Chapter Text
“–Stating how you felt straight–forward was seen as if it was tactless to those in the Victorian era. Flowers were adapted to be used to communicate meaningfully. Bouquets elevated those messages. Instead of just a singular message from just one flower, the use of multiple had furthered the significance into something whole. Your unsaid feelings hidden from prying eyes.”
They’re words that Giorno had given. A quiet explanation to break the ice amongst the suffocating atmosphere. The silence between the three of them had become too much. Even to someone like Giorno. Only previously broken by the rather bleak sounds of the floor of the hospital wing. Perhaps that’s when it became too much.
What with the bustling of nurses' carts, the squeaks of the wheels piercing from where it drags against the linoleum. The chatter of officials, patients, and family members. Some joyous, others not. Each trailing loud and audible. One of them flinches when a long beep draws from a room down. A tension furthered by the occasional sharp call for help near the entrance, or the sirens of the ambulance coming and going.
Giorno had avoided turning his head when answering Mista’s question. His right–hand man refused to look up himself. Only in need of a distraction. Yet the third set of eyes remained pinned on the lithe figure on the bed, whose room they visit. A man surrounded by various machinery connected to him with slow, repeated beeps emitting.
“Is that why you do it?”
Mista had asked, voice interested, but expression passively blank otherwise when the heavy exhaustion had weighed him down.
“Yes. It’s a customary form of communication. Especially in a setting such as a hospital. Well wishes, and an expectant gift in one. An offer of calmness and respite; even if he may not be awake to see them. It’s rather nice, is it not?”
It had taken a self–conscious infliction towards the end that was well hidden from Mista. The flowers were everywhere. Multiple different vases and bouquets scattered across. Some from the boutique down the street, and others bloomed by Gold Experience.
“It looks more like a decoration for a grave.”
The third one took notice of how Giorno stiffened at the comparison. The way the room felt colder, and the clock ticked by at an agonizingly slow pace in the stiff silence. Only the beeps and whirl of the ventilator. Giorno had looked away, absentmindedly arranging the flowers once more before his hands dropped listlessly at his side and he appeared more than unsure of himself. A brief glimpse of a deeper emotion outside of his perfect persona.
“I apologize–”
“Don’t. I…Shit, I don’t know why I said that. He would love it. Wouldn’t he, Nara?”
Silence.
If he had a further hint of awareness, Narancia would have agreed. He would have tried to lighten the mood. Come to Giorno’s further defense. Though he remained staring intently at the hospital bed from where his head rested on Mista’s shoulder. His mind was hazy.
“Earth to Narancia?”
Mista had tried to rouse him with a movement of his shoulder. A simple shrug that moved his head up with it. If Mista saw the dark circles underneath his eyes that stood out starkly from his pale, feverish, and sickly completion; he didn’t say anything. He merely kept it to himself, even if his smile dulled and his throat clicked with a harsh swallow as he tried to will away the deeper thoughts of worry.
“Yeah…”
Narancia had murmured when his brain finally caught up to him. His voice was small in volume, nothing but a mere wisp in strength that Mista had strained to hear, and Giorno couldn’t from where he stood. The two shared a look. One in worry, the other in pity.
He would have liked to talk more. To go into detail. To share memories. Though he simply didn’t have the strength. Despite his rather painless death, his reverse of fate that subsequently leads to his survival had taken everything out of him. Left with a high fever, twitchy limbs, and a deep pain in his bones. For those first few days, he slept through them. This day was supposed to be better, but seemingly not when his eyes drooped.
He wasn’t supposed to be away from his own hospital room, though an exception was made when Narancia was adamant about coming along with Mista and Giorno when they went to visit the other team member down the hall.
Much of his strength went into such an argument. He loses it now when his eyes slip shut, and he’s barely awake when he’s lifted back into his wheelchair for transportation. An unawareness that fades when he wakes hours later back in the bed alone.
He feels as if he took Giorno and Mista’s voices for granted when he was greeted by the beeps, the cries, and the sirens. The quiet was a warning for what’s to come.
Months after the conversation, it remained the same. This time nothing there to break the silence. Not with only one left awake in the room.
The smell of antiseptic burns his nose as he sits nearby. Idly arranging the flowers in the vase much like Giorno had. The 17-year-old remains lost in his own thoughts. Memories swirling around him. A staple of remaining sane in the hospital, even if he no longer needs to be there. Long since discharged, but he would be damned if he left their final member to remain here alone.
Giorno had provided him with a botanical lesson that had passed through Narancia’s ears at the time. Only ever settling in his brain when the days had passed.
Despite the faint voice, and one small word; he meant what he had said to Mista because Bucciarati would love these flowers more than anything.
It would be a bright moment in a bleak setting under the circumstances of his stay. The plants providing a pop of colour against the sterile white walls. He just wasn’t awake to see them.
A realization that burns the most.
It’s been three months since the downfall of Diavolo, yet with each strike of the minute–hand arm feels as if it has been years when the passing of the time ticks on in a painful pace that Narancia can’t stand.
It was supposed to be okay. As much as it relatively could be, but each day of Bucciarati further spent in this coma nearly has him screaming in a blind rage.
His hands are delicate against the flowers, but they fight to not rip the petals from their stems and smash the vase against the wall. It’s a struggle to not turn on his heels to yell at Bucciarati to wake up. To shake his unconscious form because it’s unfair and not right. He shouldn’t be this way.
Giorno said that the comatose state wasn’t a surprise.
The state of Bucciarati’s body, even with such a reliving revival, had been devastating. It was all too much. As such, it wasn’t a shock that he shut down. The damage was too extensive for Gold Experience Requiem to fully heal, with the stand looking eerily overwhelmed in its own way trying. It had remained heart–wrenching all the same over the notion that they could lose him at any minute if his organs decided they couldn’t continue on. That his body would reject the transplanted ones, and his scarred heart would decide to give out.
Narancia hyperventilated some nights over those thoughts.
He tries to force his mind away from it now. His eyes focus back on the flowers. He thinks back to that night with Giorno and Mista.
“What does it mean?”
Maybe he wasn’t meant to hear it. Maybe he was supposed to drift off to that dreamless slumber as Mista shuffled an arm underneath his knees and kept the other wrapped firmly around his shoulder as he lifted to place him back in the wheelchair. The touches were delicate.
“They’re Sea Thrift and Red Poppy. ‘Be assured of my sympathy; may you find consolation.’ It’s my way of apologizing. The pain they each experience falls on my hands. What could have nearly been their blood.”
