Chapter Text
It was obvious to Narancia that Fugo blamed himself. It had probably been obvious to Giorno, too, and Mista, and Bucciarati, and everyone else, but the reason it was so fucking obvious to Narancia was because the thing he was good at was what Bucciarati called empathy. He’d always been a little on the sensitive side – and God knew, he had a temper to rival Fugo’s – but Bucciarati had seen that part of Narancia and had considered it something positive.
And right now, Narancia was positive he wanted to shake some sense into Fugo.
Fugo had some fucking nerve. He criticized Narancia or Mista for acting without thinking, but he did the same fucking thing. It drove Narancia crazy, being lectured for shit that Fugo himself did, but at the same time, he loved that Fugo was like this. There was something satisfying about seeing a genius like Fugo acting so human when Fugo felt so often that he wasn’t.
Half of Fugo’s problems would be eliminated if he didn’t expect himself and everyone else to be so fucking perfect all the time.
Well, he didn’t expect perfection from Mista; Fugo had pretty much given up on Mista, who found great enjoyment in not reacting to Fugo’s sarcasm or his insults. It made Fugo almost as mad as when Narancia fought back. It was actually kind of fun listening to Fugo bitch about Mista, especially when it was one of the things about Mista that Narancia also found annoying.
Like the way he very conveniently never had any cash on him, like ever.
It was a small price to pay, though, because Mista was his friend – a real friend, nothing like those assholes who Narancia had been stupid enough to believe cared about him at all.
It was like the way he put up with Fugo’s temper, and the way he bitched and moaned about nearly everything. Fugo wouldn’t bother if he didn’t care.
He wouldn’t be here right now, blaming himself, if he didn’t care.
Watching Fugo cry was gut wrenching – like, it literally felt like someone had used a vice to squeeze his innards, tighter and tighter. Fugo’s emotional outbursts were angry ones, and when he was near tears, they were tears of frustration, those stupid angry tears that only pissed him off more. Narancia could relate to both of those very well.
He could relate to the crying, too, probably a little too much, but he’d never seen Fugo cry before. If he wasn’t stuck in this stupid bed, he’d have taken his chances and hugged Fugo. Now that he thought about it, he’d never seen Fugo hug or be hugged before, either.
That made him sad, but it kinda pissed him off, too.
Not at Fugo, just at the world in general, because Fugo needed a hug in the worst fucking way. And since he couldn’t give him one, he did his best to reassure Fugo with words. He half expected that to piss Fugo off in some manner, too, but instead, Fugo stubbornly refused to accept Narancia’s comfort.
Which also pissed him off, and this time, it was at Fugo.
Why did you do it? Fugo had asked.
Yeah, okay, it was stupid of Narancia to take that bullet for Fugo, but Mista did it all the fucking time! And not just one bullet – several! Giorno teased him about it all the time and everything.
Apparently, this particular bullet had nicked Narancia’s aorta. It should’ve killed him, but the surrounding tissues or something had contained some of the bleeding. Narancia had only caught bits and pieces as he’d drifted in and out of consciousness – he was getting real sick of being the first one taken out in a battle, that was for sure – but he’d heard Giorno explaining it to Fugo.
Of course, if it was just the bullet, Fugo wouldn’t be blaming himself. Well, he probably would – he had this weird obsessive streak when it came to punishing himself, especially after the whole Trish thing – but not like he was now.
Why did he do it – forget shaking him, Narancia wanted to punch Fugo for daring to ask such a thing. How could he do anything but try to save a friend?
Fugo was one to fucking talk, too, because he’d done the same fucking thing. In all of Abbacchio’s bitching to Bucciarati after Pompeii, he’d mentioned how Fugo had pushed him and Giorno away from the mirror where he’d seen the enemy Stand user. Fugo had shoved them out of the way instinctively, without thinking. Even without knowing what the fuck was going on, Fugo had wanted them away from the threat.
Stupid asshole. He knew goddamn well why Narancia had saved him. Narancia would do it again, too, in a heartbeat – no pun intended.
Narancia easily admitted he’d never been good with numbers. He sucked at math, and he didn’t know all the legal mumbo jumbo that Fugo would talk to Bucciarati and Abbacchio about, but Narancia knew Fugo.
And even knowing Fugo, he’d still been surprised to see Fugo at his bedside when he woke. He was not so surprised to hear Fugo yelling. He was actually more surprised when Fugo stopped yelling.
When Narancia had opened his eyes, he’d seen Fugo’s hand, saw the indecisiveness as Fugo’s fingers began to curl. He’d grabbed Fugo’s hand without thinking, not wanting him to retreat into one of the dark places in his mind. Fugo had been sitting there with his tie loosened, his jacket unbuttoned, and a few dark spots on said jacket that Narancia assumed was blood.
