Archive of Our Own ^beta

Narancia crossed his arms over his chest, his lips turned down in a scowl. “I still don’t know why Giorno can’t fix it,” he told Fugo. “He created a new one for me after I got hit with that Old Man Stand, and that wasn’t even right away, because you were both hit with it, too!”

“I would if I could,” Giorno explained. Again. “But Gold Experience creates living parts, not removes them.”

Fugo removed the cold compress from his cheek. “If it’s all the same,” he said slowly and carefully, “I’d really rather not have your Stand yanking out my teeth anyway.”

“Technically,” Mista said, “any of our Stands could remove them, just not painlessly.”

“Even yours?” Fugo asked before moving the compress to the other side of his face. He gestured to the sextet of floating bullets currently chowing down on slices of banana; one of them took a moment to stick its tongue out at him.

“Would you like Number One to demonstrate just how hard he can kick a molar out of your mouth?”

“I don’t want anyone’s Stand to remove them at all!” Narancia cried out. “Can’t you just…make them straight or something?”

Mista laughed at that, and Fugo elbowed him in the ribs.

“Narancia,” Giorno said gently. “Even if we could, there’s no room for them.”

“Sure, there is! They’ve been there this whole time, right? So why not just leave them alone?”

“Because he’s in pain, Narancia.”

“I know,” Narancia said tearfully, “but isn’t there another way to help him that doesn’t involve making him stupid?”

Three sets of eyes stared at Narancia, and then Mista started laughing. “Shit, man, I thought you were serious for a second there!”

Giorno and Fugo exchanged glances. Giorno raised an eyebrow, Fugo nodded, and then Giorno stood up. That was all it took to get Mista to stop laughing. If Fugo weren’t in so much pain, he would’ve rolled his eyes, but the aspirin he’d taken earlier, that had barely managed to take even the edge off the pain in the first place, was beginning to wear off, and all he wanted to do was lie down, teeth clamped on one of the peppermint tea bags Giorno had stocked in the freezer for him. If he was lucky, he’d manage to get some sleep, but he doubted it.

He wasn’t terribly thrilled with the idea of having his wisdom teeth extracted, either, but the pain had been getting steadily worse, to the point where he was experiencing headaches, too, and he was beginning to feel that chomping on one of Purple Haze’s capsules would hurt less.

The throbbing pain was getting worse, and he hadn’t even noticed that Giorno had already left the room, with Mista in tow, until Narancia squatted down in front of him and placed his hand on Fugo’s knee. If not for the pain, Fugo might have felt a throbbing elsewhere, but then, if not for the pain, Narancia wouldn’t be where he was right now.

The universe basically hated Fugo; that was it.

“What Mista said,” Narancia began. “About not thinking I was serious.”

The pounding in his head was getting worse, and Fugo’s eyes slid shut. He nodded to indicate he was listening but regretted it instantly.

“Fugo?” Narancia’s hand slid up Fugo’s knee, to his thigh, as Narancia leaned closer and brushed the hair out of Fugo’s face.

Fugo could only groan in response.

“Do you want me to help you to your room?”

I can walk, Fugo wanted to say. The pain is in my mouth, not in my feet. The problem was that Narancia’s hand, innocently close to Fugo’s groin, made him feel light-headed.

He nodded.

It was weird, having Narancia fuss over him. ‘Helping’ Fugo to his room had basically meant just walking with him, but once there, Narancia had been a whirlwind of energy, plumping up Fugo’s pillows, removing the now warm compress from Fugo’s now-limp hand, and retrieving the frozen teabags from the kitchen. Even just sitting there at Fugo’s bedside, as if he were on his deathbed instead of just suffering a toothache (teethache? Because all four of them hurt like a mother fucker – four of them, Mista), Narancia couldn’t help toying with Fugo’s blanket, one that he’d tucked around Fugo’s legs the moment he’d stretched out on the bed.

“Fugo,” Narancia said. He’d managed to partially pull the blanket off Fugo – which was fine, because Fugo was fully dressed and hadn’t really needed it – and had a good portion of it twisted in his hands. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Fugo reached into his mouth to remove the peppermint tea bag and placed it on the nightstand, on the washcloth that once been his cold compress.

“Hurts,” was all he could say. Fucking hell, just opening his mouth felt like torture. He’d rather listen to any number of Mista’s conversational topics than deal with this.

“Yeah, but…” Narancia leaned forward, peering into Fugo’s eyes. “Fugo, they’re your wisdom teeth.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you’re a genius. Literally!”

So far Narancia was not telling Fugo anything he didn’t already know. He lightly probed at one of the newly but only partially erupted teeth with his tongue and winced. He wasn’t sure why he’d done that, but it hadn’t been very genius-like.

“Fugo…” Narancia sounded like he was ready to cry. Fugo lifted his hand – it was the one he’d just been poking around in his mouth with, but oh, well – and covered both of Narancia’s.

Apparently, that was the trigger, because Narancia pressed his forehead onto Fugo’s hand and shook his head a few times before looking up again.

“I don’t want you to be sad!” he said. He tucked his head against his shoulder in an attempt to wipe away the lone tear tracking down his cheek. “You really like being the brains out of all of us. You’ll be really unhappy if you can’t outtalk Mista!”

“Narancia, what are you talking about?”

“It’s happening already!” Narancia tugged one of his hands free and caressed Fugo’s cheek lightly with a fingertip, a touch so faint that Fugo could barely feel it. “Your wisdom teeth! When they take them out, you’ll just be regular smart!”

Fugo closed his eyes and bit back a laugh. Narancia said a lot of dumb things, but this had to be the dumbest. He didn’t want to ridicule Narancia, though, because his friend was legitimately distressed.

“And you’ve had all these headaches lately, because of your teeth,” Narancia continued. “Sure seems like the two are connected to me.”

“They’re called wisdom teeth because they’re the last ones to come in, when you’re older and supposedly wiser. You probably had your wisdom teeth before I got mine. And my headaches are because the pain in my mouth is affecting the nerves that trigger a headache.”

“Really?” Narancia asked. He gently brushed his fingers over Fugo’s temple. “You swear?”

Fugo made an X gesture over his chest, and Narancia grinned at him.

“You can cross your heart,” he said, “but don’t hope to die, okay?” When Fugo nodded, Narancia added, “or stick a needle in your eye, because you don’t want to fuck around with your eyes.”

Narancia’s other hand was resting on the edge of the bed, beneath Fugo’s. Fugo laced his fingers with Narancia’s and gave him an encouraging squeeze. “The closest a needle will get to my eye will be when they numb my gums.”

“I don’t trust them,” Narancia stated. His mouth was set in the stubborn frown he got when he and Mista argued over money – mainly, Mista never repaying Narancia. “I don’t care if they’re from the Speed Dragon Foundation. How do we know they won’t do something to you, especially knowing you work with Giorno?”

Fugo didn’t bother to correct him on the Foundation’s name. Honestly, ‘Speed Dragon’ sounded a lot cooler – not that he was the type to care about things being ‘cool’ or not. That was more Mista’s thing. Narancia had very strong opinions about cool vs. not cool, too, but Mista liked to weigh in with his opinion more often.

