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He doesn’t know when he first noticed, but now that he has, he can’t stop noticing.
He knows Fugo has a temper. Yeah, everyone knows that, but Narancia knows it better than anyone. He knows his own temper isn’t much better, but that’s one of the reasons he and Fugo get along so well. As quickly as they go off, one or both of them will cool off, they’ll exchange apologies, and, if neither of them has caused too much property damage, the others will pretend they didn’t notice.
Well, Bucciarati and Abbacchio will pretend not to notice, or at least, neither will feel it’s necessary to intervene, knowing it would only amp things up worse. And neither of them would ever take sides because sometimes it’s Fugo who escalates it, and sometimes it’s Narancia.
It’s usually Fugo, though.
The thing is that their newest team member doesn’t mind butting in if he’s bored. Or maybe he feels that he’s helping. Narancia thinks so; Fugo does not.
It’s fine, though. Narancia likes Mista, and Fugo does, too. Mista’s the kind of guy that Narancia can hang out with and not feel like he’s going to be lectured. Mista gets the jokes that Fugo does not, and although his taste in music isn’t the best, some of the movies he picks out are fun to watch. Sometimes Fugo will join them for movie night; other times he doesn’t; sometimes it’s more fun when he starts critiquing things and Mista tells him for at least the hundredth time about suspension of belief, and sometimes it’s nice to just sit and enjoy something without listening to Fugo’s bitching.
It’s nice, but it also feels like something is missing.
Mista’s older than him – and not by much, as he has to remind Mista often – which means Fugo’s still the only one younger than Narancia. And since the others seem to forget that, it’s up to Narancia to remember.
Fugo’s just fifteen.
He’ll be sixteen soon, same as Narancia, but right now he’s fifteen. Narancia gets why it’s hard for the others to remember that. Fugo’s smarter than any of them, even Bucciarati, and Narancia hadn’t thought anyone could be smarter than Bucciarati. He’s the meanest, too – even meaner than Abbacchio – and he always had a way of hitting where it hurts – not with his fists or the nearest pointy object – but with his words.
And his fists and the pointy objects, but mostly his words.
Because Fugo knew how much Narancia hated knowing less than everyone else. Narancia liked Mista, but he hated that Mista joining the team reminded Narancia of how little he knew. Mista read books and had big thoughts. He’d get into arguments with Fugo over the stupidest things, and even if Narancia had something to say, it wasn’t the same as when Fugo said something. Mista wasn’t super smart like Fugo, but he knew enough to keep up with him, and half the time when Mista said something really dumb, Narancia knew he was saying it just to get Fugo filed up. The best Narancia could hope for was to accidentally say something smart.
Oh, but when he did, and when Fugo looked at him in surprise, and his lips would curve into one of his rare smiles, Narancia felt like he’d won something.
Until the very next words out of Narancia’s mouth made it obvious it had been a fluke, and then Fugo and Mista would go back to arguing – not leaving Narancia out, but just leaving him where he couldn’t keep up.
Narancia knew they didn’t do it on purpose, and it was fun watching them go after each other. It meant that Fugo didn’t save all his I’m-way-smarter-than-you-and-this-is-why insults for Narancia alone. Mista didn’t seem to care, though. He seemed to like it when Fugo insulted him, like whenever Fugo did that, Mista had won something.
That bothered Narancia. Not all the time, not even usually. But it did bother him, sometimes.
Until it occurred to him that Fugo might insult Mista, and swear at him, and threaten to stab him with whatever he was holding at the time, but he never actually followed through on any of his threats. Narancia was pretty sure it wasn’t because Mista was taller than Fugo – it certainly wasn’t because Mista was older, that was for sure. And Fugo might be taller than Narancia, but Narancia was stronger. It wasn’t that Fugo was weak, because he not only packed a hell of a punch, he could take one, too. it was just that Fugo’s strength was in his brain more than his body.
Narancia wished he’d use Purple Haze more often to defend himself. He hated helping Fugo peel off his bloodied clothes after a battle. He hated seeing the large purple bruises left by an enemy Stand user. If he didn’t help tend to the injuries, though, Fugo would do it by himself. Narancia had caught him one day after returning from what was supposed to be a routine surveillance mission. His door had been left ajar, and when Narancia had walked by, he’d heard Fugo’s hiss of pain.
“Fugo?” he asked. “I’m coming in, okay?”
Fugo didn’t tell him not to, so Narancia took that as an okay, and once inside, he immediately saw why Fugo was hurting. He looked the way Narancia had felt when the cops had beaten him senseless, nearly blinding him in the process, and for some reason, Fugo was trying to pull his shirt over his head instead of unbuttoning it.
“Here,” he’d scolded, tugging Fugo’s shirt back down in the back and turning him around so he was facing Narancia. He quickly untied Fugo’s tie and unfastened the rest of the buttons, and then Fugo tried shrugging the shirt off, but he winced, biting his lip and making a little whimper of pain in his throat.
“Who fucking did this?” Narancia asked, but apparently too loudly, because Fugo slapped his hand over Narancia’s mouth and shushed him.
“Who the fuck do you think?” Fugo hissed at him quietly, followed by a low groan of pain as Narancia brushed Fugo’s hair out of his eyes to check the bruising on the side of his face. “Cicchetti,” Fugo whispered. He swallowed, then said, “Fucking Cicchetti did this.”
Narancia was no doctor, but the bruising was very close to Fugo’s eye. Fugo was lucky Cicchetti hadn’t blinded him. “I’ll kill him,” Narancia vowed.
“Too late.” Fugo opened his eyes and stared into Narancia’s. “Already dead,” he added, as if Narancia couldn’t figure out what he meant.
“Purple Haze?”
Fugo’s gaze flicked toward the wall. “I had no other choice.”
“I believe you,” Narancia said simply.
Fugo nodded.
“Can I help you with, um, the rest?”
“No!” Fugo shouted, and then he slapped his hand over his own mouth. “That’s not necessary,” he added through gritted teeth. He jerked away and unfastened his belt, then hesitated. “Why are you still here?”
