Chapter Text
“–It’s not the be all, end all for him, Signore Bucciarati. Recovery is very possible with the right resources.”
“How long?”
There’s a hesitation that builds in a way that forms an icy chill down Bruno’s spine. His breath hitches to hold.
“It could be anywhere from a few months.” A pause that makes the room so silent that you can hear a pin drop, and Bruno’s reminded of why he can’t stand the medical scene. “Or…it could take a few years for him to fully recover and regain certain abilities.”
“Christ.” Bruno sighs. His head drops into his hands because he can’t bear to glance out the sliver of the window to his side that separates them from the waiting room and he has to wonder of a way to break the news to the one sitting outside of it. His hunched over form waiting for Bruno.
Narancia wasn’t supposed to be the worst one off in the aftermath.
Why would he be? When you compare him to Bucciarati and Abbacchio, he should have gotten the easiest recovery time with the factors involved. His wounds from the pierce of the metal bars had healed instantly from the moment they had removed his body as delicately as they could from his suspension in the air. A horrific sight that’s seared in their memories. Narancia was only dead for a mere hour as the others wrapped up the battle to secure their win. It was a death he had no memory of, much less did he feel any pain from.
To him, it was just a blip in his memory. As if he had fallen asleep. A mere fragment of loss.
In one instance, he had stood on the pillar to scan the area of the colosseum with the use of Aerosmith, and the next, he was on the ground. Piercing screams forcefully leaving him as the fear was too much to keep at bay, the tears streaming down his cheeks combating that. He had woken in a tangle of vines and flowers with Mista’s own sobbing face hovering above his.
“You’re okay!” Mista had yelled repeatedly, his hands clenching his until he was cutting off his circulation, but it was okay because the offered contact gave him something when Narancia hadn’t felt okay in a strange sense despite Mista’s reassurances. Although he had died, he was spared, in a sense. He knew and felt nothing but a brief, horrific fear that threatened to consume him whole, unlike Bucciarati and Abbacchio.
Oh, how he still cries for them some nights.
In what way did he have it worse compared to them? Both of them had been dead from the span of days to a week. They knew and felt everything. They remembered it all. What they had lost hadn’t been a missing fragment in memory to them.
With the loss of prominent organs and a dangerous amount of blood; they had felt the icy chill of death and held the Grim Reaper’s hand. Their survival had been one of pure luck. Narancia didn’t have any of that. He didn’t have his body shut down, even when returning to the land of the living by Giorno’s hand. He hadn’t needed a hospital, medical equipment, or a stretch of recovery time when he had looked positively fine.
Yet, here he is; months later, with a plethora of problems that has him sitting in the waiting room of a nauseating clinic while Bucciarati hears the results that he didn’t have the heart to. Pathetic and cowardly, but Narancia will do anything to ignore what looms ahead of him.
A pity that nobody remembered the bar that had pierced through his skull. Not even himself. It was Giorno’s body. He thinks bitterly that it should be him in this chair with gaudy fabric.
He should have been the one poked and prodded, and stared at with pity. Giorno should have been the one who received countless questions that he could not give an answer to. He should be the one wondering what’s wrong with himself. Not him. Though then there’s a wave of guilt that comes crashing over him with that line of thought. Narancia doesn’t know why he’s mad at Giorno. Perhaps it was a heated way to distract himself and give someone the blame, but that only worsens the guilt when his friend is not at fault.
His heart beats heavily in his chest. He twists the cord of his headphones in one hand nervously, his fingers tapping against the CD player as he desperately wants to try to pretend that he has a normal life the way Bucciarati does on some days.
The door swings open when Bruno stalks out. A file in his hand, and the man gives a polite nod of goodbye to the doctor.
“Come on.” He motions for his subordinate to follow.
‘What did he say?’ Narancia nearly wants to ask. ‘You look pale and nervous.’ Bucciarati’s back remains turned away from him. ‘Do I even want to know?’
None of these questions can be asked when he can’t speak.
Although, perhaps that isn’t entirely correct. At least, not in the beginning. Narancia doesn't quite understand it. When he had been healed, he assumed that it would be the end of what happened to him in April, but here he is now. Did Gold Experience fail him? He tries not to linger on that question for his own sake in an attempt to keep that trust he had instilled in his friend intact.
It had started off small, with a stutter here or there, a quick brain freeze that barely lasted a second, nothing that the others had looked too hard into. Narancia can’t pinpoint the change, but it had led to him carefully overthinking of the structure of his sentences and the words he would use before he spoke. In his mind, there was an attentive voice that warned him to unless he wanted it to come out as jumbled. Even then, he didn’t think much of it at the time.
A mistake that his future self scorns him for.
It develops when he would begin to miss words when speaking– one moment it was there, the next it would fade into the ever–growing fog of his mind. He would only have seconds to switch to another word before others would regard him with suspicion. Then Narancia would stutter more, making his sentences short and choppy, nearly infantile in their phrasing.
