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Pannacotta Fugo walked through the alleyways of Naples, hands in his pockets, his blue suit, peppered with cosmetic indentations, flapping in the light summer breeze. Of course, He didn’t have any orders from Bucciarati—at least, not yet—so he figured he may as well burn some time seeing the sights of this historic, gorgeous, grimy city. Narrowly avoiding the general area of his abruptly-aborted alma mater (he still heard whispers sometimes when former students passed by him, murmurs of, hey, isn’t that the kid who got kicked out? ), he instead turned back onto the main streets, then walked forward a bit. Entering the sunlight and feeling the sidewalk beneath his feet, the teen turned his attention to a bakery. It smelled absolutely divine, and its wares appeared amazing as well, stacked to the brim with plump, luscious loaves of bread inside, accentuated by jars with biscotti and pizzelle, and a couple of buccellati . Fugo had half a mind to bring his friend some of the cookies for the sake of, hey, Bucciarati, your name sounds kinda like this and your suit looks kinda like this, so I figured you may get a kick out of it , But, he would like that, wouldn’t he…?
Still, maybe that would be better for after dinner. After all, he was supposed to meet Bucciarati for lunch in a bit, so it wasn’t a good idea to eat now, per se, but the bread looked so good—!
Before he could enter the bakery, a rustling made his ears perk up, swiftly ending his train of thought. He looked into the darkness, seeing a small, scrawny figure rooting through a dumpster, filled with what Fugo assumed was presumably stale bread. Based on the height of the mysterious figure, he had to have been no more than a child—likely Fugo’s age, if not a bit younger, based on his height. As the poor soul ate, they wretched and gagged, almost choking on the bread, likely infested with germs.
Pannacotta looked at this figure and, deciding to throw caution to the wind, entered the bakery. When he came out, he was a few lire poorer, but a few bread loaves and a few buccellati richer. He approached them, and they didn’t seem to notice his approach, they were so preoccupied.
Fugo cleared his throat, then said, “Uh, excuse me. I, uh… I have a loaf of bread for you.”
The dumpster-diver stopped abruptly, then turned around with a glacial slowness. “For me…? Why? Who… are you?”
The voice that emerged from the figure confirmed Fugo’s suspicions; it was a young boy, likely also a teenager. This also confirmed something else: This kid was, indeed, a poor soul.
He turned to Fugo, his hair scraggly, knotted and matted. Fugo couldn’t see super well in the shadow of the alleyway, but the boy appeared to have a hurt eye, based on the bandages around it covered in what Fugo hoped was sweat, which were barely holding together. A garbage bag was wrapped around him as if it were an invisibility cloak. His clothes were also worse for wear, a bit tattered, and shockingly stylish. It was also clear that this kid needed help, and fast.
“I’m Pannacotta Fugo. You definitely don’t know me, and I definitely don’t know you. But, I was homeless until recently, when I made a friend who gave me a place to stay, and a job. Do—do you want to meet him? I know it sounds too good to be true, but it’s worth a shot.” He opened up his bag, holding a loaf of bread, and making a gesture with it for the young man to follow. “Come on, I don’t bite.”
The boy nodded hollowly, then walked up to him. Upon getting closer to Fugo, he could see that yes, the boy’s eye was indeed infected, and… lord, he reeked. To be fair, though, Fugo had been lucky to have access to a nearby gym to shower. This kid barely even had enough in him to stand, it seemed.
“...Narancia.” He said, reaching out tentatively, as if Fugo’s kind offering were barbed wire. He really was, as they say, “once bitten and twice shy,” it seemed. “Narancia Ghirga.” Narancia dropped the garbage bag he’d been clutching like a life vest into the open dumpster he’d just been raiding.
“Well, Narancia, it’s nice to meet you.” He put the bag of bread-based items on the ground, and offered a hand for him to shake. Was this likely safe for Fugo to do? No. But, would it mean a lot to this bedraggled stray of a boy? Yes. Yes, it would. It was worth the risk, and after all, he had hand sanitizer in his pocket.
Trembling, the young man took his hand, barely strong enough to even really shake it. The poor kid looked in tough shape, his violet eyes weary with woe. “Thanks, uh… Pannacotta.”
“Just call me Fugo,” the blond replied. “Only my parents call me by my given name, and I hate it.”
Silently, Narancia nodded, and began to bite into the bread, savoring every bite as if it were manna in a desert. His eyes glistened a bit with what looked like grateful tears as he said, “...Thank you.”