“Giorno–”
“Let's get Narancia settled back in bed. Today wasn’t the best day for him, but it was a step.”
Narancia wasn’t like Giorno. He didn’t have an expanse of knowledge on flowers and their meanings, but he wanted Bucciarati to have a beautiful sight once waking up. He chose what felt right. What looked bright and pretty. What felt like Bucciarati to him.
Because years ago, the man had done the same for him. When he paid for Narancia’s surgery for his eye and stayed in the days of his recovery without a single complaint.
With the bandages obscuring his eyes, he could never see the flowers, but he knew that they were there when a vase was set down each time Bucciarati walked through the door with a clink. In a way, it had felt useless, and maybe it was, but Bucciarati had never seen it that way. Chided him for thinking so. He remembers.
“You’re just wasting your time,” Narancia had muttered underneath his breath. Not quietly enough, it had seemed, when there was a tense silence in response that made him cringe. All that he had done, and there Narancia was believing he had offended Bucciarati.
His body stiffened when he heard the slight squeak of the chair moving backwards and footsteps drifting away from his hospital bed. Rapid apologies were already spilling from his lips as he sat up, desperate to keep the kind man with him. He didn’t want to be alone. Not after the way he watched his mother die in the same place with various machines around her from what they caught too late.
The steps came back, the side of the bed dipped. Narancia flinched when a hand suddenly grabbed his. The touch gentle, but a frightened exhale had escaped his lips either way.
“I’m sorry–”
“Hush.”
With a tug of his hand, his fingers were readjusted until he felt the smooth, silky texture of the flower petals. A vase was settled in his lap.
“It’s not the same.” Bucciarati had admitted, squeezing his hand. “But it’s something. It shows that someone has thought about you. That you’re worth even the smallest action of care that someone has to offer you. I’m sorry for the ones who failed you.”
He barely knew him. Yet somehow, he was the first person who didn’t see him as the problem.
Narancia returns that sentiment to him now. He cares for him as he had done for him. Brushes through his hair so it won’t get tangled, careful to avoid the tubes and wires of equipment such as the standard IV, EKG wire, and heart monitor, alongside the Nasogastric tube and before now the Endotracheal tube. The latter having been removed earlier when Bucciarati had been weaned from the ventilator.
He fixes the Anti-embolism stockings to prevent the pooling of blood in the legs, along with adjusting the compression stockings used to prevent blood clots. He’s never been the brightest, but Narancia hadn’t hesitated to learn of Bucciarati’s needs and fulfill them.
When the time wavers between Giorno’s visits, he takes matters into his own hands and seeks out the flowers himself.
Lilies and Orchids seemed the best option to start. Chosen from a sign he’s seen in the hospital shop. Less so for their meanings, and more so for the type of recovery they may be used for. In a way, Narancia feels as if it’s all bullshit. To him, any flower is thoughtful, but the guidelines he comes across are easy to indulge in when it lets him move on autopilot.
Lilies had been typed down to serious illness with a meaning of restoration and hope, while Orchids had symbolized long–term illness with their meaning of strength and endurance. Once they wilted, he continued down the list. Sunflowers for recovery from surgery when Bucciarati needed a transplant. Another message of strength and added vitality. Carnations placed next to it the following week. A message of love and healing. He’d gone until the list of the sun–faded poster had run out.
Then he was forced to think.
Perhaps it was better that way to break him from dissociated motions. He knows that Bucciarati would be more than worried if he carried on that way.
There’s a tiny shop he stops at on his way to the hospital where the owners know him by name. He can’t sweet–talk his way the same as Giorno does too many, but they must hold pity towards him when he gets comped prices. He’s still recognized as one of Bucciarati’s.
Tonight, the flowers are bright orange. He doesn’t know their name. The shopkeeper’s voice had admittedly passed him by as he watched her wrap the bouquet through tired eyes and try not to feel hopeless.
He had tried to remain optimistic. Tell himself that tomorrow would be different. That things would return to normal. Though three months later, he doesn’t think he could be blamed for losing that hope. To stop forcing himself. Nor was he the only one.
The time between Mista and Giorno’s visits had grown sparse. Narancia was lucky if they even made it once a week, always telling him that it was the work of reforming Passione that kept them busy. At some point, they had found Fugo. Had let him back in once he proved himself. He only came once before immediately turning from the room with a sickly amount of guilt replicated on his face. His skin went pale once his eyes landed on Bucciarati. No matter how much the others had asked for him to visit, he wouldn’t budge, and Narancia gave up.
Trish had only stuck around for a short while after everything was done and her father was no longer a threat. Narancia wasn’t there for it, but there’s a letter left from her on Bucciarati's bedside table untouched. Her goodbye had been quick. Fast to flee to the other side of the country to a boarding school that Giorno paid the expenses for with Passione funds, assuring her protection.
It hurt, but the forced phone calls were even worse. Narancia found himself saying less, or outright ignoring them.
To say that everything is fractured would be an understatement.
At first, the increase of speed in beeps from the heart monitor didn’t register in his mind. It was only slight. A rather dismissible notion when his eyes had remained so focused on the flowers and the swirl of memories that kept him trapped. The ambiance of the medical equipment had become a passing notion to him by this point. Just something in the background that eventually blended in when having grown desensitised.
However, his head snaps up towards Bucciarati’s laid figure when a shrill alarm pierces through the air. Rapid repeated beeps that echo in the large space.
“Bucciarati?”
He whispers, feeling the horror grow when he sees the shaking of his body. The way his chest moves up and down rapidly. His face scrunched in pain. This is new. Narancia was used to Bucciarati’s limbs jerking in reflex, something the nurses had explained before. They were sparse, mere twitches, but Narancia got used to not drawing hope towards them. It’s different in the most terrifying way.
He approaches the bedside, unsure of what he could even do. His eyes widening at the rapid lines of the heart monitor. Bucciarati shakes so violently, as if he is seizing. It’s terrifying to watch, and just as he tries to kick the logical part of his mind to do something besides stare and go to hit the call button; the door is flung open.
He’s pulled back by a rather gentle hand on his shoulder. Voices from an array of people filling the room, shouting orders, circling Bucciarati, and looking at the equipment.
“Heart rate over a 100 BPM, PPM exceeding–”
What does that mean? Narancia feels his head spin, his knees nearly buckling, but the nurse steadies him as she pulls him closer to her. As if to shield him.
