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Mista tucked his revolver into his waistband – how he hadn’t blown his dick off yet, Fugo had no idea – and spread his arms apart like he was showing off a work of art instead of his stupid party trick with his gun. He’d gotten rather good at it, although Fugo was sure he was going to blow a hole in his head or his leg or the wall with the speed at which he spun it around his finger. Mista had explained, the first time Fugo had yelled at him for doing that inside, that there was no need to worry about the gun going off, because, according to him, it didn’t matter where the hammer was or wasn’t because his revolver still required a firm pull of the trigger to fire.
The thing was that Fugo wasn’t too keen on trusting the new guy with gun safety yet, no matter how skilled a marksman he was or how obscenely lucky he seemed to be.
Narancia, on the other hand, didn’t seem so blessed by Lady Fortune. Fugo couldn’t count the number of times he’d patched Narancia up after a mission gone wrong (actually, he could; it was 27) – and yet once Narancia’s mind was made up, he’d still blindly rush in, despite knowing the odds were against him. Fugo supposed Narancia not-so-blindly rushed in, but still, when he did rush in, he did so without worrying about the consequences.
Fugo sighed internally. He knew getting injured was part of the job; he’d had his own ass handed to him a time or two, but it was different when it was Narancia. Everything was different when it was Narancia.
“What crawled up your ass and died this time?” Mista asked, making Narancia laugh in that high-pitched, extra annoying way he had.
This was the thanks Fugo got for being concerned about the well being of the others on his team. He couldn’t count the number of times Mista or Narancia had called him a mother hen for his tendency to worry.
(Of course, he could do that, too. It was 38, and all but three of those times had been Mista. 43 times if he counted Abbacchio. Not that Fugo was keeping track or anything.)
“Fuck off,” Fugo snarled, only to have Narancia go oooooo, and once again, in an over-the-top fashion. “Both of you,” he added, glaring extra hard at Narancia before storming out of the living room and heading upstairs.
He didn’t know why it bothered him so much. Narancia and Mista were two of a kind while being complete opposites. No, not opposites; they were just too alike in the worst ways while their differences… well, maybe Fugo was the only one who saw their differences.
That wasn’t accurate either. Bucciarati clearly saw the need to have someone like Mista on the team, because Mista’s actions suggested he was capable of keeping a cool head when facing death head on. It wasn’t that Narancia – or Fugo himself – were afraid of dying, exactly, except Narancia very much was, and Fugo…well Fugo wasn’t terribly keen on the idea, either, even if he’d known that was what he’d signed up for when he’d agreed to join Bucciarati.
It was just…having Narancia side with someone against him hurt. It was stupid to feel that way; he knew deep down that Narancia didn’t mean it like that; they’d both certainly hurled terrible insults at one another long before Bucciarati decided they could use a gunman. But it had been something between the two of them, something that Bucciarati tolerated, as long as it didn’t interfere with their missions, and that Abbacchio ignored, also unless he had to work with either of them after one of their fights. They were both right; of course, Fugo knew this. It was just that Narancia had a way of getting under his skin like no one else.
It wasn’t just because Narancia was uneducated. While his ignorance drove Fugo batshit crazy, he respected Narancia’s desire to learn – at least, his desire to learn until he grew bored and whined incessantly. If he’d just focus, if he’d pay more attention to what Fugo was telling him and less on the fifteen other things he’d rather do than learn place values, their lessons would go much faster.
Or maybe it wouldn’t. Narancia wasn’t the first person that had enraged Fugo, not even the first to stoke his fury over academia. It was just…it was Narancia.
Fugo sat at his desk and tapped his forehead with his fist. They were both probably cackling over something else, having moved on from ridiculing Fugo now that he wasn’t around to seethe over it. If he’d known this was what it would be like, being a member of this team, he would’ve stuck with his original plan of being alone.
He crossed his arms on his desk and rested his head on them. Who was he kidding? He loved being a part of this team. He loved Bucciarati, and although it had taken a while, he respected Abbacchio, and he supposed Mista was fun to talk to, occasionally. And Narancia…
God damn it. Narancia.
It was best not to think too much about why it was different when it was Narancia.
“Fugo?”
Talk of the devil, and he's presently at your elbow, the phrase went. Narancia wasn’t the devil; he was far from it, unlike Fugo, who was a fatal wound away from Hell. Taken less literally, the expression still fit, if thinking of the devil was as good as speaking his name. Also because Narancia was still in the doorway to Fugo’s room.