Fugo smiled. “It’s no problem. Come, let me take you to my friend.” He grabbed his bag off the ground, then walked forward, gesturing for Narancia to come into the light. He did so, and winced as the light illuminated his horrid state. He seemed frozen, paralyzed. Fugo took Narancia’s scrawny hand in his, and led the way.
“My friend’s name is Bruno Bucciarati. He’s a powerful man, who is also a teenager. He’s got connections; so do I. He helped me out when I was homeless.”
“What kind of connections?”
Fugo didn’t respond. Then, Narancia asked: “Did he know you?”
That he could answer. “Nope. He just wanted to help. That’s the kind of guy Bucciarati is. Maybe he can help you, too.”
Narancia didn’t reply to that, appearing to be a bit scared as the two continued to walk hand-in-hand down the midday Neapolitan thoroughfares. They made quite a sight; a well-groomed blond with gelled hair wearing a brightly colored suit ensemble with indents in the fabric, and a dirty, wretched boy with brown hair in dire need of a shower and medical attention.
Once they finally made it to the restaurant that Bucciarati essentially funded out of his own pocket for the sake of Passione business, he said, “All right… Narancia, right?”
A nod. The boy gulped.
“Let’s go in.”
With that, Fugo, Narancia in tow, walked into the restaurant. Narancia, meanwhile, eyed the restaurant in awe. It wasn’t the fanciest place, of course, but its sunshine-yellow walls and iron adornments certainly were a sight for sore eyes. In the distance sat Bucciarati, his back to the entryway, talking to the shop’s host. The sunlight reflected off his gold barrettes, giving his already-stern bob-and-braid combo an even more dire appearance. While Fugo knew that Bruno was, overall, a good person, he did, admittedly, look very intimidating on first appearance.
“E-Excuse me.”
Bucciarati looked up, and nodded Fugo’s way; permission to continue. The host slipped out of the room, pointedly ignoring the vagabond that Fugo had just dragged into his establishment, and making his way to the kitchen.
Pannacotta led Narancia into the room, putting him in clear view of Bucciarati, who appeared to be eating some pasta with crab. It looked absolutely divine. “I’d like to feed him some spaghetti!” The way Fugo said this came out more as a yell than anything, as if he were steeling his courage to talk to the mysterious young man in the spotted suit.
Narancia gasped. Fugo went on, a bit softer this time, initial nerves out of his system: “You don’t mind, do you?”
Without a word, Bucciarati eyed the new guest, and, pointing to an empty seat across from him, slid his own bowl Narancia’s way. He smiled, and Narancia, flabbergasted, took a seat.
“Eat.” This was all Bruno said to him.
A bit bewildered, Narancia stammered out in reply, “T-Thank you, s-signore…”
“It is no problem; no need to thank me. Don’t call me signore; I’m Bruno Bucciarati. It’s nice to meet you. Anyway, we can get the niceties and introductions out of the way later. You need food.” His words were matter-of-fact, yet oddly warm. It was the same tone that Bruno used while comforting Fugo. The same tones, whenever Pannacotta had a rage-based meltdown during training, or whenever, buckling under the pressure of his anxiety, the blond froze, collapsed to the ground. Narancia let go of Fugo’s hand—which he’d had in a vice-grip moments before—and did as he’d been told. Bucciarati continued. “Fugo, thanks for bringing me this guest. Could you wait outside? I’d like to talk to him alone.”
With a nod, Fugo was silent—but, not before adding, “Oh, before I do: Bucciarati, I got you some buccellati. ” With his clean hand, he put them on an empty plate on the table. “And some bread. Gave some to Narancia, too.”
“Narancia; that’s your name, huh.” This was less a question and more of an observation. As he said this, he looked at Narancia who had begun eating, appearing to be crying with joy. The boy gave a small nod in between slurps of noodles and shoveling crabmeat into his mouth. Bruno turned back to Fugo. “Well then. Thank you, Fugo. And thank you for giving Narancia some bread, too.”
With that, Fugo went outside and waited at the door. His stomach rumbled a bit, but he remembered that he’d had a loaf for himself. He took out his hand sanitizer and quickly cleaned his hands, then, with the sterile scent of personal hygiene lingering in the air, he bit into the bread. It had a nice crunch to its crust, but a fluffy interior. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside. Kind of like Bucciarati, honestly. Fugo chuckled at this comparison. His eating out of the way, he waited, pacing a bit in front of the door. After a solid half-hour or so, he saw someone come to the door—Narancia, wiping his face, and with puffy eyes. A bit of color had returned to his cheeks.
“Bucciarati would like to see you, uh… Fugo?”
“Yep. Thanks, Narancia.”