“Wh–What’s going on?” Narancia tries to demand, but it comes out in a croak instead. He jerks when he feels himself be ushered towards the door. “No! He’ll be okay, right? He’s not–”
–Dying, is he?
Is that what this all means? That his body is shutting down once more? That maybe his revival was all too much for Gold Experience Requiem with the shell that they were left to work with? A soul barely left clinging on. Is his body now deciding to permanently give out? Narancia feels tears burn his eyes.
He can’t voice any of that out loud. Not when his voice dies, and he’s led out the door in both a means to be able to work, and to protect him from the sights of the unknown.
When he’s gingerly sat on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, he feels the way he shuts down. Voices fall onto deaf ears, the touch of the nurse’s hand warm against his shoulder.
He breathes heavily, gripping the arms of the seat as he stares at the door of the room. Bucciarati is just two steps away. Alone, without his family by his side. If he dies again, Narancia doesn’t want it to be when he’s with no one comfortable. The gentle hand on his shoulder retreats. Her words not making an impact, and her shoes click down the hall with notions of her own.
Narancia feels like he’s going to be sick. His mother went more quietly. He doesn’t know which way scares him more.
“–Nara?”
He hates hospitals. More than anything. The smell of either disinfectant or death. The bright lights that make it hard to think. All the wires, and the beeps. The way he leaves each night with no one by his side.
“Narancia!”
He startles as he looks up to see Mista standing in front of him, hand on his shoulder. The older one gives him a weak smile that tries to appear comforting, and it’s then that Narancia notices the tears streaming down his own face. He hurries to harshly wipe them away.
Silently, Mista withdrawals, sinking in the chair next to Narancia. For a moment, neither of them say anything. It’s been more than common these days. From against the wall, Fugo quietly edges forward to stand next to Mista’s chair. He too is quiet. Narancia’s surprised he showed up.
When Narancia doesn’t make a motion to speak, Mista does it himself to prevent him from slipping back into his mind.
“We got the call.” He states the obvious, unsure how else to start.
It launches Narancia’s mind forward. He sits up further. “Bucciarati, is he–?” Calling them is a toss–up between good or bad.
“He’s fine.” Fugo chimes in to ease him, though he still doesn’t look at him. He never does. “Giorno is speaking to the doctor–”
“He woke up.” Mista interrupts to say it before he can. “Bucciarati. He’s out of the coma. That’s why everything went haywire.”
“They said that his blood pressure and heart rate shot up too fast than would be normal. That’s what all the alarms were for. More than likely, the amount of medical equipment he was attached to startled him. It's not exactly common as waking from a coma, even long–term, is relatively painless, just confusing and rather exhausting. Even so, it’s still disorientating for patients when they wake up. Not as simple as the movies portray it. Some can even be agitated–”
Narancia tunes Fugo’s explanation out.
He’s awake. Bucciarati is awake. The moment that Narancia had been waiting on for months. Narancia was never that religious, but he would pray for anyone to give him that. Cried over it when all he wanted was for his hero to come back. The man he looked up to the most, and had done anything for.
He doesn’t know why, but no one had expected them to be close. They thought that Buccirati would always resent him for disregarding his direct orders to stay away from this life. That he would always be cold and distant. Someone had once said in a fit of anger that his ultimate lack of emotional independence and lack of intelligence would be a hindrance and weigh the man down. Of course, apologies flowed, but it stuck in Narancia’s head for a while after.
Though they were wrong. The brief cold faded, and Bucciarati looked at him with so much warmth that Narancia had long since forgotten felt like. Narancia wanted to be as close as he could to it, and Bucciarati never drew away. He stayed. Narancia wasn’t used to people staying.
“Narancia…” He blinks back. “I, uh, I think it might be better for us to tell you, so that you’re not blindsided when it happens, but–” Mista gradually starts, trying to steady himself with a deep breath. He glances over at Fugo, who keeps an expression made of steel, but nods in encouragement.
Narancia’s eyes finally manage to tear themselves away from the door, as if he’s expecting Bucciarati to walk out in perfect health and a set of instructions already on his lips, as if all is normal. He stares at Mista. His previously shiny eyes go dull. The way they always do every time he has to interact with them.
“What?” He grits out. His voice is cold in a way that stiffens them. “Spit it out, for fuck’s sakes.”
Mista sucks in a breath. Holding it for a split second before it comes out shakily.
“We’re dismissing Bucciarati from Passione, as well.”
Narancia stiffens. Truthfully, he should have seen it coming. What with the way that he was dismissed. Still in the hospital when Giorno, now the Don, had told him with rather cold eyes and Mista had backed him up. No matter how much Narancia pleaded and screamed neither budged. Narancia felt as if everything they had done had been useless. It brings them back to the problem they have long since ignored. When they were uncaring of the anger, and the distance Narancia drew from them.
“That’s bullshit.” He seethes. “He just got promoted to Capo. He could be a great right–hand man for Giorno; He has the most experience out of any of us, and you want to dismiss him for probably a stupid, fucking reason that doesn’t make any sense–!”
“Nara, I know you’re mad, but we’re doing this for a reason.” Mista tries to ease when the other's voice travels. “Especially for Bucciarati. Do you know how long a recovery process like his will be?”
“Injuries never once stopped him before. Not even death did.”
“That’s not the same here and you know it,” Mista scoffs. “What Bucciarati has gone through…”
He can’t voice it out loud. Narancia doesn’t blame him. None of it made sense no matter how much they tried to explain it to him. Fugo chimes in from there. With an ever–expanse nature of knowledge and a patronizing tone that Narancia could nearly seethe over.
“Gold Experience Requiem was a wonderful credit for each of your survivals, but there was a good amount of damage done that couldn’t be fully undone. You have to remember, Narancia, he was dead for a week. He moved in a withering body that was slowly losing itself more and more. Blood was no longer being pumped, rigor mortis was setting in, his eyesight and hearing was nearly gone. His organs suffered significantly, and many had already shut down as a result. You were there when his lungs collapsed, the tissue of his liver was breaking down, the operations on his heart, and the transplant we had done to one of his kidneys.”
Narancia feels sick just hearing it laid out like that. Fugo swallows harshly, his throat feeling like it’s lined with glass.
“It seems almost cruel to say, but he may never be the way that he was before. Bucciarati is going to need a lot of time to heal, and Passione cannot give him that.”