“Fugo?” Narancia asked again, a little louder. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” Fugo sighed into his crossed arms and regretted it almost immediately.
“Can you, I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I can do it myself. It’s just easier if I have help, and I don’t want to have Mista do it.”
Fugo wasn’t sure how to interpret Narancia’s words, let alone his tone of voice, so he lifted his head and looked over his shoulder to see blood dripping from Narancia’s hand onto the floor.
Of Fugo’s room.
On the carpet.
He wanted to yell. He wanted to scold Narancia for the mess, not because of the carpet, but because the reason he was bleeding was the way his headband was wrapped around his fingers. God only knew the last time that thing had been washed.
He brushed past Narancia, grabbing the wrist of his injured hand and holding it up, over Narancia’s head (“above the heart”) as he led him to the bathroom down the hall.
Shit, was Fugo’s first thought when he unwrapped the orange fabric. “It’s pretty deep,” he said, not wanting to sound irritated but unable to help it.
“Yeah, I figured,” Narancia sighed.
“Let me guess,” Fugo said. “You had to show Mista up.”
Narancia had been practicing with his knives for a while now, spinning them like a goddamn baton, flicking them open so the light would catch the blade, and in general, trying to be a bad ass.
It was impressive. Fugo had been entranced watching, unable to tear his eyes away from Narancia’s nimble fingers. His long, slender fingers, the ones that Fugo usually saw clenched around a pencil as he scratched at whatever math problem Fugo was trying to help him with, and the ones he saw snapping to the beat of whatever Narancia was listening to on his boombox. They were pianist’s fingers – Fugo would know – and although Narancia had never had a music lesson in his life, with his knives, he was a maestro.
Fugo had wondered more than once what else those fingers were capable of.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Narancia began, and then he sucked in a breath as Fugo ran the water and soaped up his wounded digit. “Fuck!” he said, trying to pull his hand back instinctively.
Fugo held firm, and Narancia’s arm relaxed, and although he winced on occasion, he allowed Fugo to clean it up.
“It’s not as deep as I thought,” Fugo said, holding Narancia’s hand closer to the light.
“No?” Narancia asked. The hopeful tone of voice made it difficult for Fugo to speak sternly, but it was for Narancia’s own good.
“You need to be more careful,” he chided.
“I know, I know. I’ve done it a bajillion times before, you know. This is the first time-”
“Do you know what Bucciarati would say if he knew you got hurt because you were fucking around?” Fugo interrupted.
Shit, he shouldn’t have said that. Narancia looked like someone had butchered a puppy in front of him. Or like he did whenever Fugo called him stupid, just before he flipped from hurt to angry. Fugo knew the last thing Narancia wanted was to disappoint Bucciarati, but it was true.
He still regretted saying it.
“Are you going to tell him?” Narancia whispered.
“No,” Fugo sighed. He seemed to do that a lot around Narancia lately.
“This is why I like you, Fugo,” Narancia said, causing Fugo’s heart to skip a beat. “It’s why we’re such good friends, even after practically killing each other.”
“Yeah,” Fugo said dully. “Friends.”
“You don’t sound convi-fuck, ow, what are you doing to it?”
“I’m not doing anything to it,” Fugo said. “It’s the air hitting it. Maybe I do need to stitch it after all. You were saying…?” he added as he nodded toward the toilet. Narancia obediently sat down as Fugo retrieved the first aid kit from under the sink – the bigger kit that had things like absorbable thread and needles and small scissors for snipping sutures.
“Stitches?” Narancia asked. “Shit, Bucciarati will know for sure that something happened.”
“He’s going to find out anyway.”
“I thought you weren’t going to say anything!”
“Have you ever known anything that happens to this team that has ever gotten past Bucciarati?”
“No,” Narancia muttered. “I just don’t want him to worry.”
“Bucciarati won’t worry.”
“He will,” Narancia insisted. “He acts like it’s part of the job, but you know it bothers him.”
When it happens to you, Fugo wanted to retort. He doesn’t give a shit what happens to the rest of us.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck, he was letting this whole thing with Narancia get to him. He knew Bucciarati cared; he just couldn’t afford to show it. And perhaps he wasn’t exactly sure how. Fugo remembered how he’d received a push puppet from Bucciarati on his fourteenth birthday.
