Chapter Text
At six in the morning, Pannacotta Fugo is turning off his alarm and dragging himself off of a queen-size mattress, the sound of his feet hitting the ground muffled by carpeting and scattered clothes.
At six in the morning, Narancia Ghirga is sound asleep, snoring, a sound which was absolutely not muffled by anything, certainly not by his wide-open door or thin walls.
At five after, Fugo is slowly shedding his pajamas like a painful molt, squinting in his brightly lit closet at the unceremonious pile of clothes he had just dragged off the hangers.
Narancia is still snoring.
Six-thirty, done showering, all dressed, and we’re in the kitchen cooking breakfast. Which may be too strong of a word, really. Not sure that microwaving oatmeal constitutes the usage of “cooking.”
Oh, and Narancia is still snoring. To his credit, though, he had managed to move to where his head was hanging off the side near the footboard, and one of his legs was dangerously close to knocking his lamp onto the ground. You know, next to all the blankets and pillows already on the ground. And all of that was sort of impressive.
At around seven-ten, after a lot of checking and double-checking, lunch-packing and door-closing, Fugo walked out of his house and started down the street, down a few more and out of the gates separating his neighborhood from the rest of the city.
And finally, Narancia woke up, without an alarm clock because his body was just like that, pretty much lacking in all normal Morning Tiredness, and in all of, say, ten minutes, got dressed, ate some toaster waffles, brushed his teeth, and got his ass out the door.
So now, at seven twenty, Narancia is starting his car, talking the engine into starting like he’s coaxing an old cat into eating its food, and pulling out of his townhouse’s small two-car driveway, his bag slamming into the glove box with a thud. He…wasn't the best driver. We'll say that.
And then, at around seven thirty-five, they both arrive at school, Fugo through the main entrance and Narancia in the back of the gym, and haul absolute ass to their classes. Well, Fugo does. Narancia does too but while also saying 'hey' to all of his friends in the hallway.
Finally, Fugo is sliding into his seat, slightly to the left towards the back, next to Giorno, who, as always, presented himself impeccably and respectably in just about every way.
His friend turned to face him as he dug around in his bag, pulling out some notebooks and a bag of pens.
"Good morning. You seem happy to be here."
"Ugh...why is it so much worse when you're sarcastic as opposed to anyone else?"
"That doesn't matter," his friend said, with no hesitation, "Are you ready for another few months of student council?" An expected question from Giorno, the president.
"No."
"Really? You're gonna have to get re-"
"Because I'm not doing it. I'm stepping down."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Something wrong with that?"
Giorno rested his chin on his hand. "No," he said, in the same unreadable tone he always took, "Not at all. Care to tell me why, though? Do you have something else you'd rather do?"
"Yeah. It was getting boring. Also, we're juniors and you're about my only friend."
"Hm. And so your solution is…?"
"Tutoring."
"Oh?" He laughed rather loudly, for him, anyway, but not in a mean way. Another understandable reaction from Giorno, who, while supportive, was not overly so, especially not in the way of sugar-coating or holding back what he thought about things.
"I'm always bored, as the student," he explained, though without eye contact as he fiddled with his sweater sleeve, "So I feel like it made sense to try as the teacher."
"That does make sense, I suppose. Well, either way, we'll miss you."
"Oh, whatever. Not like you can't find me."
"True. Oh, by the way-"
"Quiet, Giorno," a man snapped from the front of the room, "I'm not saying it again."
"I apologize, Mr. Abbacchio."
"Hmph. Sure. Anyway, before I was interrupted so rudely…"
Fugo never understood why their English teacher hated Giorno so much for really no reason at all. To the point where you would think, like, their grandpas fought on opposing sides in some horrible war, or something like that. But then again, he could understand what it was like to have certain people irk you for no reason. Like Trish Una, for example. No reason at all, which is why he wasn't outward about it. But some people just really need you to know, I guess.
And so the rest of the class went normally, aside from the new book in his bag, as did the rest of the classes up till lunch, where he and Giorno sit in a booth off to the side of the cafeteria, away from the majority of noisy tables and, well, other students.
"So. How are the rest of your classes going?" His friend asked, with his distinctly polite smile.
"I hate when you ask things like you already know."
"Sorry, Fugo, that's just how I am," he laughed, "But I don't know, that's the thing, so do indulge me."
"They're going fine," he said, preceded by a bit of a harrumph, "Nothing too special. I'm not like you, I don't find any subject particularly 'enjoyable,' so I don't really have much to report on. What about you, GioGio?"