They both returned into the sunny interior of the restaurant. Fugo saw that Bucciarati had one of the cookies he’d given him in his hand, matching the pattern of his coat. He’d taken a bite out of it as they had been walking in, it seemed, but had stopped for the sake of saying, “Fugo, I’ll take Narancia to the hospital later. For now, could you take him to your apartment to shower? It’s closer than mine.”
“O-Of course, Bucciarati.”
“Narancia, thank you for sharing this meal with me.” Bruno said, a sort of tenderness accentuating his words. “Now, go wash up, all right?”
“Y-Yes, Bucciarati. Thank you.”
“Fugo, I’ll be there in a half-hour to grab him. Be sure to give him a new bandage, too; he’s going to need it.”
“Understood.” With that, the two left Bruno to his own devices.
The entire way back to Fugo’s apartment, the two were silent. Narancia no longer held on to Fugo’s hand, but followed him as if he were his shadow. There was a marked change in the boy; he seemed to perk up a bit, and, while still timid, was a bit less shy in comparison to before. They finally arrived, and Narancia, noticing Fugo’s shoes in front of the doorway, took his off, almost falling over due to the strain of the movement. Fugo reached toward the boy and caught him just in time, catching his hand.
“S-shit. Thanks.”
Fugo chuckled at the colorful language coming out of this seemingly-quiet boy’s mouth. “Of course. C’mon, I’ll take you to the shower.”
Handing him soap, a towel, shampoo, and two washcloths, and setting a fresh set of clothes in hand on the counter in the bathroom, Fugo let the boy be. He waited on his bed, tapping his feet with a sort of anxious energy. Was he worried about a boy he’d just met? Was he? He had no stake in the matter, after all; it wasn’t his fault if the kid died from that grisly eye infection. Yet… While their situations were different, they shared the same scars of the streets. Clearly, if Fugo hadn’t intervened, the boy would have died. He did, in fact, have a stake in the matter. This perturbed Fugo, who knew he likely wouldn’t see the boy again. Still…
After a long time in the shower, the young boy emerged. Narancia, dressed in a dark black t-shirt, black skinny jeans, and a magenta jacket, waved. It was a vast improvement from the seeming pajamas he’d been found in. He was carrying something in his hand; a brush, and some bandages. Putting two and two, together, Fugo looked up and noticed a big difference: His eye was no longer bandaged, and lord, the blond had to put his hand over his mouth, because the gasp that he let out at that bulbous, purple, bulging mass that was supposed to be an eyeball… It was wretched. Both the gasp and the obviously-infected eyeball. On the plus side, at least, Narancia no longer reeked; it was clear he’d used some of the cologne that Fugo had left in there for him to overcompensate for his former filthiness. The scent was verging on overpowering, but it was better than the horrid stench that had surrounded him like a miasma before.
“Thanks for the soap and stuff. I’ll, uh… Give this back.” He blushed a bit, embarrassed.
“Don’t worry; keep it.” Fugo smiled. “Also—Narancia, I’m sorry, but what the fuck happened to your eye?!”
“Oh, this. Uh…” He moved to where Fugo was on the bed and stammered a bit before explaining, “My mom had it. It’s genetic. You can’t catch it. It just triggers. I, uh… need a bit of assistance with the bandage.”
“Don’t worry about that; I’m glad to help.” Fugo pulled out a medical textbook, and, following a diagram on a page labelled eye maladies and bandaging, soon reached a result similar to what he’d come in with, but a hint neater.
“Thanks.”
“So, what happened to your mom?”
“She died. From… the same eye… thing.” At that, the boy went silent.
“Shit. Sorry.” From there, he kept his mouth shut.
An awkward silence lingered over the boys’ shoulders. In an effort to break it, Fugo finally managed, after waiting a moment, “So. I’ll, uh… help you with your hair. It’s pretty knotty. This is gonna hurt.”
Narancia nodded gravely.
After brushing his hair a bit, Narancia let out a yowl akin to a wounded cat. “G-Goddammit!”
“Don’t blame me!! This is what happens when you don’t brush your hair for—how long were you out there on the streets?”
“I—I’m not, honest! At least a few months. I dunn— oww! ” He winced. “ Shit!”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“...You’re what? I’m thirteen, and you look more my age.”
“You’re thirteen? You’re a baby,” Narancia chuckled, which was cut off by a retaliatory yank of the brush on Fugo’s end. “Ow, what the fuck?!”
“If you let out a new expletive every time I attempt to detangle this, we’re going to be cited by the cops nearby for indecent language in a heartbeat. Now, come on. Buck up and let me brush the rest of these knots and mats out.”