A push puppet.
For a fourteen-year-old.
A fourteen-year-old who didn’t know what a fucking push puppet was. He remembered staring at whatever it was – he was pretty sure it was supposed to be a giraffe, but it was black and white and had spots like a dalmatian, so it had been difficult to tell if perhaps it was a very long-necked dog – and he’d felt Bucciarati’s gaze on him, giving nothing away.
Fugo had poked its nose, and, upon seeing that dalmatian-giraffe bend in half, had turned the toy over to discover the button on the bottom. He’d pushed it in, with the puppet still upside down, making the entire thing collapse on itself. Bucciarati had an impressive poker face, but Fugo had noticed how he’d been biting back laughter. He knew how much Fugo hated being laughed at.
He’d thanked Bucciarati for the gift, not because Bucciarati was his boss, but because Bucciarati had relaxed, looking so ridiculously pleased with himself for picking out something that was probably a ‘sure-fire hit with kids these days’ or whatever had drawn Bucciarati to the push puppet in the first place.
Perhaps there had been a lesson there, about how easily things could tumble down if one pushed too hard. An odd bit of advice considering their line of work, but Bucciarati had always gone about things in his own way.
Or maybe, just maybe, he’d seen it and thought Fugo would get a kick out of it, or at least that it would give Fugo something to do with his hands when he felt fidgety. Fugo had know from the moment the man had intervened that nothing escaped Bucciarati’s notice. Nothing.
Bucciarati was a weird fucking guy, but Narancia was right. It would bother him, knowing Narancia had injured himself.
He’d be pissed, too, and since nothing escaped his notice, it was only a matter of time before he discovered that Narancia’s finger was bandaged up. As long as it was bandaged, though (not just bandaged, but bandaged adequately), and as long as Narancia was still able to work, Bucciarati would let it slide. He’d only needed to zip one of Narancia’s fingers back on that one time, before Mista had joined them. Narancia had spent an awful lot of time in Fugo’s room, on his bed, rolling from side to side as he clutched his finger and moaned in pain.
That hadn’t been the first time Fugo’s thoughts had wandered down a road they shouldn’t have, and it definitely hadn’t been the last, because here he was, threading a needle so he could suture the wound closed, when what he really wanted to do was suck that long, slender, still-bleeding finger into his mouth and lave his tongue over the injured area to elicit a response. What the hell was wrong with him?
At least the knowledge that Narancia’s reaction was not likely to be the one Fugo dreamt about, in addition to how very unsanitary it would be, helped curb that particular impulse.
“Fugo?” Narancia said. “Are you gonna stitch it up or what?”
“Stop pestering me!” Fugo snapped. “I’m just trying to figure out where to start!”
“You start at one end and finish at the other,” Narancia said with a little hitch in his voice.
Fugo felt immediately guilty. Narancia was brave but foolhardy, and he had a remarkable pain tolerance but was still nervous. Fugo wished he had the push puppet in his pocket to give him, just so Narancia could distract himself with the stupid thing while Fugo plied the needle through the torn skin.
Actually, Narancia’s blades were sharp, so the skin wasn’t so much torn as neatly sliced, and while it was partly Fugo’s pedantic nature pointing that out, the clean edges meant it would be easier to close the wound.
“Grab on to my sleeve,” he said, and as Narancia started to pull his hand away, added, “with the other hand, stupid!”
“Stop calling me stupid!” Narancia snapped back at him.
Their eyes met, and Narancia laughed. Through his nose. Fugo hadn’t realized such a thing was possible until meeting Narancia, and now, every time Narancia did it, Fugo found it irresistibly cute. God damn it.
Narancia reached out with his uninjured hand and grabbed a handful of Fugo’s sleeve. “Do it,” he said.
Fugo made the stitches as small and even as he could so the scarring would be minimal. He was sure Narancia wouldn’t care about it from a cosmetic standpoint – hell, he’d probably think it was bad ass or something equally ridiculous – but Fugo didn’t want the scarring to impede mobility. Narancia might not use his hands to activate Aerosmith, but he did need it to wield a knife. The idea of Narancia attempting to fight off an assailant with his blade, only to fumble with it and end up defenseless, made him frown. Not defenseless; Narancia did have his Stand, but like Purple Haze, Aerosmith wasn’t always a great defense indoors. Of course, if it was a matter of life or death, that was different, he supposed.