His own? The guy who’d shot him? It wasn’t like it mattered. What mattered was that Fugo – prim and fussy Fugo – had obviously not gone home to shower. He’d stayed at Narancia’s side, even after Narancia lost consciousness. Giorno had mentioned the virus, and Fugo had confirmed it. He’d actually gone ahead and summoned Purple Fucking Haze, the Stand Fugo only used when things were dire, to pummel the guy who’d fired the gun.
Narancia hadn’t been able to stop from grinning, at least not until he saw how very upset Fugo was. Fugo apologized.
Where Narancia thought it was fucking awesome that Fugo had unleashed his Stand as some kind of revenge for Narancia, Fugo felt the opposite. It didn’t matter that Narancia was fine – and Fugo was fine, too, at least physically, from what he could see – what mattered to Fugo was what might have happened.
Narancia wished he could’ve seen it. He would’ve liked watching Fugo obliterate the asshole who’d shot him. He would’ve loved to have seen Purple Haze’s virus in action, the virus that Fugo had explained time and time again did not discriminate between friend and foe. The very same virus that caused animals to vomit out their insides, that caused blistering boils on the skin while it destroyed a person’s organs.
That Purple Haze.
“What did Giorno mean?” Narancia asked. “About you being the reason Purple Haze didn’t kill me?”
“Giorno’s the reason you’re alive,” Fugo said. “He’d infected himself with the virus in Pompeii, and then vaccinated himself against it.”
“Yeah, I know all that,” Narancia said. “I heard Abbacchio complaining about it when he wasn’t complaining about his wrist. Probably a good thing Bucciarati reattached that for him instead of Giorno creating him a new one, huh?”
Fugo’s cheeks turned pink, and it took Narancia a moment to remember that Fugo hadn’t been listening to Abbacchio’s complaints; he’d been in the back with Mista and Trish and Trish’s tits.
“Fugo?”
“Yeah,” Fugo said. “Probably.”
God, he was so incredibly frustrating at times.
Narancia knew Fugo, which meant he knew all the flavors of Fugo’s anger, probably – no, definitely – better than anyone. Fugo was probably pissed at Narancia for getting shot, yeah, but the way his voice edged on hysteria at times – that was a dead giveaway that he was more pissed at himself. That Fugo had been afraid.
“You don’t think very much of me, do you?” Narancia observed casually. At least he hoped he sounded casual, but he was pretty sure he sounded petty.
“I’m sorry I called you stupid,” Fugo said, just like he always did.
Well, this time, Narancia wasn’t upset because of that – at least, not only that. He was just tired – not from the blood loss, because Giorno had replaced all that, too – but of this two-steps-forward, one-step-back dance of theirs.
“I mean the virus,” Narancia clarified.
Fugo looked perplexed, which Narancia would have found hilarious, and a little adorable, if he weren’t So. Fucking. Annoyed with Fugo at the moment.
Okay, Fugo was still a little bit adorable, but that didn’t mean Narancia couldn’t be pissed at him.
“The virus,” Narancia repeated when Fugo didn’t say anything.
“Purple Haze?”
Narancia was tempted to give Fugo a condescending little pat on the head, but this situation didn’t call for passive aggressiveness. There was nothing passive about Fugo’s aggressiveness (usually), and it wasn’t Narancia’s style anyway.
“Yes, Purple Haze, you dipshit! Do you know of any other viruses that attacked me?”
Fugo’s eyebrows twitched. Good.
“You treat me like I’m an infant,” Narancia continued. “I’m a member of this team, too, and if Bucciarati thought I couldn’t take it, he never would’ve let me join.”
“If you remember, he didn’t want you to join in the first place.”
“But he let me. You don’t see him acting like my mom whenever I get hurt, do you?”
Fugo blinked a few times. “I thought you liked it when I…I thought you liked it,” he finished. His eyes sparked with anger.
The sad thing was that Narancia did like it. He very much liked when Fugo fussed over him, with his voice all soft and concerned and his hands gentle and reassuring. There was something about that sort of pampering, coming from the same person who slammed his face against the table for fucking up a math problem, that had always made Narancia feel warm inside. But even so…
“I don’t need you to do any of that,” he told Fugo.
Fugo looked a little uncertain, then the anger was back. “Fine. I’ll stop doing it then.”
That wasn’t exactly how Narancia had wanted this to go. “That’s not the fucking point!” he shouted. “I survived Grateful Dead. I survived Oasis.”