After a bit of grumbling, Narancia relented. “Fine…” Crossing his arms and pouting, he waited there for a sec, biting back pained shrieks. Honestly, the amount of energy that Narancia was displaying here was impressive. It was clear that, in better health, he would have been one hell of a spitfire, a ball of electric joy and movement. Fugo admired that quite a bit; he was too tired to be energetic after the shit he’d been through .
“Sorry, Narancia. I’m trying here, okay?”
“I— ow— I know.” After Fugo got out a few more knots to the best of his ability, Narancia then said, quietly, “...I really am thankful that you’re doing this, y’know. Thanks.”
With that, Fugo put down the brush and sighed. “It’s no problem. Now, go check out your appearance. See if it looks all right.”
Narancia got up from the bed, and moved to the bathroom mirror, gasping. “Oh my god…”
“...I swear to god, Narancia, if you say I messed it up…”
Fugo trailed off, hearing some sniffling. Uh oh. Getting up, Fugo walked to his guest and say that he was looking at his cleaned-up appearance in the mirror, tears trickling down his cheek.
“Shit. Narancia, I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m—happy. I’m happy. Thanks, Fugo.” He wiped away the tears, biting back a small sob, and shot the blond a shaky smile. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll repay you for this, once I get treated.”
Fugo handed him a handkerchief. “How will you find me? It’s not like you’ll be able to ask around.”
“I won’t need to. Y’know why?” As he spoke, he wiped his eyes.
Fugo was genuinely baffled, and didn’t respond. The Ghirga boy took this beat as permission to continue, and exclaimed, with what little energy he had: “I’m gonna work for Bucciarati, if he’ll let me. I—I wanna pay him back. And, Fugo—you may be younger than me, but you’re clearly pretty damn smart. Could you… tutor me? I’m not very smart and bad at school, and I can’t really go back, y’know? So…”
“...If you come back and join Bucciarati and I, that’s a deal. How will you pay me back, then, huh?” Fugo smirked. He didn’t expect payment in return, of course, but he was more curious to see what the kid said.
The dark-haired boy looked to him, and, taking a deep breath, moved to the bed and sat down. He looked quite winded; hopefully Bucciarati would be here soon. The adrenaline he must have had coursing through him would only go so far… Yet, Narancia’s blazing amethyst eyes met Fugo’s, a sense of determination burning in them, mixed with a kind of joy that Fugo wouldn’t have expected to ever see. His gaze didn’t waver as he said, dead-serious, “...I’ll be your best friend.”
Best friend? That was not what Fugo had been expecting. “What?”
“You heard me. I’ll be your best friend. After all, we’re basically best friends anyway, right? You… and Bucciarati… saved my life.” Then, Narancia shivered a bit, even though the room was warm.
Fugo’s heart dropped. It was clear that he was starting to lose energy; hopefully not even worse . Shit. The blond ran towards an ottoman-slash-storage-box, grabbing a soft, fleecy blue blanket, and draped it over Narancia’s shoulders.
“S-Sorry. Guess I should take it easy, huh.” Grabbing onto the blanket, he let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle.
“Yes. Don’t push yourself. I’ll get you some water.” Fugo practically ran to the sink to get the boy some water, bolting back.
After taking a sip, Narancia began to doze. Fugo took the drink from his hand. “Narancia,” Fugo said gingerly, making him wake up once more, rapt with attention once more. “I’d like that. The—the friend thing, I mean. I’d like that.”
“Good. Looks like you’ll be stuck with me, then, no take-backs. Best friends forever.” He smiled at Fugo, and offered his hand. “Consider it a deal, Fugo.”
The two shook hands; however, even after the handshake ended, they didn’t let go. Narancia yawned, still holding Fugo's hand, and leaned onto his shoulder, promptly falling asleep. Fugo wrapped the blanket around Narancia again, as it had fallen during their handshake, and before he could do anything else, footsteps emerged, and a knock came at the door.
“It’s open; come on in, Bucciarati.”
Bruno walked through the door, his usual suit, fancy lingerie, and slick bob in tow. “Looks like you made a new friend.” He smiled at the scene before him wryly.
“Yeah,” Fugo said fondly, looking toward Narancia before turning to Bucciarati once more. “He passed out. He’s… got an eye infection, Bucciarati. It killed his mom, too.”