"Well, as you've already clearly stated, you know me, so I'm sure it's no surprise that I like history. And art."
"You're right. No surprise there at all. How dull of you," he half-joked.
"I can't argue with that. But that's just how I like it, sometimes, being familiar."
The lunch dragged on in idle conversation; the new book assignment, any new teachers, new students, so on, and ended with Giorno chewing on some cookies as they walked to their next classes.
"Well, Fugo," he started, closing his lunchbox and tucking it into his bag, "I won't see you for the rest of the day, so good luck with the tutoring."
"Yeah. Thanks."
Giorno smiled, rather like he knew something Fugo didn't, but that itself was normal enough for him that his friend didn't think much of it.
But he probably should have. Which he realized about thirty seconds after walking into the library after school.
On his way there he passed Mista and Trish in the hallway, two of the most unexpected best friends he'd ever seen, talking and laughing loudly, as they always were. They paused to wave, apparently in his direction. He didn't quite wave back, though, because he wasn’t sure if it was meant for him.
So now he's already a bit unfocused. So, when he walks into the library in the middle of a hushed discussion, and a student who seems both disgruntled and relieved points directly to him and says, "You. Fugo? We already have someone for you," he is understandably caught a bit off guard.
It gets worse.
A messy-looking kid with his curly black hair barely restrained with an orange headband who is positively drowning in a huge hoodie of the same color runs up to him, bumping into at least two chairs on his way. He definitely had... What's that thing people say about hyperactive little kids? Boundless energy?
He runs up to Fugo, stopping on a dime only a few steps in front of him.
"Hey, man! So, I'm Narancia, and, basically, I was told to tell you that I promise I'm not gonna," he brings an index card from his pocket up to eye level, "Not gonna, uhh, let's see here, steal all your nice pens, accidentally lose any of your books, spill my drink on you more than once, light anything on fi- Dude! That one was an accident, I told you!" He half-whines to another guy across the library, who huffs and rolls his eyes.
"Ugh, anyway, I'm also not gonna-"
"Stop. You can, uh, stop there."
"What's up?"
There was no way he was serious. "…Have you actually done all of those things?"
"More or less."
"On purpose?"
"Not usually…? Wait, have we met?"
"Never."
"Explains a lot. Wanna sit?" He half-jogged over to an empty table and seated himself at it, reaching over to pat the tabletop across from him. Tentatively, Fugo walked over and sat down, letting his bag slide down his arm onto the floor.
"So. What grade are you in, Narancia?"
"I'm a junior."
He stopped, "...Seriously?"
"What, you think I'm lying? What did you think?"
"I... don't know. Not that. But it doesn't matter. What subjects are you needing help with?"
Narancia laughed. Not a good sign.
"Most of them."
"God, okay," Fugo also laughed, but not a fun way, "What do you want to start with, then? What's the worst?"
"Ugh, math. It's so stupid. Not because I don't get it or anything, I don't, but it's also stupid outside of that. Also, Mr. Nero is, like, really fucking creepy."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Like, why should I have to learn something that’s totally made up."
Fugo could think of a few reasons, actually, also he was asking about Mr. Nero, not math. Oh well.
"I'm not sure, but the fact is that you do have to learn it, so we should probably just get started."
"Alright!"
How energetic. If only Fugo could be more like that.
"Okay, so why don't you go ahead and get out what you guys did in class today, I guess. I don't completely get how this works."
"Sounds good to me," Narancia smiled, warm and thoroughly well-intended.
So he pulled out some papers that he had clearly just shoved into whatever folder he had in there, evidenced by the wrinkling only at the top of the paper, and slid them across the table to Fugo, who flipped them over and began looking over them. Except, when he was only about two sentences in, he heard an absolutely awful screeching noise.
"What are you doing?"
"Moving?"
"Why?"
"I can't see."
"We aren't even doing anything yet?"
"Yeah, but I'm not gonna be able to see when we do."
That silenced Fugo.
Squeak….Squeak...Squeak…
Fugo rolled his eyes. "Can you-"
"I'm done!" Narancia interrupted, putting his hands up in surrender.
He sighed. "Alright, Narancia, I'm going to start by going through any mistakes I already see on here, so that we can hopefully prevent those in the future."
"Makes sense."
"So- can you stop that? You're shaking the table."
"Right. Got it."
"So, right here, you did this in the wrong order," he began, as the table began to shake again. He didn't say anything, though, because he figured it wouldn't matter.