It pissed him off more than he could ever make known, but he continued to brush it off.
Was it because he figured it would pass in time? Or was it merely to keep the panic merely at bay? There’s always a fear that comes when you feel as if something’s wrong with you that you can’t even begin to explain. It’s why he would let the excuses grow. Maybe he was just tired from work that needed to be done in order to reform Passione. Maybe it took too much of a toll on his brain and made it shut down in moments of relaxation. It made sense to him. No reason to question it.
While he may have never called it into concern, he knew better than to expect his family to ignore it. He tries to hide it, but it truly starts with Mista noticing.
“What the fuck?”
Narancia looks up when he hears Mista mumble underneath his breath while he looks over Narancia’s school work before he can hand it to Fugo. Mista’s never as violent when he’s incorrect in his lessons, like Fugo is. Narancia tilts his head in silent question. It feels like too much of a hassle to speak when the word is right on the tip of his tongue, but it can’t or won’t come out properly.
Mista turns his paper back to him with a raised eyebrow. Not a good sign in Narancia’s mind. The paper is an English essay for some book that Fugo had assigned to him that he had found rather stupid. An assignment with plenty of given extensions when Narancia took longer than normal to finish it. He doesn’t know how many nights he sat at the kitchen table staring at the pages or a blank sheet of paper until the sun rose. Another oddity that he thinks about, but pushes away. Internally, he thanks Mista’s voice for tearing him away from the one in his mind.
“None of this makes sense, dude!” Mista points to specific areas. The crinkle of the paper sounded loud. “I’m not like Fugo, but even I can see just how disconnected these sentences are. You write one idea, then switch to another with no warning or elaboration. Not to mention the grammatical and spelling errors–”
‘Just call it shit.’ Narancia thinks with a huff and a roll of his eyes. Though there’s an icy chill that forms over him when he stands frozen in confusion when Mista’s words grow jumble. His eyebrows furrow. He can’t parse out specific words.
“–Nara?” Mista’s fingers snap in his face, bringing Narancia back to the surface with a cold shiver and a blink. Mista pauses when he eyes at him weirdly. “What gives? Out of all the subjects you learn, English has been better than normal. At least when you compare it to math.” He laughs, which is a good sign in Narancia’s mind because Mista may eye him strangely, but he doesn’t truly suspect anything deeper.
Narancia stutters. It takes more time than normal, but he finally blurts out what he had been frustratingly trying to say for the last couple of seconds.
“Tired.” Is all he can say when he makes another excuse, because what else could he give? What else can he say?
“You and me both.” Mista snorts. “God, that last mission that Giorno and Bucciarati put me through was exhausting.” He lets the paper fly back onto the coffee table as he lays back on the couch. “Honestly? Go take a nap. That’s what I plan to do.”
Narancia can only stand there aimlessly to let the words sink in. He’s lucky that Mista had already pulled his hat over his eyes. With a tick of the living room clock on the mantel, he nods and takes his leave. The moment stays in his mind. It worries him more than he could ever make known because despite how small of an interaction this was, there’s a buzz in his brain that there’s something underneath this all that he can’t see. Though when the work piles up, Narancia is thankful for the opportunity over another gifted distraction.
At least, until Fugo becomes the second person to make a notice in the middle of dinner that following evening.
“I don’t know why you insist to speak so childishly, Narancia.” Fugo scoffs while he flings the salt shaker at him. Narancia has to scramble to catch it before it can slide off the edge to shatter on the floor. The bastard is not about to have him cleaning an entire container of salt from the dining room floor. Been there, done that, pain in the ass. “ ‘Pass salt,’ Really? Are you three–years–old?”
Narancia rolls his eyes as he sinks into his chair to avoid the gazes switching over to them when Fugo continues to lecture him about the determiner that he missed. It’s not as if he did it on purpose, not that Fugo would believe him, but it was the easiest way to frame the sentence that already had large pauses between the mere two words.
“It is ‘Pass the salt, please.’ ”
He knows! Then why couldn’t he do it? Why was it harder than it ever has been? He nearly feels defeated. Over what? He can’t exactly say, but all he knows is that the longer this goes on as they nearly enter the summer months, the more terrified he has become. Narancia prays he’s blowing this all out of proportion.
“Whatever.” Narancia sighs when the stares hadn’t moved off him. It came out clear and easy. He’s nearly optimistic. “Not…what–” Dammit. “I asked.” Even that took too many pauses than necessary.
Fugo raises an eyebrow when Narancia flings the shaker back at him. Trish leans over to take it for herself before Fugo can smash it when his grip tightens, as if he plans to launch it at Narancia.
“Yes, you did. You asked for the salt.”
Narancia shakes his head. He wants to explain that it came out wrong because he didn’t ask for that in his head, but it had come out of his mouth before he had the chance to properly think it through.
“You manipulative little–” Fugo seethes.