It falls into a sharp silence between them as Fugo laments what he was told by Giorno and Mista. What happened on their mission he was never a part of, and the aftermath of the months in the hospital discussing with doctors alike.
Fugo takes a stutter of a breath. Mista looks at the floor. Narancia stares forward once more.
“I mean it in the nicest possible way,” Fugo whispers. “The mafia can not—...will not give him a proper recovery time. Passione cannot guarantee his safety while he is with us. As a result, we have all seen the best option is to dismiss him. Don Giovanna plans to break that to him. Not tonight, of course, but soon.”
Narancia knows that it’s reasonable, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. A notion he keeps up with when he switches tactics. Maybe in a more selfish way.
“Then what about me?” He asks. “I’m recovered. As much as I can be. Yet, you also kicked me out.” He’s supposed to be their eye in the sky. “I’m still capable.”
“Your chronic pain presents issues.” Fugo still doesn’t look at him. “What happens if you’re on a mission, and you have a flair up? Do you think the enemy is going to stop? Wait around for you? Maybe comfort you with a heating pad like we had to? No. You’ll get a bullet to the head before you can even have a chance to move. Your body disposed of in the canal, or sent back to us in pieces as use of a taunt.”
Narancia flares in anger. His hands tighten harsher into the arm of the chair. His nails create a dull scratch when they dig in against the plastic.
“It’s for your safety.” Mista reiterates. “Orders from the Don. Neither of us can reverse it. Neither of us want to.”
“Bullshit.” Narancia scoffs again. “I’m kicked out, but the one who left us is welcomed back with open arms like he’s not a loyalty problem? One of the Don’s top men, no less.” He sneers.
Everyone freezes. The chill in the hallway grows even colder. It’s sudden when Fugo’s head snaps towards him.
“You piece of shit.” He seethes, coming closer, and Narancia rises from his chair to level himself more, though it acts more like an immediate backup. “To use that against us when you don’t get your way–”
Narancia glares. “What keeps you from running?” He demands. “What keeps you from choosing to save your own life over the others?”
Fugo flares. His hands balling into fists as if he’s going to strike. Narancia wouldn’t be surprised. Always quick to resort to anger. He has scars from this same person. Though Fugo adorns just the same from him.
“You couldn’t even be loyal to Bucciarati.” Narancia taunts cruelly, stepping closer until their noses practically touch. “How can you be loyal to Giovanna?”
The anger dies out. As fast as always, and is replaced with a shattered expression. Narancia feels a certain victory. At the end of the day, Pannacotta Fugo is a flight–risk and safety hazard all in one.
Narancia knows that it's unfair. To use his moment of weakness against him in this way. One that he’s so painfully guilty about. An action that despite his words, Narancia truly doesn’t blame him for. He could understand, and never held it against him, but it’s so easy to use, and he needs something in a moment such as this. To make him feel as weak as he does. There’s an anger deep inside of him pointed towards his friends.
They’ve all hurt each other at one point in time. With a skewed reflection in deeper relationships when they never knew what was healthy.
“It’s not fair.” Narancia whispers. “I’ve been a part of this team–”
“You were never supposed to be here.”
Each of their eyes snap towards Mista. He rises to stand between them, breaking them from their stare down. Fugo turns away, running a hand through his hair while he paces the hall. His jaw clenched tightly as he tries to still the heavy beat in a cracked heart. Narancia backs away.
“What?”
He looks at Mista, eyes shiny.
“Bucciarati told you to stay out of this life.”
Narancia’s face falls in an instance. He’s sure the heartbreak is reflected when he looks destroyed. Nearly defeated. Does…Does that mean that he wasn’t wanted by any of them after all? Always just the odd one out, not meant to be there when he had an option?
He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want it confirmed.
The door opens. Giorno walks out with a doctor at his side. A conversation lingering, though their voices are low. The three of them watch as they shake hands and the older man dismisses himself.
For a moment, Giorno lingers, facing away from them.
If Narancia looks closer, he can watch the way that Giorno squares his shoulders and straightens his posture. The way he tightens his face. Narancia has to bite back another sneer. His eyes always burn in fury over the emotionless demeanor that Giorno always displays. Even if he truthfully knows that it's nothing but an act. Giorno isn’t as perfect as he tries to appear.
Ignoring the obvious tension, Giorno comes forward.
“He will be okay.” Giorno states. “His heart rate has been steady, and there’s nothing at this time that calls for immediate attention. They’ll monitor him as normal, and he’s set for another round of medication just shortly past midnight.”
They all release a breath of relief. Mista stumbles back to sink into the chair. A notion that Fugo follows as he sits himself on his other side, but Narancia remains standing. He stares blankly, taking in all the information.
He’s awake and okay. It’s over.
Giorno steps closer when he sees him lurch in place. The palms of his hands warm against Narancia’s arms when he takes them lightly to steady him, urging him towards the chair. Narancia pulls away.
“Can we see him?” Narancia asks shakily. “I want– I want to see him.”
He sees the way that Giorno draws in on himself more.
“He’s asleep, and visiting hours are over.” He says kindly, though it still keeps that monotone infliction that irks him. “Bucciarati was rather disoriented when he awoke. Agitated too with all the staff around him and the equipment he was attached to. Each patient is different when they come out of a coma, some more stressed than others. I tried to calm him the best I could, but he wasn’t aware of much. He kept asking for his father, and then…Abbacchio.”
They all wince. Looking away from one another. No one speaks of it, and Narancia can’t bear any thoughts towards the man without screaming and punching the wall in pure anger. He doesn’t think the hospital would appreciate that scene.
A squeeze to his arm draws his attention back towards Giorno, who tries to give him a small smile, but he doesn’t believe that Giorno's facial muscles are able to hold any type of proper expression, much less something like a smile.
“Would you allow yourself to stay the night at the estate with us?”
None of them knows where Narancia goes once visiting hours end. He never allows himself to stay with them. He views it as pity. It’s not sincere, and Narancia won’t let himself believe it as any other way. Even now.
With a brisk shake of his head, and a surely bitter expression; he pulls himself away from Giorno’s grip. Turning, he grabs his backpack that was placed outside of Bucciarati’s room. A quick motion, unable to spare a glance through the tiny window.
“Nara, come on.” He hears Mista try to say, but Narancia only continues down the hallway.
Strangely enough, Fugo moves as if to reach out to him as he walks by.
It’s an estate that he’ll never belong in. Not as if he’s never been there before. There were times he had no choice in the matter. When the chronic and phantom pain would always be to blame.
