Chapter Text
The truth about school, is that it’s really, really boring.
Narancia tries to pay attention—he tries really, really hard, because he knows that both Fugo and Bucciarati care about that sort of stuff, and that it’s Giorno paying for the entry fee and the school supplies and the workbooks. Plus, if he understands all that smart stuff while in class, it’ll give Fugo more free time when he doesn’t have to go over the same stuff again and again while trying to tutor Narancia.
Yes, he tries to pay attention. But!! It’s! Just! So! Boring!!
The teacher drones on for hours, about whatever subject this class is supposed to be about (is it maths or science? Pick a side and stick to it!), and there are just so many other interesting things around the class that Narancia often surprises himself, 30 or even 40 minutes into a class, without having caught any of the words out of the teacher’s mouth, because he’s been distracted by the clicking sound his pen makes.
The teachers don’t even try to scold him for his inattention or the noise he makes (except if he goes too far, of course), because Giorno is their main sponsor, and they know that Narancia is related to him. The perks of being rich.
Or, well, the perks of being rich and having an even richer friend. Giorno owns Italy, at this point. He’s even started going into all that legal business stuff.
Maybe he can convince Giorno to create an ice cream company, just so that Narancia can have free ice cream forever. Narancia sighs, wistful.
—Oops. He got distracted again.
Well, too late now. The teacher is saying something about mass and gravity and just the words are enough to get Narancia’s head spinning. He’ll have to ask Fugo later. It sounds like really smart stuff, so maybe he won’t get mad.
…It’s such a beautiful day outside.
Sunny, with a clear blue sky, one that he hasn’t seen in a while. There are people milling around outside, free to do as they wish, probably on their way to eat ice cream, the lucky bastards. There’s a teenage couple sitting on the bench outside, either skipping (really obviously) or waiting for a class to start, a small group of grandmas crossing the street just over the fence of the school building, and a child standing in the middle of the courtyard, staring up at him—
Wait.
There’s a kid, outside the school, staring up at him through the window.
When Narancia meets his gaze (or tries to, anyway, he needs to clear up his eyes again), the kid only tilts his head, like he’s asking Narancia to come outside. Suspicious. There are 5 minutes left for this class, though, so Narancia nods and shows the kid all his fingers. The kid acquiesces, so he must understand. Very suspicious.
Is it an enemy? A child Stand user?
Narancia’s brain goes wild with theories, as he impatiently waits for class to end. By the 3rd minute, he’s already packing his things, despite the fact that there’s another class after this one. The teacher sighs and doesn’t even try to complain. Narancia will have to convince either Abbacchio or Bucciarati to call him in sick for the rest of the day.
When he runs out of the room, backpack slung over his shoulder, and into the schoolyard, the kid is still there, waiting for him patiently, back against a pillar of the courtyard.
“Hey!” Narancia calls, leaning onto the pillar and crouching down to see the kid eye-to-eye. “You!”
The kid turns around and faces him. He looks a bit familiar—(admittedly pretty long) blond hair with some curls, green eyes, and just… a face shape he’s sure he’s seen somewhere. He kinda looks like Giorno, which doesn’t make sense, so maybe it’s just a wild coincidence.
“Narancia,” the kid greets.
“Eh!?” he jolts. This kid knows his name!?
“Apologies for taking you out of class,” the kid says, speaking very well for a brat who looks to be about 5 years old. Yet, at the same time, his voice remains quiet, and there’s a small, unknown accent to the way he shapes words. “You were the close— the clos’st.” Scratch that thought about speaking well. “Could you get me to Bucciarati?”
“Uh,” Narancia says, reaching the peak of eloquence.
He observes the kid a bit more. His coloring seems pretty typically Italian, but his face shape is more foreign. He’s dressed in clothes that are a bit too big on him, some non-descriptive black shirt with a pair of cargo shorts that look like they were stolen out of a garbage bin (not dirty, just old and cheap), and… the shirt really is too big, because the kid’s collarbones can be seen.
Not only the collarbones, but also the dark, fresh and old bruises on his neck and torso and legs and arms—and just about everywhere, honestly.
