Chapter Text
The smiles are always the same. Cruel with the lingering laughs.
They follow him. Everywhere he goes. Taking the faces of many people. Older. Younger. Various backgrounds. The relations always differ. Yet, the feeling remains the same. His chest always aches. Breathing feels tight. There’s a prominent burn in his eyes that grows hard to control. Five to ten, to fifteen-years-old. He never grew out of it. Even at sixteen.
It only morphs.
Legs shake.
They can barely hold his weight. A heavy body that falls forward to collapse into the blankets. Laid face down. The springs of the bed lift him with a bounce. A motion that makes his stomach clench when it feels as if it’s floating through the churning flip.
His eyes burn. He doesn’t cry. Told himself that he would stop. A rule on repeat as he forced a smile. All too wide, trying to match the laughs. He plays the part they want. It’s easier that way. Being the butt of the joke.
There are muffled voices trailing through the hall. The light is kept off, and the floorboards don’t creak with a step. Talking about him, he knows it, but they don’t make to follow after him. Glued in place because they know how he is. It was never in the cards for him to fit in. No matter how hard he tries.
Screwing his eyes shut, he smashes the pillow over his head. Holding on tight despite how his nose aches from the forceful press into the mattress. The tightness in his chest feels like a line being pulled further to its limit.
He holds on until he goes light–headed.
Then his body turns to curl uselessly into itself. A quiet noise escaping his lips before he bites down hard on his tongue. Feeling a metallic taste beginning to coat his mouth from repetitive harmful motion. When there’s a certain word on the tip of his tongue. He has to keep smiling. Always. The way they are used to him being.
His brain feels like it’s crawling. Being pulled apart piece by piece. He knows the feeling well. Memories that are trying to claw their way to the surface past every barrier he has put in place. Ignorant to the way he shoves it all back on purpose. He…He can’t. He can’t think of them. Won’t allow himself too.
It’s hard to let go.
Anyone who cared would have told him that, but this boy in particular will always be on his own. From the moment his mother passed. It won’t change. He’s done his best to grow to accept that. Plastered on a loud laugh. A stupid joke. It will keep the deeper attention away. That way, the eyes on him that have decided to put up with him won’t change.
He has to be strong.
He’s a man, after all. It’s what they all have to be. Isn’t it?
It’s clear that he’s not aware.
The man who comes to stand within the doorframe realizes that the moment thunderous feet and their steps have come to a skidded stop. Sudden, with enough force that his knees nearly buckled beneath his weight. There’s a stutter in his chest, despite holding the view of himself being a rather stoic man.
His breath comes out as shallow.
“Narancia.”
Abbacchio clears his throat. Trying hard to rid the natural shakiness in it. It’s a sound that is not audible over the rapid beat of his heart. A painful hit against the bone of his chest as his mouth opens and closes.
“Fuck.” Is the only general conclusion he can give when nothing else would do it right.
The screams had been loud. Piercing through the tight space shared by five men. A sound of a struggle traveling up the stairs that had led down to two bodies amongst scattered broken glass shards of a once bright blue vase. One stands while the other has been forced to kneel. Nails digging into the arm wrapped around him. The grip doesn’t waver. Nor does the heavy breathing that drifts around the room.
“Put the knife down.”
In the flickering light of a tipped over lamp; Narancia Ghirga stands there. Still. Pressing a switchblade against the new recruit’s neck. Guido Mista. Barely 17–years–old, only six months older than Narancia. He stares at Abbacchio with wild, wide eyes. Differing from the cold purple positioned just over his shoulder. Dull, and seeing through him.
Rain patters against the window. There’s a thin trail of blood that already runs from the light cut with the further pressure placed on the weapon. A shadow of sluggish movements contrasting with the glint of the metal in the disjointed dim lamplight fallen on its side. The shade is still rolling across the hardwood. There’s a warm glow against their skin. Not quite matching the moment.
Mista doesn’t move an inch.
With slow steps, Abbacchio enters the living room fully. Wrong call.
There’s a strangled noise that leaves Mista. Forced to bear his neck further with the shift of the knife as Narancia flinches at the movement. Yet, there’s a waver. It’s quick. Passes by within a blink. Abbacchio just has to play this carefully.