“In case you need any help.”
“I told you I don’t need it.” That wasn’t exactly what Fugo had said, though.
“I’d still like to help.”
Fugo’s fingers, poised over the button of his pants, twitched a little.
“Fine,” he finally said. “But turn around first.”
Narancia did so, and he could hear the rustle of Fugo’s pants followed by the clink of Fugo’s belt buckle as it hit the floor. He closed his eyes and listened attentively as Fugo opened one of the drawers, then closed it, and after a few muffled grunts, he told Narancia he could turn around.
Narancia did so.
There was a quiet huff of laughter, one that warmed Narancia’s heart.
“You can open your eyes, idiot.”
When he did, Fugo was standing there awkwardly looking everywhere except at Narancia. His arms were folded over his chest, and there was a streak of blood that started somewhere beneath the loose shorts Fugo was wearing and was running down his left leg. Narancia’s eyes widened.
“You’re still bleeding.”
Fugo’s gaze dropped to his leg. “Goddamn fucking Cicchetti. His Stand must’ve hit mine.”
“We should get you cleaned up.”
Fugo raised an eyebrow. “We?”
“Fuck you,” Narancia said with forced cheerfulness. “You can’t reach all those places yourself.”
“I have a Stand who can.”
Narancia let out a bark of laughter, then slapped both his hands over his mouth. Fugo’s scowl made him laugh again, and he pressed his hands against his face with more force to keep any sound from escaping.
Fugo sighed heavily and rolled his head back, and it took Narancia a full minute to pull himself together so he could lower his arms.
“’I have a Stand who can,’” he mimicked. “You and I both know you’d never summon him for something like that.”
“Who do you think tended to my injuries after battling Polpo’s Black Sabbath? Bucciarati?”
“I-”
Actually, yes, Narancia would have assumed exactly that, had he ever given any serious thought to how Fugo got his Stand. Of course, he knew that Fugo had gone through Polpo’s test, same as he did, and same as Abbacchio and probably Bucciarati too, but Fugo was already a Stand user when Narancia had met him, even if he hadn’t known anything about Stands at the time. Once Narancia joined Bucciarati’s team, Purple Haze was just another part of his new teammate and friend, even if he was something that everyone knew about but didn’t speak of out loud, like a demon who might appear if you said his name.
“Why don’t you say his name?”
“Whose name?”
“Your Stand.”
“His?” Fugo looked amused.
“Yeah. Like my stand’s a plane, but the pilot’s a little guy.”
Fugo nodded. “It’s easy to forget Aerosmith has a pilot.”
“Don’t change the subject. We were talking about your Stand.”
“You’re the one who brought up Aerosmith.”
Narancia blinked a few times. “Fine! But I still wanna know why you call him your Stand instead of by his name. You think if you just say his name, he’ll appear next to you?”
“Of course not!” Fugo snapped.
Narancia held his finger up to his lips, and Fugo raked his fingers through his hair in frustration, then winced again. Fuck, right. First things first.
“Fugo,” Narancia said quietly. “You’re bleeding on the rug.”
Fugo didn’t even bother looking down this time. “I know. I can feel it.”
“We should get that cleaned up.”
“I know.”
They both just stood there, staring at each other, for a few seconds, and then Narancia said, “do you want to do it here or in the bathroom?”
“The bathroom,” Fugo said, and he walked past Narancia, their shoulders barely brushing, on his way to the door. Narancia took a deep breath before turning and following Fugo down the hall.
With the blood washed away from Fugo’s face and neck, he looked a little better. Not a whole lot, because that bruise covered a large part of the side of his face, but still better than before.
Fugo sat on the edge of the tub, near the faucet, and Narancia watched him wash his leg, using water that was probably way too hot, considering how red Fugo’s skin was afterwards. He was trying to rinse it, first by scooting almost into the tub to get his leg under the faucet, then by sitting back on the edge and splashing water at it.
Narancia sighed and knelt down on the floor outside the tub, cupping both hands under the faucet before jerking his arms back.
“How fucking hot is this?” he asked, rapidly opening the cold tap and testing the water until it was still on the hot side, but not the melts-your-skin-right-off kind of hot. He quickly washed his hands before cupping them once again in an attempt to collect water. The problem was that Fugo was sitting right there, so the angle was all wrong, and after the little water he’d collected ended up running down his arms, Narancia gave up and placed one hand on the edge of the tub, on Fugo’s other side, and went to work splashing water from the tap over the soap suds still stuck to Fugo’s upper thigh.
Fugo lifted his arm to move it out of the way, and Narancia could feel Fugo’s hand settle on his shoulder, and it remained there even after Narancia turned off the water and shook his hands over the drain. He glanced at Fugo’s leg again. There were still a few stray suds, and the blood was seeping out the gash in his thigh, joining with the water and running off in a spiderweb of diluted red.
“This probably would’ve worked a lot better if you’d just taken a shower,” Narancia said, scowling at the stubborn soap bubbles that refused to slide off Fugo’s leg.
“I was planning on it, but you followed me in here.”
“Oh. Um, well, I can leave.”
Fugo sighed. “It doesn’t matter now.”
Narancia wasn’t sure how to take that. He held his hand over Fugo’s leg, allowing the water to simply drip from his fingers. That actually worked, because the drops chased the last, and very small, collection of suds down the side of Fugo’s thigh.
The wound was still bleeding, though.
And Fugo’s hand was still on his shoulder.
“I think that needs to be stitched up.”
“Probably,” Fugo agreed. He sounded tired, and of course he would. Narancia was honestly surprised Fugo was still standing after that fight with Cicchetti.
“I can do it.”
Fugo lifted his hand from Narancia’s shoulder and stood up. “I can do it myself.” He stepped out of the tub and onto the bare floor. Water and blood dripped onto the floor, and Fugo grabbed a towel from the stack over the toilet, throwing it on the floor to soak up the water before grabbing a second one and patting it around the gash in his leg.
“Fuck you, no you won’t.”