A flash of hurt crossed Fugo’s face, but Narancia knew he had to keep goading him. He needed Fugo to be angry, not feeling guilty. Because that’s what all of this was about.
“You know Purple Haze’s virus is deadly,” Fugo said evenly. “You know that’s why I never use him.”
Him. Narancia tamped down the little thrill at Fugo referring to Haze like his Stand was a person and not this awful, terrible side of Fugo’s personality. He’d have time to savor that little bit of influence he’d exerted on Fugo later.
“Not all that different,” Narancia said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Purple Haze almost killed you,” Fugo hissed. “You almost died.”
“I almost died lots of times,” Narancia said. “We’re gangsters, Fugo.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Or are you saying I’m not?”
“If that’s what you want to call yourself.”
“If that’s what I – you’re such an asshole. You’re just pissed because I survived.”
Fugo’s eyes widened, and Narancia stood up. He placed his hands on either side of the chair Fugo was sitting in and leaned over him.
“You’re pissed because you were wrong, Fugo.”
Fugo grabbed a handful of Narancia’s hospital gown. “Shut up,” he hissed. “Shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you.”
A shiver ran down Narancia’s back. “You’re so fucking hot when you’re pissed, you know that?”
If Fugo’s eyes had widened before, they were the size of saucers now, It could have been because of the angle at which Narancia was leaning over him that Fugo’s eyes flicked down to Narancia’s mouth. It could have been, but Narancia seriously doubted it – especially when Fugo’s eyes snapped back up to meet Narancia’s. There was a challenge in those dark irises, so like Narancia’s but so different.
Narancia had always been a bit of a sucker for a dare.
“So hot,” he growled before closing the distance between them and nipping on Fugo’s bottom lip.
He’d been right – he’d known it, just known it, because he knew Fugo.
Fugo’s breath hitched, and his top lip obligingly covered Narancia’s, and oh, God, Narancia had not thought this through very well, because it was not terribly comfortable, hovering over Fugo this way. He pressed his knee on the chair, right between Fugo’s legs, and Fugo let out a needy moan.
Any satisfaction Narancia had felt about being right paled in comparison to the satisfaction of tracing the bottom curve of Fugo’s lip with his tongue, and the way Fugo tipped his head to the side, his parted lips providing an open invitation for Narancia’s tongue to further explore Fugo’s mouth.
Fugo released his grip on Narancia’s gown, and his fingers slid behind Narancia’s neck, pulling him closer, deepening their kiss.
“Mmf,” he grunted when Fugo rocked against him, and he was pretty sure he moaned into Fugo’s mouth when Fugo’s other hand found his ass, in all its bare glory, beneath where the fucking string had come untied as a result of Narancia kneeling on the gown.
They separated just long enough to tilt their heads in the opposite direction, and Fugo’s tongue was insistently poking at Narancia’s, right up until Narancia relented and let Fugo take control of the kiss.
So. Fucking. Hot.
He hadn’t even realized Fugo had untied the other string, the one behind Narancia’s neck, until the entire thing began to slide down his arms, and even then, Narancia didn’t want to stop, not until his knee moved forward a little bit more and a little too fast.
Fugo tore his mouth away. “Get off my sack,” he groaned.
Despite the fact that Narancia felt really bad about that – and was unhappy about the whole not-kissing-Fugo-right-now thing, it was always a little hilarious when Fugo said shit like that. Except when it was directed at Narancia as an insult, which was not the case this time.
“Sorry,” Narancia said, standing up and grabbing the edges of his gown behind him with one hand while he used the back of the other hand to wipe at his lips.
Fugo’s eyes were closed, his face screwed up in pain.
“Need me to have Giorno create you a new set?”
Fugo opened one eye. It was almost comical, the way he was trying to glare at Narancia.
“I’m kidding,” Narancia said.
Two eyes were now glaring at him.
“But you knew that,” Narancia said. “I am sorry, Fugo.”
Fugo sucked in a bit of saliva – fuck, why was that hot, too? – and exhaled slowly.
“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I never should’ve used my Stand.”
“Are you kidding me? That was fucking awesome, seriously, Fugo, that you did that for me.”
“You’re an idiot.”
Narancia stopped trying to hold the gown together in the back and pulled it back up over his shoulders so he could re-tie the string. Before he could, though, Fugo grabbed the front of it and yanked it right back down Narancia’s arms.
“Can’t get enough?” Narancia asked with a waggle of his eyebrows. He hoped it looked as cool as he’d meant it to look.
