Chapter 1: Home Is Where The Heart Is
“Oi. Oi. Are you even paying attention, shit-for-brains?”
Fugo prodded at Narancia’s cheek, each poke getting exponentially more forceful. Narancia’s hazy daydream cracked, crumbling away just enough for him to aimlessly swipe at Fugo’s hand.
“Who are you calling shit-for-brains?!” The more Narancia’s manufactured reality crumbled, the more aggressive he became, and the better his aim got. Deciding, quite wisely for a change, to keep the situation from escalating into a slapfight, he brought his elbow down hard on the table.
Fugo, though still agitated, understood. But he wasn’t going to release his bite that easily.
“So.” The pause exuded dread. ” Did you finish your problems?” Fugo loomed over him, a poisonous, yet intoxicating tone dripping off his words. Those experienced with Fugo might understand; this was the taste, the scent, of nitroglycerin. A wretched feeling hung in the air. Anything could cause him to go off. And anyone who knew him, knew that at this point, it was essential to tread carefully. But, even through the years, this was something Narancia never thought about.
Fugo placed a firm hand on Narancia’s shoulder, as if to tell him he couldn’t run. Leaning over Narancia’s shoulder, he glared at the paper. Though a normal person would be tense at a moment like this, caught between a maniac’s face, and his hand, it never seemed to click for Narancia. Perhaps he truly was a shit-for-brains. Or, perhaps, he just found it comfortable.
“I took a damn break, get off my case,” Narancia whinged, leaning away from Fugo’s face.
Surprisingly, seven out of the ten problems were done. Not all of them were correct, but at least the mistakes could border on understandable. The page was covered in tick marks and doodles, while Fugo’s neat handwriting stuck out. Though Narancia’s organizational skills were a mess, if not nonexistent, both boys could understand it perfectly. Of course, they were the only ones.
“Very well,” Fugo sighed, standing up straight. The shadow draped over his eyes dissipated.
“I suppose I won’t make you do all of them. You worked hard.” He walked out of the kitchen, every single step he took seemed different. His gait didn’t change, but his footsteps were louder than usual. He paused underneath the archway when Narancia said something to him.
“Ehhhhh? You’re not gonna get on my case?” Narancia slid out of his seat, confused and cautious.
“Of course I’m not. Do you think I enjoy yelling at you?” Fugo involuntarily let out an wry chuckle.
Narancia choked on air, hesitating greatly to reach his answer. Wordlessly, he gyrated his hands, genuinely speechless. This concept was entirely new to him. The only thing to escape his lips was a weak, nervous laugh.
Fugo’s shoulders dropped.
He made no other sound as he left the room. Not even footsteps.
This week was a special one. They still went on missions, but the location was what changed their behavior.
This mission was in Bruno Buccellati’s hometown on the outskirts of Napoli. And nightly, the place they all laid to rest, was the very home he was so quick to offer.
No one had seen it, as no one had felt comfortable enough to take the offer, after all Buccellati had done for them.
Though it was small, it was still grand in spirit. It was clean, and organized, and had that warm feeling. Even people just seeing it for the first time could experience the memories.
Spectres of a happy child, playing with his mother and father. Rough ticks on a pillar, stretching to the height of a seven year old, were dated and clear-coated, so that nobody could damage them.
It truly was home, even to those who had only been there a day. It relaxed those inside it, brought down their guards, and soothed their hearts.
Buccellati, Abbacchio, and Mista were out. It was a simple preliminary investigation, but a mission nonetheless. The assignment could take a week, perhaps a month. Less, if they died. For a week, they had to live in that house. Not too bad.
Alone at the time, Fugo and Narancia rarely spoke. In this new setting, they were comfortable. So comfortable, they were cautious of getting too comfortable with each other. Bonds on their hearts loosened every second they were in that home. They felt vulnerable. A pulsating core in their throats, raw and glowing was on display to everyone else. And with a simple poke, everything they had kept hidden would come gushing out.
A strange juxtaposition between fearing contact and craving it was soon established.
Fugo laid on the bed, his eyes drifting over pages of a book. No knowledge was absorbed, but it was an adequate distraction. The sunlight through the window, his fingers on the pages, the cool air, made it irrelevant what the book held.
Fugo had learned very differently from Narancia. When his haze was interrupted, it dissolved at a proper pace for him to regulate, instead of crumbling into chunks and throwing him into a rage. Narancia stepped into the room, making only slight noise, but amidst the silence, it could stop a heart.
“Yes?” Fugo shut his book, caught ever so slightly off guard. The word tumbled off his tongue automatically.
“Are you… mad at me?” Narancia made weak gestures toward himself, the oxygen draining from his lungs the longer he carried on his sentence.
Fugo sat up, more attentive, more cautious, even worried, but said nothing.
“Disappointed?” Narancia approached the bed slowly, blindly trying to navigate his way through Fugo’s psyche. Fugo again, said nothing.
As he was navigating blindly, Narancia couldn’t help it. He was going to have to grab, pull, and prod to understand his surroundings.
“I mean, I didn’t finish my work or anything. Doesn’t that make you angry or something? Are you okay? Why aren’t you mad at me?” Firing off questions like that, with such an innocent face, made Fugo crack. He sighed a bit, breath catching in his throat. It sounded almost like a whine.
“No, I’m not mad. Nor am I disappointed.” Fugo swept his legs off the bed, preparing for a regulated explanation as to how much he cared about Narancia’s future, as all professors do.
“I’m actually pretty proud. I honestly don’t like to yell at you.”
He left it like that, hoping Narancia would take the answer and leave, before he had to start gushing. He was afraid he wouldn’t know when to stop.
“Are you sure?” Narancia squeaked cautiously, backing away.
“What the hell do you mean, ‘Am I sure’? Of course I’m fucking sure! I’m always sure!”
It had begun.
“Have you ever known me to not be sure, idiot?!” Fugo leaned over Narancia, brimming with impatience. He didn’t mean to do this. This was the last thing he wanted to do. Narancia hovered his hands over Fugo’s chest, leaning back with a wide, shit eating grin.
“Are you su~ure?” Narancia wheezed, clearing his throat and licking his dry lips as he tried desperately to suppress laughter.
Fugo swept himself back onto the bed behind him, utterly mortified. His face was nearly as red as his suit. Narancia freely broke out into loud, wheezing, cackling, wilting-to-the-ground laughter.
“Narancia, I’m sorry I yelled at you! I really didn’t mean to-”
“No-- No it’s fine--” Narancia belted out between laughs. Breathlessly, he wiped a tear from his eye, gasping for just enough air to let it back out in explosive laughter. He tried to calm himself with deep breathing, but into only exacerbated the problem. He curled up on the ground, absolutely losing his shit, fist pounding against the floor.
“Narancia!” Fugo whined through gritted teeth, having not felt so embarrassed in years.
“No, no, I’m sorry man,” Narancia sighed, finally giving himself a break to breathe. He rolled onto his back, black hair splayed on the floor, tears gleaming in his eyes.
“It’s actually really fuckin’ cute when you apologize like that.”
Fugo stared at him blankly, letting the sentence run through all the processes of his mind. Then again. And again. He mindlessly started feeling around the holes in his suit. It still didn’t make any sense.
The moment he said the word, he understood. A boulder materialized in Fugo’s stomach.
“Wha-What? Ah--! I didn’t say nothin’!” Narancia flipped onto his hands and knees like a cat, stumbling to get on his feet. He looked as feral as he did the day Fugo picked him up off the streets.
“You didn’t hear nothin’!” Narancia rapidly headed out the door, head down, rubbing the spots he had hurt himself in his laughing fit.
In the absence of a proper response, Fugo gradually collapsed down, onto the floor, in Narancia’s place.
Chapter 2: Face Me First
Mista, Buccellati, and Abbacchio come back from their mission.
“Stupid fucking Fugo,” Narancia growled under his breath. He sat down hard on the kitchen table, eyes narrowed at his unfinished problems. “Shouldn’t fucking argue with someone who’s right.”
“Narancia, sit in a fucking chair, you gremlin.” Abbacchio sneered, hoisting an unconscious Mista through the front door, with a little help from Moody Blues. Bruno preceded him, holding the door open.
“Buccellati!” Narancia snapped to attention, knocking over his also unfinished cup of orange juice.
“Narancia, could you please clean that up?” Bruno shut the door, turning the knob so that it clicked into place with minimal noise. Abbacchio haphazardly threw Mista onto the living room couch, grumbling in dissatisfaction. Clearly, whatever had happened hadn't been pleasant for anyone, especially Abbacchio.
Upon closer inspection, you could see Mista’s mouth twisting at the corners, stifling a laugh.
