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Aerosmith’s tires squealed as they slid across Narancia’s shoulders, signaling that the battle was officially over. In the distance, a couple of men wearing suits dropped to the ground as dust settled around them. Those two could wait, though. Right now, Narancia was focused on the third body in the middle of the road.
Their mission had started out straightforward enough. Narancia and Fugo were to confront their target about some alleged rigging that had been happening in a Passione-run gambling house. They had been given permission to rough him up some if needed, but to leave him alive. What they hadn’t anticipated was for their target to be armed and for him to have backup. When the man opened fire, Fugo was the one who had immediately sprung into action. As soon as the first shots rang out in the street, he shoved Narancia behind a car to safety, but in the process took a bullet to the thigh. He’d stayed on his feet for a while afterward and shot back a few times with the pistol he’d brought along, but eventually the injury on his leg became too much, and Fugo dropped down to one knee. Naturally, that was when the metaphorical fire inside Narancia exploded into an inferno, and he finished the two enemies off with his trusty Stand. No one was going to injure his boyfriend and get away with it, even if these thugs had no way of knowing that Fugo even was his boyfriend.
Narancia ran to his side, barely aware of just how out of breath he was from the adrenaline of the fight. “You okay?”
Fugo nodded with a little hiss. “I’ll be fine, but I do need to get it treated sooner rather than later.”
“Can you stand back up?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Without a second thought, Narancia grabbed Fugo under the arms and started dragging him away from the street-turned-battlefield.
Fugo immediately grunted, “What the hell is wrong with you!?”
“You’re too heavy!” Narancia snapped back. “I’m not strong enough to carry you. You gotta work with me here.”
Bucciarati had told them that they didn’t need to go alone on this mission. He’d said that, if things went south, their Stands weren’t well-suited to battle together. He’d insisted that they take Giorno or even Mista with them. God, why didn’t they listen? Bucciarati was always right! Did they think it would be romantic to go off and handle a mission by themselves or something? Were they really that desperate for some time alone that they were willing to dismiss their own boss’ advice? There wasn’t anything romantic about dragging your boyfriend’s bloodied body to safety with no way of healing it.
With a little bit of effort, the two of them managed to maneuver Fugo’s body off the road and onto the sidewalk. Narancia glanced up to view his progress and furrowed his brows when he finally noticed the trail of blood on the ground. Fugo had definitely lost a lot, but he was also still conscious. That was the most important thing.
Narancia continued dragging Fugo into an alleyway where he was able to prop him up against a wall. At the very least, he’d be able to inspect the wound from here. He gingerly pushed the fabric of Fugo’s slacks aside to get a better look at the bloody spot on his thigh. Thankfully, the two men had been carrying what looked to be small handguns, so hopefully this injury would be easily treatable.
Which reminded him, he probably ought to let Bucciarati know what happened.
Just as Narancia started to pull his phone out, Fugo growled, “Call Bucciarati already, would you?”
“Stop bossing me around, damn! I was just about to text him.”
Narancia flipped his phone open and started typing:
>Send Giorno to our location
>Or an ambulance
>I’m fine but Fugo got hot
>*shot
>target is dead btw sorry
A few moments later, Bucciarati’s reply appeared:
>OK
Narancia wasn’t sure if that meant he’d be sending Giorno or the ambulance (maybe both?), but that was a good enough response for now. Help was on the way, and that’s what mattered. In the meantime, he’d just have to do his best to stabilize the wound himself. He looked up at Fugo and asked, “What should I do?”
“First of all,” Fugo paused and winced. “First you need to wrap it up. Tear off some cloth and tie it tightly around the wound.”
Narancia nodded and ripped off the bottom part of Fugo’s pant leg, which earned him a little frustrated grumble. He gave him a sassy look. “Oh, were you wanting me to tear up my clothes?” Fugo didn’t answer, so Narancia got back to work. He took a moment to try and create a long strip of cloth by tearing around the gaping holes in the fabric. Once it looked like he had enough, he gingerly lifted up Fugo’s thigh, placed the tattered cloth underneath, and started wrapping it around the injury.
Fugo let out a couple of pained noises, but he remained quiet until Narancia tied the fabric off. “Now, I want you to apply pressure, and don’t hold back. Put your knee on the bullet hole and lean on it as hard as you can. That’ll help it stop bleeding.”
That sounded simple enough, Narancia thought. He did as he was told and put his knee on the injury and pressed into it full force.
Fugo’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as he howled in pain. “Fuckin’ hell, Narancia, that hurts!”
“You’re the one who said-!”
“I didn’t mean use your bony-ass kneecap!” Fugo interrupted. “The flat part under your knee!”