Fugo immediately released his grip and turned his head to the side. His cheeks were charmingly flushed – from embarrassment or from Narancia’s kisses, either was okay with Narancia – and Narancia plopped down in Fugo’s lap, tucking his head under Fugo’s chin like an overgrown house cat.
Fugo jerked his head away, blowing at the flyaway strands of hair in his face.
“Purple Haze didn’t kill me,” Narancia reminded him.
“Because of Giorno.”
“No,” Narancia said, shaking his head against Fugo’s shoulder. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m wrong about Giorno building you a new aorta?”
“Not Purple Haze’s fault.”
“Or a new liver?”
“I’ve got two.”
“No, you have two kidneys, not livers. Idiot,” Fugo added.
“Know why the virus didn’t kill me?”
“According to Giorno, it’s because it evolved,” Fugo said.
“Well, Giorno’s smart and all, and maybe it did, but do you know the real reason why it didn’t kill me?”
“Do you?”
“Hell, yeah, I do.”
He reached up to fiddle with Fugo’s tie, slipping his fingertip in the knot. The heel of his hand and his forearm were on Fugo’s chest, and he could feel the thudding of Fugo’s heart.
“Are you going to tell me?” Fugo asked.
It was cute the way he tried to sound impatient and irritated when he was burning with curiosity.
“You’ve punched me, stabbed me, and kicked me. You’ve slammed my head against walls and tables and even your goddamn knees.”
Fugo swallowed. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Narancia reached up to pinch Fugo’s lips together. “Let your elders speak.”
Fugo huffed into Narancia’s hand, and Narancia couldn’t help smiling against Fugo’s neck. He lifted his head and looked at Fugo, really looked at him, staring into the depths of those eyes he knew so well.
“You haven’t killed me yet.”
“Yet,” Fugo said tightly.
Narancia tapped his finger against Fugo’s chest, the finger still jammed in Fugo’s tie. Tap, tap, tap.
“You kind of suck at it,” he finally said.
“Narancia…” Fugo broke eye contact first, looking away, as if doing so might change things, when Narancia was half naked and in his lap.
“Fugo.”
Fugo swallowed again.
“Fugo,” Narancia said, a little more insistently.
This time, Fugo’s gaze swung back toward Narancia instead of some random spot on the wall.
“Can you do something for me?”
Fugo nodded.
“Kiss me,” Narancia said. “Kiss me the way you’ve always wanted,” he added with a smirk.
“What makes you think I’ve always wanted to kiss you?”
“Haven’t you?”
Fugo’s eyes flicked down to Narancia’s mouth again, and then back to his eyes. Narancia half expected Fugo to groan out a yes, but he should’ve known better, knowing Fugo the way he did. When it came to Narancia, Fugo often let his emotions overrule his sense, and today was no different. Which was why Fugo’s lips against his own was unexpected, but not really a surprise.
And it was exactly what Narancia had wanted, which was why he’d challenged Fugo the way he had.
Because Narancia knew Fugo. He knew Fugo better than he knew himself, even, because he hadn’t realized for quite some time how very much he’d wanted this. He’d always wanted Fugo’s attention, but he couldn’t pinpoint the moment when wanting Fugo’s attention had become wanting Fugo.
He pressed his hand against Fugo’s abs and felt the immediate twitch beneath his palm. For a moment, he thought he’d gone too far, but Fugo responded by winding his fingers through Narancia’s hair and kissing him more desperately, more sloppily.
It was making regions of Narancia’s body twitch in response.
It took a bit of maneuvering to get to the bed – neither of them wanting to break the kiss for a moment but being forced to do so because Narancia was short and the bed was raised just a little too high to just fall into it. It wasn’t exactly meant for two, either, but Fugo had pressed kisses along Narancia’s neck as he followed Narancia onto the mattress, and then it was Fugo’s knee pressing against the bed. And the remote that was lying on the bed – the one that controlled the position and elevation of the mattress.
The button beneath Fugo’s knee was the one that adjusted the pillow end of the mattress. In theory, anything that forced Narancia’s upper body closer was a good thing, but since Fugo’s legs were straddling one of Narancia’s, it threw him off balance just enough that their lips parted. A strand of saliva ran from Fugo’s lower lip to Narancia’s. There was no reason that should look so fucking hot; it was spit, for fuck’s sake. But it was theirs – his and Fugo’s – a connection that refused to be broken.
At least until Fugo turned his head, causing the string of spit to drop onto Narancia’s chin. He felt a little bit like Purple Haze, and he swiped his hand over his face before wiping it on Fugo’s jacket.
Might as well go all in with his Purple Haze imitation.