“Don’t fuckin’ tell me.” Abbacchio placed his boot on Mista’s unprotected midriff, leaning his entire body weight on that one, unnecessarily sharp, point.
“You’ve been awake this WHOLE FUCKIN’ TIME?”
Mista wheezed, crying out in pain. Abbacchio had a firm pin on Mista’s diaphragm.
“D-Dude, could you please calm down? It was just a joke, just a joke-- AUGH!”
Abbacchio had since decided not to let up.
“B-Buccellati! Please he-- ACK!”
Bruno had seemingly materialized behind Narancia with a roll of paper towels in his hand.
Leaning over to wipe the table, he said “Tell him how close we came to death because of his stupid prank. Let him learn that way.”
“He’s coming damn close to death right now!” Abbacchio pressed in further. Mista looked agonized, but also amused, somehow.
“Abbacchio,” Bruno said once more, never meeting his eyes. His tone had barely changed, but this time, Abbacchio listened.
Abbacchio released his foot with a low, disgruntled hiss. The heel left a red mark on Mista, sore and sensitive, that made it quite hard to breathe.
“Oh sure, I’ll tell him how we almost died hauling his dumb ass three kilometers.” he loomed over an intimidated, yet amused, Mista. Tiny, teary, squeaky chuckles ripped out of Mista's puffed cheeks. Abbacchio looked ready to scream. “I’ll fucking tell him all about it.”
The whole spectacle was horrifying, yet amusing to watch. It was rare for Abbacchio to be so passionate about something that he would shriek, let alone start throwing things. Whatever happened certainly wasn't something he could brush off.
He was startled when he remembered Buccellati was right next to him.
“Please, next time I ask something of you, could you work to accomplish it faster?” He made a half-hearted gesture with a soaked paper towel to the now-clean table. “The juice almost fell to the floor. That would’ve made extra work.” Narancia nodded, barely scraping together a response, still dazed.
“Man, I’m sorry, Buccellati.” He gingerly moved his body to the side, looking as if he might be punished, too.
“You don’t need to apologize, I’m not mad.”
Bruno walked over to the sink, washed his sticky fingers, and left the kitchen, pausing under the arch. This scene was all too familiar.
“Have you seen Fugo?”
Narancia couldn’t think. He wanted to tell Bruno to leave him alone, but he would never disrespect Buccellati like that. Nothing happened. That’s what he wanted to say. Narancia lowered his head and audibly exhaled, thinking of something to say. Something that wasn’t the truth.
“Ah. I see.” Bruno kept still in his place, before raising his hand to his mouth.
“Fugo! We’re back!” He threw his head back, calling loud enough for the whole house to hear him.
Now, Narancia was not just unable to think, but to breathe as well. He placed a fist over his mouth and turned his back to Buccellati as Fugo came tromping down the stairs.
“Welcome back, Buccellati,” is what Narancia heard. He began gnawing on his knuckle. Fugo placed his hands behind his back, playing with them nervously.
With a flitting glance between the two and a cocked eyebrow, Bruno asked; “Did… anything special happen while we were away?”
Narancia inhaled sharply, knowing how terrible Fugo was at lying, especially to Buccellati. Frankly, there was no point in lying to him. Either Fugo would try to lie and get caught, or he would tell the truth, and god knows what would happen then.
Narancia choked on his saliva, sending him into a coughing fit, which was sufficient to distract the both of them.
“Narancia! Are you okay?” Buccellati abandoned his conversation to pour Narancia a glass of water, placing it in Narancia’s palms and wrapping his hands around it.
Narancia didn’t reply. He took the glass and offered a wordless ‘thank you’ before chugging the entire glass in the hopes of cooling down his face. He was bright red, mostly because of the coughing fit, but in his mind, Buccellati could see the embarrassment radiating in waves from his face.
He wiped wasted streams of water from his face with the back of his cuff, breathing raggedly. Fugo had long since left this part of the house, thankfully. Narancia could now audibly express his gratitude.
“Th-Thank you,” he muttered. His throat felt torn up. It hurt to speak, he’d expelled all his energy.
“You’ll need your voice.” Bruno’s tone was borderline somber.
“Eh?” Bruno slipped the empty glass from Narancia’s shaky fingers. “What’s going on?”
“Just a discussion of our findings. But by your behavior, you may be unable to participate.” He filled up the glass with milk. “If there’s anything you need to talk about…”
Bruno offered the cold glass of milk to Narancia. Even with somewhat dark undertone, it was still comforting. “You can tell me anything, il mio piccolo soldato.”
“Stop acting like you’re my mom or something,” Narancia muttered into his milk, creating bubbles. Bruno smoothed out his messy hair.
“Then stop acting like my child.”
Chapter 3: Play Me A Tale, Moody Blues
This one is mostly just unimportant bits of plot, so you can basically skip it if you want. I hope you won't, cause I put a lot of effort into these stands, and they might become really relevant if I continue this past what I've planned. There's always the chance!
The next part is gonna get... a little spicy. But hey, that's what we're here for, isn't it?
The meeting was held in the living room. A brief on the current mission, speculation, and planning were in order. All of these things, were of course, standard. They worked as a unit. They had for quite some time now. But everything was different this time around. A change in the air.
It was hot, and seemed to stifle all conversation. Fugo and Abbacchio sat opposite Narancia, and an ailing Mista. Bruno stood between the four, onset with indecipherable waves of emotions. It was far too confusing to pick out, but none of these emotions seemed positive.
Abbacchio snapped at Mista from the other side of the room like a wild dog. Mista was audibly distressed, quietly wheezing in discomfort every time Abbacchio looked at him.
Fugo and Narancia hadn’t said anything at all. Fugo would, on occasion, look up at Narancia, who was trying and failing to hold a conversation with Mista about his injury. All he could ever come up with was, “Does it hurt?” That always earned him an eye-roll.
Bruno cleared his throat, as a not-so-subtle attempt to get their attention. It didn’t register, so he had to be less subtle. He took a small rubber ball that he had owned as a boy off the mantle behind him. He tossed it in his right hand, one, two, three times, before using Sticky Fingers to throw it with incredible speed and force. It bounced narrowly between the heads of the attendees, having caught their undivided attention.
It headed squarely for the window, but was swallowed up by a zipper before the unnerving shatter could be heard. Some seconds later, it was put back on the mantle, having lost its incredible momentum. It rolled perfectly into its initial position, every scratch and stain oriented as it had been originally. Everyone stared at Buccellati in silence, finally ready to listen.
“Thank you for your patience,” Bruno tittered, dry sarcasm pressing behind his words. “I really appreciate it.”
Mista leaned forward, presumably to joke back, but wheezed when he felt the bruise fold on itself. Slowly leaning back, he figured it was for the best if he kept his mouth shut, maybe, just this once.
“Now, do any of you remember the reason I called you here?” Bruno kept a false patronizing tone, teasing them all, ever so slightly. He didn’t think anyone would actually forget. It was far too important.
After a few seconds of silence, Bruno no longer felt playful.
For the first time in minutes, Fugo spoke up.
“We’re here to discuss our findings in the preliminary investigation.”
“Good, that’s good.” Bruno seemed tired already. He didn’t think anyone would take that seriously. And if they were, that meant they weren’t paying attention, which meant they were distracted. Which, in turn, meant that this discussion would never be productive.
“Abbacchio. You go first.”
Abbacchio leaned forward, exhaling forcefully. It almost sounded like a growl. He glared at Mista, shifting his eyes to Bruno, whereupon they softened.
“Let’s see here… We went to the boat rental shop. Buccellati distracted the staff. And I snuck into storage.” He gestured vaguely with his hands, not looking at anyone in particular. With a soft gaze on the floor, it was clear Abbacchio was vividly replaying the last few hours behind his eyes. “I used Moody Blues, didn’t find anything substantial, but suspicious…. whole different game.” He stood up, ready to dump information on the four, who clearly hadn’t experienced what he had. No matter how well he explained it, he knew they wouldn’t fully understand.
“At 3:02 PM, exactly a week earlier, a stout man asked to rent the Maiden Heaven, a retrofitted BX-18 motorboat.” Anyone who could see into Abbacchio’s eyes would see them light up and flicker, his mind reeling with possibilities. He slipped a hand inside his coat, producing a mostly unscathed catalogue. He tossed it on the ground in front of Bruno, the pages rustling and falling open on a picture and description of a standard BX-18.
“That’s a BX-18. It’s for fishing, racing if you’re brave. It’s a bit higher end, comparatively, but still somewhat outdated.”
Squatting down, Abbacchio lightly fingered the page, giving it a swipe to the next. “And that’s the Maiden Heaven.”
