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They're been over this problem five times already – or is it six? Narancia has lost count.
Somehow Fugo doesn't seem to realise that he might be the only person on earth who cares about this shit.
Normally that wouldn't be true: Narancia does care about what Fugo has to say. He appreciates Fugo taking the time to teach him all the things he should've learned as a kid. Hell, he even appreciates the random facts and offhand comments Fugo likes to share with them all. But he also appreciates his free time, and right now, Fugo is getting on every one of his nerves.
"So, you carry the one, right? I get it, I forgot."
He could be playing his and Mista's stolen PlayStation right now (they share custody of the console, because, sure, Mista had been the one to actually steal the thing, but Narancia was the one outside running surveillance with Aerosmith). They don’t have many games for it, yet, but there’s a new GTA coming out in a few months if the rumours are to be believed.
It's harder to pick up the new games, though; shops tend to watch those more closely. It's the reason most of their catalogue is on the older side. Maybe they’d be more effective if they could talk Bruno into helping them swipe a couple of games... Or maybe–
That train of thought is sharply interrupted by Fugo's fist slamming down on the table. The force is enough to knock over his glass, sending water seeping into the paper beside Fugo's hand. Fugo hardly seems to notice.
"No," he grinds out through gritted teeth. It’s more of an inhale than anything else; a sharp intake of breath that precedes the coming storm.
"If you were listening, I specifically said not to carry the one. I don't even know where you got a one from! God, you never fucking listen to me. I don't know why Bucciarati insists I keep trying to teach you."
“Do so listen,” Narancia mutters under his breath, just to disagree. He does listen, but he'd be just as quick to argue the opposite right now if Fugo had claimed that instead.
He picks up his pencil to resume doodling on his sheet while Fugo rants – once he gets going, Fugo’s incapable of cutting himself off, and there’s a cute little bird in the margins in need of some company. Fugo's words don't bother him so much anymore. He'll tire himself out sooner or later, and then he'll apologise and they'll move on to division.
Except Fugo doesn't seem to be tiring himself out. If anything, he's getting louder.
Narancia hums as he doodles, partially to drown Fugo out and partially because he struggles to keep his attention on just one thing at a time. It's why he likes to listen to music, while Fugo and Mista read magazines or books full of words Narancia can't pronounce.
"You're not listening now, are you?" Fugo asks at last, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Huh?"
His little bird has become a flock while Fugo's been speaking, but none of his words have reached Narancia's ears.
"Look at the sheet. All I'm asking is seventeen times six, Narancia. Even primary schoolers could answer that!"
Scowling, Narancia looks back down at the worksheet in front of him. It's still just as confusing as it was before. The numbers all blend into one and he's not sure what he's supposed to be doing with them.
He tries to focus on the first equation, the one that Fugo pointed out. He hates that Fugo has to throw things like that in his face, how children can do this thing he can't.
He stares at the numbers until they cease to be numbers, and then he blinks until the stinging in his eyes recedes.
His vision is swimming, he realises. He never understood that expression as a child – his father ignored him when he asked, and it would be many years before Fugo would explain personification to him – but he understands it now. It's like he's viewing the world from underwater; everything appears fuzzier at the edges and the once clear equations bleed together.
When he blinks again, the numbers seem to slam back into focus, before slowly melting back into shapeless black marks on the page.
He tries not to panic, though panic is closing in on him. He reminds himself to breathe. In. Out. Count to ten and–
No. Numbers aren't helping.
His eyesight is still clouded over and his hearing is probably next, given that he can no longer hear Fugo's protests. What is it he's supposed to do again when he can physically feel the rush of blood in his ears?
Narancia's chair squeals as it drags across the tiled floor. He doesn't realise he's shoved it back until he's already on his feet, hands planted on the table.
"What are you doing?" Fugo hisses for a third time. Narancia hadn't heard him the first two and this one barely registers.
"I'm done!"
"You've hardly done any of it!"
"Not that! I'm done, Fugo."
And with that, he's gone, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he stomps off. Fugo stares after him, still holding a pencil in his hand and feeling very lost.
---
Fugo sighs as he raises his hand to knock on Narancia's bedroom door. Gifted with incredible intellect and yet cursed by a lack of self-control, he seems capable of recognising when he's gone too far only in hindsight.
It's been fifteen minutes and Narancia still hasn't resurfaced. If Fugo were the one to leave for that length of time, Narancia would be celebrating, citing the old myth that he's free to leave if the teacher is fifteen minutes late. He isn't, and so neither is Fugo.
He didn't mean to upset Narancia any more than he usually does. It doesn't help that of his many talents, arguing with Narancia seems to be chief.
With silence the only answer to his knock, the frown lines between Fugo's eyebrows deepen.
"Narancia," he calls softly.
Perhaps Narancia didn't hear the knock. His voice might be enough to shake him from whatever daydream he's in.
It's the same whenever they study – and with most things, actually, now that he thinks about it. When Narancia decides to really dedicate himself to something, his focus is unshakeable. But more often than not, Fugo feels like he's pulling teeth trying to get Narancia to reach that level of focus, or any level of focus. It's his nature, as much as unsolicited pedantry is Fugo's. It's infuriating. But that's Narancia.
When silence continues to greet him, Fugo curses under his breath and pushes the door open anyway. It's not mannerly in the slightest, but neither are half the things he does to Narancia on a regular basis.