Narancia rolled his eyes and readjusted himself like Fugo said, and he noticed that he immediately stopped squirming once he was in that position. “Better?” he asked sarcastically. Fugo didn’t answer, which Narancia took as a ‘yes.’ He side-eyed him with a playful grin and tutted, “Maybe if you hadn’t been all noble and pushed me out of the way, you might not feel so bad.”
“You’re welcome,” Fugo retorted flatly.
Narancia’s grin softened into a tender smile as he gently swept Fugo’s bangs out of his face. “I know, I know. Thank you for looking out for me.”
“But I am sorry for leaving you to finish them off yourself,” Fugo added with a sigh. “And for being bossy while you were trying to help me.”
“Eh, I don’t think they were Stand-users or anything, so it wasn’t too hard to sneak up on ‘em with Aerosmith,” Narancia said with a shrug. “Would’ve been done a lot faster if you’d used your Stand.”
“You were right there. I couldn’t use my Stand.”
“I know better than to get too close to Hazey when he’s out.”
“Don’t call it that.”
“Why not?” Narancia asked with a cheeky grin.
Fugo looked up at him with a glare that suggested he was teetering toward an outburst. “It’s not a cute fucking puppy or something. Its only purpose is to kill.”
“Yeah? And what’s Aerosmith’s purpose, to read storybooks to babies?”
He’d almost sort of hoped to rile Fugo up with that remark. If Fugo got mad, maybe it would get his mind off of the pain. At the very least, it would show that he was still coherent and hadn’t lost so much blood that he was about to pass out or anything. But, instead, Fugo lowered his head a little with a frown. “Haven’t you ever thought about that?”
Narancia raised an eyebrow. “What, Aerosmith reading a book?”
“If Stands are a reflection of our soul, what does Purple Haze say about me?”
“That you’re really strong?” Narancia offered. “And that you’re a little scary when you get mad?”
“Exactly,” Fugo softly replied. “I told Bucciarati all those years ago when he asked me to join this team that I couldn’t control myself and that I might end up killing him one day. My Stand perfectly reflects that.” He paused for a moment and chuckled bitterly. “I can’t control it, and it’s a one-hit kill. There’s no taking it back once it happens. It wouldn’t matter if it was a friend, an enemy, or even myself. The thing that represents my very being kills indiscriminately and instantaneously.”
Fugo averted his eyes and continued, “Purple Haze is too dangerous to use unless I’m by myself. I can’t bring it out when I’m with someone because it could easily endanger my teammates. Bucciarati was right, we shouldn’t have taken this mission alone. You had to do all the work taking care of our enemy, and now you’re stuck tending to my wounds. God, you deserve someone better than me, as a teammate and a partner. Someone who won’t accidentally kill you.”
Before Fugo had a chance to really start sulking, Narancia reeled back and slapped him on the cheek.
Surprisingly, Fugo didn’t seem mad about this sudden outburst. He just looked shocked. “What was that-?”
“To shut you up because you’re being stupid!” Narancia loudly interrupted. “My Stand is a fucking airplane. What does that have to do with me? I’d never even been on an airplane until after I got it! And what the hell do zippers have to do with Bucciarati!? Our Stands aren’t as tied to who we are as you think.” He lowered his voice, but kept a stern expression as he continued, “I knew you had problems controlling your anger when I told you I wanted to go out with you. If that was a problem for me, we wouldn’t be dating right now.”
“It’s so much more than an ‘anger problem,’ Narancia. Purple Haze is… I’m like a poison.”
Narancia balled up his fists and shouted, “If you’re poison, then I’m gonna be your fucking antidote because I’m not going anywhere!” He took a moment to glare right into Fugo’s eyes, as if to dare him to put himself down again. “You bring out the best in me, so I’m gonna try my damnedest to bring out the best in you. So we didn’t think this mission through like we should have. Big whoop. We just need to get better for the next time we go on a mission. Bucciarati said our Stands don’t work well together? Well, we’ll just have to figure out how to make them work together.”
Fugo bit his trembling lip. “I-I can’t. I couldn’t live with myself if I killed you with Purple Haze.”
Seeing Fugo like this, so visibly and sincerely concerned, Narancia deflated a little. He reached forward and gingerly stroked the cheek that he had slapped just a few minutes earlier. “You’re just gonna have to trust me to take care of myself. Yeah, you’re probably gonna kill me one day, but it’s not gonna be because of Purple Haze. It’ll be when we’re both raggedy old men and you push my wheelchair into oncoming traffic or something for being dumb.”
Finally, Fugo cracked a little smile, which made Narancia’s heart soar. Fugo leaned into his touch and gazed up at him, his violet eyes practically sparkling. “I love you. More than you know.”
“Not as much as I love you,” Narancia countered with a cheesy grin. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t take a bullet for you, but-” That sarcastic joke was cut short when Fugo pulled him down for a kiss. Maybe there had been something romantic about going on a mission by themselves after all, Narancia thought to himself.