Fugo shifted his position on the bed, but by the time he managed to remove his knee from the remote, the mattress - and therefore, Narancia - was in a fully upright position.
And thanks to Fugo’s wriggling around on the bed, that was true in all the ways that counted. It was something that was kind of hard to conceal with the hospital gown and all.
Fugo’s eyes flicked down to Narancia’s hand, the one that he’d used to wipe off the spit and that now had a death grip on Fugo’s jacket. Fugo’s brows furrowed. Narancia slowly began to withdraw his hand, but Fugo caught it, tilting it to examine the scars there.
“The virus,” he stated flatly.
“That’s why you’re upset?” If Narancia’s upper body hadn’t already been in full contact with the mattress, he would’ve dropped his head back as he sighed with relief. “Fuck, I thought you were upset that I wiped spit on you. Like Haze gets upset.”
“Narancia,” Fugo said.
“Fugo,” Narancia said obligingly.
“Your hand.”
“Yeah, ya know, Giorno doesn’t really have a healing ability, and I don’t really want him to make me new hands. I kinda like these ones.”
He rubbed the back of his hand over his bottom lip. He rather liked the ridges of the scars there. They were proof that Fugo’s virus – that Purple Haze – that Fugo and his Stand, the deadly duo that they were, could not and would not kill Narancia. Fugo’s gaze was fixed on Narancia’s mouth and his hand, watching as the scar passed over Narancia’s lip again and again.
“Stop looking so guilty before I kick your ass,” Narancia said. His lip grazed over his hand as he spoke. It tickled, just a little.
“Narancia…” Fugo began again.
“Fugo.”
Fugo lifted his hand, ready to gesticulate with some sort of bullshit reason why he was a terrible person, but he snapped his jaw shut and brushed his knuckles over the hair at Narancia’s temple.
“Naran-”
With the mattress in the upright position, it took little effort to cut Fugo off with a kiss. A short, quick, one. With the mattress behind him, there was little room to retreat, so he ended up with his lips still pressed against Fugo’s.
It was remarkably awkward now that nothing was happening.
“You really want this?” Fugo asked. His lips tickled Narancia’s even more than the scars had.
“You’re practically sitting on my boner. You figure it out.”
“So that’s not your knife in your pocket?”
“Oh my God, Fugo, that was…that was fucking terrible. I don’t even have fucking pockets!”
Fugo pressed his forehead against Narancia’s. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be! I fuckin’ love when you try to be funny. I mean, you suck at that, too, but ya know, I love that you try.”
He did. He loved when Fugo acted his fucking age for once. He loved when Fugo was prickly and feisty, and he didn’t exactly love when Fugo blew a fuse over stupid shit, or when Fugo was wracked with guilt when it wasn’t his fault (and sometimes, even when it was), but he got it. Narancia loved a lot of stupid little things about Fugo.
Because he loved Fugo.
“Fugo,” he began, needing to share this new revelation of his, but Fugo chose that moment to lift his head and nuzzle Narancia’s ear.
“Sitting on your boner?” Fugo murmured. “I’m a bit overdressed for that.”
Did Fugo mean what Narancia thought he meant?
“Fugo-oooooooh,” he moaned when Fugo’s tongue curled, stroking the skin behind Narancia’s earlobe. Who knew that ears were so goddamn sensitive?
“Narancia,” Fugo hissed, awkwardly rocking his pelvis against Narancia’s. “Where’s the fucking remote?”
The what now?
Narancia could feel Fugo patting the bed, and then he jerked it – and the lower part of Narancia’s gown – from under Narancia’s leg, leaving a good portion of Narancia’s lower body exposed. A press of a button later, and the mattress began to recline with Fugo still on top of him.
“Hey, Fugo, is Narancia awaaa – kaaaay, right, you know what, we forgot to bring you guys some lunch!” Mista’s voice rang out. Both Fugo and Narancia’s heads swung toward the door to see Mista heading right back out of the room.
“He’s awake?” Giorno asked from the hall. “Let’s say hello and see how he’s doing, and then we can get him some lunch.”
“He’s fine,” Mista said. “He’s with Fugo.”
“Of course, he’s with Fugo. He’s been with Fugo from the beginning,” Giorno asked. He sounded a bit like he was pouting.
“Giorno,” Mista said. He sounded pained. “He’s with Fugo.”
“He’s with…”
“With.”
“Ooooooh,” Giorno said. “Of course. We should get Fugo some lunch, too, right.”
“Oh my God,” Narancia said when it was clear that they’d both departed. “I thought Giorno was going to push right past him.”
“Yeah, but Mista still saw us,” Fugo said with a grimace.