Narancia’s concern about not trusting the SPW, though – Fugo shared those concerns. He’d honestly rather have local anesthetic alone, but there was always a risk that Purple Haze might appear if Fugo was particularly anxious about the procedure. He didn’t expect to be, but it had only taken Giorno once to notice Fugo’s nervous habit, back when Narancia had gone out for supplies (and as much as Fugo had been furious with Narancia for blowing up an entire city block, he’d been right to worry). Giorno had also seen how dangerous Fugo’s Stand was in close quarters.

So, reluctantly, Fugo had agreed, under the condition that Giorno and Mista both vouched for the dental surgeon – because not having his teeth extracted at all was simply not an option. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t sleep, and he could barely eat.

“I don’t trust them either,” Fugo admitted. He reached for the teabag he’d set down earlier and stuck it back in his mouth. It wasn’t as pleasant as it had been when it was still frozen, but the peppermint did seem to help a little bit. Not much, but he’d take what he could get.

“I’m going with you,” Narancia announced.

“Narancia…”

“Don’t.” Narancia said. “Don’t pull that shit with me.”

Fugo made a pitiful attempt at a glare, but his mouth was throbbing on both sides and he gave up, dropping his head back against the pillow with a groan. He closed his eyes again, and he could feel Narancia’s fingers leave his own, followed by the sound of him leaving Fugo’s room. The stab of pain in his chest was nearly as bad as the nonstop ache in his face.

But only nearly, because despite the number of beatings he’d taken since joining Passione, at least there was a point in those aches and pains, and he tended to heal more quickly from them. He’d probably heal more quickly after the extraction, too. This toothache bullshit was getting old, though, and he was half tempted to have Purple Haze yank them out just like Mista had teasingly suggested.

He could hear someone coming into the room, and even before opening his eyes, he knew it was Narancia. He’d recognize those footsteps anywhere.

“Give me that,” Narancia ordered, and Fugo weakly pushed the teabag out of his mouth, but before he could catch it in his hand, Narancia removed it from his lips and pressed a warm, borderline hot, washcloth to the side of his face.

It felt surprisingly good.

“Sometimes it’s better to alternate between cold and hot,” he explained. “That’s what my mom did for…for that asshole she married, when he had an abscess.”

Hearing Narancia describe his father that way caused another little twist of pain in Fugo’s chest. Not because he felt bad for the guy, who as far as Fugo was concerned, could drop off the face of the earth, but because he knew how much pain he’d caused Narancia. Asshole was far too kind a word for anyone who’d abandon a child who’d just lost his mother.

“Thank you,” Fugo said. He reached up and covered Narancia’s hand with his own, pressing the compress more firmly against his face.

Narancia cleared his throat. “When this one gets too cold, I’ll warm it up so you can use it on the other side. And then I’ll get some ice so we can switch back.”

We. Narancia didn’t have to stay, but Fugo found the pain slightly more tolerable with someone catering to him. He hadn’t really imagined Narancia as the motherly type, but he couldn’t picture any of the others doing this. Abbacchio would probably just toss an instant ice pack at him and suggest rubbing the area with whiskey or scotch. Bucciarati might sit with him a bit, to make sure he was doing all right, but he wouldn’t likely hold the compress to Fugo’s face when his hands got tired of doing it himself.

Mista – well, Mista would probably keep him company and try to distract him from the pain by regaling him with his stance on something like the unfairness of it all that some animals were color blind and others weren’t – obviously birds could see in color; otherwise it was pointless for the males to have such brilliant plumage – and how it was a shame that dogs couldn’t see the vibrancy of certain colors – and everyone knew how much Mista loved his bright colors. Then Fugo would try to explain that a lot of color-blind animals had the tradeoff of superior night vision, which would then lead them into a debate on the merits of each.

Not that that particular conversation had taken place once before or anything.

Perhaps Giorno had a decent bedside manner, but he was far too busy running Passione to sit at Fugo’s bedside because of a goddamn toothache. And it wasn’t that Fugo needed him – or anyone – to do this.

He didn’t need it – but he rather liked it.

An hour later, after Narancia had, as promised, swapped the second warm compress for a cold one, and after Fugo had assured him that yes, everyone, even Narancia, had wisdom teeth, if that helped assure him even a little bit that Fugo losing his wouldn’t impact his intelligence, and that no, the fact that Narancia’s had never erupted at all was not why he wasn’t as smart as the rest of them.

In fact, Narancia’s gentle touches and the way he knew exactly where to apply pressure to Fugo’s aching face demonstrated his ability to pick up on things pretty quickly. It was a shame he didn’t use that attention to detail when Fugo tried tutoring him.

But then, Narancia had always been much more of a people person than Fugo.

He didn’t remember falling asleep; the last thing he remembered was Narancia’s fingers combing through his hair. When he woke, Narancia was still sitting in the chair with his upper body draped over the bed and his face turned to the side. There was a small bit of drool hanging out of the side of his mouth, which normally Fugo would find rather disgusting, but his first thought was

Narancia stayed here all night

followed by

I feel like someone slapped me in the face with a brick.

Narancia stirred when Fugo shifted his legs, and he sat up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Need me to get you anything?” he asked with a yawn. “Aspirin, clove oil, tea?”

He must have talked to Giorno while Fugo was asleep because there had been no mention of clove oil last night.

“No,” Fugo said reluctantly. “I can’t have anything to eat or drink until it’s over.”

“It’s today?” Narancia looked and sounded more anxious than Fugo could ever remember him being.

“Weren’t you paying attention?” Fugo asked.

“I was! I didn’t know it was today, though!”

“I thought that’s why you said you were going with me.”

“I am going with you, but I’d do that no matter when they were yanking out your teeth!” Narancia’s face fell. “I don’t mean they’re going to actually yank them out. Do they?”

“It depends. They might have to break each tooth into pieces first.”

“Then why can’t Bucciarati just unzip them out? Giorno’s Stand can’t take care of this, but Sticky Fingers is perfect for this!” His face brightened. “Unzip your gums, take ‘em out, zip zip, all closed up.”

“You heard Abbacchio bitching about how much it hurt when Bucciarati zipped his hand back up.”

“You can take it, though! I know you can! And it already hurts – it can’t be any worse than surgery, right?”

“You really think Abbacchio wants him poking around another man’s mouth?”

“What do you mean? Did he do this for Abbacchio, too? Perfect, then – he’s already got practice!”

“No, he didn’t remove Abbacchio’s teeth. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Narancia lightly brushed the back of his fingers across Fugo’s cheek. “I think it would be safest if you had someone you trust do this. Even if he didn’t do the same exact thing before, it’s not like this is new to him. He unzipped Giorno’s face and stuck Luka’s fingers in there, remember?”

Fugo didn’t bother explaining the whole Abbacchio-Bucciarati thing, because it was just a hunch he had, and it wasn’t really relevant. He wasn’t even sure why he’d brought it up. As a joke? He was just as bad as Mista in that case.

“He did all that before nearly dying, though,” Fugo pointed out.

“Yeah, and I nearly died, too,” Narancia said. He was leaning forward, his hand pressing against Fugo’s pillow. “But I didn’t, and neither did he.”

It was difficult to think with Narancia’s breath fanning his face. And with the throbbing pain that had become his companion over the past couple of days.

“He doesn’t feel confident in Sticky Fingers’ ability just yet. It requires fine motor skills.”