After a bit of arguing, and a reminder that Narancia was older than him, Fugo huffed in frustration and sat on the toilet while Narancia went to Fugo’s room to retrieve the first-aid-and-sewing-kit he kept for just such occasions.
Fugo was still there when he got back – of course he would be, where else would he have gone – and he was pressing a towel against his leg. He looked more irritated than anything, so despite the blood soaking into the towel, he seemed to be feeling a little better.
“I’m back,” Narancia announced unnecessarily.
“I see that.”
Right. Of course he did. Narancia dropped to his knees next to Fugo and opened the first aid kit. It took Narancia a couple of tries to thread the needle, but that was because he could feel Fugo’s eyes on him the whole time. He was kind of surprised Fugo didn’t offer any criticism or insist on threading it himself. He just watched as Narancia took a slow, deep breath, let it out, and then, with one eye closed, pushed the thread through the tiny opening.
“Ready?”
Fugo lifted the towel and swiped as much of the fresh blood away as he could. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I got this, Fugo.”
“I can do it myself.”
“I know you can, but that would fucking suck.”
“And watching you do it sucks less somehow?”
“You don’t have to watch,” Narancia told him. “Sometimes it hurts less if you don’t.”
“There’s no way I’m not going to watch.”
Narancia shrugged. “Your choice.”
“My choice would be to do it myself.”
Narancia was so tempted, so very tempted, to hold the needle out for Fugo to take. He was so tempted to just let him be his normal pissy self and let him stitch his own fucking leg up. But Fugo had been alone when Cicchetti had attacked him. Narancia couldn’t leave him alone now, especially not looking like he did.
“Don’t be a baby,” Narancia said. “I got this.”
Fugo huffed, but he didn’t say anything, which meant he was not going to snatch the needle away. That meant he was either in a lot more pain than he was letting on, or he decided to trust Narancia with this.
“Where do you want me to start?”
Fugo pointed, and with that, Narancia poked the needle through several layers of skin. Fugo’s entire body tensed, and Narancia gave him a second before he made his first stitch.
“Just do it,” Fugo said through gritted teeth.
Narancia worked as quickly as he could. After the third stitch, Fugo’s hand was on his shoulder again – fortunately his left one, since he was holding the needle in his right hand – and he could feel Fugo’s fingers tighten now and again.
Once he was done, he tied it off and cut it with the tiny scissors in Fugo’s first aid kit.
“Ta da,” he said, gesturing with the needle.
Fugo peered at the row of neat, evenly spaced stitches. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“No problem.” He traded the needle for a roll of gauze and looked up, his eyes meeting Fugo’s.
Fugo’s eyes dipped, just a little, and then his gaze abruptly shifted to somewhere over Narancia’s shoulder.
“I, uh, I used to do this for my mom.”
That got Fugo’s eyes back on him. “You did this for your mother?”
“Not like this!” Narancia pointed at Fugo’s stitches. “I mean, like, if something needed to be fixed or hemmed or whatever. When her eye started getting bad, it was hard for her to see.”
“I see.” Fugo winced. “I mean, no pun intended.”
“Nah, it’s fine, I know what you mean,” Narancia grinned. “I mean, if not for you, I’d probably be blind.”
“Bucciarati did all that, not me.”
“Yeah, but who introduced me to Bucciarati? You did.”
Fugo’s lips curled inward, just enough that it looked they’d disappeared, and then he let out a breath. “He would’ve found you without me.”
“But he didn’t. You did.”
Fugo’s hands were fidgeting, one over the other. Did he do that often? They were close enough that Narancia could see the small, thin scars on the back of his hands, all in the same approximate area. Fugo must have noticed Narancia was staring at his hands, because he pulled them apart and clenched them into fists.
“You can leave now.”
“It’s not bandaged yet.”
“I can do it myself.”
“Fugo-”
“Leave!” Fugo shouted. “Get the fuck out!”
Narancia got to his feet and threw the gauze into the sink. “Fine! Do it your own goddamn self! I’m just trying to help!”
When he got back to his room, he was shaking with anger. Why did Fugo always act like that? Narancia was his friend. Hadn’t he shown he was competent when it came to first aid? Or at least when it came to sewing, but still, if he could stitch a goddamn wound closed, he could manage to wrap some fucking gauze around Fugo’s upper thigh.
He’d never understand that guy. Never.
Fugo turned sixteen shortly after Mista joined them, and Mista made a point of teasing Narancia, telling him that now Fugo was the same age he was.
“Fuck off!” Narancia swore at him. “Just for like two weeks, and then I’ll be the same age as you!”
“I’ll still be older,” Mista reminded him.
“Then I’m still older than Fugo!” He turned to Fugo. “I’m still older than you.”
From the sofa, where he was trying to read the book Bucciarati had given him for his birthday, Fugo rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything to Mista, which was bullshit, because Fugo never had any trouble correcting any of them, even Abbacchio.
“C’mon Fugo, back me up here!”
“Fugo, are you sixteen?” Mista asked.
“Don’t drag me into this.”
“Narancia, is Fugo sixteen?”
“Yeah, now.”
“And how old are you?”
“Almost seventeen!”
“But how old are you right now? Today?”
“Sixteen, but-”
Mista turned both hands palm up. “I rest my case.”
“Fuuuugoooo!” Narancia pleaded. He even dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together for good measure.
Unbelievably, it worked.
“As of today,” Fugo told Mista, “you are six thousand three hundred fifty-eight days old. Narancia is six thousand one hundred ninety days old, and I’m five thousand eight hundred forty-four days old.”
Narancia could see Mista wince at that last part.
“You’re still both sixteen.”
“And you’re both still idiots,” Fugo retorted, and really, did he have to go there?
Then Fugo got up and left the room.
“Not even five minutes,” Mista observed. “Sixteen and already a cranky old man.”
“I’m still older than he is!”
“Great, then you can both soak your dentures side by side on the sink tonight.”
“Fuck you, I have great teeth. See?” Narancia said, forcing the biggest grin ever on his face.
Mista laughed, and that made Narancia feel a little better. “Sure, kid, you have great teeth.”