“Well, I saw him and Giorno, so we’re even now.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Seriously. Nothing.” Why had he even brought that up?
Fugo lifted his head. “Narancia.”
“What?”
“Shut up and kiss me like you’ve always wanted to.”
“What makes you think I’ve always wanted to?”
Even though he’d asked Narancia the same fucking thing, Fugo looked irritated. Insulted, even.
“Kiss me like you want to right now,” he growled.
“Maybe I don’t want to-” Narancia’s breath hitched as Fugo nipped at his lip. “To k-kiss you right now.”
“Liar. You’re poking me in the ass with that thing.”
“That thing has a name.”
“Oh, God, no, Narancia, please tell me it doesn’t.”
“Doesn’t yours?”
“No!”
“Sometimes it’s Rag Doll,” Narancia said, “but around you, it’s Get a Grip.”
“Nara,” Fugo groaned.
Nara. Narancia’s heart did a little flip.
“Your jokes are terrible, too.”
“At least I am joking.”
“But you said-”
“I meant, Fugo, that it’s my cock poking at your ass.” He thrust up toward Fugo, doing exactly that. “Not a thing. My cock.”
Fugo sucked in a breath.
“Say it, Fugo.”
“Narancia.”
Narancia did his best to prod at Fugo some more with his dick. “Say it, Fugo.”
“Your cock,” Fugo groaned. “God, Narancia, your cock.”
Shit. Shit, Narancia hadn’t been prepared for the throaty way Fugo said that, or the way Fugo really enunciated the consonants. He hadn’t expected Fugo to say the word while sliding back so Narancia’s dick was jutting out between Fugo’s legs, right beneath his balls. The only thing separating them was Fugo’s pants and only his pants.
Narancia wasn’t prepared for any of that any more than he was prepared for how it affected him.
“Fugo,” he gasped. “Fugo.”
His eyes widened, then fluttered closed as Fugo’s lips latched onto his neck. He was still babbling Fugo’s name as he came.
“Holy shit,” Fugo said, sounding awed. “Did you just…”
“Yeah, Fugo, I did. Can’t you tell?”
Of course, Fugo could tell. He was already using the hospital gown to wipe off his jacket and his neck – oh, wow, some had gotten up there, too – and then he started tugging at his tie impatiently. He paused, took a deep breath, and looked at Narancia. The moment their eyes met, Fugo began to snicker.
“Obviously, I could tell…it’s just…” he took another deep breath. “God, Narancia, I didn’t know you felt the same way.”
“Wait, for real?”
Fugo gestured to the mess he was attempting to clean up. Emphasis on attempting, because Narancia was still kind of wearing the gown, if the fact that his arms were through the sleeves counted.
“Yes, for real,” Fugo said testily.
Right. Someone was cranky because he wasn’t the one who’d just gotten off from someone kissing his neck while his dick was hanging out.
“I mean, I could, ya know…”
“Not here!” Fugo looked scandalized.
“Not here?” Narancia asked. “Too late for that, dontcha think?”
“You started it,” Fugo said accusingly.
“Right,” Narancia said. He slipped his fingers inside the waist of Fugo’s pants and gave a tug. “And now I want to finish it.”
“Now?” Fugo practically squeaked.
Yes! Narancia wanted to scream, but now that he was…semi-sated, at least, he could think a little more rationally.
“Still want to sit on my boner?”
“Narancia,” Fugo sighed, and Narancia was ready to apologize until Fugo said, “it has a name, you know.”
“Oh?” The relief was bubbling up inside Narancia.
Fugo nodded sagely. “Right now, it’s Rag Doll.”
Narancia couldn’t help it, he laughed.
“Ha!” Fugo crowed. “I am funny!”
“I’ll give you this one,” Narancia said generously. “Because I’m in a pretty good mood right now.”
“I can’t believe you came,” Fugo said. “I wasn’t expecting that at all.”
“Yeah, you and me both.”
“I did that,” Fugo said. He sounded both awed and proud.
Narancia tugged at a lock of Fugo’s hair. “Yeah, yeah, just wait,” he said.
“Promise?” Fugo asked, staring at him like Narancia’s answer was the most important thing in the universe.
All Narancia could do was nod. Fugo smirked at him before getting up.
“This tie needs to soak, I think,” he said.
“Your tie? You’re worried about your fucking tie at a time like this? You fucking suck, dude, seriously.”
Fugo leaned down and flicked his tongue at Narancia’s ear. “Later,” he breathed.
Fugo stood up, but before he could go to the bathroom, Narancia grabbed the loosened tie and pulled Fugo back down for another kiss. It was a long, languid kiss, and when Fugo finally tore his mouth away from Narancia’s, his eyes were half closed, and he was breathing heavily.