“Get him the hell off of me!” If only Mista wasn’t beginning to panic. His nails dig harsher into Narancia’s arm, a weak sound leaving the other before he tightens his own grip and the knife moves an inch. It makes the older one roll his eyes. The idiot.
“Shut up.” He barks out, a sharp motion to command him to stop moving. The teen should know that struggling only worsens it.
He comes closer. Watching the flicker in the younger boy’s face. Timed with the flicker of the lamp. A blink that is lost in its shadows, but there’s a tiny shift in features. It’s all that Abbacchio needs. He has to wait. Nearly snorts when Mista gawks when he stops moving. Pausing with his hands stretched out. Palms showing.
“Do something!” His voice rose in pitch.
“What did I just say?” Abbacchio keeps his purposefully lowered. Glaring, he doesn’t move any further.
It’s the low tone that makes Narancia twitch. His rigid body slackens. As does the foggy cloud in his eyes that dissipates. Like a puppet cut from its string, or a machine being powered off. Only then does Abbacchio move. Reaching out to grip the thin wrist. The knife is easy to slip from there. Despite the fingers trying to tighten. He only presses on the pressure point to block that motion.
Narancia drops Mista, backing away. Eyes not watching him fall forward to hit the floor.
There’s a brief flash of lightning. A crackle outside the darkened windows that bear the brunt of scraping tree branches. The rolling thunder of a storm passing makes up for the room’s deafening silence. They can pay it no mind when Abbacchio’s gaze doesn’t stray from Narancia. His face is calculating. Like he’s a puzzle.
Yet, the violence isn’t surprising.
He’s born witness to many fights. Ranging from shouts to growing physical. The tactics of tonight are familiar. Through that, he was forced to learn when fights between the boy in front of him and Fugo would go too far. A position that he scorns. He’s not someone to look up to. Hates that they’ve begun to.
“What the hell was that?” He demands. Furthering the notion as the one left in control. Someone has to be.
The dazed expression fades. Narancia takes a step back. For a brief moment, something vulnerable passes him by. Features that quickly contort with anger that takes control.
“Non sono una prostituta.” His voice comes out cold. A heave falling just short of a seethe.
Abbacchio blinks. Taken aback. His eyebrows scrunch as his mouth opens. Yet, before he can form the words, Narancia’s pushing past him. His bedroom door down the hall slams shut. He can hear the kicks being delivered to the frame. Only then does the house fall silent.
It’s only the three of them home. What a sight this was to wake up to.
Mista pushes himself up. Still breathing rather heavily. Noisy gasps of adrenaline. Abbacchio doesn’t give him a chance to recover when he pulls him up by the ear. Not flinching when Mista cries out at the sharp tug.
“What the fuck?!” The teenager demands, pushing the older’s hands away and stumbling back.
“Be lucky that your stupid hat covered your hair. That was my first impulse.” He grits out between clenched teeth. “What the hell did you say to him?”
He watches how Mista averts his gaze. Procrastinating by rubbing at his ear. There’s a beat. Abbacchio feels his hands clench. The switchblade remains in his grasp. Mista’s eyes darted towards it. Biting the inside of his cheek. Time ticks, and he knows that Abbacchio isn’t the most patient of men.
“It was a joke!” He matches Abbacchio’s glare. It’s weak. “I didn’t know he would react like a psycho!”
Abbacchio steps forward. “What did you say to him?” He repeats slowly. Like he’s dull. Voice calm in a way that makes Mista pale. The straightened posture with a puffed out chest doesn’t help when Abbacchio stands over him. Only a few inches taller, if that, yet it truly doesn’t feel that way.
It’s what makes him break with a twisted scowl.
“He…He was showing off this new outfit that he got, and I– You know how weird his clothing is! I just joked that he looked like a prostitute, and he went insane!”
Abbacchio never knew it was possible to be that obtuse. Yet, here he is. Listening to this explanation, feeling the vein of his forehead bulge, and contemplating some desperate course to himself at how idiotic this all is. The headache is already palpable.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” He huffs. Stepping back only to collapse in his armchair behind him. Reaching to run a rough hand through sleep–tangled hair. He tosses the knife onto the coffee table. Listening to the heavy thump against the wood. “At this point, I don’t even think that you’re trying to be their friend with half the shit that comes from your mouth.”
