was still attached.
“I can’t control them!” Narancia whined back, mentally trying to wave Aerosmith down. They didn’t listen.
“If you can’t control your stand…” Buccellati said after a moment, rubbing his eyes. “It’s because something is… unresolved with you. Whatever the reason, I don’t want you doing work until then.”
“I’m fine!” Narancia yelled in response. He threw the crust still in his fist at the table. Seeing his outburst got no response, Narancia fell back into his chair, turning as much as he could to the side. He bit down on his bottom lip.
From his vantage point, he watched as Number 5 appeared and approached the mangled crust. It had been totally crushed in his grip and discarded. They poked at the thing for a moment.
“Did you not like this one?” they said softly. The new, high voice of Number 5 in the room brought Buccellati and Fugo’s attention to them.
“That’s enough!” said Mista sharply. He grabbed Number 5, whisking them off the table and carrying them out of the room with a brisk stride. Narancia stumbled out of his chair to follow him. He tried to close the door behind him, but Aerosmith just manifested in front of the door again. Right.
Narancia caught Mista scolding his group of six behind a corner. Mista glanced up, before glaring back at the group, and only three of them disappeared. He sighed.
“Stop makin’ fun of me,” said Narancia.
“I’m not—”
“I don’t know what kicks you’re gettin’ handin’ me stuff on my missions, but it sure got me in trouble with Buccellati.” That train of thought hardly made sense, but it had to be Mista that was upsetting his emotions this way.
“Do you know what stands are?” said Mista after a moment.
“They fight.”
“Yeah, they fight, but do you know what part of you they come from?”
Narancia stayed silent.
“Your soul. Whatever part of yourself is the true part. So, yeah, Abbacchio’s got something in his past he won’t tell us about, Fugo honestly scares me, and I guess—I’ve got six kids who know better than me.”
Narancia crossed his arms, letting his weight fall to one hip. He slid a foot to the side like he was about to turn away.
“So, they’re giving you stuff ‘cause they like you,” said Mista. “Which means…”
Mista looked miserable, crouching on the floor where he hadn’t gotten up from scolding Pistols. He tugged down on the flaps of his hat like he was trying to cover his eyes.
“You like me,” finished Narancia.
“Yeah.”
“I guess I like you too,” said Narancia.
“You don’t just have to say that because my stand’s an—”
“I’m serious here!” yelled Narancia. He glanced back at the door he had come from, but it seemed he didn’t disturb anyone. “If—if Aerosmith is going after you, too.”
“I thought they hated me,” said Mista bitterly. The gears slowly clicked together in Narancia’s head.
“Oh my God,” said Narancia. “They wanted—Okay, I was lookin’ at you, so Aerosmith wanted to, too, and then they hit ya—”
“Lookin’ at me?” asked Mista. Narancia blushed deeply and glared back down the hall at nothing.
“Yeah, ‘cause… I said I liked you!”
Mista stood up slowly. He approached Narancia, licking his lips and looking at the shorter man under the brim of his hat.
“Can I, uh—” said Narancia, before Mista cut him off with a kiss. His lips were chapped, and wet with a layer of saliva, and he never exactly smelled wonderful—but it was good. Narancia’s hands found the hem of Mista’s sweater and held on. Mista decided to hold onto Narancia’s jaw as he pulled back, like he was clinging to something he didn’t want to lose. Narancia broke his gaze from Mista’s—he did notice a layer of stubble over his face first, though.
“Look,” he said quietly. Mista turned around, dragging Narancia’s face with him.
Number 1, Number 5, and Number 7 were floating by Aerosmith, who had popped open their cockpit. They floated closer to reach their hands out to the little plane, giggling to themselves.
“Jesus,” sighed Mista. “Six kids.”
“It’s cute,” said Narancia.
“And if Aerosmith leaves me alone,” said Narancia, a little louder. The little plane revved. Mista rested his chin on Narancia’s shoulder. He decided Mista didn’t actually smell too bad.