The boat looked almost as expected. It was painted white, the left side adorned with a painting of a pinup, like the planes of World War Two. The whole page was dedicated to fleshing out the Maiden Heaven, showing the built in facilities.
A person could live there for days before needing to come back to land.
“This thing borders on a pleasure cruiser,” Abbacchio stated under his breath.
Once Buccellati had gotten his respective eyeful, Abbacchio picked up the catalogue and passed it around. Fugo only looked for a second, before nodding once and gesturing for Abbacchio to hand it to Narancia. He certainly wasn’t gonna do it himself.
Narancia held out his hand, half expectant and half cautious, as Abbacchio had clearly been in a bad mood before. With a scoff, he dropped it over Narancia’s open hand, dismissing him. Narancia fumbled with it, it was finally something to take his mind off of Fugo. Sharing the catalogue with Mista, the two talked about which boats could go fastest, which looked the most comfortable.
“When I went to look, the Maiden Heaven was nowhere,” Abbacchio huffed, but he clearly wasn’t finished.
“That’s not what fucking got me, though.” He started wagging his index finger, like he was keeping a rhythm. Such a genuine, attached reaction got everyone’s attention. It was clear, Abbacchio was invested.
“The man. When I replayed him, I saw something.” Abbacchio took a deep breath in. “Paws. Crawling all over his collar. Now why the fuck… would someone bring their pet?” He rolled his head back, gazing at the ceiling emptily. It was clear he was no longer talking to anyone in the room.
“It was clearly some sort of small mammal… like a ferret or a kitten… but his clothes didn’t have any hair on them. So now, why the fuck…”
Sighing, Abbacchio gently brought himself back inside his own body.
“It’s probably his stand. But what stand takes the shape of a small mammal? What the hell would a stand like that even do?”
“And then…?” Bruno waved his hand slightly, gesturing for Abbacchio to continue.
“Mmh. Yeah,” Abbacchio grunted, turning his head sharply to glare at Mista. “An incredibly suspicious couple approached us outside and offered us food.”
Mista started to squirm in his seat, letting out strangled laughs.
“And Mista actually fucking ate it.” Abbacchio turned his head up, ready to start a rant. Fury had already started seeping through his lips.
“Who the fuck would actually eat food provided by strangers, in our line of work, on a mission?! It could’ve been poisoned! They were fucking guarding the shop waiting for us! There were almost civilian casualties!” Abbacchio slowly crumbled under the absurdity of the situation, running his hands through his silver hair. “How the fuck did they think that would work? If Fugo was there instead, this would’ve gone so much smoother.”
“Whoa, wait, why was it bad to eat that food? Everyone looks fine.” Narancia set the catalogue in Mista’s lap, confused. Instinctually, Mista placed the catalogue in front his bruise, humming nervously.
“Oh, that was her fucking stand. To poison food. You know what she poisoned it with?”
Narancia silently shook his head, jaw slightly ajar.
“A spell. Some fucking spell that induces a comatose state. You see, what she told us was, that only ‘true love’s kiss’ or some shit like that would reverse it, and that it would persist after she died.”
“But heyyy, it didn’t,” Mista squeaked, the words hooking in his throat as he hesitantly dragged them out.
“Ohhhh, but did we fucking know that?” Abbacchio hissed, clawing at his throat with his index finger. The skin became red and raw, but he clearly didn’t feel it.
Mista whimpered and receded into the soft couch until he was sure his breathing had stopped.
“Once we beat her, her husband came literally flying at us in a rage. He had wings! Fucking wings!” Abbacchio looked over at Fugo, who was lost in thought. “Can you believe that shit?!” Fugo didn’t reply, only leaning further back.
“He was shooting fireballs at us from the sky while I was lugging Mista around.” Abbacchio, though now more mellow, was not any less angry. “One strayed and hit his wife, who we thought had died. And Mista still kept fucking quiet while I lugged him back the whole way.”
Abbacchio looked back to Mista, who had stopped breathing. “You deserve that bruise.”
Mista finally exhaled, relaxing all his muscles and sliding down the couch. He thought he was gonna get his ass kicked, with Abbacchio’s anger recirculating as if it was fresh. He had a tendency to rile himself up like that, and hold grudges, too.
“Pannacotta. I want your opinion on this. You look like you have something to say.” Buccellati had been standing in the same place the whole time. He may as well been part of the decor during Abbacchio’s outburst. With little effort, everyone’s attention was directed to Fugo, who hadn’t spoken. Among the almost dead silence, Fugo seemed loud. But he hadn’t fully registered anything that had happened. He was still talking to himself, head rolled back into the couch.
“A stand… that puts you into a coma if you eat… huh… it sounds like… Snow White…”
Though clearly distracted, he still provided more to the conversation than the others.
“Maybe with the dragon…. and the short guy… woodland animals…”
Abbacchio furiously gestured towards Fugo, glaring at Mista.
“See him? He wasn’t even there. He knows.” Abbacchio looked like he was about to start foaming at the mouth. “Can’t you ever be that fucking useful?”
Every time Fugo drifted into a haze, it had a different quality to others. Slivers of information penetrated his conscience, sliding into his thoughts as he absentmindedly pieced them together. Words flowed out of his mouth, completely out of his control. It was like his mouth wasn’t his own.
“If I was there… if that stand got me… true love’s kiss… sounds stupid… but… if it was real…” He sighed, his face turning almost unnoticeably pink, the last of the light in his eyes being glazed over. He slipped completely into an unresponsive state, lost in his own mind. “I think Narancia would wake me up…”
Chapter 4: Deadlock
Narancia and Fugo begin to fight.
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Narancia stopped breathing, only letting out a squeaky ‘kh’, through gritted teeth. All the blood rushed to his face, making him lightheaded. Standing became a bit of a trial, but it was not an option to stay still. Abbacchio was silent, if not amused. Bruno only sighed quietly, massaging his temples. Everything made sense in seconds. Mista caught on slower. He gradually started laughing, but each chuckle reverberated through his body like the beat of a drum. Even though it hurt, that didn’t stop him. He covered his hand with his mouth, not to prevent himself from laughing, but to silence himself so he could hear Fugo muse about his relationship with Narancia.
“Cute,” was the last thing Fugo said before Narancia sprung up from his seat in a panic.
“Shut the fuck up, Fugo!” Narancia rushed him with clenched fists and white knuckles, ready to shut him up physically if he had to.
Even if slightly, his senses were called back by Narancia’s infuriated shriek. His eyes focused just enough to see a black and orange blur hurtling towards him, and acted on instinct.
He grabbed Narancia’s arm, and shoved him on the side opposite, causing Narancia to lose his balance. Teetering on one foot, he began to fall the the ground, imminent collapse being the most important part of this process. Narancia’s cheek collided with the ground, leaving him in shock. It should’ve hurt so much more, but he still couldn’t believe that this had actually happened. Fugo grabbed Narancia by the neck, pressing his face into the carpet.
Narancia could barely move as it was, but Fugo vied for absolute control, even if he didn’t quite know why. Already atop him, Fugo slid his body down Narancia's back, far enough to wrap his legs around Narancia's thighs to stop their kicking and squirming. A single flailing, ineffectual arm was the only part of Narancia's body that could freely move. With his right arm painfully pinned behind his back and his head pinned to the ground, there was nothing he could do. He’d been pinned into submission.
“What the hell are you trying to pull, retard?!” Fugo leaned in, putting more pressure on Narancia’s neck. He heard one sharp gasp, then two, presumably the sound of Narancia struggling for air. Suddenly, he heard a noise he didn’t recognize. It was more of a… Sigh? A whine? It sounded weak, faltering, suspicious... It certainly wasn’t a noise Fugo ever thought Narancia was capable of making. Everyone in the room stopped making sound entirely.
“What the hell was that?” Fugo asked under his breath. He couldn’t feel his body. He couldn’t feel anything but the slight headache from his reeling mind, and the way his dry fingers rubbed together as he, just slightly, released his hold on Narancia’s neck.
“I’ll fucking kill you! Aerosmith!” Narancia raised his head just enough to shriek.
Aerosmith materialized, ramming it’s left wing squarely into Fugo’s face, then returning to its master, running up Narancia’s back and skidding out of existence. Fugo fell back into the couch, clutching half his face, legs planted by his side. All the sensations in his body came rushing back, to his face first. Waves of heat encapsulated it. He felt his body sink back into the couch, knowing that if he had to rebound quickly, this was among the worst possible surfaces. And he’d certainly need to rebound quickly.
“You fucking pervert!” Narancia stumbled onto his feet, reaching for his knife. But he’d left it upstairs. Even so, he was determined to teach Fugo a lesson.