“Boys.” Bruno cuts in with a raised eyebrow. They quiet in an instance when they await for Bucciarati to speak. “Enough arguing. Narancia, reach for what you need. Just be careful not to knock your water over.” A long pause makes Bruno’s expression furrow. “Nara? Did you hear me?”
Narancia blinks. Sweat beads when he thinks carefully before nodding. “Thanks.” He manages to choke out with a sense of relief. He leans over to grab the pepper without further word. Fugo has to resist the urge to push him away when the two sit right next to each other and the space is already limited.
At the sight of what he reaches for, Fugo’s utensils slam down. “That’s the pepper, you dumbass! They’re two completely separate things, how did you–?”
“Fugo.” Bruno warns, and Abbacchio has to cover his mouth with a snort at the scolds the two have received.
Narancia’s eyes shift to downcast over the huff Fugo gives. He doesn’t speak for the rest of dinner. He doesn’t want to think of the stares he receives or even the gentle pushes to converse. When he’s excused from the table, he meets Bruno’s eyes and knows that the man will not let the oddity rest. It makes his heart pound when he shakily closes the door to his room. Immediately, he reaches for his CD player in use of a distraction and tries to forget.
Say what you want about his brain, but he guesses right when weeks go on, and Bucciarati observes him closely.
Bruno hadn’t been blind over the silence that Narancia displayed. He couldn’t help but mentally make a note of each struggle Narancia would have throughout the day. Bruno knows that something is wrong, and in his eyes, Narancia is deteriorating the longer this goes untreated. It makes a fear grow when Bruno horrifically wonders if Gold Experience Requiem is reversing. A silly notion, he tries to soothe himself.
Although it’s not one that lasts when the final straw comes on a duo mission gone wrong and he knows that he’s waited too long to approach this. The guilt heavy in his bones on the drive home.
“Is there any reason that you didn’t call out that someone had been approaching?” Bruno asks calmly. “I know that you saw him on Aerosmith’s radar, yet you kept silent.”
Narancia stares out the window, taking in the trees that blur past them in the moving car. Their palettes blur together in a muddled mix of greens and browns. His shoulder aches with the stitches that Bruno has done.
“Tried.” Narancia murmurs because ignoring isn’t a choice.
“Tried to what?”
“Tell.”
He’s frustrated beyond belief with the one-word answers that come out. Narancia wants to explain himself thoroughly to his Don about what had happened, but the words have a difficulty passing through. It reduces him to the bare minimum of his wanted explanations. He can only imagine how frustrated Bucciarati is with his behavior.
“Bu–” Narancia’s eyes widen. He’s trying to say the man’s name, but it’s a newfound struggle. He feels as if he has forgotten. Did he? No, that wouldn't be possible, his mind tells him. Try again. “Bu–...Bu–”
Bruno watches through the review mirror, and it’s then that he knows that he can no longer wait. The guilt feels heavy in his chest that comes with how long he already has.
“Nara.” Bruno calls. His voice as Don slips away and falls into his softer tone reserved for his team members solely. Narancia ignores him when he continues to try and say his name, but it’s only the first syllable that comes out.
The more tries that fail, the more frustrated he becomes until he can’t handle it any longer. He hits at the leather seats of the car with a frustrated scream that echoes in the tiny, trapped area. Everything feels like it’s too much.
With a wince, Bruno pulls over on the road. Narancia doesn’t notice all the same when he switches to wipe harshly at the frustrated tears that rise and threaten to slip. It’s only until Bruno slips into the backseat and grabs his wrist to protect his eyes that he realizes. The embarrassment grows, and he goes to look away in an attempt to save himself, but Bruno gently grabs his chin to direct his gaze back.
“Breathe for me, alright?” He says with a demonstration of a breathing exercise he’s had to use more times than he can count for his family. He waits until Narancia is calm, with only sniffs escaping him. “Now, why are you frustrated?”
Narancia sniffs once more. His mouth moves, but nothing comes out. Bruno remains calm all the while. His thumb swipes back and forth across Narancia’s knuckle of the hand he still holds.
“Something’s…wrong–” Narancia stumbles with long pauses between words.
Bruno nods. “I’ve noticed.” He admits. “I’m sorry that I let it go on as long as I did. I should have brought it up before what happened on today’s mission had a chance to.”
“Help?” Narancia whispers with an unsure voice.
“Of course, I’ll help you.” Bruno soothes. His hand squeezes Narancia’s and the other that had moved to cup his cheek swipes away at the tears. He pauses with a slightly sheepish expression to improve the mood. “You’re not going to like the first step it involves, however.”
Narancia stares in confusion before it clicks. He groans when he has to reside himself at a doctor’s appointment. Despite the seriousness, Bruno can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. It is one last one that acts as the calm before the storm.
‘(Expressive) Aphasia. A condition where a person may understand speech, but have a difficulty with speaking themselves. Expressive Aphasia develops when there is damage caused to the language– Broca– area of the brain. The damage can be caused by a number of things, such as; stroke, neurological disorder, tumor or infection, or brain injury.’