"What do you mean?"
"Look. You should've multiplied this before you started on anything over here."
"Why wouldn't I do it in the order it was written in?"
To which the reply was a sigh so heavy and so dragged out that Narancia's pencil rolled off the desk.
"Alright. Cool. Got it-"
"No, I'll explain why. You know the order of operations, right?"
"The what."
"PEMDAS?"
"Please excuse my dear Aunt Sally?"
Oh, thank God. "Yes. And you know what it stands for, right?"
"Yeah," Narancia said, slightly questioning, "...Please excuse my dear Aunt Sally."
He blinked. "How have you gotten this far?" He asked, incredulous.
"I don't know. Cheating."
"Right," he nodded, rather resigned, "So, why do you need me to teach you?"
"I thought that actually learning it would be fun."
"...Fun."
"Also, I got caught and now I'm at the front of the class."
"Okay," he thought for a moment, "Okay, well, I guess I'll start explaining."
The other boy scooted closer in reply; he'd gone from sitting across from his new tutor to being pressed against the leg of the square table, on the side adjacent to Fugo’s. He leaned forward to rest his head on his arms, laying on the tabletop, inclined so that he could look at Fugo while he spoke.
And as he kept talking, Narancia did not stop moving. Whether it be his leg, the pencil in his hand, drumming his fingers on the table; it didn't stop, ever.
And then he started getting closer.
"And so that's why over here…"
He moved to the corner.
"Then, for this one, it's similar in that…" Fugo's side of the table.
"There is an easy mistake here, though, I could see if…" The sides of their chairs were touching.
"So then, the answer you would arrive at is- What are you doing."
Narancia paused, "What do you mean?"
"Why are you so close."
"I'm just listening," he shrugged.
"Do you have to be an inch away from me to listen?"
He laughed, annoyingly light and cheery, "It's funny. So I'm gonna say yes."
To Fugo, it was decidedly not funny, but he figured whatever will get this fucking guy to learn. Not sure why he cared.
“...So then, what would you get here?”
“Five.”
“No.”
“Ten.”
“No.”
“How about we do hot or cold?”
“How about you do the math?”
“...Fair, okay… Is it twelve?”
“Yes,” he set down his pencil like he was taking a heavy weight off of his shoulders, “Yes, it is.” They weren’t done, but Fugo made no move to start on anything else, which Narancia took notice of, even in his moment of excessive math-induced glory and self-satisfaction. He leaned back in his chair, a hand on the back of Fugo’s keeping him from falling all the way back as he pulled his phone out of a pocket in his hoodie, which at some point had been shed and thrown across the seat behind him.
Fugo looked over at him, something between confusion and a glare. “Now what?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” he exhaled, “I just figured we could stop there. It’s pretty obviously frustrating you, and it’s not like we didn’t get anything done.”
“What? No, I’m fine.”
Narancia gave him a sort of sympathetic look, “Dude.”
He felt a sort of guilt tugging at him. He hadn’t meant it to be obvious, but it was definitely true. He wasn’t the easiest to teach.
“Fine,” he glanced away, “If that’s what you want.” Starting slowly, he slid Narancia’s papers over, moving his belongings the other direction with his other hand. One by one, he packed his things, finally standing up to throw out a few sheets of scrap paper, which were covered in two people’s handwriting, one small and narrow and the other larger and wide (as well as a scattering of very crude doodles, the subject matter of which I’m sure you can guess, but those aren’t as important).
He sat back down, the movement from his chair slightly jostling the other, and folded his arms across his chest. The not-so-silence of the library tried its best to fill the silence between them, but it was still in no way preferable. He glanced over at Narancia’s phone screen.
“What are you playing?”
“Me?” He sounded sort of amused, “How do you not- actually, nevermind, you seem like you wouldn’t play games very often.”
“Rude.”
“Yeah, well, it’s true,” he grinned as Fugo rolled his eyes, “Here, look, you’re just running trying to get away from this guy and you have to move to avoid obstacles.” He looked away for a moment, clearly one for eye contact, and died almost immediately.
He let out a small, thoroughly sardonic laugh, “Like that?”
“Oh, you want a turn? Here, take it,” he shoved his phone with a sort of playful force into the other boy’s hands, which was rewarded with another eye roll.
“You’re so petty. It can’t be that hard.”
“Okay! You know what to do then, right?”
“Yes,” No, “I was watching.”