He would try to avoid them, but it was always so noticeable. The pinch in his face, the limited movements. The furthest Narancia got was to his car, but Mista had been swift to drag him out.
He’s sure that it looked like a kidnapping in the parking lot, but the results would always be the same; Him laid up in Mista’s bed while the older would keep a heating pad on his chest or back and strive to make him comfortable. Yet, the tension was palpable between them. The words got less and less.
He doesn’t look back as he leaves. The sun sets above him, and his mind spins on the drive home that he’s surprised the car goes straight. It’s tempting to drive aimlessly, with no destination in mind.
The house is dark when he enters. Just as expected. Cold and empty, with a feeling as if he’s out of place when it's not his.
The beach house was the only suitable option. The one that Bucciarati owns and had offered to Trish if she had nowhere else to go. Over the years, Narancia had nearly forgotten about the property. Having only spent a few nights post–hospitalization when Bucciarati had offered after he had seen the hesitation in him over returning home.
“Nothing will change.”
He had whispered one night when Bucciarati sat on the edge of the guest bed to help him with the prescribed eye drops. He remembers the way Bucciarati’s face went strained, his lips pursed. Instead of answering, he only gestured for him to lie down. His hands were warm when he cupped his face and pulled his lower eyelid down.
Narancia closes the front door. Only able to make it to the room that he had set up for himself before he dropped to his knees. He curls against the frame of the bed, choking sobs heaving from his chest.
He doesn’t know why he cries. Today should be happy. He got everything he wanted. Even so, he finds himself falling apart in the darkening bedroom.
He doesn’t try to quiet his cries when there will be no one there to hear him.
When Narancia returns the next day, Bucciarati is still asleep.
His face is much more peaceful than it was before. The sun shines bright against his skin. Certain equipment has already been removed upon his awakening, such as the Nasogastric tube. Though Narancia doesn’t find it entirely comforting when it still looks as if he’s in a coma.
The heart monitor still beeps, a nurse checks his vitals, and Narancia really just wants Bucciarati. The way he has for months.
As selfish as it may be, Narancia nearly wants to wake him. Just to see his eyes and hear his voice. He has waited anxiously for a chance to again, and he finds it delayed in the most agonizing way.
He doesn’t, however. Not when the nurse must read his mind and shoots him a pointed look, though not unkind, a way a mother would to scold her child. Narancia dares not to think of it further as she bids her goodbyes.
Once more, Narancia is left alone. It’s early in the morning. He was the first visitor waiting for the clock to strike. The staff know him by name and appear fond of him. The other three won’t be in until the afternoon. A meeting and a mission, Mista had texted, along with an apology for their argument yesterday night. It was followed by an email from Giorno, reiterating his position over Narancia’s dismissal. Narancia never responded to either of them. Simply deleted both messages without a further glance.
Leaning over the table, Narancia fluffs the flowers. Glaring when they droop obviously. It’s natural, but Narancia wants it to be perfect for Bucciarati to see.
“I just changed your water.” He huffs with a kick to the table leg. “You're by a damn window. Stronzo.”
He stands, wandering the room aimlessly. Unsure of what to do when it’s different now. He used to read to Bucciarati. It would be too awkward now. So would narrating about his day. The nurses came up with a routine for him in the beginning, when he didn’t know what to do.
“Announce who you are when you enter.”
“Be aware that anything might be heard.”
“Hold his hand.”
“Talk. Like nothing ever changed.”
He did then, but now he’s back to square one. Just anxiously awaiting.
Quietly, he brings a chair over as close to the bed as he can. Sitting down, he thinks. He hopes Bucciarati won’t be scared again. When he awoke, he himself was just as confused and scared. Crying into Mista’s arms when the nurses tried to help, the doctor tried to explain, but he couldn’t understand what was happening. Why he was here. Why he hurt.
He doesn’t want to think of it.
Leaning forward, he rests his head on the edge of the bed, careful to not disturb anything connected. His eyes slip shut with a thankfully dreamless sleep.
The feeling of someone carding through his hair hours later is what slowly rouses him. Unconsciously, he pushes into the warmth, seeking out more of the person’s affection. There’s a quiet chuckle from above him. A piece of hair is tucked behind his ear, and he feels the hand creep towards the headband he had in place of his bandana to gently tug it off.
The hand drifts away, and Narancia suppresses a small noise of disapproval.
“Can’t be all that comfortable, sleeping with that on.” He hears an indistinct murmur. The hand returns, smoothing out his hair.
It stays like that for a few minutes. Content and quiet. Narancia is nearly lulled back to sleep as his mind remains sluggish. Sleep hasn’t been kind to him.
It hits him suddenly as he shoots up, nearly tipping the chair back.
There Bucciarati sits. Awake. Alive. With tired, but bright blue eyes and a smiling face towards him in a way that practically radiates the sun. It’s the best sight that Narancia has seen in a while.
He stares breathless, his lips mouthing the man’s name, but no sound comes out. His eyes burn, and his shoulder shakes, yet he stays frozen solid from where he stands. Bucciarati tilts his head, watching him. His smile grows even more.
“Come here.” He whispers. Strained from disuse. He gently motions him over.
Like any order, Narancia listens. Standing right next to the bed, his knees nearly buckle to send him to the floor until Bucciarati reaches out more to steady him. Grasping his hand, he tugs him into the bed next to him. Uncaring of the limited space.
When the arms wrap around him, Narancia gasps. His body shakes harder, and he can’t prevent the tears from streaming as he buries his face into Bucciarati’s shoulder with a quiet sob. He forces his body to unfreeze, wrapping his own arms tight around Bucciarati’s neck.
“Bu–Bucciarati–” He tries to speak, but he cuts himself off with a weak cry, weeping gently into the hospital gown. He doesn’t want last night and this morning to be a dream. Nothing but a fake consolation prize his mind has created to soothe him.
Bruno pulls him close, keeping him held steady. With one hand tangled in his hair when he cups the back of his head. He revels in the weight against him, much like he did at the first sight of Narancia.
The boy, being the first thing he’d seen when waking up, had been more than relieving after his last moment of lucidness in that final battle was spent believing that he had died. It wouldn’t be long before he could see him again, but it wasn’t what Bruno had wanted when it meant he would die so young. Just a teenager who had no place being in this life.
He didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye. Narancia had died without their knowledge. By the time they noticed the odd silence; it had been far too late. He was gone. Looking all too peaceful for what had happened as Giorno covered his limp body with twining vines of flowers. His touch was just as gentle as the flowers covering him. The younger brushing his bangs away from his eyes with a promise that they’ll be back.
He gave him what Bruno couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Even if Bruno wanted nothing more than to hold him and apologize for everything. He couldn’t when he was in his body. The very man who had done this to Narancia.
As such, Bruno refused to touch him with the hands of his murderer. He felt that if God was kind, then they would find each other again in whatever came after death. It was his only comfort.
This, however, this is much kinder than Bruno had ever expected. Narancia alive and warm in his arms. His chest jumping against his with each breath.
He blinks away the burn in his own eyes.
“Hi, Nara.” He murmurs warmly against his hairline as if it’s any other morning. As if they’re home safe in their townhouse rather than exhausted in the hospital. With his eyes screwed shut, Narancia can almost fool himself in that imagery.
“It’s the fucking mafia.” Fugo had once spat when Narancia had hung off of Bruno’s arm as he prepared breakfast one morning after greeting him. “Who hugs their boss?”
Though Narancia knew that Bucciarati never minded. He never had to say it when the love and affection was clear.
Shakily, Narancia pulls away, stumbling to his feet. His cheeks are wet, with strands of his hair sticking to them. He takes a trembling breath as Bucciarati watches in his confusion. His arms feeling cold.
“I–” He swallows harshly. “I should get the nurse, I think she mentioned checking on you again if you woke or–...Do you need anything?” He switches courses, looking around the room. “Water? They brought a pitcher. It’s summer, but they keep this room cold as hell; there are extra blankets in the cupboards, pillows to–”
“Nara.” Bruno cuts him off. “I don’t need anything. Just sit with me.”
He motions him over, holding his arms open and nearly expecting Narancia to throw himself into them the way he always does, but the other only continues to stand across the room, looking conflicted that he can’t be of any use, unaware that his presence is more than enough.
Turning, Narancia walks towards the table where the vase of flowers sits. Silently, he picks it up, holding the ceramic in his hands like it’s the most important thing as he approaches the bedside once again to settle it in Bucciarati’s lap. The man stares at the vibrant orange flowers.
“I got them for you.” Narancia says. Voice a cracking mess from the harsher sobs he choked on. “I wanted you to have something nice when you woke up. Just like you did for me.”
The edges of Bucciarati’s eyes crinkle as his smile grows. Recognition fills his eyes. He cups his mouth slightly as a chuckle escapes him. He reaches a trembling hand to feel the petals.
“These were the same ones I got for you.” He says. “When you forced Fugo to play 20 questions because you got bored in recovery, and he told me that your favorite colour was orange. By the time your bandages were removed, they were too wilted…I had to throw them away, show you the new ones that didn’t feel like the correct ones. Disappointing, to say the least, but you felt their petals.”
Narancia blinks, glancing at the flowers himself.
“Really?” He murmurs.
“Really. Perhaps it was silly to have been disappointed, but I chose them for their meaning alone.” He sighs. “I should have said it out loud to you.”
Narancia scrunches his nose. “You believe in that?”
“I do.” Bruno replies honestly. “I find that it’s nice to have that symbolism. To find flowers that remind you of specific people. What you see in them, how you feel for them, and certain attributes that make them whole. I find that it means a lot. Thank you, Narancia.”
Narancia blinks. His lips quivering. Bucciarati takes his hand.
“I missed you.” Narancia breathes. “I missed you so much–”
Bucciarati shushes him quietly, squeezing his hand. Three months, the nurse had said late in the night when he groggily awoke once more. He takes a shallow breath.
“I know. It will be alright now.” He says. Can he even say it back himself? Can you miss people through a gap of time you didn’t recognize? To him, yesterday was when they took down Diavolo, but it’s July. It feels wrong, but perhaps he started missing them the moment his body decayed. “I’m here.”
Narancia nods, wiping at his eyes. He refuses to drop his hand.
“What does it mean?”
Bruno blinks. “Excuse me?” He seeks to clarify, pulling himself away from the thoughts edging in his mind.
“The flowers.”
Narancia gestures towards the vase. Bruno follows his gaze, humming lightly. It looks oddly similar to his mother’s that was stashed away in the beach house.
“A bouquet of Gladiolus’s. They symbolize strength and the faithfulness you hold to a person.”
Narancia smiles. He chose right, even if it was for the need of a bright colour alone.
There’s a knock on the door. A sudden chill taking over the room.
Narancia stiffens when, instead of who he hopes is an expectant nurse, Giorno walks in. Mista and Fugo follow directly behind him.
If Bucciarati notices, he doesn’t say anything, but Narancia is aware of how his eyes flicker towards him. It makes Narancia smooth his glare immediately. He can’t give away much, and worry Bucciarati in the process. Show him how fractured his team has become while he wasn’t there. It would disappoint and sadden him that he would find ways to remedy it. Narancia can’t allow it when he just woke up.
So, he seethes silently when he knows how it will go.
“Good morning, Bucciarati.”
Bruno smiles at them. An expression that grows wider when he takes notice of Fugo. His relief is more than evident that he’s safe, although Fugo avoids eye contact with him. Neither he, nor Mista come any closer or speak and it takes him by surprise.
Perhaps he had expected reactions similar to Narancia’s. The boy still holding his hand, refusing to let go for even a second. Maybe the other two were never as clingy as Narancia, but it’s still rather different when it feels so cold.
Nonetheless, Bruno pushes it to the side and keeps his smile bright.
“Good morning.”
Giorno nods politely. His eyes fall on Narancia.
“I see that Narancia beat us here, as we expected; I hope he passed on the message of our planned arrival.” He didn’t. “Unfortunately, there was a meeting that we couldn’t push back. I hope we didn’t make you wait too long.”
Bruno hums, brushing him off. “I had no doubts.”
He doesn’t say it, but he remembers Giorno’s figure in the room the previous night. The younger’s voice was gentle as he tried to keep him calm. Holding his hand, much like Narancia does now. He nearly wants to apologize, ashamed of the way the boy had seen him. Weak and pathetic. Calling out for his father as if he was a child once again.
Embarrassment and that childish want still presiding aside, he stays silent when he sees the calculating glint in Giorno’s eyes. Though his focus remains towards Narancia, who stares back, stone–faced and challenging.
“Narancia.” He says. “Would you give us a moment alone with Bucciarati?”