Bruno flips through the pamphlet the doctor had given him. His mind reels, even though he had seen something such as this coming.
‘The following signs and symptoms include; slow speech that may be nonsensical (Speech–sounding errors), with short phrases and disconnected words. Certain words may not come out, and some words may be plain wrong, but relatively related. Ex; Table instead of chair or fork instead of spoon– Aphasia cannot only affect a person’s speech, but their writing, gestures, or drawing. It affects everyday tasks and general life.’
With a sigh, Bruno lets the paper drop onto the bedside table. He turns to Narancia, who lays face down on his bed. His face is hidden in the pillow, but Bruno can still hear the muffled sobs at the reaction over the diagnosis. His heart tugs heavily in his chest as he witnesses the way Narancia breaks at the news.
He scoots closer to him from where he sits at the edge of the bed, his palm resting lightly on his back to smooth circles into it. “It’s okay.” Bruno whispers, but it only increases the heart–wrenching sobs when Narancia turns towards him. Eyes full of heartbreak and fear.
‘No, it’s not! You’re going to get rid of me!’ Narancia nearly wants to scream at his superior, but he can only get the first word out and nothing more. He gives up. Even when Bruno tries to gently push him in a way to figure out what lingers, he refuses to speak further. He mashes his face into his pillow once more, and another pained sob escapes him at the realization. ‘I was only temporary again!’
In a matter of a second and a clinical pamphlet, he feels as if his world has crashed and burned all around him. It leaves broken pieces scattered around him for his shattered spirit to grasp at.
He expects to be thrown away, just as he always is. After all, Bucciarati dismisses him from Passione temporarily without a current plan to bring him back, as the focus is more on his recovery and the subsequent outline of it. If Narancia serves no purpose to Bucciarati without Passione, then why should he be expected to stay? Why would they continue to house and feed him when he doesn’t have a job or tasks to carry out that earn him those luxuries?
Old habits are hard to kick. The way of thinking is nothing new, but had been soothed over the years. Now though? He reverts to how he was when he first moved in with Bucciarati’s team. There was a sense of feeling unwanted by all but one, because Abbacchio was guarded and Bruno was angry at the way he disobeyed him. Just like then, he now walks on eggshells as if he can be kicked out at any moment with a single indiscretion.
His presence is scarce in the home, and he goes back to ‘stealing’ food from the kitchen. He drags an old lock box he bought with his first paycheck from the depths of his closet to hide the items he takes from the cabinets. Although, it doesn’t go unseen the way he hopes. Narancia isn’t blind to the look of sorrow reflected in Bucciarati’s eyes every time he scurries from the kitchen with a non–perishable item hidden. It hurts that he’s the cause for the gaze, but he pushes it to the side because he needs to survive.
Eventually, they’ll realize he’s not worth it, and by then; he can make it on the streets for a little while with the food that’s hidden.
“Nara?”
Narancia jumps from where he stands in the kitchen late at night. He hadn’t expected anyone to notice his presence when he kept the lights off and his footsteps soft. He whirls around to see Fugo leaning against the doorframe with a raised eyebrow. Though underneath his air of calmness is worry written in his eyes.
“What the hell are you doing?” He asks. His voice may sound irritated, but Narancia hears the concern ringing as clear as day.
Narancia huffs. It’s not as if he can give an answer. Silence is better than the struggle. It saves him from the embarrassment. He turns away to swipe at the package of food in order to discreetly hide it in his pocket. Fugo sees the slight motion of his arms regardless and it clicks in his mind with a sigh. He steps further into the kitchen to approach Narancia.
“You don’t have to hide food, you know?” He whispers. His heart hurts at the thought that Narancia had felt the need to go back to that. “We’re not taking it away from you for whatever reason you believe. We never will.”
Narancia shakes his head. His hands shake, with the tightly–gripped package crinkling beneath his fingertips. He can’t explain it, which only frustrates him more. Before this, he would have undoubtably told Fugo what was on his mind, but the lack of voice and insecurities makes that die. Fugo pauses as he stares at Narancia with a soft expression that always looks out of place on his face to the other. Narancia’s used to their fights. The soft moments feel rare. He can’t see the expression, but he could tell when there’s a light hand on his shoulder.
“You’re still our family member.” He whispers and Narancia stiffens. Was it that obvious? Or can Fugo just read his mind? Narancia can read his, he supposes it would be more than fair in the other way around. They’re best friends, after all.
When Narancia turns to him; Fugo smiles. Clear, bright, and sunny, that makes Narancia deflate. He viewed it differently from them. He feared until it felt too real, and he expected to be thrown away. Yet he was proven wrong. They treat Narancia the same as they always do. He’s still their family member.
He wishes it would always be that easy to soothe his thoughts.
Narancia hates the outward silence. The physical quiet that encases the house every day when the others are out for their own work for Passione, and Narancia has to stay behind. That is, unless he goes into town for a speech therapy appointment. More often than not, he skips. He knows it serves a purpose to become better, but Narancia has felt his willpower die when he refuses to believe what the paper says. He needs time. To process, maybe even to grieve.
