Chapter Text
“Now,” Buccellati says, setting his knife and fork down on his empty plate. “We have one last thing to discuss before I let you go.”
They all look at him expectantly, except Narancia who suddenly becomes very interested in the fabric of the tablecloth. Abbacchio frowns - more than he usually does - while Fugo sits back in his chair, waiting. Buccellati seems bothered, his usually perfectly smooth features tight with - is that irritation? Fugo wonders.
Buccellati exhales slowly.
“Narancia,” he starts in a gentle voice, “this is the third time you get kicked out of someone’s house already.”
“I know, Buccellati,” Narancia replies, not looking up at him.
From the other side of the table, Abbacchio sniggers into his glass of wine.
“The thing is, I am running out of friends with a spare room that are willing to take you in,” Buccellati continues, still as patient as ever.
“I know,” Narancia repeats.
“I don’t want to have to threaten people to make sure you have a bed to sleep in.”
“The prospect of Narancia staying at their house is already a threat in itself,” Abbacchio declares, almost amused.
Buccellati turns to him with a look that clearly says Enough with you! and Abbacchio goes back to sipping his wine in silence.
“It would be much easier if you just stayed with me, you know,” Buccellati continues, turning his attention back to Narancia.
“I can’t do that, Buccellati,” Narancia shakes his head. “You’ve already done so much for me, I just can’t accept that.”
“I already told you I have a whole house, with a spare room,” Buccellati insists.
“I know that, but…” Narancia shifts uneasily on his chair. “I don’t want you to kick me out of your house. You’ll be fed up with me like the rest of them, but then I won’t have anywhere to go and nothing to do. I can’t!”
“I already told you,” Buccellati says, his tone rising ever so slightly, “I don’t intend to kick you out.”
“I can’t take that risk, you know that,” Narancia argues. “I don’t have a plan B, you’re like the last person I want to piss off to the point of being thrown out.”
“Why don’t you just rent a room somewhere in town like the rest of us, then?” Mista asks. “You could afford that now.”
“Yes, you could even have a decent flat,” Buccellati adds. “I only have a few phone-calls to make.”
“But I can’t live all by myself!” Narancia exclaims. “Honestly, it makes me mad depressed. I’m a real mess and I get lonely, I don’t want to be alone again, Buccellati!”
Buccellati sighs loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose and you can practically see the rest of his patience and composure leaving his body.
As much as Fugo hates to admit it, he still feels sympathy for Narancia considering the poor boy hasn’t had a place to call home in ages. And Fugo knows all too well what it feels like to be alone and rejected.
“Why doesn’t Narancia stay with one of us, then?” he asks suddenly.
“Do you volunteer?” Abbacchio sneers. “Because there’s no way I’m taking him in.”
“Well that would be very helpful of you, Abbacchio,” Buccellati growls. “Considering you’re the only one of them who’s got at least a spare couch.”
Abbacchio sets down his glass calmly and looks straight into Buccellati’s eyes.
“With all due respect, Buccellati, there is no fucking way.”
“Guys, c’mon,” Mista interrupts. “Stop talking about the poor guy as if he wasn’t sitting right there!”
“Eh, it’s alright,” Narancia waves him off.
“I’m sorry buddy,” Mista continues, “I’d offer you to stay with me, but there’s really barely enough space for my own ass in my room.”
Narancia just shrugs, picking at a thread on the tablecloth and looking utterly miserable. Fugo can tell just by looking at him that he doesn’t want to bother anyone, and especially he doesn’t want to be a problem for Buccellati to solve. It makes Fugo’s chest tighten for some reason, the way Narancia sits there in silence like a troublesome kid who’s being scolded by his parents for not behaving the way he’s expected to.
“I don’t mind sharing my flat with him,” Fugo declares before he even realises what he is doing.
The rest of them all turn to him at the same time, their expressions showing different degrees of astonishment.
“So you are volunteering,” Abbacchio smirks.
“But don’t you live in a one-bedroom flat as well?” Mista asks.
“Maybe Abbacchio could lend you his couch,” Buccellati suggests.
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s OK, I can sleep on the floor!” Narancia adds with surprising eagerness.
Fugo raises his hands in an attempt to make everybody calm down.
“Alright, guys, I know my place isn’t that spacious but I’m sure we’ll manage. Besides, it’s only temporary until we come up with a better solution, right Narancia?”
Narancia raises his big puppy eyes at him and nods enthusiastically.
“Yes, absolutely!”
“Fugo, are you sure about that?” Buccellati asks.