“Pervert?” Fugo scoffed as Narancia rushed him. Narancia reeled his leg back, winding up for a kick. Frankly, his stance was atrocious, but he wouldn’t need to worry about his dazed opponent countering it. At least, that’s what he thought. Looking down, Fugo could see something strange. Something seemed a little big. A little out of place. In an instant, Fugo realized why. In half a daze, a foot on the ground, one in the clouds, he’d pinned Narancia face down ass up. It was quite, well, traditionally submissive, and not something hand to hand combatants tended to use. That hold, its purposes weren’t exactly many. And its results were usually the same. Even if Fugo hadn’t intended this, any of it, his body couldn’t help but respond to the sensation of Narancia grinding against him, in a futile attempt to free himself. For just a second, he wished he’d done it on purpose.
Erection or not, this was still a fight.
Fugo kicked out Narancia’s stabilizing leg, causing him to topple over once more and collapse on top of Fugo, knocking the wind out of them both.
Responding quickly, Fugo took each of Narancia’s arms, binding them in a cross on his back. Both of Fugo’s legs wrapped around Narancia’s, restraining them individually. Neither could move. Unless Narancia decided to start biting, they were locked in stalemate. Face to face, chest to chest, waist to waist. I’m sure you know what’s below the waist…?
Fugo averted his gaze, scowling slightly. It looked more like a pout. He wanted to detach himself from the situation until the both of them calmed down, but he was becoming exponentially more aware of the way Narancia sat between his legs.n Heat slowly crept up his face, knowing whatever he did, he couldn’t detach from this. Narancia began to squirm.
“Lemme go, you fuckin’ asshole!”
Every time Narancia attempted to struggle free of Fugo’s grasp, their most sensitive parts rubbed together. Though he couldn’t think of why, Fugo wanted to put it into words, but he just couldn’t find them. He couldn’t even understand what he was feeling well enough to express it. All he knew in that moment was that it felt good. That’s all he could describe it as. Even though it was a minute movement, something that nobody but the two of them could notice, it felt like waves bearing down on the shore. Every single stroke was a trial, a challenge, a test of his resolve.
Fugo’s breaths became labored, erratic, and shallow. His breath would hitch every few seconds as Narancia tried to wrest his body from Fugo’s grasp. It became a chore to restrain the gasps and weak sighs slipping out of his throat. All of this was new to him, all he could think about was Narancia, all he could feel. He didn’t think about the others in the room.
Narancia strained against Fugo’s still worsening grip, attempting to find a more comfortable position. There was none. He was fine as he was, relaxing his body and letting himself melt into Fugo’s arms. Everything had seemed to calm down, thus, the struggling subsided.
Between pants and grumbles, Narancia muttered something under his breath. He hadn’t meant to be so quiet, but it was almost painful to raise his voice any more. He didn’t want to repeat himself.
“What was that? Huh?” Fugo was set on edge, and he hated this feeling. His teeth gritted together, he glared at Narancia with sharp eyes. Nothing about Narancia should escape his notice, not as long as they were tied together like this.
“Come closer,” Narancia repeated, his voice level barely scraping by as audible. Fugo defensiveness burned away to caution. This was a trick. It had to be. Narancia leaned in further at the lack of response, repeating himself, ever so slightly more confident.
“I said come closer. What did you think?”
Narancia brought his head level to Fugo’s, pleading with him through heavy lidded, puppy dog eyes. There they were, waist to waist, chest to chest, face to face, nose to nose, mouth to mouth.
He leaned in slowly, shifting his weight, and dragging his body against Fugo’s. He felt each of Fugo’s erratic breaths on his lips. They were regaining rhythm, for the most part. If only for a second, their breathing synced.
In proximity, their lips brushed together and their breathing stilled to a halt.
Fugo’s eyelids felt heavy. He just wanted to close them, to bring his lips to meet Narancia’s. Anything for that sensation. Whatever was to happen, it wouldn’t matter. He no longer cared if it was a trick, he wouldn’t care if Narancia bit his tongue off.
Fugo decided to finally close his eyes and take it, take what he wanted. He tilted his chin up, meeting nothing. Rearing his head back, Narancia recklessly threw it back down, his forehead clashing violently with Fugo’s own. Waist to waist, chest to chest, now forehead to forehead. The impact shook them both, resonating throughout their bodies, down their spines. Fugo reflexively brought his hands up to his face, setting Narancia free. The impact shook his skull and made his brain quiver like jello. His entire body spasmed, once, twice, then Narancia was pried off of him by Abbacchio.
This really took a while, but I admit, I got lazy. Plus, I haven't ever written anything like this before. Regardless, I hope you liked it! Oh, also, please tell me what tags I should add! I mean, if you haven't noticed, we're sorta slipping out of wholesome, just a bit...
Chapter 5: The Calm After The Storm
Fugo and Narancia try to work things out.
Sorry it took a while, I wasn't totally clear on what should happen here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
“What are you two doing?!” Panic tore through the crack in Buccellati’s voice. Infighting between the two wasn’t exactly uncommon, but not to this extent, not to the point of summoning stands.
“Tch. You guys are fucking freaks,” Abbacchio grumbled under his breath, restraining Narancia, just in case. “Keep that shit to yourselves.”
Both of them had seemingly exerted all of their energy, panting and red faced. It wasn’t particularly hard to notice. Both boys had always had their hearts on their sleeves. They weren’t used to hiding things from their teammates, and they certainly couldn’t scrape together enough self consciousness to start now. Arms hooked under Narancia’s, Abbacchio pulled him to his feet. Even though Narancia was, frankly, tired of being restrained, he had quickly learned to adapt to it.
“I can’t believe you fucking fell for that!” Narancia shrieked in an uncanny blend of offense and amusement, and a small, untraceable bit of something else. There was no use trying to pinpoint the strange amalgam of emotions. If asked, Narancia couldn’t, and wouldn’t, explain it. His legs flailed wildly, split between clawing for footing and warding off Fugo. Fugo stumbled onto his feet with Buccellati’s support, seething, and far too distracted to be grateful. Head cupped in his hands, he responded in that toxic tone. Nitroglycerin. He was on the verge of a meltdown. It wouldn’t take much provocation, nor time, for everyone in that room to be killed.
“You knew… You started this…” He growled through forced, deep breaths. His tongue flitted between his teeth. He felt he was close to drawing blood, but he couldn’t bite his tongue for long. His instincts told him not to say anything more, but something else entirely wanted to explode, and take down that entire room with him. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” Even on the brink of blinding fury, he chose his words carefully, so as not to betray their poorly hidden secret. Whatever kept him from losing it all, it was a godsend.
When Narancia spoke again, the tone wasn’t easy to place. Is it ever? It sounded disgusted, yet teasing, yet flattered, and still offended. “So what? I figured you wouldn’t mind since you were just rubbing all over—“
“Shut the fuck up!” Fugo took a step forward, staggering. Buccellati reflexively reached out to brace him, deciding against it. Even disoriented, Fugo was still terrifying, if not more so. He lacked control, more than usual. ‘Ruthlessly competent’ wasn’t exactly the best phrase to describe him. At this point, intellect could not possibly factor into whatever was happening in his head. “You know damn well that was an accident!”
“Didn’t feel like an accident.” There was no split in Narancia’s tone. It was pure, unfiltered, unadulterated smug. A smirk flashed across his face, his tongue flitting over his lips for a mere second. He looked hungry, and like he was about to do something incredibly stupid to sate that hunger. He knew he’d found the pressure point. “I mean, I didn’t do it on accident.”
Fugo sputtered, then broke. His eyes wandered from Narancia, trying to look anywhere else. That was something he simply couldn’t manage. Some vital component in his thought process had just been shot. He replied in half words, unrelated syllables. All he could think was that Narancia had come extremely close to sacrificing their dignity just to see him get flustered.
A remarkably astute observation, for a babbling mess. Narancia had been with him long enough to know about his pressure point, and roundabouts where he could find it. He’d blindly navigate through Fugo’s psyche, pulling and prodding, just like he had done earlier in the day. It didn’t much matter him what he hit upon, so long as Fugo would get over it. He’d always dig to that sweet spot, the pressure point. The exact spot to strike, one clean hit, to separate Fugo from his senses in just the right way. If he failed, he’d get yelled at. But when he succeeded, he’d get to see Fugo crumble into a blushing, stuttering, mess. Again, he couldn’t be described as ‘ruthlessly competent,’ but he was far more competent than Narancia, and he made sure he knew it. Though neither realized, it was a power play. The power to take someone down a peg with no hard feelings. The violent route was more dangerous, but making one embarrassed was the declawed version. No lasting guilt, no resentment, just the same conflict with less consequences. Stupid, playful, yet wholly embarrassing interactions like these were an integral part of their relationship. Truly, it ran so much deeper than they had realized. Affection shows differently for different people, different pairs. Now, had they known this earlier, what their episodes were building up to, would they have stopped?