The silence from him is just as awful in his eyes. It’s abnormal for a kid such as him who thrived on being loud. He went for years of being unheard, unwanted, and forgotten. His voice would always echo in the house, and he was the first person any of them would hear in any type of setting. Now it’s just gone.
Narancia can only sit in silence with the rest. The others can only be greeted with an eerie silence that none of them are used to just the same as Narancia. That is unless, he thinks in a bitter thought; he wants to sound like a toddler and spend long minutes trying to string together a simple sentence. It’s embarrassing, and as much as he hates it, he finds that it’s better to keep his mouth shut. He wonders if he’ll forget the sound of his voice. Will the others?
He takes to isolating himself away in his bedroom. It’s better than the stares that he gets. The ones of pity and sorrow. At least, he had tried, but the others don’t grant that want for isolation, he discovers.
Fugo will stroll in the moment he returns home as if they share a room all over again like they did in their previous apartment. It’s always with a smirk thrown towards Narancia when he hears the huff and pout.
“Now you know how I feel when you never knocked.” He teases, though the smile that had adorned his face drops when Narancia turns away without so much as a breath of laughter. His CD player turns up in volume as he ignores Fugo and the way he lays next to him on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s a quiet company, in the end.
Mista is much the same when he will waltz in at odd hours to dump of a multitude of snacks on his bed. He tugs Narancia’s headphones away and shuts off his CD player as he ignores the other’s moodiness with a bright smile thrown to him. The static of the TV rings out in the room as Mista twirls around to focus on the VHS player. Overdramatic moves usually get a laugh.
“Pick what you want.” He motions when Narancia merely stares at him, instead of the snacks that Mista purposefully got just for him. “Sleepover night, dude, go wild!” Mista pops open a bag of chips and leans back against the beanbag in the corner when the movie starts. Mista is decidedly not a quiet company, what with his loud voice and booming laughter as he tries to lighten Narancia’s mood. In some ways, it works for brief moments, when Narancia will find himself smiling or laughing. It’s a win.
On days where Bruno stays home, he sits with Narancia with a stack of paperwork to complete and a laptop to answer. His humming always lulls Narancia into a cozy sleep. Another oddity when sleep seems to be all that he does these days. Bruno had said that it was to be expected. That Narancia’s body has been in survival mode since he was 10–years–old, and now at a chance to rest, it shuts itself down. Narancia doesn’t quite like it, but he can only listen to Bruno’s soft explanation and see his warm smile through sleep–riddled eyes.
“Just rest.” Bruno encourages as he moves back to the papers. The soft crinkle is only another ambiance in the room. “You have done more than enough to deserve it after everything you have done for us and Passione. Let yourself have that.” Bruno’s a soft and gentle company. One that Narancia needs more than ever as his eyes slip shut.
He should have more than expected these reactions from those three.
The rest– Abbacchio, Giorno, and Trish– have always been more reserved for various reasons. Although Abbacchio does knock on his door every night to bid him a goodnight as he makes his way down the hall to his and Bruno’s room. Some nights, Narancia doesn’t notice when he can only stare blankly at the ceiling. Abbacchio doesn’t expect a response.
He hadn’t anticipated Giorno and Trish being the same. It’s different as both of them adjust. Giorno is naturally stoic and shielded, while Trish is learning to open up to them in the midst of her grief. Both of them have been trying to become used to everyone and the house itself. They are learning what it’s like to be in a large family, not just viewing them as coworkers for their jobs in Passione. With that in mind, Narancia finds himself surprised when Giorno enters his bedroom one evening with a stack of books carefully balanced in his arms.
Narancia tilts his head, gazing at him in confusion and curiosity. Giorno smiles politely as he sits beside him and spreads the books out between them for him to see. They’re beaten with slight tears or crinkled pages to suggest that someone had once forced them from his hands. Some appear as if they were thrown into a puddle with the water damage lingering on certain pages. Regardless, they remain in good shape to be used. The abuse they faced carefully repaired.
Their sign language books.
“I thought it might be helpful.” Giorno starts.
He knows that the pamphlet he took from Bucciarati’s turned back had mentioned gestures possibly being affected, but it’s worth a shot in his eyes. It will give Narancia a voice back in a way. When Narancia stares frozen at the covers, it spurs him to go on.
“Do you know what Selective Mutism is?” A blank stare. Giorno nods. “It’s when a person is unable to speak in certain settings. It can stem from a multitude of reasons, just like Aphasia. Trauma being one of them. I’ve–”
Giorno pauses, as if he’s unsure over how much he desires to reveal. Narancia doesn’t expect him to go on. He has always kept to himself. While Narancia has been determined to let the other know that he can open up to him, he knows that it takes time to let yourself be comfortable with that notion. He’ll always be willing to wait.