A faux politeness when it’s a command either way. It’s clear that Narancia isn’t supposed to get a choice but to listen, and it nearly makes him laugh. He’s not a part of Passione anymore, they made that clear. Why should he take orders from the Don?
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he stays firmly in place and stares at him blankly. Giorno raises an eyebrow as if daring him to make him repeat himself. Narancia bites the inside of his cheek, not wanting to start an argument, but the higher–above attitude has worn on him. From behind him; Narancia can see Mista’s hand twitch as if ready to drag him out himself.
The tension is only broken when Bucciarati clears his throat, pulling all eyes back towards him.
Silently, he drops Narancia’s hand, and passes him the vase.
It makes his expression fall, though it becomes confused when the man only gestures towards the chair right beside the bed.
“He can stay.” Bucciarati says simply, but firmly.
Giorno’s jaw clenches tighter, as if frustrated over his orders being dismissed, and, this time; Narancia does smile, something wicked. It truly is reminiscent of a child trying so hard to play an adult. He hears Fugo mumble something with clenched fists over the obvious disrespect.
Even though his control slips, Giorno simply nods. “Very well.”
Bruno smiles, gesturing for him to continue.
“After much thought, and taking in mind your health and recovery in the long–term; we have decided that the best course of action would be to dismiss you from Passione with no plan of a later initiation.” The way he says it comes off as robotic. “That’s not to say that what you have done will go unrecognised. We thank you for everything. We have just seen it as the best. The same decision was made for Narancia.”
The room falls silent after that. One letting the information sink in, three of them waiting for Bucciarati’s reaction, and another glaring at the person who uses their title against them. There’s a beat, then a quiet chuckle.
“Is this Don Giovanna I’m speaking to currently?” Bucciarati asks with a smile and a glint in his eyes. “Or the Giorno Giovanna I meet?”
Giorno pauses. His eyebrows furrow and the glint only glows brighter when Bruno sees that he caught him off–guard. That he made part of his mask slip. Silently, Bruno motions for him to come closer. Just as he did with Narancia, though unlike him, Giorno stutters in his steps. His feet practically frozen to the floor.
Taking a deep, strained breath, Giorno clears his throat, shaking his head absentmindedly as he tries to remain in control. He opens his mouth to continue, but Bruno cuts him off before he can start.
“Giorno.” He says, motioning him over once again.
This time, Giorno listens. He steps closer, unsure, and his eyes widen when Bruno takes his hand with a small squeeze.
“Taking on a prevalent role such as the Don at only 15–years–old.” He muses quietly before he ushers Giorno to sit on the edge of the bed. Still holding his hand, he runs his thumb across the ring of the Don absentmindedly, taking in the cool feeling and glint of the metal. There’s no envy in his face. Just a silent sort of pride over their win, but a certain heartbreak over what he says next.
“You can let go in your private moments. Allow yourself to be the teenager that you are, because trust me, GioGio; I know how this life can be. I know what it takes from you. Youth is only at the top of the list. Vulnerability only another.”
Giorno looks away. Briefly, Narancia makes eye contact with both Fugo and Mista, but just as quick as it comes, they each tear their eyes away from one another. The words of last night still sting, but there’s a small recognition over the truth in Bruno’s words.
Bruno’s smile goes sad.
“It’s just us here.” He reiterates. “You can let go.”
When Giorno still doesn’t speak, Bruno slowly lifts their entwined hands. Wordlessly, he presses a kiss to the golden ring. Just as Mista and Fugo had done. A motion that Narancia was denied. Just like the others, it’s supposed to be a symbol of loyalty to the Don. A notion that is void in its true meaning, but the others realize quickly what it symbolizes to Bucciarati himself.
“Our loyalty is not solely for the organization, but for you. You are more than just your title; it is important for you to remember such a thing.” Bruno says, voice nearly stern despite how soft it is still from the disuse. "You gave me hope, Giorno. The significance you hold to me cannot be explain in enough words."
The mask slips. It’s nothing major. Not piercing sobs, or anything of the likes. Narancia could never imagine such a reaction from Giorno. Though he sees the impact of the words when Giorno shakes violently so much that the metal bars of the bed rattles. His eyes remain dry, but he lurches as if he was crying, and it hits Narancia then that the shaking is his way of expressing that. It’s fucked up.
There’s an uncomfortable feeling that comes with watching as if he is prying into a private moment despite neither of them requesting for the other three to leave. When they were included in Bucciarati’s sentiments. Narancia knows that he’s not alone in that thought when Mista and Fugo avert their gazes, granting that privacy for their Don, but not stepping out the door as to not interrupt the clearly needed moment the youngest of them all needs.
There comes a pinch of guilt for all of Narancia’s venomous thoughts towards Giorno. Viewing him as cold and heartless in a way. He swallows harshly, averting his eyes towards the floor just as Giorno is pulled into Bucciarati’s arms the same way he was.
“ごめんなさい”
Narancia is still close enough to hear the breathy whisper Giorno gives. He can imagine Bucciarati’s expression of sympathy from the tone alone.
“That better not be what I think it is.” He says softly, running a hand down Giorno’s back. “If it’s an apology, then I do not accept it when there is nothing for you to be apologizing for. I made my choice, one that I don’t regret. My fate was never once on you, though I remain grateful when I am sure our survival is because of you and your brilliant Stand.”
Giorno nods, lingering in the embrace. When he pulls away, he smiles. Warm. For once, it doesn’t look out of place. Like it can’t hold. He allows himself to show proper emotion.
Around Narancia, a conversation continues. He doesn’t pay any attention, lost in his own thoughts, and only blinking back into focus when he hears goodbyes exchanged with an explanation of a mission. There’s another quiet laugh from Bucciarati when Mista practically throws himself into his arms.
“Fugo.” Bucciarati calls out before he could slip out the door with Giorno. His arms are outstretched and expectant. Fugo looks as if the ground will swallow him whole.
He only forces himself to move when Mista nudges him. His posture is stiff as he stands by the bed. A shaking in his frame even as he’s pulled into a hug.
“I’m not mad at you,” Bucciarati whispers, holding him close for a moment before pulling back to cup his cheek. “Understand?”
It’s simple. So much so, that Fugo merely nods.
“Good. You can let that guilt go.”
It’s not a perfect fix, but there’s a small part of that guilt lifted.
“Be safe.”
Then they’re gone.