His frown deepened.
“Did you fuck up?” Narancia asked.
Fugo knew Narancia was teasing, but he still didn’t like the suggestion that he might’ve done something less than perfectly.
“No,” Fugo said between gritted teeth. He carefully knotted the end before removing a roll of gauze from the first aid kit.
Miraculously, Narancia remained silent during the bandaging, and when Fugo was done, and he was washing the blood off his hands, Narancia held up his finger to examine Fugo’s handiwork.
“I’m not flipping you off,” Narancia explained while Fugo dried his hands.
“Good to know,” Fugo said.
“You know, you’re really good at this,” Narancia said, pulling his knees to his chest even though there was hardly enough room to do so, seated on the toilet as he was.
“I’m good at a lot of things,” Fugo snorted as he disinfected the needle.
“You have pretty hands,” Narancia announced, making Fugo drop the needle in the sink. He watched it slide down the drain with a groan. Bucciarati would need to unzip the pipe to get it out. Fugo was not looking forward to asking him to retrieve it, but it wasn’t great for the plumbing or for the water supply to let it get washed away. He sure as hell wasn’t about to have Purple Haze get it.
Maybe Mista could send one of the Sex Pistols in there to get it back, since it was indirectly his fault to begin with.
“Sorry,” Narancia said. “I forgot you’re weird about compliments.”
“I’m not weird about compliments.”
“You are if it’s not about your smarts.”
Fugo looked up from the drain and stared at Narancia.
“It’s true,” Narancia continued. “Which is weird because you’re seriously pretty. I mean, like, seriously.”
Fugo felt his gut clench. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard those words. It must have shown on his face, too, because Narancia’s eyes widened.
“Shit,” he whispered. “Shit, Fugo, I’m sorry.”
Fugo shook his head and looked away, back down into the sink. He pressed the heels of his hand against the porcelain. He really needed to have Mista’s Stand get that needle out of the pipe before he forgot. Stupid fucking Mista. He’d been nothing but trouble since he’d joined.
“Fugo.”
Fugo shook his head again, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Mother fucker,” Narancia said, “do I need to kill someone?”
The concerned tone he used made Fugo laugh.
Through his nose.
Which fucking hurt.
It made Fugo laugh out loud. He threw back his head and laughed some more, an edge of hysteria creeping in. Somewhere along the way, when his laughter had turned to tears, he’d wound up in Narancia’s arms, clinging to Narancia’s stupid skin-tight top which was a feat in itself, while one of Narancia’s hands – the one he’d just bandaged – moved slowly up and down Fugo’s back.
“You okay?” Narancia asked once Fugo’s giggle-sobs had wound down.
Although it was rather obvious that Fugo was not, in fact, okay, he knew what Narancia meant. He lifted his head, pushed his hair out of his face, and nodded.
Narancia was looking at him speculatively, his eyes flitting over Fugo’s face. God, Narancia was fucking hot, while Fugo was sure he looked a right mess after whatever the hell had just happened. He sure as hell felt like a right mess.
“What?” he snapped.
“It’s just…” Narancia trailed off and shook his head. “Nothing.”
“It’s obviously not nothing. Just spit it out.”
“I don’t want to upset you.”
“I’m fine,” Fugo bit out.
“You’re not,” Narancia said. His gaze stopped wandering over Fugo’s face, and his eyes met Fugo’s once again, making Fugo’s gut clench for a different reason.
“Narancia,” Fugo said, his voice coming out garbled.
“I really want to kiss you,” Narancia whispered, and then he winced, pressing his hand against his forehead. “Shit. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“You…you…” Fugo sputtered.
Narancia gave a one-shouldered shrug. “My timing’s shit, I know.”
“You’re an idiot,” Fugo said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Narancia sighed. “You get a pass on that this time, because, ya know, I suck. I shoulda kept my mouth shut.”
Fugo disagreed, but Narancia had always appreciated actions more so than words, so he leaned in and kissed him.
At least, he was pretty sure it counted as a kiss, even if it was just a light brushing of his lips against Narancia’s. And when Narancia’s mouth formed a small O of surprise, he provided Fugo with the opening he needed for what definitely counted as a kiss.
But they did it again, just to be sure.