“I think his motor skills are just fine,” Narancia said stubbornly.

“He meant working on a smaller scale.”

“So what if he fucks up? Can’t he just zip it back on and start over? Or get Giorno to rebuild anything he can’t zip back on?”

“How did it feel when Giorno grew you a new tongue?”

“It hurt more when I cut it out.”

Fugo’s heart clenched. It was his fault Narancia had been forced to do that. Fugo had gone after them in the end, but nearly too late to be of any help. Yes, his unexpected reappearance in Sardinia had distracted the man they later discovered was the boss, but that didn’t mean anything. Narancia’s Aerosmith might’ve easily done the same; what good had it done for Fugo to show up after Narancia had already battled two Stand users alone?

Polnareff’s Requiem Stand gave everyone else’s a power-up, but it had also given Purple Haze’s anxiety just as much of a boost. Fugo’s Stand had nearly gone insane trying to clean itself instead of punching wildly and breaking all the capsules on its fists.

Fugo had been useless, completely useless, dropping to his knees in agony. He was the only one still in his own body, unable to separate his own mind from Purple Haze’s. It was like he was two separate people all by himself, in immense pain and dangerously close to vomiting.

In one moment, Narancia had been bent over, rubbing Fugo’s shoulder in concern, and in the next, he’d been impaled on broken iron bars, one through his stomach and one through his femur. If not for Giorno, Narancia would have bled out. Giorno had already started creating new parts before they got Narancia down, recognizing, as Fugo had, that the moment he was freed from the fence, time was of the essence.

It had been then, when Fugo had used his tie as a tourniquet around Narancia’s thigh (Giorno’s thigh at the time), and when Giorno had ended up using it to recreate both blood and blood vessels while Fugo had Narancia’s hand clasped in his, that he’d realized that losing Narancia would leave a very big hole in his life. This pain was far worse than what he’d felt when Narancia had left him on the dock to swim after the others; in Rome, he’d nearly watched his best friend die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Maybe Narancia was right, and Bucciarati could do it. He probably would do it, too, because while Bucciarati could hold a grudge like nobody’s business, he’d been glad to see Fugo there in the end. It didn’t matter though. Fugo wouldn’t ask Bucciarati for help with this. He didn’t deserve it. Perhaps this was the universe’s way of punishing Fugo.

That didn’t mean he wanted to continue experiencing the unique brand of pain that toothaches fell under. He’d rather get the shit beat out of him.

There was only one thing he was good for, and he couldn’t even focus. To borrow from Giorno, he was rather useless right now. Again. Just like he’d been when it mattered.

“Fugo?” Narancia’s brows were furrowed. “Are you sure this isn’t affecting your brain?”

“I’m sure.”

Narancia didn’t seem convinced. “You keep drifting off.” He bit his bottom lip. “I don’t want to lose you.” He sounded a little choked up.

“I’m not dying, Narancia.” It just felt like he was.

“I know! I just…I don’t want to lose the Fugo I know.”

“Would you be upset if you did?” Fugo licked his lips. “If losing my wisdom teeth made me ‘regular smart,’ would that bother you?”

“No!” Narancia hurried to reassure him. “I’d like you no matter what. I just don’t think you’d like you very much.”

That was nothing to worry about; Fugo hadn’t liked himself for a very long time. There was no point in sharing that, though. Narancia was already worried enough, and Fugo suspected that Narancia knew anyway – maybe not that it had been a very long time, but that it had been at least since that whole incident in Rome.

When Narancia had opened his eyes – Giorno’s eyes – and given Fugo and Giorno (still in Narancia’s body) a weak smile, Fugo had felt like the ground had dropped beneath him. It had been Giorno’s face and Giorno’s mouth, but it was Narancia’s smile. They hadn’t defeated the boss yet, but in that instant, for a split-second of time, it had seemed to Fugo as if they’d already won.

“If you’re wrong, and you do end up regular smart,” Narancia went on, “you’d still be smarter than me. But even if you weren’t, you’d act like you were.” He grinned at Fugo when he said that.

Narancia was right about that, too. Fugo was so used to knowing more than everyone else, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop weighing in when Mista said something blatantly false. Or stupid. Or annoying.

There was a knock on the door, and then Giorno peeked his head in. Fucking hell, Giorno, why bother knocking if you were just going to barge in anyway?

“Mista’s getting the car,” he said. “Are you ready?”

Since Fugo hadn’t showered or dressed, it was obvious he wasn’t. He shot a half-hearted glare in Narancia’s direction for allowing him to sleep so late, but Narancia’s attention was on their boss.

“I’m going, too,” he announced.

“I know,” Giorno said with a nod. “You told me last night.”

“You didn’t say it was going to be today,” Narancia accused.

“My apologies. I assumed you knew and that’s why you were bringing it up.”

“It would help if you’d come out and tell me things,” Narancia sulked.

“I’m sorry.” Giorno sounded like he meant it, too. “I just assumed you and Fugo had discussed it.”

And there went any respect Fugo had for Giorno over this issue, because he didn’t appreciate being thrown under the bus like that.

“Fugo has an excuse for not telling me,” Narancia said, turning to face Giorno and folding his arms over his chest. “He’s not thinking straight.”

Fugo could feel his face heat up at that, and not because of the reminder that Fugo was, in fact, not straight – and certainly not because of the direction of his gaze. Fugo had absolutely not been checking out his best friend’s ass from this angle, even if it was right in his line of sight, lying in bed as he was. His face was warm because it was just a novel feeling, having someone defend him – and to the don of Passione, at that. But then, Narancia had never been one to back down when he felt he was right, no matter who he was talking to.

At least he wasn’t yelling.

Giorno, who never seemed to miss anything, glanced at Fugo and then back at Narancia.

“We’ll meet you out front in fifteen minutes,” he said, and Fugo knew damn well that Giorno didn’t think he’d need that long to change his clothes.

Once the door was closed, Narancia turned back to face Fugo. “Do you need any help?”

Fugo shook his head. “I think I can manage getting dressed on my own. And I’d really like to brush my teeth and rinse out my mouth before we leave.”

“I’ll get the salt!” Narancia said, bounding out the door as if making sure Fugo had a salt water rinse was the most exciting thing he’d do all day.

Once he was gone, Fugo swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed at his face. Despite what he’d told Narancia, Fugo was terrified of the upcoming surgery, and he was glad Narancia was going. Giorno had a bit of a soft spot for Narancia – whether it was his buoyant personality or the fact that Giorno had nearly seen himself die when Narancia had been occupying his body was anyone’s guess – but Giorno granted Narancia allowances that he didn’t grant to anyone else.

Well, maybe Mista. Giorno seemed to have a soft spot for his second-in-command, too.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Narancia repeated, a little more loudly.

“We need access to his mouth,” the Speed Dragon dentist asshole said. Again. As if Narancia hadn’t heard him the first time.

“Perhaps a compromise is in order,” Giorno said.

He was good at smoothing stuff over like that; if anyone could figure this out, Giorno could.

“Narancia will stay at his side as the anesthetic takes effect, and then he will stand over here,” the mafia don gestured to the corner of the room where Narancia could have somewhat of a view of Fugo’s face, “during the actual surgery.”