“Yeah, why not? And it’ll be easier if I have to teach him maths and stuff, we could do it at home instead of always meeting here.”
“Let’s be clear,” Buccellati insists, “if you agree to this, I don’t want you to show up at my door in a week complaining about Narancia and telling me you don’t want him there anymore, understood?”
Fugo glances at Narancia, and with the way the idiot looks at him he knows there’s no way he will not take him home now.
“Well, if nobody else is willing to do it,” Fugo says with a pointed glare at Abbacchio – who only glares right back – “I’ll take him in. We’ll be fine.”
With another sigh, Buccellati turns back to Narancia.
“What do you think?”
“Yeah, I’ll go with Fugo!” Narancia beams. “I promise I’ll behave, this time.”
“You better,” Buccellati says, “because I don’t want Fugo to lose his temper with you.”
“I won’t,” Fugo assures him.
Buccellati looks at him with this solemn expression he puts on every time he means serious business, and Fugo nods once.
“Alright then,” Buccellati sets his palms on the table and stands up abruptly. “If you both agree, then off with you!”
They leave the restaurant at once and head in different directions after saying their goodbyes, Narancia following closely in Fugo’s footsteps.
*
“Right, here we are,” Fugo announces as he turns the key to his door.
He lets Narancia walk in first and closes the door behind them.
“Like Mista said, it’s not a palace,” he adds, turning the light on. “But it should be fine considering we’ll spend most of the time outside anyway.”
Narancia gingerly paces the small living room, furnished with a wooden table, a chair and a stool with a few clothes scattered here and there. Near the window stands a solitary bookshelf filled with notebooks and all sorts of papers. In the opposite corner, the kitchen is barely visible under a pile of unwashed dishes.
Fugo shows him the bathroom, and Narancia lets out a shriek when he sees the bathtub – a real fucking bathtub!
He has to promise Narancia he’ll let him have a bath first thing this evening.
“And this will be our room,” Fugo says as he steps inside the bedroom.
His bed is pretty large for one person, Fugo thinks, but maybe not so large for two. In every direction, piles of books seem to have grown from the wooden floor, forming unsteady towers of various sizes. Narancia zigzags between them, careful not to make anything fall down.
“Sorry for the mess,” Fugo adds with a vague gesture. “I’ll clean it up tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind sharing the bed, since Abbacchio won’t even lend us a couch.”
“Doesn’t matter, I can sleep on the floor!” Narancia says again.
“No you can’t, there are books on the floor.”
“I’ll sleep in the bathtub, then!”
“Narancia, nobody’s going to sleep in the bathtub or on the floor,” Fugo says with all the patience he is capable of right now. “I’ve got a bed, and we can both fit in that bed. Unless you’re absolutely uncomfortable with the idea, in which case I don’t know why you agreed to come.”
Narancia frowns and looks away, the way he usually does when Fugo calls him an idiot for not understanding a lesson.
“I’m not uncomfortable,” he replies, looking at his feet. “It’s just, I don’t want to bother you too much, that’s all.”
“It won’t bother me,” Fugo says in a softer tone, remembering his promise to not lose his temper.
“You sure?”
“Narancia,” Fugo starts with a deep sigh, “I didn’t get you out of the streets only to have you sleeping on my floor, or in the bathtub. If I say I’ll share my home with you, you get to sleep in a proper bed. Alright?”
Narancia then looks at him like he might just start crying, and Fugo didn’t expect his throat to tighten the way it does at the sight of him.
“Thanks, Fugo!” Narancia says as he suddenly embraces him. “Thanks for doing all this for me.”
Fugo just pats his back awkwardly, surprised by the outburst of affection. Narancia’s body is warm against his own, smelling faintly of gasoline, and his arms are surprisingly strong for someone who looks so skinny. Fugo feels his face warming up and decides to pull away before the idiot turns him into a complete softie.
“So, you wanted a bath?” he asks with a smile.
“Yes! Can I?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
*
Fugo ends up regretting his promise when, after an hour of mindlessly singing and scrubbing his body, Narancia still doesn’t show any intention of leaving the bathroom. When the clock on the pile of books that serves as a bedside table strikes 11.30, Fugo loses it and starts banging on the door.
“I hope the reason you’re not out of here yet is because you drowned!” he growls.
“Has it been very long?” Narancia asks in a singsong voice.
“It’s been over an hour, dude, get out!”
“But I haven’t had a bath in ages, Fugo! It feels so good!”