“Stop calling me kid! I’m almost as old as…” Narancia’s voice trailed off when he spotted the book Fugo had been reading sitting on the arm of the sofa.
Mista saw where Narancia’s gaze had fallen. “Fugo forgot his book.”
Except he hadn’t. Yes, he’d left it behind, but he hadn’t forgotten it. Fugo tended to remember the most bullshit things; he wouldn’t have forgotten the book he was in the middle of reading.
“I’ll bring it to him,” Narancia said.
“I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”
Narancia picked up the book and walked toward Fugo’s room. He could hear voices behind him, which meant Mista’s Sex Pistols were probably hungry. Narancia was a little envious that Mr. Smith didn’t eat, but on the other hand, sometimes Mista’s Stand could be fucking annoying.
Fugo’s door was ajar, again, which was weird because he usually kept it wide open or tightly closed, and more often than not, the latter.
“Fugo?” he called out. “I have your book.”
“You can come in,” Fugo said.
Narancia pushed open the door, and once inside, closed it behind him. Fugo was sitting on his bed with one of his jackets in his lap, and he was running his fingers over the large round depressions in the fabric. He glanced up at Narancia and nodded toward the nightstand. “Put it there.”
Narancia set it down and watched Fugo’s fingers trace over the circle. He’d go around the outer edge, then trace it again, but on the inside of the circle.
“Is there a hole in it?” Narancia joked. “’Cuz I can fix it for you if there is.”
Fugo looked up again. “I know you can. And no, there isn’t. Not yet, anyway.” His lips twisted into a sad kind of smile.
Narancia sat down on the bed next to him. “You okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“You just seem down today. Is it what Mista said, about being old? Because I’ll go kick his ass if you want.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, yeah, he said that after you left. Sorry about that. I’ll still kick his ass, though, if it’ll make you feel better.”
Fugo let out a little huff of laughter. “That would be quite the birthday present.”
Narancia stood up. “If that’s what you want for your birthday, I’ll go do that right now!”
Another huff of laughter, but this time Fugo’s amusement reached the corners of his eyes. “You don’t have to do that.” He was silent a moment, then added, “and I like the tie you gave me.”
“Oh, fuck, no wonder Mista was laughing about it. That’s such an old man gift. I’m sorry. I know I don’t have to kick his ass, but I will if you want me to.”
Fugo shook his head. “Don’t do that. Bucciarati would kill all three of us.”
“Not you,” Narancia said, sitting back down. “He’d know you weren’t involved.”
“I am involved, though.”
Narancia looked down at Fugo’s hands. He was no longer tracing the indentations in his jacket; instead, he was rubbing furiously at his knuckles.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Fugo gave a half shrug and switched which hand was atop the other. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just thinking.”
“What are you thinking about?”
Fugo’s hands stilled, and he stared off into the distance. “I would’ve had my first cycle degree by now. I should be starting my second.”
“Oh.” Narancia was immediately reminded of his own lack of education. “Well, we can be school dropouts together then.”
Fugo huffed with laughter again, but unlike the first two times, this one sounded kind of sad. Resigned. “I suppose.”
It was honestly bumming Narancia out. “I hate being stupid,” he confessed. “I hated school, but it just sucks that you’re all so smart and I can barely read.”
“You can read,” Fugo said. “I’ve seen you.”
“Yeah, comics.”
“Are there words on the pages?”
“Have you ever seen a comic, Fugo? Yeah, there are words to go along with the pictures.”
“Then it’s still reading.”
“Well, I suck at math, too.”
Fugo began fussing with his hands again. “Do you not want to?”
“Not want to what, suck at math?”
“What else were we talking about?” Fugo asked. He sounded irritated now, but angry Fugo was heaps better than moody, sad Fugo.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Fine, Fugo,” Narancia sighed. “Yes, I’d like to not suck at math. I hate feeling like a stupid kid sometimes.”
“I can teach you.”
“You?”
Fugo’s brows were furrowed, and his nose was scrunched up a little, like Narancia had just insulted him and his entire family. Oh, wait, Fugo hated his entire family. So just him, then.
“You think I can’t?”
“No, no, I know you can. I just don’t know why you’d want to.”
“Do you want me to teach you or not?” Fugo snapped.
Narancia had hated school when he was there. He’d hated being unable to focus when his mother grew ill. He’d hated the fact that he’d leave some of his classes forgetting everything he’d supposedly just learned. He’d hated the snickers of his classmates when he got something wrong, and the oppressive feeling of being caged inside when there was a life waiting for him outside. In short, he’d hated everything about school.
“Yeah,” he lied. “I’d like that.”
It was just a few days after that when Fugo appeared at breakfast, with his suit full holes, wearing a jacket and tie but no shirt. The jacket had been heavily modified – it barely covered Fugo at all – but Narancia’s attention was on the tie. He was pleased to see it was Fugo’s birthday tie, but then Mista had to ruin it by looking up from the book he was reading at the table and roaring with laughter.
Fugo slammed his coffee cup on the counter so hard, Narancia was surprised it hadn’t cracked. He didn’t say a word to Mista – or to Narancia, either, not even a deliberately pointed good morning directed at just Narancia. Instead, he poured himself a cup of coffee and glared into the depths of his cup.
“I get it now!” Narancia said as realization struck him. “That’s what you meant the other day when you said ‘not yet.’”
Mista looked confused, for just a second, and then leaned back in his chair. “Nice threads,” he commented. “It’s about time you looked like an actual member of the team instead of some tagalong intern.”
Fugo sat down at the table with his coffee and tossed his head to get his hair out of his eyes. It was longer than it had been when they’d met. It was a good look for him, Narancia thought, less childlike. He was taller now, too, quite a few centimeters taller, and it wasn’t looking like Narancia was ever going to catch up to him at this rate.
He was still younger than Narancia, though, so there was that.
A fact that both he and Mista were reminded of shortly after because it appeared that Fugo’s mini tantrum earlier had resulted in a cracked coffee cup. When he picked it up, there was a rather large puddle beneath it, one Fugo didn’t notice until coffee dripped onto his leg, a perfect bullseye into one of the new, rather large, holes in his pants.