“O-kay, that’s enough from you two,” Abbacchio grunted, hoisting up Narancia so his legs could no longer touch the ground, lacing his fingers over Narancia’s mouth, assuming, praying he wouldn’t bite, or, god forbid, lick. “I’m not sure what’s going on with you two, and I’m not sure I want to know, but it looks like it’s going to end with someone unconscious, or dead, on the floor.” Abbacchio huffed, carrying Narancia to the other side of the room. Narancia offered no resistance, instead casting an unfocused scowl at whatever happened to be in front of his face.
“You two are good friends. What the fuck, quite literally, got you up at each other’s throats? And more violent than usual. You didn’t even apologize.” Abbacchio deposited Narancia on the couch next to Mista, who was still thrumming with laughter.
Narancia crossed his legs and arms, pouting. His ruffled hair only complimented his bratty sneer. He looked like a child resolved to never speak to anyone in the room ever again. Anyone who knows children know this doesn’t last long.
“He’s not my friend after tonight,” he called over Abbacchio’s shoulder, glaring at Fugo. Fugo, with help, dropped himself back onto the couch. He hadn’t moved from that spot since the fight began, but he felt like he’d walked miles.
“I’m not asking for permission,” Buccellati said, feeling the lump on Fugo’s forehead. Fugo was too worn out to react at all, besides wincing slightly, eyes still downcast at the shapeless sea of carpet. “We’re talking this out here and now. This needs to be worked out before bed.”
Abbacchio nodded in confirmation, before joining Fugo on his side of the room. It was set just like it had been before, but the hesitation was replaced with bitterness and unease.
“Explain this to me. I have an idea of the situation, but I would rather have a dossier. I’ll have Abbacchio replay everything if necessary.” Buccellati turned his head to Abbacchio, the smallest bit of pride shining through his near neutral expression.
“Please don’t look at me like that, Buccellati.” Abbacchio ran his hands through his hair, already exhausted. “I’m not even sure you could order me to do that… don’t wanna know what I’ll find…”
In an instant, the pride in his face was wiped and filled in with neutrality. Strange he should comply.
“I want details. Now, which of you wants to speak first? Someone is going to.”
“Look, Buccellati,” Fugo moaned, nursing a splitting headache. “I appreciate you trying to help us, really, I do, but it’s a very personal matter. He told me… one of his secrets.”
Fugo knew that the best lies were always rooted in truth, but he couldn’t consider what he was doing to be lying. He thought of it more as… avoiding the truth. The concept of a lie by omission couldn’t process in what was left of his brain.
Even though this was not what Buccellati wanted, and he’d said he wouldn’t make concessions, it was a perfect lead in to claw his way to the truth.
“How did you respond?”
Fugo hesitated. He certainly didn’t expect Bruno to play along instead of demanding a straight answer. Even caught off guard, he knew he had to answer still. “I didn’t, really. When he realized he told me, he up and left. I don’t blame him.” His downcast eyes unfocused, refocused, and out of sheer curiosity, looked back up to the person they were avoiding.
“How did you feel?” Talking to Bruno was like talking to a teddy bear. You know it won’t get angry at you, but it will always stare at you without blinking as you spill your darkest secrets to it, like a confessional. It managed to be personal and detached, somehow.
“I was… shocked, I don’t know… embarrassed, flattered—“
“I didn’t mean—“
“Well, that settles it.” Bruno stretched, arms overhead. He’d wanted to ignore the evidence, but there was no point now. Well, it was only a matter of time. It really didn’t take someone with his intuition to see it bloom. When they Fugo and Narancia met, Fugo would spend hours at the hospital, coming dangerously close to shirking his duties. When Fugo had first brought Narancia over, to eat something substantial, he couldn’t help but ask questions, no matter how awkward or personal. No matter what he touched on, neither would get mad. As the night went on, it became clear that Narancia was not as meek and scared as he first appeared. Between Fugo’s frequent hospital visits, the awkward, personal questions at dinner, and his exceptional patience with Narancia overall, it was to be expected. It seemed to happen to everyone. It happened to him, and it would one day happen to Mista, as well. Buccellati didn’t have any problems with it, so long as they could stay quiet…
“S—Settles it? What do you mean?! I can’t spend the night with him!” Narancia protested, beginning to rise from his seat when Mista tugged him back down, finally being useful.
“Really? Can’t stand another night? Will you kill each other then?”
Bruno replied, in an unsettlingly neutral tone. He rolled his shoulders, trying to get any part of his body to relax, release tension. Infighting vexed him. “If you really hate each other that much, which I highly doubt, only one of you will be joining us on our mission tomorrow. I need you to work this out before bed.”
Bruno paused for a second. It was the kind of hesitation that you’d only notice after years of service. It didn’t take nearly as long for him to figure out others, to notice their hesitation as they crossed a line nobody knew was there, as he was about to. He could see the way Narancia bit the inside of his lip, the way that his eyebrows were furrowed, creating only one crease, not two, and the way his guilty eyes flitted from side to side. People could prosecute on that face. It was a look of shame, but also a look of longing. The way he fiddled with his bangs instead of the hair at the back was a dead giveaway, that anybody else would overlook. Fugo’s guilt showed in a wildly different way. His accusatory pout always wavered, he’d bite his top and bottom lip. He’d sigh sharply through his nose. Instead of looking for escape routes, he’d always stare down at his feet. It was even more obvious when that right hand of his would start working itself over, cracking its knuckles and subconsciously repeating the signs for M, N, and T, as if the energy he forced himself to contain discharged there. This look was one of regret.
“By any means necessary. I don’t care how you figure it out.” Bruno left the room, ignoring vehement protests. All he wanted was to turn away from them. His ticks were beginning to show, and they were painfully obvious. His eyes flitted upwards and to the left, his right shoulder rolled, his left foot pointed outwards. Every few seconds, he would stifle a laugh with the back of his hand, not the front. This was the look of happiness, the look of knowing, and anticipation. The look of a bride’s mother. He knew just what was coming, and he knew just how it would affect the rest of them.
“Damn this house,” Bruno murmured under his breath. Out of sight, he leaned on the wall. It still had the same texture as it did when he had lived there. He bit his lip to prevent the smile creeping up his face. He was by no means smug, but he’d known this was going to happen for years. He was happy that he was right, but not for himself. “I haven’t felt like this in a long time.” He brushed his hand gently against the wall as he walked towards the stairs, feeling the scratches from accidents that had been painted over. “Maybe I’ll take it out on Leone. I’m sure he’d like that.”
Please, don't forget to tell me what tags I should add, I'm not entirely sure what's fitting. I wanna make sure it's tagged properly, but I'm not sure where to start.
Chapter 6: Locked in With Me
Fugo and Narancia avoided each other for the rest of the night, circulating discussion partners. Mista wanted more details, and Abbacchio wanted to be wherever Mista wasn’t. They ate dinner in different parts of the house, Narancia stuffing food in his face with Mista upstairs, Fugo dining with Abbacchio down below. Their sleeping arrangements were quite simple, but in light of new events, had become so much more complex. There were only two beds in the house. Bruno and Abbacchio were to sleep in the master bedroom, Fugo and Narancia would sleep in Bruno’s old bedroom. Upon learning he could sleep fireside, Mista happily volunteered to sleep in the living room. There were no do-overs. Buccellati wouldn’t allow it. Fugo and Narancia were going to be stuck in a bed with each other overnight. Either one of them would murder the other, or they would emerge with a stronger bond than ever. There was no inbetween.
“Ah, sun’s going down,” Abbacchio huffed into the glass of wine he always had with dinner. His breath kicked up on the glass. “I suggest you two get your shit together quick. Unless you actually plan on killing each other.” He tilted his head to look at Fugo with a cocked eyebrow.
Fugo said nothing, wringing his hands together.
“Look, it’s not good to hold grudges. Take it from me, don’t question it. If you need counseling, ask Buccellati. I don’t have like, good senses or any shit like that. You should trust whatever he says.” He stared straight at Fugo, who refused to make eye contact. Abbacchio downed the rest of his wine, which he had been sipping up to this point. The cracks were starting to show. Fugo and Narancia clearly weren’t the only ones with a shifting relationship. “I’m not even supposed to be giving you advice. So, you know, don’t mention it.”
Abbacchio stood up, brushed off his clothes, and let out a resigned sigh.