With a soft smile, Narancia reaches to squeeze Giorno’s hand, that had been resting on the blanket next to them. Giorno looks up; his expression is unreadable, but it’s quick to quirk up into a small smile. Then, there’s a sigh, and Narancia’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise when Giorno goes on.
“I’ve been that way since I was young.” His voice is small. A mere whisper, as if this is a dirty secret. “These books…Well, I figured it would be a helpful skill to learn in order to get around this disorder in a healthy way. It’s an important tool that opens many doors. It has, in a way, kept my voice. I purchased as many as I could find, and I wanted to share them with you.”
Narancia looks away. The nerves are more than apparent in his deflated posture. To accept this is to accept the changes he has gone through. To accept this is to confirm that he has lost something of more importance than he can even begin to describe. His mind overthinks a simple gesture such as this one. A squeeze of his hand brings him back to the surface when he realizes that his was still intertwined in Giorno’s.
“You won’t be alone in this,” Giorno promises. “I’ll help you through this. We’ll take it slow. In your time, not anyone else’s.”
“W–Why?” Narancia whispers. His voice cracks painfully from disuse. How long has it been since he’s spoken? Surely, a month at least. One–word sentences are all he can find that he can bring himself to manage, and it felt useless to try.
Giorno gazes at him seriously. His hand is warm in his own. “You’re my friend. I would do anything for you, if you would allow me to.”
Now he feels the guilt sink in even more over his bitter thoughts towards Giorno in the doctor's office. The two stare at each other. One to get his message across with a calm gaze, and the other to see if he’s honest in what he says, his eyes alight with suspicion. Then there’s a small nod as Narancia reaches for the beginner book. Giorno beams to himself, but his grip on Narancia’s hand says it all.
Patience is a wondrous virtue, Narancia thinks, when a couple of weeks go by and Giorno teaches him with nothing but calmness. With how his lessons with Fugo end, he had assumed it would be the same here. Yet when Narancia struggles, Giorno encourages him with a soft tone. When he gets the answer wrong, then Giorno merely adjusts his hand, fingers, or placement to get him to the right sign.
“It takes time.” He always says. “Don’t think lowly of yourself over it. The wrong answers are just as important as the right ones.”
Narancia wonders why no one has ever told him the last part. Maybe his mother once did, but he was too young to remember and let it settle in properly for when he got beat down by those around him over his intelligence. To him, the wrong answers meant that he was a failure. To Giorno, they are a signal that he’s learning. An answer is still an answer in his mind. A try is better than nothing.
Does this type of patience exist in the others? He wonders.
Will they always have room for him in their hearts, or is it not long from now until they grow tired of him? He thinks.
Why is that a question in his mind? Well, he asks when there’s a shift. He’ll admit, he wasn’t supposed to hear the conversation, but Abbacchio really should have heard his footsteps on the stairs. It would have saved them both from the heartache, despair, and anger that follows.
“How long do we let this go on?” Abbacchio sits at the kitchen table while Bruno prepares breakfast. Twirling a glass of wine loosely in his hand, his eyes are cold from where they peer at the patterns of the tablecloth. Besides him is his mobility cane. An ugly reminder that Leone scorns at every morning when its use becomes a part of his routine.
Unlike Narancia, he had remained in Passione, but it’s not as it was before. His only qualities are for low–tier investigations, collection money, and the run-of-the-mill paperwork they all have. No amount of arguments from him get Bruno to budge on the matter. It makes a bright anger burn in his eyes.
Bruno hums questionably from his spot by the stove. His focus is elsewhere that he’s unsure of what Leone is talking about. He turns his full attention towards his lover with a perplexed eyebrow when the quiet persists.
“How long do we let what go on?”
“Narancia.” He says it so easily, as if it didn’t freeze Narancia’s world.
At the sound of his name, Narancia pauses just outside of the door. His eyes narrow, and he ducks out of the frame before either of them could see him. If he was smarter, he would have retreated up the stairs to spare himself, but Narancia has naturally always been curious. There’s a tension that will grow after this conversation, he can tell, and to run would be to shut down the knowledge of what was said to lead to it.
The time ticks on. For a moment, neither of them speaks until there’s a hitch of breath over the chill that has developed the room.
“What about him?” Bruno asks. His tone seeps into something guarded and nearly barbed at the edges, as if urging Leone to think properly about what he has to say. Narancia practically copies those notions from where he stands with a heated gaze, but it is much more subdued with the nerves. Internally, he prays that it's not what he thinks. Surely, Abbacchio wouldn't think that way of him.
“Bruno.” Leone sighs. The glass clinks harshly against the wood of the table. “Where does Narancia go from here? With Passione as a whole?”
The other waves a dismissive hand with a shake of his head. “Passione isn’t important at the moment. This is a big change, and not an easy one, especially so soon after everything with Diavolo. Narancia has been through a lot. Right now, we focus on his well–being and take it from there a step at a time. Other than that, I don’t know what you mean.”
