Chapter Text
The mid-February air crawled into his collar, blue sky hanging lazily overhead with nary a cloud on the canvas. Fugo paid special attention to the sound of his footsteps, the beat of his heart, and the faces of passersby as he walked this familiar route. Buccellati had personally requested this attentiveness of him. ‘Presence,’ he called it. To ground oneself in one’s body, while simultaneously melting into their environment in order to better spot threats. Fugo preferred to call it ‘situational awareness’ like most others, but he would still capitulate to Buccellati’s much more flowery and esoteric description.
A curious set of noises echoed in the alleyway as Fugo walked past. Nothing special, but if he decided to ignore it, there would be no point to the exercise. Without breaking stride, he stole a quick glance into the dim and dingy recesses, seeing something distracting enough to break his focus and stop him in his tracks. A person, a small person, dressed in rags and hunched over a garbage bin as they rifled through in search of something edible.
The corner of Fugo’s lip instinctively quirked upwards in distaste, forming an uneasy half-grimace. It was nothing he could really control, but he felt a sense of shame. Brought up in a wealthy family, hatred of the homeless and less fortunate was an uncontested notion, as well as a prejudice bred into him since the day he was born. His overall method of thinking had since changed, but wrestling with his own biases was no small feat. He began to feel worse and worse as he continued to ruminate on it, frozen in place as he pondered his next move. Buccellati had taught him many things in their short time together, and perhaps one of the most important was this: everyone is just as deserving of love and respect as anyone else. Even if they’re scavenging through garbage in an alleyway.
Fugo needed to make this right. It was a sin he had only committed in his head, but if he wanted to become a better person, he needed to atone. He turned on his heel and headed into the alley, where the sunlight seemed to be absorbed by the pitch black grime climbing the stained brick walls. There wasn’t really any plan for what he would do or say. The emotion this imagined scenario evoked in his brain, he couldn’t quite put words to. It wasn’t a big deal until he got closer, mouth opening slightly, croaking a barely audible single syllable, and closing again. What should he say? Should he introduce himself?
The person hadn’t heard Fugo approach over the noises of crumpled napkins being pushed aside. Fugo hoped to god he wouldn’t have to be the one to start the conversation. He cleared his throat and stood tall, waiting patiently for the person to turn and notice him. Nothing happened. Fugo looked back at the entrance of the alley nervously, wondering if it would be better to pretend he was never here. But he couldn't do that.
He took another step closer, planning to, once again, clear his throat loud enough to cut through the noise. Though, as he neared, he began to notice more and more. This person didn’t seem small as a result of perspective or poor posture: now, Fugo estimated them to be about 153 centimeters. Fugo had no preconceptions about age when he walked up, but the thought that this person might be younger than him was jarring, somehow. The more he observed, the less he understood.
"...How old are you?" The question slipped out as Fugo laid a hand on the person’s shoulder.
Instead of being startled or putting up his guard, the boy turned around slowly. He didn’t panic, nor did he answer. All he did was continue chewing what he considered food. Fugo really had no expectations of what the boy would look like, but when finally got to see, it still surprised him. A mop of tangled black hair sat atop his head. His face was dirty-- as is customary among the homeless-- but on top of that, it was almost impossible to tell if he was thirteen or thirty. Likely, he was a fairly attractive teen-something, but he looked aged. Something had been slowly killing him. Bringing his eyes to the mess of bandages wrapped around the boy’s head, Fugo quickly figured out what. At one point they must have been clean, but it was nearly impossible to tell. Whatever issue the boy had, the filthy bandages were probably aggravating.
“Sorry, that was rude of me,” Fugo began, almost robotically. His self introduction was past canned at this point, and he could likely mark the exact date this diatribe became a soulless formality. And yet, a slight pang of anxiety sounded off in his gut, telling him to get it right this time. “My name is Pannacotta Fugo. I’m fourteen. What’s your name?” He placed his left hand on his chest, and offered his right for a handshake. For perhaps the first time in years, this series of phrases and movements felt almost natural. A slight bit of warmth presented itself, and it began to show in his smile. For once, it seemed, he wasn’t faking it.
The boy responded with a slight nod. Through a mouthful of garbage, he muttered, “my name? Er, Narancia... ” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, swallowing. Fugo felt an overwhelming sense of urgency watching this unfold. His fingers twitched, begging him to do something, anything to stop the horror show in front of him. Just the sight, the very thought made him sick by proxy. Fugo had his low points, but he’d never been that poor off. He almost-- no, he absolutely wanted to force the boy to regurgitate the trash right then, though he certainly would’ve ended up doing so later. But, it was too late. Unless he was going to stick his fingers down the boy’s throat like a dog, all Fugo could do was pretend it didn’t happen, so he tried to move on.
“Narancia,” Fugo echoed, nodding in confirmation. While he followed along externally, internally he was scrambling for a good response. Where should he go from here? It was quite an unusual name. Should he comment on it? Although, Fugo’s name wasn’t much better. Perhaps, he should ask for Narancia’s full name, or his age again, or his last place of residence.
“That’s a nice name, Narancia. Why are you alone?”
The moment the words left his lips, Fugo internally chastised himself. He knew no one spoke like that. It seemed Fugo had touched Narancia once and immediately lost all tact. He felt that nothing shocked him, he felt no significant change, he hadn’t even noticed his senses dulling. When did he get so stupid? Why wasn’t he panicking? He knew why he was comfortable with the lack of awareness, simply, because he lacked it, but still knew enough to recognize it was gone. Gone without a trace.