“You know,” he said, his eyes flicking in the direction of the bathroom and then back to Narancia, “there’s a shower.”
“Do you have your cell phone?” Narancia asked.
Fugo handed it to him without a word. After typing out a quick message, Narancia tossed the phone on the bed and followed Fugo into the bathroom.
By the time the water ran cold, and the two of them were both a lot cleaner, Narancia peeked out of the bathroom, grinning at the pile of fluffy towels and the change of clothes laid out on the chair Fugo had been using earlier. After retrieving the items and returning to the bathroom, he and Fugo dried each other off, with Narancia twisting his fingers in Fugo’s wet blond locks when Fugo grabbed the towel around Narancia’s waist and pulled him close for another kiss.
“We should get dressed,” Fugo mumbled against Narancia’s lips.
“Mmm,” Narancia agreed.
It was several more minutes before they separated, and only then because Narancia’s stomach began to rumble.
“And eat,” Fugo said, panting.
Narancia wanted to say fuck it, to both eating and getting dressed, but he was too busy kissing Fugo.
And then Fugo’s stomach joined the chorus, and they both agreed that they should probably have lunch.
To Narancia’s delight, there was a large shopping bag on the table next to the bed. He dressed quickly and sat on the bed, and when Fugo sat down next to him with his shirt only half buttoned, Narancia’s heart did another little flip, which was weird since he’d just sucked Fugo off in the shower.
His fluttery insides were a strange and unexpected sensation, but not nearly as strange and unexpected as remembering how Fugo had kissed him immediately after, when half of his load was spilling over Narancia’s lips and chin. He’d dropped to his knees and grabbed Narancia’s hair, pulling his head back and thrusting his tongue between Narancia’s lips. Fugo’s tongue swept the interior of his mouth like Fugo was on a mission to ensure that Narancia swallowed whatever was still in his mouth.
That had been fucking hot, too.
They sat in silence, eating cold spaghetti from the same plate – not from the same fork, though, because for some reason Fugo thought that was gross. Fugo – who had kissed Narancia when he still had a mouthful of jizz – thought sharing a fork was gross. It was no fucking wonder Purple Haze was as neurotic as he was.
It was just one more thing Narancia loved about him. And hated, but mostly loved.
Narancia stabbed his fork into the rest of the spaghetti on the plate and wrapped his arm around Fugo’s, resting his head on Fugo’s shoulder.
“I can’t eat when you do that,” Fugo complained.
“I can’t believe you want to eat after what just happened.”
“You ate.”
Well, Fugo had a point there.
“Fugo?”
Fugo set his fork down and took a deep breath. Narancia’s heart sank. This was where Fugo was going to explain that what just happened had been a one-time thing, that neither of them had been thinking clearly, that they were both still reeling from what had gone down between the gunshot and the whole Purple Haze thing.
Or worse, Fugo would say it had been a mistake.
The back of Narancia’s eyelids were itchy now, and he closed his eyes and hugged Fugo’s arm tighter, not ready to let go just yet.
Fugo said nothing for several seconds, and then he took another deep breath. “Narancia.”
“What?” Narancia asked quietly.
“What did you want to tell me?”
“Me?”
“You said my name like it was a question.”
“Oh.”
Another couple of seconds passed, and then Fugo asked, in exasperation, “and?”
“What happens now?” Narancia almost whispered.
“My arm is going to experience paresthesia.”
“What?”
“Pins and needles.”
“Oh.”
Fugo sighed. “Narancia, I don’t know what happens now. The last time anything even remotely like this happened to me…” he trailed off and swallowed audibly. “The circumstances were much different.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s not…it’s just…I don’t exactly have a lot of experience with this sort of thing. I don’t know what happens now.”
Fugo didn’t know. There was something in the world that Pannacotta Fugo was completely clueless about besides decent music and video games.
“Are you okay with that?” Narancia asked.
“Are you?”
“I don’t mind figuring it out with you.”
He risked opening his eyes and peeking up at Fugo. A small smile was playing about Fugo’s lips, and Narancia’s heart was doing more than a flip; it was fucking breakdancing. Fugo was so goddamn cute, it hurt.
“Me neither.”
Narancia lifted his head and kissed Fugo, burying both hands in Fugo’s hair and telling him without words how much he wanted this. Wanted Fugo, and not just for sexy fun times (although definitely those, too).
Eventually they needed to breathe, and when Fugo lifted his head, Narancia said, “I love you.”