A scoff. “I believe that you sometimes forget that this is the mob, in order to play house.” Abbacchio says coldly in a way that makes Narancia’s heart pound. He feels like he knows where this is going, and he keeps with the desperate prayer that he’s wrong. “What use does Narancia have to be with us anymore? Bruno, as the Don, I don’t believe that you can be fit to care for him while running an entire organization that deals with a whole country–!”
There’s a slamming bang on the stove that corresponds well with that shatter of Narancia’s heart.
“How dare you?” Bruno seethes. “To talk about a family member like that– What exactly does he have other than us? Where do you believe he should go? Foster care? Back to his father? Or do you want him on the streets just like before?”
A beat, and Narancia hopes that Abbacchio shuts up and takes it back. To let this mean nothing. Blame the wine, blame the morning, blame the pain, anything to prove he doesn’t truly think this way about him.
“A care home would be a suitable option.”
He should have just taken it back. The room is cold by now, and with that comes a certain numbness overpowering him. He has to grip the wall when his knees threaten to buckle.
‘You’re going to get rid of me!’ Narancia had once thought when this had all begun. He had hoped it wouldn’t be true. That he was overdramatic in a sense when weeks went on, and nothing had changed with how they viewed him. Fugo had said that he was still their family member. Now that feels like a bitter lie in his heart. ‘I was only temporary again!’ The realization that he had been proven right fills him with horror.
“Excuse me?” Bruno asks in a low, dangerous tone. His footsteps are piercing against the tiles when he storms closer. “A care home? That is your answer, to truly get rid of him? He can’t speak Leone, that hardly consulates to full–time care.”
“It would provide the necessary care, nonetheless, it would give him the proper resources–”
“Resources we’ve already been using.” Bruno rolls his eyes. “You don’t even know the type of abuse that can run rampant in a place like that. Without a voice, Narancia would have no way to tell us when anything is the matter. That’s beside the point entirely, however. This isn’t a reason to get rid of him, to prove that he was temporary or served one purpose only, nothing is–!”
The voices ramp up.
"He's useless to our organization-!"
The two become louder, their growing shouts echo off the walls.
"-The organization can wait! Narancia's more than his job-"
However, they don’t settle in Narancia’s mind when there’s only a ringing that blocks it all out. Fuck this. It’s only been a month or two, and Abbacchio gave up on him this soon?
“Narancia? Shit!”
Narancia jumps, whirling around to see Mista at the end of the hallway. The others must have heard when the voices raised. Which is only proven when Mista looks mortified. He had gone to intervene in the argument only for his blood to run cold at the sight of Narancia listening in by the kitchen door.
With that, Narancia forces his body to move.
He can still hear their voices even as he closes his bedroom door. Their yells drift up the stairs and increase with every little thing the other says, and Narancia has to think Abbacchio is brave to yell at the Don of all people. It’s unlike him, but normal has been non–existent for the three of them since April. The shouts are muffled, however. Narancia can’t hear what they say any longer, but it’s the principle of the topic of their fight and who caused it that still keeps the previous words echoing in his mind.
Narancia hadn’t realized he had been followed until his headphones were slid over his ears. He looks up with a startled noise to see Giorno standing in front of him.
“You don’t need to hear that.” He says softly while he presses play on the CD player and sits next to Narancia on his bed. He pauses, staring at the other with an unreadable expression and before Narancia can blink; Giorno is pulling him into a hug. He shuffles and rearranges the both of them until Narancia’s face is hidden in the crook of his neck, the way he’s seen Bucciarati do for any of them.
It makes Narancia’s eyes widen, but he melts into it all the same. He clings to the back of Giorno’s sweater in a tight grip as he burrows as close as he can, and if Giorno feels the fabric on his shoulder become wet or sees how Narancia shakes in his arms, then he doesn’t say anything as he stays quiet to allow Narancia a moment. Internally, Giorno sighs at the fight that continues just beneath their feet.
It won’t be long before it comes to a pause.
“Bucciarati.” Mista calls whilst stepping into the middle of the two. He hadn’t needed to follow Narancia up the stairs when Giorno motioned that he had it handled. An order was left unsaid between them, and Mista had given a nod before turning towards the kitchen.
Bruno looks irritated over the interruption, but he nods to show that he’s heard.
“Narancia heard. He was by the door.”
Bruno’s eyes go wide. His heart drops in his chest, and his breathing goes so still that Mista has to wonder if his heart gave out with that sentence. Leone’s face pales in an instance.
“Where–?” Bruno croaks.
“Upstairs with Giorno.” Mista nods towards the door. “We didn’t know he heard until I saw him in the hall–”
Bruno is out of the room before Mista can finish. His steps thump heavily up the stairs as he rushes towards Narancia’s room as fast as he can.
Mista looks towards Leone with a low whistle. “You’re lucky that Fugo isn’t home.” He turns from the kitchen without a further word nor glance.