“That’s all well and good,” the dentist – no, the oral surgeon, Fugo had called him earlier – said, and he didn’t look like he was very convinced that it was well or good, “but I don’t want any interruptions, no sudden movements. Do you understand?” he asked Narancia, as if he were a child. Asshole.

“I’m not stupid,” Narancia said hotly. “I’ll stay out of your way. I don’t want you blaming me if you fuck anything up. And you’d better not fuck anything up.”

“Pannacotta, is this acceptable to you?”

It was a clear sign that Fugo was more anxious than he was letting on because he didn’t bother correcting the surgeon on his name. He just said, “I want him to stay,” and Narancia supposed that was the important part. He was so tempted to stick his tongue out at the dentist, but he didn’t want to give the guy any more reason to think of him as a little kid.

He felt Fugo’s fingers brush at his hand, and he held Fugo’s hand in his as the dentist – surgeon – placed the mask over his face.

“What’s that?” Narancia asked suspiciously.

“Nitrous oxide,” the surgeon said.

“What’s it do?”

“Relaxes the patient. He’ll release his death grip on your hand soon.”

Narancia didn’t mind that Fugo was squeezing his fingers almost hard enough to break them, but he didn’t want Fugo all stressed out, either. He did that enough on his own as it was.

“Breathe normally,” the surgeon instructed Fugo. “You may notice it tastes strange. One of my patients said it was like licorice.”

Fugo snickered, like what the hell?

It sounded kinda gross to Narancia, who wasn’t terribly fond of licorice to begin with. “Too bad they didn’t have strawberry nitrous, huh?” he asked, swiping his thumb over the back of Fugo’s hand.

Fugo laughed a little more. Narancia wasn’t even trying to be funny.

“That’s not even funny,” Narancia protested, and that just made Fugo laugh harder. And by harder, it mostly meant that his chest was visibly shaking, because his laughter wasn’t loud, exactly – it was more muffled than anything with the mask over his face.

Besides, Fugo only tended to be loud when he was pissed. When he was reassuring, his voice was soft and gentle, and when he and Mista would argue, Fugo tended to be more condescending than loud.

Sometimes both, but that’s when Mista pushed him too far.

Fugo was loud and angry with Narancia, too, quite often, but he’d never been condescending. They had an odd friendship, but they were both too different and yet too alike for it to be any other way, and Narancia didn’t want to lose that. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Fugo with the whole ‘wisdom teeth are completely unrelated to IQ’ thing; it was that he didn’t trust anyone that Bucciarati hadn’t vetted. He trusted Giorno; he did. He admired Giorno, too. But he wasn’t Bucciarati.

He should have insisted that Bucciarati weigh in with his opinion, but he felt guilty for not noticing something was up with his capo. He’d begun to think Bucciarati would never wake from his coma, but he’d hoped. He’d hoped really hard.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake with Fugo – once this was over, Narancia would pay particular attention to him, to make sure Fugo was himself once he woke.

Which was much later than expected. The surgery…did not go well, exactly.

As Giorno had anticipated (how the heck was he so good at that?), Purple Haze did, in fact, make an appearance once the mask was lifted away from Fugo’s face and the procedure began. Not only that, but in the blink of an eye, Fugo’s fingers were clamped on the dentist’s neck. Narancia couldn’t tell from where he was standing, but he could picture Fugo’s fingertips leaving slight indentation in the man’s neck.

Apparently, the dentist had been prepped on at least one of these two things being a possibility because an IV was inserted in Fugo’s arm almost immediately. It was obvious that the dental assistant was a Stand user, because Narancia caught the way her eyes darted over to Purple Haze as she inserted the needle. It was difficult not to notice; Fugo’s Stand was enormously tall and acting incredibly distressed.

It pained Narancia’s heart to see Purple Haze acting this way, so he cautiously approached, telling the Stand in quiet, soothing tones that everything would be okay, even though he didn’t believe it himself. Fugo had been doing so well at first, but then Narancia had been forced to let go of his hand and move out the way, and then, as Fugo had thrown out as a possibility (because he was another one who was really good at seeing likely outcomes – or, in Fugo’s case, basically just expecting the worst), the first tooth needed to be broken into pieces to be removed.

So Narancia stood next to Haze as first one tooth was removed bit by bit, and then the next. He hadn’t even realized his anxiety over Fugo had caused him to summon his own Stand, but to the dentist’s and his assistant’s credit, they worked as if there weren’t a tiny bomber plane circling the room from above.

And then, once they’d removed the last tooth and stitched Fugo’s gums shut, Purple Haze vanished.

“Fugo!” Narancia cried out.

“He’s fine,” the dental assistant said, “just sleeping.” Even with the mask covering the lower part of her face, it was clear she was smiling; the corners of her eyes crinkled, and then, Narancia could have kissed her because she stepped aside so Narancia could take her place beside Fugo. He noticed two long snakes – one red, one greenish blue – coiled around Fugo’s body, but they, too, disappeared as suddenly as Purple Haze had.

“My Stand,” the dental assistant explained. “I promise The Snakes were only restraining him so he didn’t lash out again.”

Narancia picked up one of Fugo’s lax hands, relieved to feel it was warm. He patted it with his other hand. “It’s over,” he said.

He was only partly correct.

Narancia drove home, of course; Fugo was in no shape to drive, still groggy from the general anesthetic and a bit unsteady on his feet. They brought a wheelchair around and insisted Fugo sit his ass down in it before allowing Narancia to take him outside. Once Narancia got him into the car, Fugo lifted his hand – the one Narancia had been holding both before and after the surgery- and examined it, turning it this way and that.

“You can pick,” Narancia said, once he’d buckled Fugo’s seatbelt and run around to the other side to slide into the driver’s seat. It wasn’t the first time he’d driven anywhere, but it was definitely the first time he’d done so with Fugo in the car. Fugo preferred being the driver – he had a major hang up with not being in control of the things around him, and as the driver, he also claimed to have final say over the music choices.

(He did, once in a while, pick something that he knew Narancia would like, pretending he’d ended up on that station accidentally, just before making a turn or something that just happened to require both hands, and then leaving the radio on that station as if he’d completely forgotten about it.)

Fugo just stared at him. Maybe he didn’t understand. Narancia could feel the nervous flutter in his stomach.

“The radio,” he clarified, and then, when Fugo’s eyes still seemed to be trained on Narancia and Narancia only, he tapped on the radio display. “You can pick the station. Whatever you want. Even if it’s boring.”

“Whatever I want,” Fugo echoed.

“Yeah!” Narancia gave him a forced grin. He felt like he’d been doing that a lot lately around Fugo. “Whatever you want.”

“Okay,” Fugo said, but he didn’t make a move toward the radio.

“Umm, so want me to pick something, then?”

“Okay,” Fugo repeated, and thankfully, once Narancia started searching for something relaxing to listen to, Fugo’s eyes dropped to the radio instead.

It was fucking unnerving, is what it was.

“Is this okay?” Narancia asked, settling on some station that sounded like the classical music he’d sometimes catch Fugo playing in the music room. Like, Narancia knew Fugo used to play piano, but who knew the boss even had a music room where he could put that skill to use? It was old school fancy, too, with a big ass piano and a fucking harp. Narancia had known harps existed, but he’d never seen one in real life until Giorno had assumed control of Passione.