Fugo looked stricken, and Narancia’s stomach lurched, making him feel like the spaghetti was going to exit the way it had entered. Why had he opened his big fat mouth? Things were happening too fast; Fugo would never believe him, or maybe Fugo needed more time to process what had happened – between Purple Haze and the kissing and the blowjob in the shower and-
“God, Nara, same,” Fugo breathed, kissing him again.
Or maybe he didn’t.
Which is how Fugo ended up spending the night in the hospital, in that narrow adjustable bed, with his legs entwined with Narancia’s. It was why Giorno got a second text from them the very next morning.
“They’re moving rather fast, don’t you think?” Giorno asked, showing Mista the text.
“Those two? Are you serious? I can’t believe it’s taken them this long.”
“I suspected Fugo had feelings for Narancia-”
“We all did, Gio. He doesn’t have the best poker face.”
“I thought, perhaps, Narancia might return those feelings, but it was difficult to tell.”
“Really? Narancia’s face is an open book.”
“You fancy yourself an expert,” Giorno observed.
“Giorno, I am the master when it comes to love.”
“You are, are you?”
“Some things aren’t all that difficult to figure out.”
“I suppose.”
“You suppose? Giorno, Giorno, Giorno, have I ever let you down before?”
“No,” Giorno allowed. “I suppose not.”
“You suppose?” Mista pressed his fingers against his chest. “I am wounded, Giorno. Wound. Dead.”
“Here?” Giorno asked, placing his fingers over Mista’s.
Mista licked his lips. “Yeah, right there.”
“Tell me, Mista, have I ever let you down?”
“No, of course not.”
“You trust me?”
“With my life.”
Giorno stared up at him, and after several seconds, Mista’s hat was blinking back at him.
“It’s a frog, isn’t it?” Mista asked.
“It is,” Giorno nodded.
“Why is it always a frog?”
“It’s not always a frog.”
The frog, tired of the conversation, leapt to the ground, and Giorno combed his fingers through Mista’s hair.
“I hope that thing is coming back,” Mista said. “I like that hat.”
“It will.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll buy you a new one.”
“That’s my lucky hat.”
“You were shot in the head wearing that hat, Mista.”
“And lived to tell you about it. Sounds pretty lucky to me.”
Giorno’s fingers continued to comb through his hair, and Mista licked his lips.
“Giorno?”
“Mmm,” Giorno hummed.
“Are you, ah, are you…trying to seduce me?”
“No,” Giorno said.
“Oh.”
Giorno’s fingers slid to the back of Mista’s hair. “What do you think Fugo and Narancia are doing right now?” he asked.
“Right now?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Ah, they, uh, they needed a change of clothes. And towels. And then another change of clothes after that. I think it’s pretty obvious what they’re doing right now.”
“And you know this because you are an expert in such things.”
“Yeah, like I told ya…um, Giorno, what are you doing?”
“You’re the expert, Guido, what do you think I’m doing?”
“I thought you were trying to seduce me, but you said you weren’t.”
“That’s right, I’m not.”
“So what are you doing?”
“Not trying,” Giorno said,
He gripped Mista’s hair, pulled his head back, and kissed him.
“My eyes,” Abbacchio groaned, rubbing at them vigorously. He lowered his hands and glared at Bucciarati. “You sent me in there on purpose.”
“I didn’t know that Giorno was going to make a move today,” Bucciarati said.
“But you knew he would.”
“He’s not as subtle with his feelings as he thinks.”
“I was hoping they’d continue dancing around each other, preferably where I didn’t have to see it, until we got a place of our own.”
“You know Giorno; when he knows what he wants, he goes for it.”
“And that idiot goes right along with him,” Abbacchio snorted. “They’re made for each other.”
“If it makes you feel better, Mista walked in on Fugo and Narancia earlier.”
“Why do you share these things with me?”
“Because you’ve always had a soft spot for those two.”
Abbacchio rolled his eyes. “Those two have been like an old married couple longer than you and I have been together.”
“Let’s say Mista walked in on the two of them…consummating the marriage.”
“Bruno, I did not need to know that.”
“Nor did I, but Mista felt the need to divulge that bit of information.”
Abbacchio couldn’t even successfully pretend to be mad, not when Bruno’s lips were curved into a playful smile.
“Bruno Bucciarati,” he said with a shake of his head, “what am I going to do with you?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Bruno replied before taking a sip of his coffee.
The rim of his coffee mug hid nothing from Abbacchio, including the fact that Bruno’s smile had grown wider. Bruno was right, as usual. Abbacchio could definitely think of something.
Bruno set his cup down, and his tongue flicked over his upper lip.
Abbacchio could think of several somethings.