He put the cup back down and was wiping furiously at the coffee on his leg – the same leg, Narancia realized, that he’d helped stitch up not that long ago – and even though it was Fugo’s fault in the first place, Narancia couldn’t blame him for getting pissed. The feeling of something dripping under your clothes fucking sucked. He hated it when water dripped from his hair under his shirt under a shower, and that was just water.
“Man, if only Moody Blues could rewind what just happened,” Mista said. “Then you could undo that.”
“Shut up!” Fugo snapped, accepting the small hand towel Narancia had grabbed for him.
Undeterred, Mista asked, in English, “you know what the opposite of coffee is?”
“Fuck you,” Fugo retorted, also in English.
“Wrong!” Mista said with glee. “The opposite of coffee is sneezy! Get it?”
“I hate you,” Fugo told him in Italian. “I regret the day Bucciarati decided to bring you onto the team.”
“He doesn’t mean it,” Narancia assured Mista, like why, he didn’t even know.
“I do mean it.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Don’t tell me what I feel!” Fugo shouted. He stood up and threw the towel onto the table. “Neither of you have a fucking clue!” With that, he stormed out of the kitchen, and then out of the house, judging by the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut.
Mista and Narancia exchanged glances, and then Narancia sighed and used Fugo’s discarded towel to mop up the spilled coffee. He didn’t want to leave it for Bucciarati to clean. Mista was back to reading his book, and it was quiet, so he must’ve already fed his Stand.
Narancia washed the cup out, then realized it was broken, and there was no use in saving it. He threw it away and sat back down, mulling over what had just happened.
Then he started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Mista asked, lowering the book to look at him.
“Sneezy!” Narancia pounded the table with his fist. “I get it now!”
Mista was so fucking funny sometimes.
“It’s sixty-three!” Fugo snapped. “Not sixty-two. The digits in the product have to add up to nine!”
“That’s for nines,” Narancia complained. “Not sevens.”
“Seven times nine is the same as nine times seven!” Fugo was getting red in the face now. “Commutative property, Narancia!”
“I don’t know what that is.”
Fugo raked his fingers through his hair. As much as Narancia was starting to get as pissed at Fugo as Fugo was at him, he kinda liked when Fugo did that. It fluffed up his hair a little, made him look like an angry kitten. Fugo was just as dangerous, too, as evidenced by the number of times he’d stabbed Narancia with a pencil just today alone.
“When you multiply, the order of the numbers doesn’t matter,” Fugo explained. “Seven times nine equals nine times seven. Seven times ten equals ten times seven.”
“Tens are easy,” Narancia said confidently. “You just add a zero to the end.”
“Yes!” Fugo exclaimed, and Narancia wasn’t sure if he was happy or ready to snap. He was pretty sure Fugo was happy, though. He’d spent enough time with him by now to tell the difference most of the time.
He noticed a lot of things about Fugo, like the way he’d chew on the inside of his cheek sometimes when he was thinking, or the way his face would get all soft when Narancia managed to demonstrate he’d retained anything he’d learned in a previous math lesson.
It took very little to piss Fugo off, but the opposite was true, too, because Fugo was pleased by the simplest of gestures. He basked in praise from Bucciarati, but all of them did. That was different. It was the subtle little smiles, the brightening of his face, the way the corners of his eyes would crinkle that made Narancia want to hug him, like Fugo was a puppy waiting to be rewarded for being a good boy. He could feel the smile spreading across his face. Fugo as a puppy. There was a mental image.
“What’s so funny?” Angry, pissed-off Fugo was back. Well, it was nice while it lasted.
“Nothing! God! Chill the fuck out already. Did you not get your morning smoke with your coffee or something?”
Fugo looked surprised, which was stupid. Of course, Narancia knew that Fugo had taken up smoking. He absolutely reeked of it when he’d come in from outside, or from a grocery run – places he’d been going more and more frequently. And Fugo was smart enough to know that the smell would tip anyone off – even someone as dense as Narancia.
Fugo didn’t bother denying it, although why he would, Narancia had no idea. Yeah, Fugo wasn’t old enough to buy cigarettes, but he wasn’t old enough to drive, either, and he’d been doing that since Narancia had known him. And it wasn’t like the rest of the stuff they did as part of Passione was even remotely legal.
It was just that Narancia didn’t know why Fugo started in the first place. The law school thing? So what if he didn’t get his bicycle license or whatever he was talking about the other day. The fact that Mista had mentioned how he used to sneak smokes behind the cinema and how those were the good ol’ days? Mista didn’t smoke now, so it didn’t seem like that was the part that Mista particularly missed. Stress? If it was a way to cope with stress, then it was doing a piss-poor job of it, because Narancia still caught Fugo rubbing his knuckles raw at times, sometimes digging his fingernails into the back of his hand like it was the only thing anchoring him.
Narancia hated that. If Fugo needed something to anchor him, Narancia was right here, with a ready-to-listen ear and a shoulder that was pretty good for leaning on. He was so goddamn fucking pissed at Fugo, now.
He shoved his chair back from the table and got to his feet. “Know what? I’m done for the day.”
“We’re almost done,” Fugo protested.
“No, we’re all the way done,” Narancia told him. “I have a headache, and we’re done.”
He stormed out of the kitchen, taking joy in the fact that this time he was the one slamming the door shut behind him. Once outside, he walked around to the back of the house, to where there was a little stone bench and a bird bath, and he sat down and looked up at the sky. It was too bad Fugo was such a pain in the ass because it might’ve been nice to sit out here together and argue over the shapes of the clouds overhead.
He summoned Aerosmith and watched it fly around. He wondered if Mr. Smith enjoyed it. He must; if Narancia felt a weird thrill of excitement just watching from the ground, how could the little pilot not feel it ten times more?
Even without his radar, it was obvious someone was approaching, and even without seeing the lime green getup out of the corner of his eye, he would’ve known it was Fugo. Fugo was here to apologize, like he always did.
And Narancia would forgive him, like he always did.