“Good! Then it can be your turn.” He shoved the phone, warm from both use and from his hands, into Fugo’s own, who fumbled around with it for a moment before staring blankly at the loading screen.
“Well?”
“I’ll do it, I’ll do it.” He stared again.
“Go ahead then.”
After another moment of hesitation, he tapped on the screen, and it started moving. Narancia leaned over in his seat and lifted his chin slightly up and over to rest on the edge of the other boy’s shoulder, a few stray pieces of hair brushing on Fugo’s neck as he watched his phone.
It’s hard to say exactly what it was, between the lack of experience, the deceptively cheery music, the hair and breath tickling on his neck, or just the idea of being watched in itself, but there were only about five seconds between him starting the game and the abrupt, metallic thud that marked the ending.
“Man, you’re ass at this,” Narancia straightened himself again, taking his phone back into his hands, “I’m taking this back.”
Fugo gazed first into his empty hands, then at the now-empty space on his arm, and then right past it at the boy to his left.
“Shit, I died again. We both suck today, dude. Dude? You zone out a lot, don’t you?”
“What? Oh, yeah, I guess I do. Sorry.”
“Oh, I don’t care or- Oh, hey, it’s time to go. C’mon,” He picked his and Fugo’s bags up off the floor, extending one out in front of him, “Let’s go.”
He lifted himself off of his seat, hands steadying himself on the table as he slid out from between the chair and the table leg, and walked to accept his bag from Narancia. They walked, falling into a rhythm as people do, out of the library and into the hall. Narancia, with slightly longer strides, and an overall quickness to his walk, opened the back door next to the gym, holding it open for Fugo, who wasn’t sure if he should protest or thank him. So he did neither and ducked out the door.
They stopped next to the older boy’s car, sickly and dilapidated as it was, and they turned to face each other.
“So, uh,” Narancia brought an arm up to scratch at the nape of his neck, “Thank...you? For tutoring me. Or, trying, I guess.”
“Yeah...no problem.”
They both looked away.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, dude. See you tomorrow?”
Oh, right. God. “See you tomorrow.”
He watched as his friend (he thinks?) ducked into his car, accompanied by the sound of his bag hitting the floor and the slamming of the door behind him, which sputtered to life along with the booming radio, making Narancia jump slightly before reaching over the dash to turn it down with a sheepish sort of smile . He continued watching as he reversed, waved through the window, and sped out of the parking lot. Rather irresponsibly.
Slowly and with an odd mix of excitement and nervousness, Fugo turned around and started towards home. He passed other students in and around their cars, rowdy and cacophonous. This is the part, usually, where he would passively listen in as he walked by, to the bits and pieces of conversation he could make out, his own form of entertainment.
But this time, he couldn’t clear his thoughts. There was something about Narancia, a quality so transparent and yet so perplexing to him. He was so...welcoming, and approachable, in a way that was both calming and energizing, like a warm drink at the end of October, when the wind is between a playful briskness and an icy dry. Like a breeze through the window after countless days indoors.
And it was weird. Sitting next to him, just for that hour, was a roller coaster. And he couldn’t understand why. So he should stop thinking about it. Right?
He kicked up a sludge of half-melted snow. He didn’t stop thinking about it. Not on the way to his neighborhood, not passing through the gates, not dragging his legs up the hill, and not climbing the stairs to his room and pushing the door closed behind him.
He did do his homework, though. Among other things. Like stressing, which he had been too busy with other things to do today. More school meant more pressure to succeed from his parents, unrelenting and of dubious intention.
He stared, not at anything so much as just in the general direction of his window. The sky was overcast and the clouds were a boring white, cool and unfeeling, and blended in with the faded ivory patterning of his walls and of his overhead lighting, giving his whole room a distant, foreign, and distinctly antiseptic feel, which he was sure would be worsened if not for the various trinkets and occasional article of clothing littering the floor like autumn leaves.
His whole house was like this, a surprisingly minimal yet grandiose show of capital, thinly veiled with pieces of conventionally inviting and hospitable home decor, as not to seem robotic or, at its worst, a callously monotonous bastardization of perfectly good neoclassical Georgian architecture.
Sort of like his parents.
He leaned back in his desk chair, rolling back and forth a few times before finally getting up and throwing himself rather dramatically upon his bed, which was met with a puff from his comforter and a horrible groan from his wooden bed frame. He rolled over onto his side and grabbed the ceiling fan remote from his bedside table. It was probably late enough for him to go to sleep. Not that he cared if it wasn't.