Narancia looks over. A barbed comment on his lip over how unfair this is. A notion he expects Bruno to agree with, or even smirk about with a form of his own plan on how to convince them to let them back into Passione. However, he falters when he sees the expression in place instead.
Bucciarati looks at peace. A soft smile placed on his lips, and his eyes glimmer with newfound hope. An expression that Narancia isn’t used to.
It hits him then just how dull Bruno’s eyes have been over the years. How strained his expression had become. With down-turned lips and dark circles underneath his eyes.
He realizes that this is the greatest gift that Bruno Bucciarati has ever been given. A release from the sense of entrapment he has felt. Narancia knows better than to announce any of his thoughts over the matter.
Though, as always, Bruno must sense something is amiss in his silence when he glances over at him.
“You’re worried about where you will go. What place you will have. Aren’t you?”
Narancia stiffens. He looks away, eyes kept on the ground. “Yes.” He murmurs because he knows that Bucciarati will only pry.
The man hums with a teasing smile on his face. “Don’t let your thoughts control you and run wild. You’ll stay with me. In the beach house.”
Narancia blinks. “What?”
Bucciarati’s teasing expression deflates. Close to pity, but it tries to remain neutral in itself. He motions him to come closer. Narancia listens without a spare thought, allowing Bucciarati to tug him into the bed once again. He readjusts them both before pulling Narancia tight against him.
“You know better than to believe that I would just leave you.” He admonishes.
Narancia doesn’t answer. Just gives a weak smile, and he’s grateful when Bucciarati doesn’t push. Instead, he just pulls him closer as if the affection will solidify his words.
Time wavers. Exhaustion grows, but something hits the older man in the moment. Something is missing. Someone.
“Where’s Abbacchio?”
Narancia stiffens. Bruno can feel it from the arm wrapped around him. His heart sinks with it.
“Nara?” His mind already reels in panic. He wasn’t here, and he realizes now that no one had mentioned him. That terrifies him.
Narancia’s mind already spins. He can’t be the one to break this news to him, but Giorno’s gone. Only did a half–ass job of granting a dismissal, and Fugo and Mista are his pawns who never move without his permission. They stayed silent because Giorno was, and as a result; it falls on his shoulders.
“Is he–?”
“No.” Narancia finally croaks because he can’t allow Bucciarati to believe that they are the only two to survive. The stiff posture in the other eases some, but it doesn’t make anything clear. Pulling himself together as the older one, he nudges Narancia.
“Tell me.” He commands.
From there, Narancia has to bite the bullet.
“He left.” He refuses to look Bucciarati in the face. “Months ago. Before he was supposed to.”
Only two weeks after he woke up, he ran. It was clear that he had wanted to leave. Countless lectures given to try and soothe him when it was against everything the doctors had recommended. It didn't work. He was gone in the night.
“He–....He never visited you.”
It’s not entirely true. There had been one moment. Brief. Only just a minute or two.
When Narancia had snuck from his own hospital room to be with Bucciarati, his head resting on the edge of the bed in his arms. He had been in between that state of sleep and awake when the door had gently clicked open. He hadn’t thought much of it, sure that it was a nurse to check on Bucciarati or bring him back to his room.
It hadn’t been until his hair was lightly ruffled that he cracked his eyes open a bit. Abbacchio was standing next to him. Out of a hospital gown, and dressed in civilian clothing. He said nothing as he ran his fingers through Narancia’s hair for a few seconds before moving closer to Bucciarati to lean over and press a kiss to his cheek.
Narancia had watched in tired silence as Abbacchio glanced around for the bedside table, opening the drawers until he found the one with the items Bucciarati had on him the day he was admitted. The barrettes laid on top of his neatly folded suit with the lace to go with it, but he was looking for something specific. His face pinched as if he was nervous.
Narancia didn’t speak. His eyes flutter as if to pull him back into sleep.
At the shaky breath, he opened them once more just in time to see Abbacchio bring out the promise ring he had given Bucciarati years ago. A matching one already on his finger.
Delicately, Abbacchio had reached over for Bucciarati’s hand. In the most carefullest of motions, Narancia watched as he slipped that ring back into its rightful place. He lingered slightly. Holding Bucciarati’s hand and gazing down at him with an unreadable expression.
Then, with a light squeeze, he let go and disappeared through the door once more to be gone by morning.
“We haven’t heard from him since.”
As if he vanished from the Earth. Giorno and Mista looked. Narancia had demanded it. Nothing ever gave results. His anger for the man only grew until he turned into a name not to be mentioned.
For a long moment, Bruno stays silent. His throat feels lined with glass.
“I’m sorry.” Narancia says.
Bruno feels as if something in him has been violently torn. His lover…He can’t finish that thought. Lest he loses his composure in front of Narancia, but the younger can easily see the impact it has on him as he hugs him tighter.
Bruno goes to speak, unsure of what he could even say, but Narancia helps with that to.
"We don't have to talk." He says quietly. "Not if you're not ready."
He feels Bucciarati smile, resting his cheek on his head. It lights up his heart, no matter how sad it is when he was unsure if he would ever see it again.
They settle in the quiet. Lost in their own thoughts, but taking comfort in the others presence.
They stay like that, both dozing lightly against each other as the time ticks on until the sun begins to set. The exhaustion prevalent when Bruno has just come out from a coma, still recovering, and Narancia has spent many nights sleepless with his own set of worries. A gentle knock on the door rouses them both. Visiting hours have come to an end.
Just like always, his heart sinks and his peaceful mood dips when it will be another night alone, having to leave Bucciarati. Though, sighing, he stands. He finds that he’s not the only one who feels that way when he glances at Bucciarati and sees the disappointment he tries to conceal over his departure. It clicks then that the man has never been fond of hospital, and Narancia feels worse for leaving him.
“I’ll be back first thing in the morning!” He says with faux energy, hoping it’s a comfort.
Bruno smiles with a nod. However, the look of peace shatters when Bruno sits up, eyes–wide. Suddenly there's a hidden strike of fear that Narancia doesn't understand. "Where have you been staying?" He asks.
That makes Narancia pause. His hand tightens on the strap of his backpack as he harshly swallows, looking rather sheepish. “Your…beach house. I use your car too.”
Bruno slumps in relief, having been terrified of the prospect that Narancia had sought out living in the streets again. It makes him smile that Narancia already had the foresight to go there.
“You knew better than to believe I would just leave you.”
Narancia smiles. Warm and bright. As he waves goodbye and turns on his heel, he feels a sense of hope that he hasn’t in a long time.