He's only a little surprised to find the room empty. Normally when Narancia's riled up Fugo will find him folded on his bed, arms and legs crossed like a pissed off accordion. That, or he turns the dial on his CD player as far as it'll go without snapping, and lets out his anger in a dance that consists mostly of punching the air in front of him and jabbing sharply with his elbows like a one man moshpit.
The empty room doesn't overly trouble Fugo, because he knows there are precious few other places the other can be.
Narancia's apartment, much like Narancia himself, is on the smaller side, which he makes up for by rarely being there.
Maybe as an apology for the lack of space, or to capitalise on it further, his bedroom opens into an en-suite. It makes things awkward when he has guests over on the rare occasions he does (not because Narancia particularly cares about his own privacy, but rather for his guests as they're forced to walk through his bedroom, in all its intimacy, to reach the apartment's only bathroom).
The lack of space means Fugo can see right through the room to the bathroom door. It's half-opened, but pulled over in a way that means he can't see if Narancia is inside.
It doesn't matter, overly. Fugo knows he's in there.
He doesn't bother calling again, just strides across the room to the open door.
Inside, Narancia peers at himself in the mirror. One hand pulls his left eyelid up as he blinks rapidly at his own reflection. The other grips the counter by the sink, pink cracks creeping across his knuckles as they turn white.
Fugo feels a little perverse watching him like this, whatever 'this' is. It feels like something he isn't supposed to see. The open door, while commonly seen as an invitation, or at least not an outright rejection, is probably related more to carelessness than anything else. He clears his throat.
"Narancia."
Narancia's hands drop as though he's been scalded, and then he whirls on Fugo, embarrassment giving way to fury.
"What?"
His violet doe eyes are wide and watery. Fugo can't tell if it's from irritation or if those are tears pooling on Narancia's lash line. A thread of apprehension tugs at his gut, in spite of Narancia's abrasiveness.
"What are you doing?" He asks and immediately curses himself. That's not what he meant to say.
"Nunya," Narancia replies with the air of a petulant child.
"Narancia." Fugo resists the urge to sigh again. "Is there something wrong with your eyes?"
Narancia drops his standoffish attitude, though he does cross his arms over his chest as if to signify to Fugo that it doesn't mean he's forgiven.
"Yeah! I can't see!"
"What do you mean you can't see?"
"I mean I can't see right! Everything's all blurry and weird."
Understanding washes over Fugo, followed by a twist of remorse.
"I pushed you too far," he says quietly. He's speaking to himself more than he is Narancia, and Narancia, if he hears him, says nothing.
"Let me see. Please."
"Fine."
Narancia folds his arms over his chest as Fugo inspects him.
The whites of his eyes are tinged red, little veins running through them like bloody spiderwebs. He looks like he's been up all night and Fugo's a little shocked that he hadn't noticed this before.
Fugo lets his hands linger on Narancia's face a moment longer than he intends. The guilt that rushes through him is the same guilt that floods his chest every time he loses his temper; every time he snaps at one of his teammates; every time he has to help Narancia tend to his wounds after one of their altercations get out of hand.
He drops his hand only when Narancia starts to wriggle, uncomfortable as ever at having to sit so still.
"I don't see anything majorly wrong with your eyes. They're just a little strained from focusing earlier. I won't make you do so much next time," Fugo says, drawn back to the present by Narancia's squirming.
Then, quieter this time, he continues. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you so much."
Narancia is silent for a moment, sullen in a way only he can pull off. Is it any wonder, really, that people tend to assume Fugo is the older of the two?
"'S okay," he mumbles. "I should've been paying attention to you."
Fugo can't dispute that, so he doesn't. Instead he winds an arm around Narancia's shoulders and pulls him close. He's not tactile, not like Narancia is, so actions like this speak volumes from him.
"It's not your fault. I need to be more patient."
Narancia is silent for a moment. Thinking, most likely. Fugo steels himself for whatever's coming next.
"Hey, Fugo?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you wanna get out of the bathroom?"
"Oh." Fugo had actually forgotten where they were for a moment. Now, he's very aware that if either of them were to stretch even slightly, there'd be little room left for either of them to breathe. "Yeah, I guess we should."
They leave the room together, Fugo reaching up to switch off the light that Narancia always forgets to turn off.
Back in the living room, they curl up together on the sofa. It's half to do with space – the front door opens into the living room, and there's space only for a two-seater – but mostly, it's comforting. A reminder that they don't always have to be at each other's throats.
"Sorry I freaked out on you," Narancia says after a while. "'S just my eyes, y'know? I thought I was going blind again."
"I know. You don't have to apologise, Narancia. I should have been more considerate. Please forgive me."
"Man, stop apologising or I'm gonna kick you in the shins."
That, of all things, makes Fugo laugh. That, more than his impulsively and inability to focus, is Narancia. There's no one else Fugo can treat so harshly and still come out laughing at the end of it, and the same is true of the opposite.
"You wanna order dinner?" Fugo asks, though he already knows the answer. It's another unvoiced apology.
"Hell yeah, I wanna order dinner."
They settle for takeaway pizza, greasy and disgusting and the complete opposite of what either of them like. It's perfect. By the time their food arrives, Narancia's eyes are feeling much better, and Fugo is three-nil down on FIFA. This, at the very least, Narancia has no problem keeping count of.