“I’m heading to bed. Good luck with yours.”
“What do you mean, mine…?” Fugo whispered to Abbacchio’s turned back, every second he spoke draining his lungs.
As Fugo opened the door to the bedroom, all noise stopped. Narancia and Mista were already in their pajamas, paying no attention to the dirty plates left on the bed, close to falling off. Narancia wore an oversized tee-shirt and Mista wore nothing but sweatpants, of course.
They had a whole outfit between them. The sight made Fugo’s stomach flip. He didn’t want to explain it to himself, but seeing Narancia on the bed with someone else made him wholly uncomfortable.
“Oh-! Hi, Fugo…” Fugo clearly wasn’t the only uncomfortable one. Mista fumbled for the dirty plates, staring nervously at Fugo like he was the only obstacle to freedom. He held the plates dearly as his excuse to leave the room, preferably before Fugo snapped at him. “I should, uh, take these downstairs.”
Mista turned back to Narancia, mouthing a ‘good luck’ before awkwardly slipping past Fugo, and out of the line of fire.
Fugo hung out of the doorway, eyes continually following Mista, all the way down the stairs. He shouldn’t feel upset, but he did.
“I’m gonna change.”
Without his eyes meeting Narancia’s, he shut the door behind him, leaning on it to close it.
He shuffled over to the pile of bags in the corner, rummaging through them to find his pajamas. They weren’t anything particularly special,(they had no holes) although one night, he’d accidentally busted the top button. Every attempt he’d made to fix it frustrated him, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask anyone for help with a fucking button. He’d made peace with it, and would just cuddle closer into his blankets.
There was nowhere to hide in the small room. Fugo ignored it. Surely, he didn’t want to, but feeling nothing seemed like a better alternative to being nervous. He faced the wall, gazing emptily at it, and began to fumble with the button on his suit. Narancia’s eyes had remained magnetized to him from the moment he opened the door, and he certainly couldn’t look away now. He put his hands over his eyes like it was something he’d never seen before, leaving a large gap between his fingers. He didn’t want to deal with, nor listen about, the implications of this action. Nothing could separate him from the moment, especially not the fingers shoddily veiling Fugo from view. His mouth hung agape, heat creeping up his face. His throat felt dry, it contracted as if he wanted to tell him to stop, that he couldn’t take it, but that would imply that he cared. He didn’t care, he didn’t care at all, this didn’t bother him in the slightest. It meant nothing to him, and so on and so forth. These couldn’t be called excuses so much as outright denial. The shirt slid off Fugo’s shoulders, then onto his arm. Narancia had seen this before, but it hadn’t bothered him this much until tonight. It hadn’t made him so restless, he needed to squirm, and something felt askew in his pants. He noticed the way Fugo’s muscles moved under his skin, the way his chest rose and fell. Finally, Fugo folded his top, and placed it gently next to his pajamas. He brought his hands back in front of him. Next, there was a sharp zip. Narancia’s breath hitched as a squeak tore it’s way out. A shock resonated through his body, making him tense up. Fugo turned his head to the side, refusing to look Narancia directly in the eye, which certainly didn’t make him any more comfortable. In his periphery, he could see Narancia’s pitiful attempt to restrain himself from whatever breakdown he was about to have. Turning back to the wall, he inaudibly sighed. He’d planned to change and get it over with, but this was a perfect opportunity to test the waters.
Slowly, silently, he brought his pants down to his ankles, and in the process, only once, hooked his thumb onto the band of his underwear, dragging it down just slightly. He heard a slight gasp. That told him all he needed to know. It told him that Narancia had a reaction, and that he was so invested that a minuscule movement could send him tumbling down a path of, most likely, perverted thoughts. He felt bad figuring it out like this, but there were several, less preferable options. Options that might not be forgiven. He picked up his pajamas and put them on, and it was over like that. Narancia returned to the most relaxed position he could muster after that borderline striptease.
Chapter 7: Locked In With You
Stuck together, things begin to come to a head. Now, it starts to get explicit.
“I’m… sleeping on the right side…” Narancia looked away as Fugo approached the bed.
“Fine by me,” Fugo replied. He still hadn’t looked Narancia in the eye. Out of pure curiosity, Narancia told himself, he glanced up at Fugo for just a moment. The first thing he noticed was the busted button and what it revealed.
“Wha- button up your shirt! That shit’s weird!” Narancia kneaded the front of his shirt, demonstrating with his hands, desperately pleading for some damn modesty from the man he was spending the night with.
“The button is busted! Did you forget?” Fugo began to get angry, once again. It wasn’t the kind of anger that would result in another bout, but frustration. He felt he was fighting a battle he couldn’t win, a battle he didn’t even want to fight. Instead, he retroactively decided to ignore it, flipping the light off.
There were two sources of light; one from underneath the door, and the other, a full moon shining through the window. When Fugo turned back to the bed, the soft light hit all the right angles. It caught on all the curves of his body. He was positively glowing. The moonlight seeped into his clothes, illuminating anything they were supposed to hide. In Narancia’s mind, there was no point to Fugo wearing a top. But of course, he wouldn’t say that. He shuffled away to the very edge while Fugo lazily cast himself atop the bed. He was tired, not because he needed to sleep, but because he fully understood why Bruno had said, “By any means necessary.” He wasn’t opposed to the idea in the slightest, he just didn’t know how to bring it about.
‘Sorry, Buccellati,’ he thought. “I’ll work this out tomorrow.’
“I gotta ask; why do you wear that suit?” Even though Narancia still hadn’t turned to face him, he still wanted his questions answered.
“My suit? I don’t know… I guess I just like it.”
“Why would you wear something that forces you to wear a thong?” The utter confusion and exasperation on his face translated perfectly into his tone. He sounded like he was demanding an answer from god himself.
Fugo turned onto his side, grinning widely. All the evidence he had was correct.
“Ah? So you were looking!”
“I-No! I just-”
Narancia bore his face further into the pillow, muffling whatever pathetic excuse he had to offer.
“C’mon, c’mon, I answered your question, now you have to answer mine,” Fugo giggled. Giggled? It was uncharacteristic of him. Something was changing. He felt giddy to know. He propped himself up, smiling softly at Narancia.
“That shit’s weak!” Narancia turned to cuss him out, only to meet Fugo’s soft gaze, pressing him back down into a calm state of mind. He sat back into the pillow, feeling subtly violated by the way Fugo’s unusually warm eyes fell upon him. He felt he couldn’t bear to make eye contact, but something inside of him desperately wanted to.
“You asked me two questions, isn’t it fair that I ask you two?”
Narancia’s protests faltered into a “Sure, I guess…”
Though slightly, Fugo’s face turned serious.
“Earlier… did you mean to do that? To me… I know you saw it.” Just remembering the situation left a certain taste on his tongue, it brought back a lot of unlabeled emotions that he couldn’t quite sort through.
Narancia turned his back to Fugo, gripping a swathe of blankets. “I don’t have to answer that.”
“Okay then, here’s my second question; Why didn’t you just lie?”
“What the hell are you on about?” Narancia replied, burying his face in the blanket he clutched.
“You could’ve just said you didn’t mean to, or you didn’t notice. Why did you deflect instead?”
“That’s none of your business!”
“Every part of this is my business.”
Fugo stretched over to touch Narancia’s hand, turned white from how intensely he held the blanket. Their bodies touched, Narancia’s smaller frame fitting perfectly inside Fugo’s. He felt unable to breathe.
“See? My business, too.”
Narancia forced himself to relax. As his muscles released tension, he felt everything click into place. There was no need to be uncomfortable, but that wouldn’t stop him.
“I mean… I was really embarrassed. But it didn’t necessarily feel.. Bad?” Narancia didn’t want to leave Fugo out to dry. He wanted to have an explanation, but he also wanted Fugo off his case. He wanted to bury the issue and forget it ever happened.
“Embarrassed? So you're saying that if nobody was around… You’d maybe want to try it again?”
Narancia replied in a series of stitched thoughts, wanting to speak his mind, but be vague enough that Fugo would drop the subject. But he’d already failed. He was doomed from the start.
“Well- yeah I guess that’s basically--”
Arms on each side of Narancia, Fugo brought himself up. He looked at Narancia with intense focus, completely separate from the dreamy gaze he’d donned earlier.
“T-There’s nobody here now!” He swallowed thickly, his lack of experience beginning to show through.
“Ehhh?! What the fuck?! Don’t say weird shit like that!” Narancia ineffectively pummeled Fugo’s chest, every hit making Fugo chuckle.