Bucciarati walked up to them. “I know; he told me.” There was a kind of barely-stifled pain in his tone. While most others wouldn’t have caught onto it, Fugo knew Bucciarati well enough that he could tell that he was worried about the new arrival
He leaned down, tapping the sleeping teen’s shoulder. “Now… Come on, Narancia. It’s time to go.” His tone was oddly paternal. Fugo felt a pang inside his heart when he heard it; not just at his new friend having to leave, but at the realization that he wasn’t used to hearing it since his own family was trash. God… It hurt.
He nudged Naracia awake, and Narancia, a bit dazed, nodded. He was still clearly half-asleep. Still, on their way out, Bruno took the blanket and threw it to Fugo, who waved. Narancia joined in the gesture. “Thanks, Fugo.”
“No problem. See you, Narancia.”
With that, Fugo’s first-ever best friend left the room, and he was left with a kind of sadness at his absence. Friendship was something Fugo was still getting used to. Still, laying back on his bed, Fugo quickly passed out, hoping against all hope that he’d see his new friend again someday.
Almost seven months later, Fugo had filed “wondering about what had happened to Narancia” to the back of his mind. After all, he had more pressing things to deal with, what with turning 14, having a growth spurt, and becoming closer to Bucciarati, who had just recruited a former cop, Leone Abbacchio, into his fold. One winter day, he walked back to the restaurant, passing Leone leaving, and gave him a nod of understanding. The wind nipping at his cheeks, Fugo pulled his scarf up over his face, which seemed to help with the bite.
“Fugo.”
“Yeah?”
“Get ready for one hell of a spectacle.” Abbacchio said, pausing mid-stride, his periwinkle lipstick accentuating an amused smirk. Whatever that meant, he sure as hell got a kick out of it, it seemed.
Fugo knew better than to ask him what the hell that meant. “...Uh, thanks, Abbacchio. See you for dinner?”
“Yeah. See ya later, kid.” The twenty-something waved, his silvery hair flowing behind him like the snowflakes that were fluttering in the winter breeze.
Pannacotta was still getting used to Leone, the newest member of their makeshift squad, but outside of some brusqueness, he wasn’t a bad dude. Just a bit… rough around the edges. Still, he’d saved Fugo’s life a few times, so while Leone wouldn’t say it, that made them friends. This was made all the clearer in how Leone, unlike when he’d first arrived, left a piece of cake for Fugo every day for when he returned from a mission, drinking tea and chatting with Bucciarati. It was an appreciated gesture.
That aside, he walked into the restaurant, and, to his shock, saw someone sitting at the table with Bucciarati, who looked absolutely pissed. He clenched his fork so hard it appeared to be bending, while the stranger replied, “Look, Bucciarati, I know you told me not to join, but there’s no way I wasn’t repaying you! You’re stuck with me, like it or not.”
Wait. Was that…?
“Uh—Excuse me.”
Bucciarati and the guest turned around, revealing—
Fugo gasped. “—Narancia?!”
Lo and behold, the owner of the voice was, in fact, Narancia Ghirga. He beamed, his eye now completely healed, wearing a fancy designer outfit. Looked vaguely like Donatella Versace’s bondage dress, but a tank top. He could make out what appeared to be an orange kilt, black skinny jeans, and to finish off the ensemble, a bright orange headband, his curly black hair peeking out. He let out a gleeful gasp as he shot Fugo a mischievous grin, getting up from the table and barrelling into him with a hug. “Fugo!”
Fugo almost fell over, but managed to brace himself in time to stay standing. He could see Bruno in the background, no longer clutching his silverware as if he were about to strangle it, smiling at the two of them. “Holy shit! N-Narancia, you gotta warn me next time, for crying out loud—!”
He ignored Fugo’s protestations. “I’m back, Fugo, I’m back!! I joined Passione, just like you, and I got a Stand, and he’s an airplane named Aerosmith, and he’s so fuckin’ cool! And—” he let go of Fugo, “I’m here to make good on my promise!”
“Promise?” Bruno asked, bemused.
Narancia, still keeping one hand on Fugo’s arm, turned to Bucciarati. “Yeah! Fugo’s my best friend, and always will be; I promised him that when I was at his apartment. It’s how I’m paying him back. Right, Fugo?”
Pannacotta stood there, open-mouthed, but, after the gears in his head finished their first rotation, he couldn’t help but beam, Narancia’s energy infectious. “Yes. Best friends, indeed. Still… don’t consider it paying me back. I’m glad to be your friend.”
“Hell yeah!” Narancia whooped, letting go of Fugo, and going to sit beside Bucciarati at the table, with their superior beckoning to join. It seemed that Abbacchio had left a piece of cake for him, after all. How nice.
Pannacotta turned to his friend. “Narancia, welcome home.”