Leone can only sit frozen at the table. Slowly, his hand reaches towards the wine glass, but it only tips over on the tablecloth with how violently he shakes. From beside him, his cane clatters to the floor.
Bruno nearly startles the two boys when he pushes the door open suddenly, but he can only focus on the tear tracks on Narancia’s cheeks, the wobble of his lips, and the way his body jolts with tearful shudders. He looks at Bruno with a face full of misery before his gaze drops to the ground.
“Bucciarati.” Giorno greets with a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes in the slightest if the hurt reflected for Narancia has anything to say.
Bruno gives him a look of reassurance before he nods in dismissal. Giorno follows his orders without any argument as he gives a polite nod of his own.
Bruno takes his place when he sits next to Narancia, who still doesn’t meet his eyes until Bruno reaches to tilt his chin towards him. He gives a smile that was supposed to be one of comfort, but it comes out as small and sad. Narancia sniffs pitifully as Bruno wipes his face and removes the headphones adorning his ears.
“You didn’t deserve to hear that.” Is the first words out of Bruno’s mouth. “They were nothing short of cruel.”
How does Narancia tell him that Abbacchio was right? His mind wonders as he stares at Bucciarati through blurry eyes. He would have never thought that Abbacchio would feel such a way towards him, no matter how harsh he could be. Narancia has always known that it was a disguise to protect himself, and over the years, it had been one to drop when Abbacchio would be rather soft with them all in their private moments together. One where they weren’t just a team, but a family.
To hear him say such words of vitriol feels like a stomp to Narancia’s heart that was already so fragile. Yet, he wonders if Abbacchio is right when he has brought the painful insecurities that linger in Narancia’s mind to a forefront. It is only all the more heart–wrenching.
With a shudder, Narancia pulls away to grab at one of the sign language books. With a flip through the pages he looks back to Bruno with a soft sob.
“Burden.” Narancia signs. His right–hand pointer finger taps at his temple before he closes his hand into a fist to press into his opposing open palm before his pointer finger uncurls as he lifts up.
“No, never.” Bruno shakes his head, but it feels like a lie in Narancia’s brain. “Get that thought out of your mind. Abbacchio had no right to say that about you. Don’t listen to him when he was wrong.”
Was he? Narancia nearly wants to spit out. Instead, he sighs. A sorrowful little sound over what Bucciarati can’t see what he can. There's another flip of the pages.
“Care–” Both hands pointer finger connect at the tips of his thumbs to form into an okay symbol before he moves his hands in a circular motion. “–Home?” Both hands come together in a simple sign. His hands angle up to form the top of a triangle in a symbol of a roof. “Away?” He has to think over this sign. His hands stuttering. In the end, he compensates with a dismissive wave as if he’s shooed away.
He gazes at Bruno seriously, his eyes piercing into his frame to find any lie in what he might say. Say what you want over his intelligence, but his ability to read people has grown stronger over the years. It had to. He’s been taken advantage of one to many time, eventually he had to wise up.
Gently, Bruno pulls Narancia into his arms. He lets the boy rest his head against his chest as he smooths his hair.
“We would never send you away.” Bruno promises. His tone serious. “It was never a thought that had once crossed my mind. You’re not temporary, Narancia. You are our family member. With or without Passione. The amount of work you do doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t mean that’s where your home comes from now. You do not need to earn what you have been given because it will never be taken away from you. This is a small stepping stone in life, one that we will get through together. It says nothing about your worth or what we think of you, dear.”
Narancia shudders in his hold. The words are so sweet, calming, and reassuring that he practically melts into the warm arms wrapped tight around him. Yet, despite it, it feels so bitter in his ears. A fear does not unravel. A feeling is not soothed. An ache persists heavily in his heart, and it’s all bullshit.
Bruno can tell that it’s not an easy fix. Nor did he expect it to be one. He’s been this team’s leader for years, he knows how each of them think in moments such as these. Though, Narancia doesn’t speak anymore, nor does he listen when Bruno does what he can to reassure him. Instead, he turns apathetic and dozes delriously in his hold as the tears still stream. When he slumps into fitful sleep, Bruno has to reside himself on this taking careful time.
Ever so gently, he eases Narancia into his bed. He tucks the surrounding blankets around his form to mimic the sensations of a hug. With one last sweep through his hair, he stares at him with a sadden expression before standing.
The day is full, and despite the heaviness in his heart, he has meetings to attend.
“How is he?”
Bruno jumps at the whisper that comes from behind him when he stands at the vanity in his own bedroom. He was barely aware that the in–suite bathroom door had opened, much less that Leone was in their room. Bruno huffs a humorless laugh.
“Do you believe that you have the right to ask such a question?” He asks with a raised eyebrow.
Leone sighs. His cane gripped tightly until his knuckles turn a pure white. “Bruno, I meant–”
“I believe it is better if you leave it where it is instead of continuing with your beliefs.” Bruno shuts him down coldly. At the click of a jaw snapping shut, he gathers his items, and without a spare glance; he stalks out of the room.