“I mean, is it so weird? If it felt good to you too…. We should try it again.” Fugo shifted his knee between Narancia’s thighs, rubbing up, making Narancia panic. Though, it took so little. “Damn,” he started to whine, “What’s up with y-” A particularly aggressive stroke stopped him mid word. His entire body shuddered.
“D-Did that hurt? I’m sorry, Narancia!” Fugo quickly withdrew his leg, feeling like he’d ruined everything. Was he too rough? Too forward? He’d certainly done something out of line. He shifted away from Narancia, to return to his side of the bed.
“No--No, it’s fine!” Narancia grabbed Fugo’s wrist, a bit more forcefully than he needed to. “More than fine…” He guided Fugo’s hand back down to his side. This was really as close as they would get to Narancia confessing that he wanted it too, at the moment. Things have a funny way of changing. Fugo placed his legs on both sides of Narancia’s. It should’ve felt like he was being boxed in, but it didn’t.
“Then, you wouldn’t mind if…” It felt awkward asking for permission. He’d never had that luxury, even if he’d never brought it up before. It was a closely guarded secret. And in the movies, nobody ever asked. They both just knew.
“I…” Narancia’s breathing became shallow. “Do whatever you want.” He covered his eyes with the back of his wrist, already heavy into anticipation.
That made Fugo’s stomach drop. Anything? Didn’t he care?
“Please…” The last word barely squeaked by. A hint of a smile flashed on Narancia’s face between labored breaths.
Any doubt Fugo felt vaporized. He gingerly laced his hands behind Narancia’s head, through his hair, bringing them face to face. Narancia wide eyes struggled to stay open. There were no tricks this time. There was nothing separating them.
Their lips shifted clumsily into position. As long as they took it steady, it wouldn’t end up messy, though that wasn’t a bad outcome. Narancia pressed forward, strangely aggressive, slipping his tongue into Fugo’s mouth. He was inexperienced, he only made the smallest movements, but damn it was cute. He gingerly felt around Fugo’s chest, resting his fingertips on Fugo’s clavicle. Narancia coaxed Fugo’s tongue into his mouth, so gently, and still, so inexperienced, but he was making all the right moves. This was his first kiss, after all. Well, maybe not the first, but this couldn't compare. That's a story for another time.
In turn, Fugo patted down Narancia’s body looking for the proper place to put his hands. He shifted his hand from Narancia’s thigh, up his shirt, feeling for the band of his underwear. He put two fingers there, sliding them to the front, and bringing the band down. Narancia pulled away, glancing down, and Fugo let the band snap back into place.
“D-Did you not like that?” Fugo wiped off the string of saliva connecting them.
Narancia pushed him steadily back, with gentle, but unrelenting force. He said nothing.
“Mmh… N-Narancia?” Even though he wasn’t threatened, Fugo still seemed scared. If he did something wrong, he’d like to know. Narancia guided him into a sitting position.
“It’s… only fair if I…” Narancia slid his fingers into Fugo’s waistband, tugging.
“Fair?” Fugo huffed. Did Narancia think he owed him? “Narancia, if you’re only doing it because it’s ‘fair’, you don’t have to--”
“Fine, you want me to say it? I want to!” His tugging became more forceful. “Are you trying to make me embarrassed? Just shut the fuck up and let me suck your dick!”
Fugo’s voice stopped working entirely. Anything he tried to say couldn’t even squeak out, his ability to form any coherent thought died in that moment. He slapped a hand over his mouth and nodded enthusiastically.
Narancia noted and appreciated his enthusiasm, but it wouldn’t have made much of a difference in the following events. Even though he didn’t quite know what he was supposed do, Narancia made the move. He’d figure it out as he went. He slid his hands down Fugo’s pants, tempted to laugh at the tremor he felt going through Fugo’s body. He brought Fugo’s half erect dick outside of his pants, handling it gingerly. Narancia looked as if he thought it might bite him. He rubbed his thumb over the head, his mind racing as he made wild guesses about what Fugo would like. They were only guesses, though. He brought his fingers up gently along the underside of the shaft, bringing the head to his lips. Though, he was a bit hesitant. What would it taste like? Well, it didn’t matter.
He steeled his nerves, bringing the head inside his mouth. It was a little salty, but it was certainly a taste he could get more than used to. It felt too big for his mouth, but he was determined to press on. His tongue swept over the head with a slow, constant pressure. Fugo jolted, a quiet ‘fuck’ escaping his lips.
‘This isn’t too hard,’ Narancia thought. ‘It’s, like, a lollipop.’
He took more into his mouth, slowly, but surely, to the point he no longer needed to use his hands. He placed his hands into his lap and looked up at Fugo innocently, delighting in the way he squirmed. Fugo had become terrible at hiding it.
“Fuck, fuck, Narancia,” he panted, his body convulsing. He laced his fingers through Narancia’s hair, summoning all his dwindling control to keep himself from pulling on it. Whatever Narancia was doing, it was perfect. He settled into a rhythm, just like he would with a lollipop. Perhaps that was why he got so many weird stares. He had the idea to suck on it as hard as he possibly could. It felt horribly tactless, but he just had to know. Now, he wanted to see Fugo’s reaction. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth as hard as he could, acting as if Fugo wasn’t even there. He gave it all the force he could gather, resting his hands on Fugo’s thighs. Fugo felt Narancia’s mouth contract intensely around his dick, and it was simply too much for him. Any shred of discipline he had left was obliterated. With a firm grasp on Narancia’s head, he shoved him farther down, forcing his way into Narancia’s throat. Though it took him by surprise, Narancia was used to being deprived of oxygen after the events of the day. As eyes began to roll back, he gripped Fugo’s thighs hard, digging his nails in.
Upon feeling the sharp pricks bearing into his thighs, Fugo yanked Narancia’s head back up, finally allowing him to to take free breaths. Narancia coughed, panted, and sighed. His throat felt roughed up, but he didn’t mind. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, keeping intact all the messy strings of saliva connecting them.
“W-What’s… did I do something wrong? I’ll do better next time...” Red-faced, mouth agape, panting, Narancia was a vision. He was waiting for Fugo to tell him to try again.
“N-No, no, that was perfect, more than…” Fugo’s voice trailed off, feeling the guilt set in as he looked at Narancia’s face. He looked innocent, vulnerable. Narancia had told him to do as he pleased, but if that meant him getting hurt, he wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t forgive himself.
“Well, if I was doing it right, why did you stop me? I can handle it...” Narancia tilted his head back down, ready and willing to go again, running on the last of his strength.
“No, it’s just that— I-“ He cupped Narancia face in his hands, bringing Narancia’s eyes to meet his. He couldn’t stand it, and he felt terrible about lying. He wanted Narancia to continue. Desperately, he wanted to see his cum dripping out of Narancia’s mouth, down his chin, blushing madly. But he felt like he couldn’t ask for that much. He didn’t want to take advantage of Narancia. Instead, he wanted to return the intense pleasure he had felt. It was only right, but he felt like it was absolutely necessary.
“Could you… lie back down?”
“Just lie down.”
Fugo coaxed Narancia’s head back into the pillow, running his fingers through Narancia mussed hair. Narancias wide eyes were inundated with trust and uncertainty, willing to let Fugo do whatever. Gently, Fugo wiped the remaining saliva from Narancia’s lips. He found himself sidetracked, pushing them up, reveling in the fact that they were all his. It was so messy, and yet…
Chapter 8: Conservation of Momentum
Well, I suppose you'll just have to read and find out.
Narancia looked so adorable and vulnerable. His shallow breath was audible, his chest rose and fell. He looked scared, embarrassed, excited. And as Fugo looked at him, he couldn’t help but get sidetracked. For someone who had been so frail and malnourished during such a crucial developmental period, he had turned out so strong. Though, he’d never really be much taller than he was now. But Fugo liked that. He was the perfect height to kiss. Fugo tilted his head to the side, finally secure in knowing that he was doing the right thing. As long as Narancia was happy with it, it was perfect.
Narancia looked from Fugo’s face to his hand, mind reeling with possibilities. This was his first time, after all. What a mesmerizing sight.
“Just… turn on your side… And lift your leg up like this…”
“Mhm...” Fugo’s face exuded a warm aura. He seemed proud. This time, he wasn’t hesitant, nor was he gentle. He grabbed Narancia’s underwear, pulling it down, down, to Narancia’s calves. “I’m not sure how to prepare you for this… so I need you to bear with me.”
“Prepare me... for what?”
Fugo offered his free hand to Narancia, moving the other between Narancia’s legs. Fugo squeezed the hand that he held, drawing Narancia’s attention to his face. Though Fugo wasn’t sure how to express it without words, his face made it clear; the trust we have can’t stop now. Ever so gently, he pressed his finger against Narancia’s entrance, catching him off guard.