No one ever played it, but sometimes he caught Fugo glancing at the strings like he was trying to figure it out. Mista, too, and if either of them ever seriously learned how to play the harp, he really hoped it was Mista, because the mental image of Mista in his usual attire seated at a fancy gold harp, plucking out some lame ass ballad from the 70s – Narancia would almost pay money to see that.

Almost, because he’d much rather pay to see a concert he’d actually enjoy.

Fugo didn’t answer, but at this point, Narancia hadn’t expected him to. A quiet Fugo was nothing new, but a quiet Fugo in the car was something else. Fugo talked nonstop when he drove – he should be ten times worse as a passenger.

And then, halfway home, he finally said something, and Narancia almost wished he hadn’t.

“Do you believe in Heaven?”

“Like, Heaven, Heaven, or do you mean heaven on earth, like ‘dude, fuck, this is awesome chocolate cake?’”

“Yes.”

Narancia lifted one hand off the steering wheel and dragged it down over his face. He had an inkling of understanding now, of why Fugo reacted the way he did when he’d ask a question and Narancia’s answers weren’t what he expected.

“Which is it? The actual Heaven or the almost-like-heaven?”

“Yes.”

Of course. Of course, that’s what Fugo was going to say. Narancia had known it, but he’d asked it as a multiple-choice question anyway.

“I guess so,” Narancia said, assuming Fugo meant Heaven like in the Bible.

He didn’t, though.

Narancia didn’t like talking about that time when he’d nearly died, because there hadn’t been any beam of light or rainbow bridge or anything welcoming him to the other side. Did that mean he wasn’t destined for Heaven, or that he hadn’t been as close to death as everyone had acted like he’d been? Or did it mean that there was no such thing as Heaven after all, and once you died, you were dead and that was it.

He remembered Fugo crouching down and covering his head with his arms like he was being attacked by a flock of birds, and he remembered fearing something had attacked him, or that something was wrong with him – why was Fugo the only one still in his own body? – and he’d crouched down next to Fugo to check on him.

The next thing he knew, Fugo was the one leaning over him with an agonized expression on his face. Narancia’s leg was throbbing, and Fugo was holding one of his hands tight – it was covered with blood, but Narancia hadn’t realized at the time it was his own. It was like part of his memory had been literally erased – which, they’d later told him, it had been, and it hadn’t been the first time, either.

“What do you think it’s like?” Fugo asked.

His speech was slurred, almost like he was drunk. The anesthesia, of course, that was it. The whole reason Narancia was driving in the first place.

“What do I think Heaven is like?” Narancia shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know, angels, those little mini-harps, reuniting with lost family, that sort of thing.”

His throat tightened at the memory of his mother. If there was a Heaven, and if Narancia made it there (which was super unlikely on account of that whole Fifth Commandment thing), she’d be there for sure. If not for the fact that she was the best mother in the world, then, at the very least, for the fact that she was a goddamn saint who’d deserved way better than the fucking prick she’d married.

“If Heaven is real, it’s just our souls that go there, right?” Fugo was still stuck on this.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Do you think that means that we’d look like our Stands there? Purple Haze, having tea with Mr. Smith? Would they be the same size in Heaven, do you think?”

Fugo stopped talking and wiped at his mouth. A quick glance over showed that he was slobbering all over himself, just like his Stand did at times, and it was the most ridiculous mental image, Purple-Haze-Fugo with a teacup in one hand, waving a page filled with math questions and wrong answers with the other, while a tiny Mr. Smith-Narancia balanced on one of Aerosmith’s wings, brandishing a pencil like a sword. Would they still argue in Heaven?

“Maybe our souls don’t have any shape at all.” Fugo made a sucking sound. It was so weirdly not-Fugo, it went right on the list of not-Fugo things, along with this whole bizarre conversation. “And we’re just big amorphous blobs. Like amoebae.”

It was like someone had swapped Fugo’s soul with Mista’s. Did the dental assistant’s Stand, The Snakes, have some kind of weirdo Requiem ability like that? But Mista had been nowhere nearby. And it hadn’t worked on Fugo the last time, anyway. Oh, fuck, Fugo losing his wisdom teeth had made him stupid.

Unless…unless something had gone horribly wrong during surgery, and this was Fugo going through what Bucciarati had. If that was the case, that was even worse than Fugo being stupid. Maybe that’s why Fugo was stuck on all this Heaven talk. He was a dead man walking, just like Bucciarati had been, until Giorno’s strength of will, combined with Bucciarati’s, had brought him back.

There was no Giorno this time, there was just Narancia, but he could be just as determined as Giorno. He’d even be more so if it meant keeping Fugo’s soul attached to his body. He’d nearly lost Abbacchio and Bucciarati – he wouldn’t lose Fugo. He’d die first.

After killing the Speed Dragon’s dental surgeon.

Narancia knew the name of the Foundation was really Speedwagon – it had apparently been named after the friend of one of Giorno’s kind-of ancestors. Narancia got the story secondhand, but it was interesting because it wasn’t every day you found out your friend’s father was a vampire – and no offense to the original guy or anything, but Speedwagon was a lame kind of name. It was like that band Mista would listen to on occasion.

Speed Dragon just sounded cooler.

Plus, it got Mista all annoyed when Narancia said it wrong – usually that was Fugo’s thing, so it was more hysterical that it was Mista getting all riled up, especially since Mista was the only one who ever corrected him on it. Not even Giorno did, and it was his father’s friend.

Maybe he should start calling it Speedwagon, just because the Foundation didn’t deserve the much cooler Speed Dragon after fucking up Fugo like this.

“Naranssssshhhh…Narancccchhh…Nara,” Fugo said. “Naaaara.”

“What?”

“Are they?”

“I don’t know,” Narancia said. “I hope we’re not blobs in space.”

“Not spashe,” Fugo slurred. “Heaven.”

It was still fucking weird to listen to Fugo talk about the afterlife when he’d never done so before.

“What did you see?”

“See?” Fugo echoed.

“When you were under. Did you see something?” Did you die and come back?

“No,” Fugo said slowly. “No.”

Narancia wasn’t sure he believed him now.

“Just thinking,” Fugo added, and now, Narancia kind of believed him, even if the shit he was thinking about still seemed more like Mista than like Fugo.

There was no wheelchair at home, so when Narancia unbuckled and ran around the car to open the door for Fugo, he was left with Fugo sagging against him. This left him with three options. (Technically, four, but the first one, letting Fugo lean against him as they walked to Fugo’s room, seemed less and less likely considering the way Fugo kept swaying just standing there.)

One: have Fugo climb onto his back and carry him inside piggyback style.

Downside: Fugo might not be able to keep his hands clasped. Hell, he might not even be able to climb onto Narancia’s back in the first place.

Two: haul Fugo over his shoulder and cart him in like a rolled-up carpet.

Downside: They’d said Fugo might be nauseous after general anesthetic. Carrying him with his head upside down might not be the best idea.

Three: scoop Fugo up into his arms like he would a child

Narancia couldn’t think of a reason why the third one wouldn’t work, so that’s the one he went with. Fugo wasn’t exactly light, and he was taller than Narancia (as was everyone, even Trish, now), but the moment Narancia lifted him, Fugo wrapped his arms around Narancia’s neck and that was that.

Until Fugo started talking again.

“You have pretty eyes,” he announced, staring deep into the aforementioned pretty eyes.