“It’s a, uh, long story… You shouldn’t bother,” Narancia dismissed him, eyeing the trash again. All he wanted was to get this conversation over with and go back to eating. Nothing would result from this interaction, Narancia was convinced of that. This Pannacotta kid would leave, and forget him, just like everyone else. There was a saying Narancia barely remembered, something he’d heard once that clung to his consciousness. Every man has two deaths: the first, when their body ceases to function, and the second, when someone says their name for the last time. In the latter case, Narancia felt that death swiftly approaching.
“I like stories,” Fugo replied quickly, deathly close to losing Narancia’s attention.
“You wouldn’t like mine. It’s not that interesting,” Narancia muttered, turning back to the trash can. The last thing he wanted was to get his hopes up. The outcome would never change: he’d always end up right back here. There was no point. He reached his hand out, circling around the discarded napkins yet again for something he recognized as food. Without a single thought in his mind, Fugo grabbed Narancia’s wrist and pulled it out the trash can, standing close behind him. The moment the garbage was out of reach, Fugo’s grip dramatically softened, though Narancia could still feel a bit of a sting from the anxious way Fugo had taken his wrist in the first place. Fugo had no idea how this had happened to him. He’d gone too soft. And he didn’t know why, when, or how he’d made the decision that it was his personal quest to fix this boy’s life. In silence, Fugo accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to leave this alley alone, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I’m willing to listen.”
“Why do you care?” Narancia pouted, shrugging him off. He turned around fully to face Fugo, not minding the short distance between them. ‘He must be in so much pain,’ Fugo thought. ‘His posture is atrocious.’
“Stand up straight,” Fugo muttered offhandedly, brain to mouth filter completely gone. With a disgruntled whine, Narancia begrudgingly shifted to an upright position, groaning quietly and bringing a hand back to rub his tense shoulder. It was almost disturbing how easily Narancia could be ordered around by a total stranger. Fugo felt a tinge of regret for doing so, though it truly wasn’t his intention to issue an order. He’d need to be more careful with his words from this point on. Fugo looked him up and down, coming back again to the strips of cloth around Narancia’s eye.
“May I… see what’s underneath your bandages?”
Narancia shrugged, and Fugo sighed with resignation. The fact that Narancia seemed to have no strong feelings about his boundaries or privacy was incredibly disheartening, but Fugo knew that just because he didn't express an opinion didn't mean he lacked one. He raised his hand slowly to Narancia’s face, tilting his head to the side to keep watch for any sign of discomfort. Narancia offered only a dry stare. Fugo slipped his thumb underneath the bandages and lifted them up to observe what lay underneath. Narancia had gone to great lengths to keep his eye concealed for safety reasons, so when Fugo lifted the bandages, it felt like he had peeled off a layer of skin. He tried to brace for the feeling of winter air on his face, but it wasn't quite enough to keep his eye from involuntarily twitching and sending a slightly-too-viscous tear streaming down his cheek. Everything that eye did was involuntary. Seeing Narancia's face fully uncovered for the first time was an uncanny feeling. On the right side was an eye with thick, dark lashes and a richly colored violet iris, large and doll-like in appearance. On the left, a raging infection. It could barely be recognized as flesh, discolored and swollen as it was. Fugo felt a sense of deep discomfort when he looked at it, but not due to disgust. It was like a tumor had grown in the place of Narancia's eyelid, large and purple, so obviously sucking the life out of him. It needed to be treated, and fast.
“...Well, if you come with me, I’ll tell you why I care,” Fugo affirmed, dropping the bandages. He turned to the side, gesturing for Narancia to follow him. Narancia obeyed without complaint, and both stepped out into the sun. Looking at him in proper lighting, Fugo felt a twinge in his chest. For some reason, he couldn't help but see a stray kitten. It was a feat he'd survived this long fending for himself in the back alleys of Napoli, considering his stick-thin frame looked as if it could barely withstand the weight of his clothes. Narancia was a walking miracle who, at this point, could hardly walk. He'd survived without a support system, without a plan for what he'd eat or where he'd sleep, beating the odds. And despite how inspiring that was in a vacuum, Fugo didn't like his chances of 'beating the odds' for much longer. Not with that eye. He didn't plan on gambling with Narancia's survival, especially not when his lucky streak could run out at any point. But luck wasn't the only factor.
Even though Narancia buried it under layers of apathy, Fugo sensed a strong will that very few people, including himself, had. He didn't much like thinking about it, but if he hadn't known how to game the system when he was homeless, he probably would've offed himself before someone else did it for him. Narancia had clearly been punished enough. If anyone deserved to live, it was him. Fugo would never forgive himself if he didn't at least try to help. Through all this, one thought came to the forefront of his mind; Buccellati was rubbing off on him, and rubbing off hard. This was exactly the kind of thing he would do. Oh god, Fugo could hardly imagine the type of teasing he'd get for going all soft like this. 'Oh? Has the ice prince finally found the flame to melt his heart?' Fugo sighed deeply and shrugged it off. It didn't matter what Buccellati said. All that mattered was that his new friend was safe.
“Come on, come on, we’re gonna be late. Let’s go get some real food.”