Fugo takes a deep breath in. Alright. Narancia has been transferred from one shady mafia house to another for months like an unwanted foster kid, he can have an hour long bath if that makes him feel better. Fugo sighs, suddenly feeling very tired.
“Right, you can have a bath every week if you want, but I’d like to shower as well and go to sleep, if you don’t mind.”
There is a pause during which Fugo addresses a silent prayer for Narancia to finally get out before they run out of hot water.
“Why don’t you join me in the bath?”
Fugo blinks once. Twice. Did he hear that right?
“What?”
“It’s still warm, and your bathtub is huge, I bet there’s room for two!” Narancia insists.
Another pause ensues because Fugo finds himself at a loss for words. This cannot be serious.
“C’mon, there’s bubbles and everything, I won’t look at your-”
“Narancia, you’ve got ten minutes before I drag you out myself, is that clear?” Fugo manages to answer.
“Aw, don’t threaten me with a good time, Pannacotta...”
“Five minutes.”
“Alright, alright! I’m getting out, don’t be upset!”
*
Fortunately for both of them, Narancia eventually exits the bathroom in due time, giving Fugo a chance to let the hot water wash over his sore body. He closes his eyes and relishes this moment of peace and quiet.
He doesn’t make it last for too long, eager to finally go to bed. As he glances at his pale face in the mirror, Fugo realises he desperately needs a good night’s sleep.
When he enters the bedroom, he finds Narancia in an oversized Aerosmith t-shirt and dark boxers, peering at the piles of books on the left side of the bed, his wet hair dripping water on the floor. He looks up at Fugo with a smile, grabbing a copy of Paradise Lost on the nearest pile.
“Have you read all these? How many books do you even have?” he asks.
“About two hundred, I think. And I haven’t read those over there” Fugo replies, pointing at a pile in a corner of the room.
“Wow, that’s more books than I’ll ever read in my entire life,” Narancia whistles, impressed.
Fugo shrugs.
“I had many more at my parents’ house. Why did you not dry your hair?”
“Uh?”
“Your hair’s still wet. I don’t want you soaking my pillows.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“I’ll get you a towel,” Fugo says, exiting the room before Narancia can protest.
To his surprise, Narancia is sitting on the bed when he comes back, observing the illustrations of Paradise Lost with deep interest.
“Have you read this one?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“What’s it about?”
Fugo lets out a sigh, but the corners of his mouth still curl into a soft smile. Since Narancia doesn’t seem interested in drying his hair, Fugo sits right behind him and envelops them in the towel. For a split second, Narancia’s shoulders tense, but it’s gone as fast as it came and his attention returns to the pages of the book.
“It’s a long, epic poem about the fall of Satan from Heaven,” Fugo replies as his hands gently rub Narancia’s temples.
Narancia hums thoughtfully.
“It sounds pretty cool. Will you read it to me?”
“I don’t think you’ll like it, it’s full of ancient words and weird phrases.”
“Oh, right.”
Narancia closes the book at the same moment he closes his eyes, and leans back into Fugo’s touch.
“What’s your favourite book, then?” he asks.
Fugo brushes Narancia’s fringe out of his eyes, thinking. His fingers ruffle Narancia’s slick black hair, lingering just a little on the tanned skin of his exposed neck. He smells of grapefruit shampoo and freshly washed clothes. Did he do his laundry at Buccellati’s place? And why the hell are his eyelashes so damn long?
“Fugo?” Narancia asks after a while.
“Hum? Oh, uh, I don’t know,” Fugo stammers.
Narancia smirks. He opens one eye to look at him.
“You seem distracted.”
“I’m not distracted. I have several favourite books, some of which you will have to read and write a commentary about, since you’re suddenly interested in literature.”
Narancia makes a face, but doesn’t argue. He closes his eyes again.
“Your hands are really soft, you know.”
“Uh? Are they?” Fugo feels his face warming up again and wonders if this boy ever keeps his mouth shut for more than ten seconds straight.
“Well, it’s not exactly your hands, but your touch. It’s delicate.”
“Delicate?”
“Yeah, is that not the right word? When it’s soft and...gentle?”
“Hum, yes I suppose that’s the right word,” Fugo swallows with difficulty.
“It feels nice.”
“Thanks. I mean, good…”
Narancia laughs and Fugo clears his throat, roughly rubbing the towel on Narancia’s head for good measure.
“Right, time to sleep now,” he declares before any other unwanted thought might form in his already tired brain.
Narancia gives him a curious look, but for once he doesn’t argue.
They manage to fit in Fugo’s bed without too much trouble, Narancia being shorter than him, and they quickly pass out from exhaustion.