“Uh, thanks. You, too, since they’re like, the same color.”

“Lips, too.”

“What?”

Fugo’s gaze had dropped a few centimeters lower. “You have pretty lips.”

“Lips can’t be pretty.”

“Can too. Yours are.”

“Uh huh.” It was just easier to humor him. They were almost to his room, after all.

“Very kisshable.”

It was a good thing they were at Fugo’s door now, because Narancia nearly dropped him. He poked at the door with his toe – thankfully it wasn’t latched tight – and turned sideways as he entered so Fugo’s legs wouldn’t smack against the wall on the way in.

He set Fugo down, in front of the bed, but Fugo didn’t seem inclined to release his grasp on Narancia’s neck. He was no longer swaying on his feet.

“I’ve thought about them a lot,” Fugo said.

Narancia swallowed. “You have?”

Fugo licked his lips and nodded. “A lot.”

“Oh. Well, uh, thanks.”

“A lot a lot.”

“Yeah. Thanks, a lot a lot.”

“About kissing them.” Fugo didn’t slur his words that time, and his eyes flicked up to Narancia’s before dropping back down to his mouth again.

“Uh huh.”

“Naranssssshhaaa,” Fugo said, only this time, the way he drew out Narancia’s name sounded less like the words of a drunk and more like the words of a lo- of someone who was maybe a little drunk, but also a little something else.

Narancia tried to keep his eyes fixed on Fugo’s; he did, but when Fugo said his name like that, he found his own gaze slide down a fraction. He’d never thought of lips as pretty – as he’d said, he hadn’t even thought such a thing was possible.

Until now.

He swallowed. No. No, he did not think Fugo’s mouth was pretty. Or his eyes – like Narancia said, they were nearly the same color as his own – but definitely not his mouth.

He’d always liked Fugo, even when he wanted to stab him. There was no one else on their team that got Narancia’s blood boiling like Fugo, not even Mista, and Mista stole his snacks all the time and never ever paid him back for anything. Bucciarati had saved his life and given him a home, and Narancia would always admire the man, not just for that, but for the man he’d gotten to know.

Fugo, though – Fugo was the one who’d saved him from a life on the street. Narancia adored Bucciarati, but he…he felt very differently about Fugo, was all.

Fugo must’ve tried to take a step back or something, because he stumbled onto the bed, and since his arms were still draped over Narancia’s shoulders, he dragged Narancia down with him.

“Nara.”

The way Fugo groaned his name, this shortened pet name version of it, made Narancia’s skin prickle everywhere. Narancia lowered his face toward Fugo’s and what the fuck was he doing?

He didn’t have time to think about it more, because one of Fugo’s hands slid into Narancia’s hair, and then their lips made contact.

It was…weird.

Weird, but not in a bad way. Fugo’s mouth was slick with spit from all the drooling he’d been doing since before he’d woken, and Narancia didn’t have the first clue about kissing. He lifted his head, tilting it to the left, then the right, until he found the perfect angle that slotted his mouth against Fugo’s just right.

Narancia tentatively slid his tongue over Fugo’s upper lip – Mista had said something about tongue, right? – and to his disappointment, Fugo just lay there, slack jawed.

He lifted his head again to see Fugo frowning at him.

“Kiss me,” Fugo said.

“Um, what do you call what we were just doing?”

“Kiss me,” Fugo demanded again, his frown deepening.

“I did!”

“Can’t feel it,” Fugo complained, and fuck, that was right, Fugo’s mouth was still numb. That’s why he kept drooling like Purple Haze.

“I’ll try again,” Narancia said, “but it might not be any better.”

Fugo said nothing, he just pursed his lips – or tried to, because he still had little control over the muscles in his mouth. It was the most ridiculous expression Narancia had ever seen, and they’d battled a fuck ton of Stands with weird appearances. The thing was that the currently ridiculous expression was on Fugo’s face this time, which Narancia had seen decorated with angry scowls and anxious concern and smugness – but never this…whatever the fuck Fugo was trying to do.

It had been so much better when Fugo wasn’t actively trying.

“Relax your mouth,” Narancia said, his lips hovering over Fugo’s, and to his surprise, Fugo did immediately.

He’d like to say that the third time was the charm, and that this kiss was much better than the first two, now that he knew what to expect, but it wasn’t.

Fugo seemed to want to respond, but his brain and his mouth were on different wavelengths, and while Narancia didn’t mind doing all the work, the pressure against his mouth was all weird, and Fugo kept making little grunts of dissatisfaction, and finally, Narancia gave up, lifting his head and reaching behind his neck to slide Fugo’s arm off.

Fugo blinked up at him sleepily, and Narancia felt a wave of shame. Fugo was still under the influence of the anesthesia, so, in a sense, drunk. Drugged, even.

And Narancia – Narancia had no excuse. Before today, he’d never noticed how kissable Fugo’s lips were – and despite how awful the kisses had been, Narancia would never be able to un-notice. Fugo’s lips were soft, and against Narancia’s, they’d felt much plumper than they looked when twisted in one of Fugo’s perpetual pissed off expressions.

God, this wasn’t even Fugo right now. This was someone else in Fugo’s body – maybe a drugged Fugo, but that wasn’t the Fugo Narancia knew. And Narancia had taken advantage of Fugo’s impaired state of mind, for what? Because Fugo had flattered him?

He felt sick.

He wanted to flee the room, but Narancia wasn’t a coward, and he had vowed to keep an eye on Fugo until he was sure he was okay. God, he wished King Crimson could come back just long enough to have wiped out the last fifteen seconds.

Make that the last thirty. Maybe a full minute. However long it had been that Narancia had realized that what he felt for Fugo – the reason what he felt for Fugo was so different from what he felt for Bucciarati – was complicated. It had always been complicated, but not like this. This was complicated in the way that dividing fractions was – just when he thought he got it, he didn’t get it at all.

“Nara,” Fugo whispered.  At least, it seemed like he’d meant to whisper, but he’d said it so loudly, in such a fake whisper, that Narancia wanted to laugh.

Wanted to but couldn’t. Fugo wasn’t supposed to be cute and adorable like this. It wasn’t Fugo at all. It was like Mista, and Narancia didn’t feel that way about Mista.

Therefore, he didn’t feel that way about Fugo, and especially not this version of Fugo, this not-Fugo who whined about kisses and thought Narancia’s lips were pretty.

His eyes stung. It was probably something from the dentist’s office – one more reason he should head over there right now and introduce them to Aerosmith when it wasn’t just circling the room. Well, maybe not the dental assistant. She seemed okay. It was mostly that asshole who’d made it so Fugo ended up broken like this in the first place.

He felt a finger swipe at the tear clinging to his bottom lid, and his chest ached.

“I’m sorry,” Fugo whispered – a real whisper this time, and then his hand dropped away.

“For what?”

Fugo’s eyes were half shut. “Evrrrrrthing.” He sighed. “Evrrrthing.”

“Fugo,” Narancia whispered back, but Fugo’s eyes were completely closed now, and he didn’t respond.

Narancia pushed himself off the bed and swung Fugo’s legs up onto the bed – his legs were impossibly heavy, which didn’t make any sense, considering that Narancia had just carried all of Fugo in here. He wanted to shake Fugo awake – but then that might scramble his brains worse than they already were.