‘Wait,’ Narancia wanted to say. But, he didn’t want to wait. Wasting time was the worst possible option. Instead, he said this;
“Is it… going to hurt?”
“Honestly?” Fugo exhaled, knowing that he had no real answer. He looked over to the door, then into Narancia’s fearful eyes. They weren’t scared, they didn’t see Fugo as a monster. They were only scared of the unknown. And this was one of the better ways to learn.
“Yeah, at first… but after that… I don’t even remember.” Fugo made his way inside without breaking eye contact, relishing Narancia’s sharp gasps. There really was no way to prepare Narancia for this. The action was going to happen regardless of the explanation, and the reaction would still be the same. “Though I’ve heard, there’s a spot that feels really good.” Fugo had never had any actual experiences trying to find it. All he remembered were anatomical diagrams, and even that was vague. He never thought he’d have to apply this knowledge, but he was thankful he had even a shred of it lodged away. Unlacing his fingers from Narancia’s, he brought his hand to Narancia’s side. In the moonlight, he gingerly traced the position of the prostate, relative to the finger he already had inside. He knew just about where he needed to go, and even though it felt awkward trying to apply this clinical precision, it was necessary. It was too tight inside to move, and though it felt horribly tactless, he made his way there, perhaps more forceful than needed. Upon finding it, he realized he’d underestimated Narancia’s sensitivity. With a firm, deep stroke to his prostate, Narancia’s entire body convulsed and spasmed, breathing going incredibly unsteady. It was something he’d never experienced before, something entirely new for the both of them; for Narancia, experiencing a different type of pleasure, and for Fugo, seeing Narancia crumble from just a touch.
“Is that good? Are you okay?”
Narancia nodded wordlessly, all his attempts for normal communication burned away the moment they were formulated. He couldn’t think anything beyond,
‘His finger is cold. Why is it so cold? Is it cold in here?’
It didn’t take much to wreck his brain. Those three thoughts circulated continuously until a second finger joined the first. He shuddered, grabbing blindly for Fugo’s sleeve. His head rolled back, not of his own accord. In fact, it felt like nothing was of his own accord. His gasps, shudders, sighs, the way his toes curled and flexed, none of them were voluntary. Fugo had complete control, from a single spot in his body, and it was the most wonderful feeling in the world.
What could only be called ecstasy was soon withdrawn, leaving Narancia feeling empty. He needed more. Though it may be unhealthy, Fugo had managed to leave an imprint in him that couldn’t be erased. He knew that he would always remember this moment, and he began to miss it as he was living it.
“W-Why did you stop?” Narancia grabbed Fugo’s wrist, to keep him from withdrawing. He couldn’t muster enough energy to actually stop Fugo though. Fugo slipped his wrist from Narancia’s weak, trembling fingers, without any effort needed.
“No, see, this is the good part.”
He grabbed the underside of Narancia’s thighs, exposing him completely. He was rough and unrelenting, his nails beginning to dig in. He was already painfully erect. In that moment, he had snapped. He was tired of waiting. It was clear, all this foreplay had been for Narancia’s benefit. He was ridiculously pent up, his unstable nature proving true once more. Sure, Narancia was cute when he was shivering, but he’d look even cuter if he was screaming.
“Whaa-What are you gonna do?” Narancia stared at him with wide eyes, inundated with fear of the unknown. In those big violet eyes, Fugo saw his reflection. A monster looked back at him. The fiery haze in his mind distorted his senses. The hotter his face became, the less he could control himself. He wanted to. He wanted to so damn much. He’d been fixated on this, and all his expectations were coming to a head. But the more aroused he became, the more things he wanted to do, but he had no idea if Narancia would forgive him for any of it. Narancia’s eagerness had turned to apprehension, and Fugo didn’t know what to do. Was it his fault? The absolute last thing he wanted to do was hurt Narancia. But in the moment…
“Fugo? Are you…? You’re not okay, are you?” Narancia’s legs tensed, twitching. It felt impossible to relax. He wanted to move his legs, he could’ve, but the stony, detached demeanor Fugo had adopted made him feel he couldn’t. Fugo had to make the next move.
“You noticed?” Fugo let go of Narancia’s legs, leaving red nail marks. His muscles relaxed and everything in his body shifted back into place. He reverted from the predatory stance he’d assumed into something that felt so deflated. The transition almost hurt, it felt like it was opening old wounds. He couldn’t have controlled himself, and even though he hadn’t done anything to hurt Narancia yet, even the thought that it could happen made him ashamed.
“Do you need to stop?” For some reason, Narancia seemed to know. He’d never paid attention before, but tonight, everything seemed exposed. Maybe it was the house, maybe it was the intimacy, but he could see that glowing, pulsating core. It was fading, dying off. A single scratch to the thin skin containing it would cause it to gush out. This was no longer a matter of ‘just not feeling it’. This was something more serious. He wrapped his arms around Fugo, burying his face in his chest, giving it little kisses. He didn’t know what else to do, but at the moment, it reflected how he felt. So what if it was childish or awkward? Slowly, he felt the felt the heat return, and felt Fugo’s breathing soften.
“You don’t have to treat me like glass, you know. I’m pretty tough,” he pouted into Fugo’s chest.
He felt Fugo’s wry chuckle reverberate through his body. He let Narancia’s smaller frame wrap around his. It felt nice to be wanted, needed, but he wasn’t sure he deserved it.
“Yeah, I know…”
“You’re not that kind of person,” Narancia sighed, grabbing him tighter. “You couldn’t even hurt me if you tried.”
“Let’s just go back to bed. We’ll pick this up later. I promise.”
Chapter 9: Update
This is quite important, and I should hope you take mind to read it.
So it's been a year. I know, I know I stopped posting. And the honest truth is, this all started out as a joke. And I felt really guilty. But here's the good news. I never stopped writing(actually, this was all finished beforehand). But what I did instead was really get ahead of myself.
I like writing. Genuinely, I do. It's a pastime of mine. So even after I stopped posting, I continued writing. I started this fic in a google doc on January 26, 2019. After finishing this fic, I began to branch out with some elements of the story, and have essentially begun creating a series. On the anniversary this year, I did a wordcount. The project overall is at approximately 143k words. Don't worry, it's broken up into smaller sections. I still don't consider it anywhere close to done though. Essentially, this story will include this fic (but heavily modified, but if/when we get to that point, I think you'll like the changes) and many others. Currently, the story is planned to span from Doppio/Diavolo's birth and go into post Vento Aureo. It elaborates on each character's backstory and adds a little extra to a lot of grey spaces. If you felt blueballed before, then it might ache a little worse, considering how long this is going to be. The ships are going to be Bruno/Abbacchio, Fugo/Narancia, and Mista/Giorno.
To be honest, this entire fic, the one you've read right here? I hate it and want to burn it to the ground. I've been prying up the floorboards and patching everything into a workable state, but I still have the full version. I could post it if anyone wants it, but I'm pretty ashamed of it nonetheless. Anyways, soon(if there's still interest) I'll begin posting. But, should I post the read order first? Or should I begin posting the project proper? Also, I'll likely end up deleting this fic at some point out of pure spite for my terrible writing that makes me shrivel up like a worm covered in salt. Forgive my rather 'direct' language, but I'm actually quite nervous about this. But if this works out for the better, I hope to see you all again very soon. It'll be nice to talk to people about this, and as they say, sharing is caring.
Wait, I have an edit. Remember a lovely few paragraphs ago when I said this started out as a joke? Well, I did mean it. This was a shared account at one point. If you see me commenting on anything, it's not me. I'm trying to go through and scrub everything clean, start fresh with work I'm proud of, that will be unfettered by any sort of peer pressure.
Chapter 10: Update 2: Electric Boogaloo
Oh yeah babes. It's on.
I probably won't post the rest of this, but I'll leave it up anyways. I've seen that people actually like it, and would be sad to see it go. So long as I don't reread it for myself, I can tamp down the urge to delete it. But now, the markedly more important stuff. I've finally got to posting that project I was talking about. I'll try to have at least on chapter a week--not that I'm a slow writer or anything. Just a procrastinator. With the quarantine, I have a lot of free time on my hands to pay attention to this. So the time spent not working on the next chapter will be spent tinkering in the back end of things and making sure it's all smooth by it's time to shine. At least, that's what I intend to do. I'm pretty happy with this arrangement, and theoretically, it should work out just fine. Hope to see you there.
Chapter 11: One last update(I'm sorry)
Last update on the corpse of this fic, I promise. I made a discord server to log my notes for the series and interact with anyone interested. Because I'm cripplingly lonely. So if that interests you, here's the link: https://discord.gg/UgkuRdX