Oh.
“You wanna see Bucciarati?” Narancia repeats, trying really hard to keep a neutral face.
“Yes.”
“Alright,” he agrees. This must be a kid helped by Bucciarati, or maybe a kid looking to be helped by Bucciarati. He’s got a reputation, so maybe it somehow managed to reach this kid too. That’s actually kinda great. It could be a trap, too, but Narancia doesn’t think that’s it—and he doesn’t want to take the risk of leaving some poor hurt kid fall into misery just because he’s paranoid. “Come on, take my hand.”
The child frowns, very slightly, but then the expression disappears, softening into something amused and fond. He hands Narancia his hand, which is really so small and warm, a weird feeling pinches Narancia’s heart.
The child doesn’t protest, as Narancia drags him down the street and to a random car. Usually, Giorno sends a chauffeur his way, but in this case, he can’t wait for the car to pull up. He’s got a kid to get to Bucciarati!
The kid doesn’t say anything, as he watches Narancia steal the car, and then climbs onto the front passenger seat, strapping himself in dutifully, like he truly believes there’s nothing wrong with this picture. Maybe he’s just used to it, has seen how it goes for people like Narancia, who are part of some underground organization or are just thugs and delinquents.
“You’re good?” Narancia asks, starting the car.
The kid nods in affirmative, silent. He doesn’t look scared in the slightest. Huh. Aren’t kids usually scared about being kidnapped? Did Bucciarati tell him what Narancia looks like?
About 2 minutes into the drive, the kid suddenly speaks again: “How did your day go?”
Narancia jolts in surprise. Is the kid trying to be polite? Or maybe he just wants to make small talk. His fingers tap anxiously over the wheel. “Was alright. I got distracted during physics class, so I missed half of it. The fuck’s up with gravity and all that stuff anyway? I’m not interested in learning how the smart people calculate it. That stuff’s for NASA and space people.”
“If you want, I will help you go over it later,” the kid says, and truly, he’s just showing off. What’s a kid like him (who looks like he’s not even in grade school) gonna know about calculating gravity and mass!? Maybe he’s just like Fugo, super smart from birth… “What did you eat for lunch?”
“Uh, Mista packed me a sandwich. Salami and stuff, not really my thing, but everything Mista makes is good.” No, wait, the kid doesn’t even know who Mista is. Wait!! Is it possible that kid is a spy after all!? Maybe he’s trying to learn some insider info from Narancia! He squints at the child, suspicious.
But the kid only nods, like he understands. “Ah, I’m envy— envius— I’m jealous. Homemade lunch is always better.” His voice is even quieter than before, as though he’s reminiscing or being wistful.
Oh. It makes Narancia’s shoulders relax. It’s probably just a kid with a bad home life, jealous that Narancia gets lunch from a family member. Maybe he thinks that Mista is, like, his mom or something. He snickers at the thought. “Yeah? We’ll get you a snack once we get back, don’t worry.”
Surprisingly, and despite the fact that his features don’t move a muscle, the kid’s whole face goes red. “…Was I that obvious?” At the same time, his stomach growls, and he places a hand over it.
“Kinda, yeah,” Narancia says, even though he really wasn’t.
“I haven’t been able to eat in a while,” the child says, and though he’s not actually smiling, the tone of his voice is lighter. “And this stomach… my stomach is not used to taking in large am… lots of food at once, so I was too war— hm, scared of accidentally making myself sick.” Oh, fuck, starvation too? This kid really is unlucky. “I’ll be counting on you, then. I’m not tall enough to reach the… kitchen table, where the coffee maker is.” The counter?
Narancia handles the wheel with one hand, giving a thumbs up with the other. “Don’t worry, lil guy! I’ll take care of you alright.”
At the nickname, the child’s eyebrows waver, and his ears go red again. “…Ridiculous.”
But Narancia only laughs, because it’s only been a few minutes, and he’s already managed to make the kid relax. Good job, Narancia! He would pat himself on the back if he were able to.
He just hopes that the kid isn’t actually an enemy in disguise. That’d be pretty bad.