“I’m sorry,” Fugo said. He was standing there awkwardly, wringing his hands again, and Narancia stood up and knocked Fugo’s hands apart.
“Stop that,” he scolded, and then he felt terrible. Maybe that was Fugo’s way of calming himself, even though he didn’t appear very calm. It wasn’t Narancia’s place to tell him what he could and couldn’t do when he was anxious – and Fugo was anxious a lot.
He half expected Fugo to retaliate for the unwanted touch. Sometimes – not always, but sometimes –Fugo reacted very violently to being touched. It was a shame, because Mista was the complete opposite, and so was Narancia. He couldn’t imagine not wanting spontaneous hugs, and it wasn’t like Fugo shied away from physical contact if he were initiating it. There had been plenty of times when he’d smacked Narancia on the back of the head or punched him in the spleen when he did or said something dumb.
But then, Narancia didn’t like if anyone came too close to his eyes, so he tried to accept it was just another one of Fugo’s many hang-ups.
He felt bad, now, about storming out. He was older than Fugo, no matter what Mista said, and someone had to look out for him.
He sat down on the bench and patted the empty space next to him. Fugo was already back to fidgeting with his hands, but he sat. His entire body was taut, and Narancia took a chance, slowly leaning his head to the side until he was using Fugo’s shoulder as a pillow.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Apology accepted,” Fugo said tightly. “And so am I.”
Right. That’s what he’d come out here for in the first place. “Ditto on the apology accepted thing,” Narancia sighed.
He could feel Fugo’s shoulders relax, and it made Narancia’s gut clench.
“I’m sorry,” Fugo repeated again, and his voice hitched. “I didn’t mean to make you feel stupid.”
“Existing makes me feel stupid,” Narancia joked.
“You’re not stupid,” Fugo told him. “When it comes to some things, you’re smarter than I am.”
Like what, Narancia wanted to ask, but he felt like that would be pushing Fugo too far.
“You’re good with people,” Fugo said quietly. “People like you.”
“People like you, too.”
“People are afraid of me,” Fugo corrected.
Narancia disagreed. People weren’t afraid of Fugo at first sight – that came later, when an infuriated Fugo could cut anyone down with a blistering flurry of insults or an unexpected assault with a knife, slicing across someone’s throat or plunging into their chest.
And if Fugo had a reason to bring out his Stand – well, then people were fucking terrified, and rightfully so.
But at first glance, Fugo appeared to be nothing more than a polite, intelligent associate of Bucciarati’s, the token brain of the operation. Not that Bucciarati wasn’t smart, but just that Fugo had a way of twisting words around until the person he was speaking to was pretty sure they’d lost the argument, but wasn’t sure how.
It was pretty impressive to see, and even when Narancia didn’t understand a fucking word that was said, that’s when Fugo was in his element. He was fucking radiant in those moments, and Narancia felt a surge of pride every time, like he had any fucking thing to do with it.
“Eh, you’re not as badass as you think,” Narancia said. “I can totally take you in a fight.”
“Maybe,” Fugo allowed, probably because Narancia had always given back as good as he got when Fugo went really off the deep end.
Fugo rested his head right against Narancia’s, making Narancia’s heart accelerate.
“Are you giving up?” Fugo asked. “The math, I mean?”
That’s what Narancia meant about Fugo being good with words. Phrasing it like that, as giving up, was like waving a red cape. Narancia was not a quitter, and he did not give up. Even if he hated math more than Abbacchio hated pretty much everything.
“No,” he said. “My teacher’s a massive bitch, but I’d like to keep at it.”
“I’m sorry,” Fugo said again.
“Me too.”
They sat in silence for a while, then Fugo lifted his head. Narancia wanted to protest, but then he felt Fugo’s fingers gently sliding through his hair.
“Can I?” he asked, plucking at Narancia’s hairband.
“Yeah.”
Fugo slid it off Narancia’s head and did – whatever the fuck he did with it – before going back to finger-combing Narancia’s hair. He could feel Fugo’s short, neatly trimmed nails as they dragged over his scalp, and he closed his eyes, sighing in contentment.
“Narancia?” Fugo asked a few minutes later. He sounded so un-Fugo like, hesitant and cautious, that Narancia almost lifted his head to look at him. Almost.
“Yeah?”
“That one up there looks like a duck, don’t you think?”
Narancia opened his eyes and peered up at the sky. “Not even. That’s totally a drake.”
Fugo snorted, and Narancia grinned at him.
“Narancia…” Fugo said. With his face this close, Narancia noticed how very long Fugo’s lashes were. It was weird that he’d ever noticed before.
Narancia licked his lips. “Yeah?” he whispered.
“A drake is a male duck.”
“You’re such a fucking dick.”
Fugo smiled then, and Narancia couldn’t breathe. He pointed randomly in the air. “What about that one?”
Fugo tipped his head back. “Which one?”
He’d hoped to get Fugo to pick one at random, but he should’ve known better. Now that Fugo wasn’t staring at him so intently, it was easier to look at the clouds instead of him.
“The one that looks like a turtle.”
“A tortoise.”
“Touché,” Narancia said.
Fugo smiled at him again, and Narancia was lost.
“Stop stabbing me!” Narancia said, leaping back and away from the stick Fugo had in his hands.
“Then pay attention!” Fugo snapped back. “What. Type. Of tree. Is this?” he jabbed the stick in the direction of the aforementioned tree.
“It’s a fucking olive tree!”
“And?”
“And…it grows olives?”
Fugo looked ready to poke him again, and Narancia grabbed the stick away from him. “It’s um, decid...”
“Deciduous.”
“Yeah!” Narancia brightened. “It’s that! Am I right?”
“Semi-deciduous.”
“Oh, fuck you, that’s not fair to give me a trick question. And why the fuck are we doing this anyway? I said I wanted you to teach me math, not whatever this is.”
“We can go back and do math.”
“No!” The very thought of being trapped inside with Fugo, going over the multiplication tables again because there were just some that were harder to remember than others, was not Narancia’s idea of a fun afternoon out. “And you tricked me once already. When you invited me to come with you, I thought…”
Fugo’s eyes narrowed. “What did you think?”