He wanted to ask Giorno, or Mista, what they thought. He wanted to ask Bucciarati, but that wasn’t fair to any of them. This was Narancia’s problem to deal with, not theirs, and Bucciarati would likely tell him the same. He’d say it was something Narancia had to figure out himself.

The problem was more that Narancia wasn’t sure what there was to figure out. Fugo had been fine this morning, and now he was all fucked up.

“How’s he doing?”

Narancia whirled around at the sound of Mista’s voice. “It didn’t mean anything!” he blurted out.

Mista looked at the sleeping Fugo on the bed, and back at Narancia.

“Sure it didn’t,” he said. “So he’s okay, then.”

Narancia felt his throat closing up, so all he could do was nod, when what he wanted to do was ask Mista if he were feeling particularly smart, like Fugo levels of smart. And maybe ask Mista if he thought Fugo would ever be himself again.

He didn’t know why he didn’t ask.

No. He was lying to himself. He knew exactly why he didn’t ask. He didn’t ask because Mista had said, “sure, it didn’t,” without Narancia even explaining what hadn’t meant anything.

Mista was creepily in tune with certain things, and this thing that Narancia had to figure out was one of them. As much as he wanted to get Mista’s perspective on things, he felt like he owed it to Fugo to at least stay with him until he woke up.

“Everything’s fine,” Narancia said.

“Right,” Mista said slowly. “Everything.”

It was a faint echo of what Fugo had said. Everything wasn’t fine, because Fugo was sorry for everything. Everything wasn’t always everything, right? So Mista’s ‘everything’ and Fugo’s – they weren’t necessarily the same everythings.

His head hurt. It was a good thing he’d left some aspirin in here. He shook two into his hand and swallowed them dry. Not his best decision, because the second one stuck on his tongue and he could taste it, but it wasn’t his worst decision ever, either. That honor went to a trio of clumsy kisses with someone who didn’t know what he was saying or doing.

Narancia had, though. God, he was such a shitty friend.

“If you need anything,” oh, shit, Mista hadn’t left yet, “let me know. Send Aerosmith if you have to.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“He’ll be okay,” Mista said again.

“Yeah. Good. I’m glad.”

“You, ah, you want me to shut this door, or leave it open?”

Open was fine. Open meant there was nothing to hide. He’d not bothered to close the door behind him because he’d seen no reason to. His focus had been on getting Fugo into his room safely and pretending Fugo hadn’t just said Narancia had kissable lips.

God.

If there was a Heaven, Narancia was definitely not going there now. He was supposed to be Fugo’s best friend – at least, he thought he was. A real friend didn’t take advantage of his friend when he was out of it, even if that friend had bossily demanded it. Could you unbossily demand something? That was a question for Mista – but it wasn’t important right now.

Mista closed the door as Narancia pulled the chair he’d occupied last night next to Fugo’s bed and sat down, watching the rise and fall of Fugo’s chest. His face was the most relaxed Narancia had ever seen, his brow smooth and unlined and his mouth slightly parted.

His pretty, kissable mouth.

Narancia felt a little bit sick to his stomach, but a promise was a promise, and he sat there, alternating between staring at Fugo and staring at the wall, until he dozed off in the chair.

Fugo’s mouth didn’t feel any better. In fact, it hurt even more now, if that were possible.

It was dry, too, so dry that when Fugo tried to lick his lips, his tongue nearly got stuck. He reached up and pressed his fingers against his lip, glad that the not-quite-tingling sensation was gone. If the local anesthetic had worn off enough for him to feel pain, obviously it had worn off enough that his lips were no longer numb. Despite the pain, he felt relieved. The side of his tongue felt raw, so he’d probably clamped down on it at some point. And his lower lip was sore. He could feel where it was sensitive in one spot in particular – he must have bitten that in his sleep, too.

Fugo was exhausted. It was still light out, so either he’d only slept a short time, or he’d slept through the night and into the next morning. He lifted his wrist to check the time, but then he remembered he’d left his watch behind, just in case anything went wrong.

He immediately probed his gums with his tongue and regretted it. He could feel the ends of the thread they’d used to close his gums back up, but he didn’t remember any of it. Which was the point. It wasn’t until he pushed himself to a sitting position that he noticed the bandage on his arm, taping down a folded square of gauze.

It looked like they’d needed to use general anesthesia anyway. Fugo wasn’t surprised, honestly. He’d hoped, with the nitrous oxide – laughing gas, as Mista had teased, saying it’d probably be the only time Fugo lightened up and of course he was going to miss it – that it, combined with the local anesthetic, would be sufficient.

He was home now, though and Narancia was seated in the chair next to his bed. It was like this morning – or yesterday morning, since he still wasn’t sure what day it was – all over again, except that he felt incredibly tired.

It was probably still today, then. If it was the next day, he wouldn’t still feel so exhausted from the anesthetic.

“Narancia,” he said, and when there was no movement, repeated Narancia’s name, only louder.

The second time did the trick, because Narancia lifted his head from his chest and blinked sleepily at Fugo. Their eyes met, and their gazes held for several seconds before Narancia looked away.

“How are you feeling?” he asked the lamp.

“Tired,” Fugo replied. “Thirsty.”

“I’ll get you something to drink!” Narancia was on his feet immediately, fleeing from the room. When he returned, he saw Fugo with a half empty water bottle in his hands, and he rolled the cold one between his hands awkwardly. “Sorry,” he said, staring down at the bottle. “I didn’t mean to make you wait.”

“It’s fine,” Fugo said tiredly. “I had this, and room temperature is better right now.”

“Do you want anything to eat?” Narancia asked. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday; you must be starving.”

It was still today, then.

“Not really hungry,” he said.

Narancia looked up. “What’s seven times fifteen?”

Fugo tilted his head to the side. His eyes moved up and down for a couple of seconds, and then he looked right at Narancia. “One hundred five.”

Narancia nodded. “That’s probably right.” It ended in five, so that part was right, at least. “What makes fireflies light up?”

Fugo took another sip of his water. “A chemical reaction in their bodies. This is like the third time you’ve asked.”

“What’s it called?”

“Bioluminescence. Why?”

“When was the Great Famine?”

“Which one?”

Oh. Narancia knew there had been several famines in history, but he hadn’t realized there was more than one Great Famine.

“Narancia,” Fugo said quietly. “What’s going on?”

“Just checking to make sure you’re not stupid.”

“I’m fine. I told you, wisdom teeth have nothing to do with IQ.”

Well, at least Fugo’s memory seemed to be intact.

“I know,” Narancia said, looking back down at the bottle in his hands.

He could hear the cap being screwed back onto the bottle, and he could hear the sound of it making contact with the nightstand when Fugo set it down. And then he could hear the rustling of the sheets as Fugo got out of bed, and Narancia’s eyes flew back to his friend.

“Should you be up?”

“I’m fine,” Fugo repeated. He reached out for the water bottle that Narancia was holding and set it down next to the other one. “And I really need to take a piss. And brush my teeth,” he added thoughtfully, running his tongue against the back of his teeth.

“Oh,” Narancia said. “Right.”

Fugo took a couple of steps toward the door. He seemed pretty steady on his feet, so Narancia had no need to accompany him. He should probably go back to his own room now, watch some TV or something. Or grab something to eat from the kitchen, he thought as his stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t had breakfast, either.