“That you just wanted to hang out! That maybe you enjoyed my fucking company!” He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but it could be so frustrating. He wasn’t like Fugo, who had to have a reason and a purpose for everything he did. “Can’t we just, for one fucking time, hang out and have fun for once?”
“Fuck you,” Fugo told him before stalking off.
Oh, no, there was no fucking way Fugo was having the last word this time. Narancia went right after him, grabbing his arm and spinning him around. “Don’t you fucking walk away from me.”
“You’re not my mother.”
“No, but I’m older than you, so you should listen to me once in a while!”
“I do listen to you once in a while! I listen to you a lot more than once in a while!”
“You do?”
“How many times have I let you make the call when we’re out together? How many times have I let you summon Aerosmith when we’re in close quarters?”
“Twice.”
“Bullshit. That’s such bullshit and you know it. And why do you do that?”
“It is not bullshit. You are so fucking bossy it’s not even funny. And why do I do what?”
“The whole reason Bucciarati has us working together is so you don’t go off half-assed. That’s not being bossy, that’s being smart.” Low blow, Fugo. “And even then I still let you make the call sometimes.”
“Sometimes.”
“Fuck you,” Fugo said, but this time he sounded more tired than anything.
“Why do I do what?” Narancia asked again.
“Why do you keep saying you’re older than me?”
“Because I am!” He was seventeen now, the same age as Mista.
“Are you reminding me that you’re older,” Fugo said, with that sort of exaggerated patience he used when talking to Mista at times, “or to remind me that I’m younger?”
“It’s the same fucking thing!”
It was the wrong answer, apparently, because Fugo looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said, and for some reason Narancia felt like he was the one who should apologize.
He was rubbing his knuckles again, but this time, instead of knocking his hands apart, Narancia covered Fugo’s with his own.
“It’s fine,” he said. It wasn’t, and they both knew it wasn’t, but Fugo gave him a weak smile anyway.
“We can’t dance to Top of the World!” Narancia argued. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I didn’t say Top of the World! I said Sweet Sweet Smile! Although Top of the World…that might actually work, too.”
“You are such an old man, I swear. Fugo! Back me up here!”
“Back me up, Fugo, Gin and Juice isn’t any better.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?” Narancia knew he was shouting, but Mista was being ridiculous. “Fugo, come on.”
Fugo, who was researching God-only-knew-what on the laptop, said, without turning around, “I’m not getting involved.”
“Fugoooo.”
“No.”
“It’s because he knows I’m right and he doesn’t want to piss you off and ruin his chances.”
At that, Fugo turned around and glared at Mista so hard, Narancia expected Purple Haze to appear beside him at any second.
“Your chances at what?” Narancia asked.
“At getting you to pay attention when I’m tutoring you,” Fugo practically growled. He was still glaring at Mista, who was giving him the exaggerated ‘what?’ gesture.
“I have trouble paying attention whether I’m pissed at you or not,” Narancia pointed out. “But I know you agree with me, so you don’t even have to worry about that.”
He went over to his boombox and hit play, then demonstrated that he very much could dance to Gin and Juice. Fucking Mista.
“Fugo, search Napster for Sweet Sweet Life so I can show this little boy what’s what.”
“I’m almost as old as you!”
“Just a pup,” Mista said, patting him on the head.
Narancia knocked his arm away. “Don’t do it, Fugo.”
“Do it, Fugo,” Mista argued.
“I can’t get any fucking work done if you two don’t shut the fuck up!” Fugo yelled.
“We got mom upset,” Mista stage whispered.
“Fuck you,” Fugo told him.
“Just me? Not my mother and my grandmother and my grandmother’s dog?”
“Fugo?” Narancia asked. “You don’t have to look up anything if you don’t want.”
“Oh, I see how it is. Butter up Fugo so he agrees with you.”
“I’m not buttering up Fugo! I’m being a friend!”
“Just what Fugo wants to hear,” Mista mocked.
Fugo slammed both fists against the keyboard, then he typed rapidly and stood up.
“I’m picking neither. If you want to do your dance battle,” he made a shooing motion toward the middle of the floor, where they’d rolled up the rug, “you can do it to this.” He clicked on the play button, and the music began.
It wasn’t a bad choice at all. Narancia was surprised Fugo had picked it out and wondered if he’d looked for Think It Over specifically or had randomly chosen form the list of songs that came up when he searched for dance.
He bobbed his head to the opening, and Mista’s eyes grew wide. “Hey, this is a cover of the Cissy Houston song!”
“The who?”
Mista looked at him pityingly. “Kids today have no fucking taste in music.”
“You’re just stalling because you know I’m the better dancer,” Narancia said. He walked to the middle of the room to show off his moves to Mista. And Fugo, too, since he was standing there with his fingers on the back of the chair.
Narancia used up sixteen beats of the song before stepping aside and gesturing for Mista to take the floor. Mista was alright, he supposed. He might talk like an old geezer, and he might listen to music that Narancia’s grandparents probably listened to, but he wasn’t all talk. That wasn’t Mista’s style, though, to bluff.
The song was only a few minutes long (Narancia was really going to have to teach Fugo about choosing the club remix version next time), so it wasn’t long before they were both standing there looking at Fugo.
“Well?” Narancia asked.
“Well, what?”
“He’s still pissed,” Mista said to Narancia. “He knows damn well what.”
“Do it again,” Fugo said.
“Again?” Mista asked, clearly as surprised as Narancia.
“If you want me to judge, do it again. In fact, dance together.”
“Together?” Mista asked, recoiling visibly, like thanks, Mista.
“Do you want me to do this or not!” Fugo snapped.
“You’re serious.” Fugo scowled at him, and Mista held up his hands placatingly. “Fine, you’re serious. I swear, someone seriously needs to get-” Fugo was glaring daggers at him again, and Mista put his hand on his hip. “The music going,” he finished.
“You’re going down,” Narancia told Mista.
“I’m sure someone else would like to hear you say that,” Mista retorted as the music started again, but he was looking directly at Fugo instead.
Fugo cranked up the volume even more – to drown out Mista, probably – and crossed his arms over his chest. Narancia wasn’t sure how Fugo could even hope to judge when he was clearly not in the mood to be objective, but on the bright side, that meant he was more likely to decide in Narancia’s favor.
Oh, shit, but then Mista would point that out, that Fugo was biased, and it wouldn’t count like he’d won anything, even if Fugo recognized him as the superior dancer.
Which was probably why Mista was doing everything he could to piss off Fugo, and it made Narancia’s heart sink a little, that he’d tease Fugo like that, and drag Narancia into it, too.
“You give up already?” Mista asked, since he’d started dancing while Narancia just stood there trying to figure out what was off about Fugo this time.
It was because he was so focused on Fugo, and trying to figure out what he was thinking, that even when he started to show Mista exactly why he was going to lose, his attention didn’t stray far from Fugo.
And it was for that reason that he noticed Fugo’s fingers tapping the back of the chair, and the way he bobbed his head, the way Narancia had earlier, as he and Mista tried to one-up each other.
“Play it again,” Narancia told him when the song ended. “But this time, dance with us.”
“I’m not dancing with you.”
“Play it again anyway,” Mista said, and with a sigh, Fugo turned around and did so.
This time, though, Narancia’s entire focus was on Fugo. His face was full of yearning – it reminded Narancia of another time, of the way he’d so wanted his then-big-bro’s approval. It was bullshit, that Fugo was holding himself back, and he reached out his hand to Fugo while Mista continued to dance behind him.
Fugo’s gaze dropped to Narancia’s palm, then to his face, and he slowly slid his hand into Narancia’s and allowed himself to be dragged onto the makeshift dance floor. It was obvious he had no clue what he was doing, but he’d always been quick to pick things up, and he was able to copy Narancia’s moves by the end, even if they were sometimes a bit stiff.
When the song was over, Mista left them alone. Fugo’s hair was clinging to his forehead with a few strands on his cheeks and one stuck to his lip.
Narancia reached out slowly and hooked that particular hair with his middle finger, moving it out of the way.
Fugo’s inhalation of breath was audible. “Narancia…”
Narancia swallowed, afraid to say anything, afraid to do anything. Fugo’s eyes dipped, just a little, and he licked his lips. His eyes began to flutter closed, and just when Narancia started to lean in, to see if he was reading the situation correctly, Fugo took a step back and frowned.
“I still have to track down Panzenella’s whereabouts and report back to Bucciarati whether he’s skimming profits or not.”
“Sorry. I’ll just, uh, yeah, I’ll just take this with me, then.” He picked up his boombox and stood there with it in both hands while Fugo closed out of Napster with as much aggression as one could deliver to the left mouse button.
Fugo typed something, and then he lifted his fingers off the keyboard and rubbed at his knuckles a few times before resuming his task.
“Fugo?”
At first, Narancia didn’t think Fugo was going to acknowledge him at all, but then he turned his head slowly and locked eyes with Narancia.
“Next time,” Narancia said, holding up his boombox. “Join us next time, too, okay?”
Fugo nodded slowly, and then he turned his attention back to the screen. With a sigh, Narancia left the room, but not before glancing over his shoulder to see Fugo sitting with his eyes squeezed shut.
He was rubbing at his knuckles again.
Fugo is an overthinker. Narancia…is not.
When it comes to making decisions, Fugo falls back on logic and reason. He likes to plan, he likes to have a reasonable idea of the outcome ahead of time, which, to be fair, he’s damn good at doing in the heat of battle, taking in new information and quickly figuring out what their enemies’ Stands are capable of. Usually.
Narancia, on the other hand, while capable of assessing a situation, prefers to take action based on the way he feels in the moment. Right now, what he’s feeling is that he’d really really like to kiss Fugo.
So he does, because he knows that Fugo really really wants him to.
When he fits his mouth against Fugo’s, his eyes drifting shut at the contact, all he can taste is the cigarette Fugo had earlier. He doesn’t see Fugo’s eyes widen in shock, but he knows the moment that Fugo has recovered, because Fugo’s fingers are buried in Narancia’s hair, crushing the unlit cigarette he’d been toying with. His mouth opens beneath Narancia’s.
Now all Narancia can taste is Fugo, and he can’t get enough.
His tongue slides into Fugo’s mouth, and he can feel Fugo’s other hand settle between his shoulder blades, and he thinks he might die on the spot. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted this, how long he’d wanted this, and he never, ever wanted to let go.
Fugo’s kisses are salty, and Narancia realizes what he tastes are Fugo’s tears. Without lifting his head, he brushes a thumb against Fugo’s cheek, at least the best he can while kissing Fugo like it’s the only thing keeping them upright, and when Fugo’s breath hitches, and the tears are streaming down Fugo’s cheeks like a waterfall, Narancia finally, reluctantly, ends the kiss, but his forehead remains pressed against Fugo’s, and his hands remain where they are, too – one on Fugo’s cheek and the other in his hair.
“Nara,” Fugo whispers. His lashes are glistening with the tears clinging to them, and Narancia wants to kiss each tiny droplet away, one by one. He didn’t know when he’d become such a fucking girl all of a sudden, but he could at least be honest with himself. And then Fugo says his name again, this time with a hitch in his breath – and Narancia gives in to the impulse, feathering kisses over Fugo’s now-closed eyes and then his cheeks.
Fugo’s hands are almost clawing at Narancia’s back now, unable to get a decent grip on Narancia’s shirt, skin-tight as it was. Despite the flakes of tobacco now clinging to his sweaty skin – he probably had a good amount in his hair by now, too – Fugo’s desperation makes Narancia’s entire body throb with want, with need, in the way that Mista sometimes talked about. He wants more from Fugo, so much more, but not right now.
Fugo’s still the only one younger than Narancia, and as the older, more experienced one, it's up to Narancia to remember that.
For now, he settles for leaning in to kiss Fugo again.