He glanced down at the bed, where he’d kissed Fugo just a few hours earlier. He was still standing there, still staring at the same spot, when Fugo returned. He flinched when Fugo’s hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“Nara,” Fugo sighed.

Hearing Fugo call him that did strange things to his insides.

“I’m sorry for anything I might’ve said when I was still under the effects of the anesthesia,” he said. “Mista was giving me weird looks when I went to the kitchen to get the salt, and the Sex Pistols were all exchanging glances with each other, so I assume my mouth got away from me.”

That was one way to put it.

“Definitely something about your mouth,” Narancia said, then slapped both hands over his.

Fugo’s hand slid off Narancia’s shoulder, and Narancia could picture the frown on Fugo’s face as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Explain,” Fugo said, and when Narancia turned around, he saw he’d been right about the frown, but wrong about the folded arms. Fugo had his hands in front of him, one over the other, with the fingers of his top hand twitching slightly.

Narancia’s eyes flicked up from Fugo’s hands to his eyes, then his mouth, and back to his hands.

“Nara,” Fugo said. “Whatever I said, I’m sorry.”

“I kissed you!” Narancia practically shouted. “You said my lips were pretty, and I kissed you, and I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Fugo said. His fingers stopped twitching, instead practically clawing his other hand. “I didn’t dream that, then.”

“I’m sorry!” Narancia said again. “I never should’ve taken advantage of you like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I kissed you!”

The corners of Fugo’s lips twitched, for just a second, and then he huffed out of his nose, very quietly, but not so quietly that Narancia couldn’t hear. “So you said.”

“What do you mean, ‘so you said?’ I did!”

“I don’t remember it.”

“You don’t? Then why’d you say that thing about dreaming it, then?”

“I dreamed that I kissed you,” Fugo said, “but I don’t remember what it felt like.”

“That’s because your mouth was all numb from the Artemis.”

“Articaine.”

“I know,” Narancia gave his own tiny huff of laughter, “and I would’ve worried if you hadn’t corrected me. Stupid of me to think that your wisdom teeth were connected to your brain in anyway, huh?”

“You’re not stupid,” Fugo said.

“You sure? You call me that all the time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

 “You’re wrong.” Fugo swallowed. “I have so, so much to be sorry about, starting from the moment I watched you swim after them.” He cocked his head to the side. “Before then, too.”

Narancia blinked at him, then waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “That day – that was years ago.”

“Fourteen months.”

“Whatever.”

“Not ‘whatever.’ You were almost killed because of me. If Purple Haze hadn’t been affected by Requiem that way, you wouldn’t have been vulnerable. My Stand nearly got you killed.”

“Your Stand is probably the only reason you weren’t swapped with anyone,” Narancia said. “Abbacchio was in Bucciarati’s body, but no one was in yours except you.”

“And you nearly died because of it.”

“I nearly died because of the old boss. You saved Abbacchio’s life, Fugo.”

“I didn’t do anything except show up.”

Narancia reached out and laid his hands over Fugo’s. “And that was enough.”

Fugo swallowed, and Narancia lifted one of his hands to smooth Fugo’s hair out of his face, the way he had the night before, when he was in a different kind of pain.

“So we’re both sorry,” Narancia said.

“What do you need to be sorry for?”

“For kissing you.”

“I thought we were still talking about That Day.”

Narancia could practically hear the capital letters; Fugo always referred to it that way, when he referred to it at all.

“We were talking about reasons to be sorry. Even though you don’t need to be. You were there, Fugo. You were there. It made all the difference.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It made all the difference to me.”

Fugo glanced down at his hands, at Narancia’s still on top of his. He took a deep breath and looked straight into Narancia’s eyes.

“Do it again.”

Narancia looked at him quizzically, then reached up to comb through the hair at Fugo’s temple.

“Not that,” Fugo said.

“Then wha-”

“Kiss me. Kiss me again, so I know what it feels like. If you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Narancia whispered.

“So that’s that, then.” Fugo dropped his hands, and he walked around Narancia to the nightstand, where he picked up the bottle of water – the one Narancia had brought him – and uncapped it. He didn’t take so much as a sip.

“Fugo…”

“Thanks for going with me. I’m really glad you were there. I was, perhaps, a little more nervous than I thought.”

“Oh. You’re welcome. I wouldn’t have let you go through that alone.”

“You make it sound worse than it was.”

Narancia remembered standing with Purple Haze, shoulder to shoulder, just hanging out together while the dentist groped around Fugo’s mouth. That had felt like a dream. A wonderfully bizarre one, now that he was no longer worried about Fugo’s brain.

“You can go,” Fugo said. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Narancia’s breath had nearly caught in his throat when Fugo started speaking. I don’t need you, he’d been so sure Fugo was going to say, when it was so obviously not the truth.

It was so obviously not the truth.

“Okay,” Narancia said.

Fugo turned around. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Narancia said, and now he was the one wringing his hands. When had he even picked up this habit? “I’ll kiss you again.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to now.”

“Oh. Um. Do you not want me to?”

“You’re such an idiot,” Fugo sighed, a little dramatically, almost like Mista would when he was trying to make a point. Except Fugo wasn’t Mista. He’d just picked up a lot of his mannerisms, the same way Narancia had picked up one of Fugo’s. Maybe more and he just hadn’t noticed yet.

“I thought you weren’t going to call me stupid anymore,” Narancia reminded him.

“I apologized for it. I never said I wasn’t going to do it again.”

“Oh. Well, I apologized for kissing you.”

“Exactly.” Fugo’s lips were curved into a tentative smile. No, fuck that, Fugo was smirking at him. It was a little smirk, but it still counted.

“You think you’re so smart.”

“I am smart, with or without my wisdom teeth,” Fugo bragged.

“A smart ass, maybe.”

“Better than a dumb one.”

There was no bite in the insult. In fact, it sounded rather fond, the way Fugo said it. Narancia couldn’t help grinning.

“Narancia.”

“What?”

“Are you going to kiss me or what?”

The first one, definitely. Narancia cupped Fugo’s face, sliding his thumb across Fugo’s cheekbone slowly.

“Today?” Fugo asked, with those pretty, kissable lips.

Narancia leaned in and kissed him.

There was a world of difference between kissing a Fugo whose mouth wouldn’t respond and a Fugo whose mouth could and did. He tasted like licorice, which reminded Narancia of the nitrous Fugo had been given earlier, and he couldn’t help smiling against Fugo’s lips.

Fugo broke the kiss. “What’s so funny?”

“You are.”

“Dumb ass,” Fugo said fondly, and leaned in to kiss him again.

Narancia let Fugo take control of the kiss; he didn’t want to thrust his tongue into Fugo’s mouth and disrupt the stitches and still-healing gums. Fugo’s kisses were like Fugo himself – starting out gentle but quickly becoming more aggressive, almost violent. It was like a drug, kissing Fugo, blotting out all thoughts of what this meant for them or where they’d go from here.

It was a problem for later – a problem for Future-Narancia to deal with, to borrow a phrase from Mista. And why was he thinking of Mista again, when Fugo’s tongue was tickling the roof of his mouth.

Narancia had never been terribly fond of licorice, but he was beginning to rethink that opinion.