Half the shit that he says with no ounce of shame.
Now, however, Mista grimaces.
He’s the newest member. Only for about two months. Headstrong, just like the others, and testing his patience. Abbacchio watches the way it clashes. God, how it clashes. He never knows when to stop. It has consequences.
Fugo has been giving him the silent treatment after one too many arguments when Mista seemingly enjoys setting him off. Saying something purposefully idiotic, and smirking at the tint of red crossing the albino’s face. Narancia was already wary for that reason. Staring at Mista with blank eyes, and keeping himself closed off. When Abbacchio looked deeper, there was something else in them. Something he couldn’t figure out.
As through it, Narancia was still trying. He was including Mista, setting out to get to know him. It all comes to an end tonight. Anyone could see that. Even if they were blind.
Prostitute. It makes him snort lightly. Heard the ribbing himself when it came to his own clothing and heavy makeup choices. His smirk falls, Narancia’s easy to set off. Always has been, but this…
“I was joking.” Mista says in a quiet defense. Uncharacteristically quiet. Abbacchio stares at him, rolling his eyes.
He doesn’t mind him. Surprisingly so. He knew of that excitable energy, paired with the cocky overconfidence from their first meeting alone. Had dreaded it when he had assumed him as just another Narancia. Like that was something he needed. Not. However, Mista could read a room in a way, when it came to him in particular. He was quieter to match Abbacchio.
That notion failed tonight. He sighs.
“Obviously, you struck a nerve.” He leans back into the chair, feeling his lower back pop as his legs stretch out.
That’s all he can say.
“I’m trying.”
There’s that sincerity mixed with vulnerability. A lower of the boisterous act he puts on.
Then try harder, Leone wants to say, but instead he forcibly bites his tongue. Finding the venom rather hard to suppress. It feels like choking. Why? His eyes turn to Mista’s neck. Seeing the cut in the dim lighting. Faint and small. It will heal quickly. Barely anything. He stands. Grabbing for the switchblade before stalking away. The robe swishes at the turn around the corner.
He doesn’t knock as the door flies open.
Narancia lies on his bed. Flat on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling. He sees what Mista did. A black leather halter top. Tight against his torso, and revealing. The same can be said for the black leggings. Tight, but with a bold colour pattern of neon orange and purple. Sparse pink joining. Looking like pieces of confetti scattering across the fabric. Akin to the carpet of an 1980s rollerskate rink. Abbacchio chokes back a laugh. It’s just…different from what he has ever seen from him before when Narancia usually dresses like an 1800s newsboy. It catches him off–guard.
Narancia stirs slightly at the puff that comes from the man.
“Mista was joking.” The boy doesn’t look at him. “He meant nothing by it.”
Silence. Abbacchio shrugs.
“His sense of humor is just weird.” He’s trying to be your friend, he wants to add. He doesn’t. Falls silent just as Narancia.
There’s nothing. He rolls his eyes with the wonder of why he even bears this anymore attention when it’s simply ridiculous, and he's tired. Mista and Narancia are grown enough to deal with this on their own, between one another. Yet, he stands there trying. Inserting himself into something that doesn’t need him.
Perhaps that’s what gave him the burst of anger.
“You’re too damn sensitive, Narancia.”
The air goes stiff. At least, stiffer than it was.
Narancia remains still. Continuing to not look at him, but he doesn’t need to. The heartbreak is visible. He has to watch the way his face crumples in on itself. Proving his point, yet he doesn’t find that cruel feeling of satisfaction he would.
“Shit.” He huffs.
The Adam’s apple bobs.
“Get out.” Comes the simple request in the tiny voice.
Abbacchio remains standing for a second. Fine. He doesn’t put up a fight, tossing the switchblade to the ground. He doesn’t care.
Narancia listens to the door close. His lip wobbles with the sound before he bites down harshly in order to get it to stop. He turns to his side. Curling in on himself. The leather pulls at his skin with the movement. He shifts in the bed. Never been one to sit still for long.
The mirror he comes to stand in front of feels off. A reflection that feels fake. His nose scrunches at the sight. He’d been excited. Coming from the shop. Letting the bag sit. Finally, finding the time to pull on the long awaited clothing. Show it off. Everything that feels like a checklist to think about. The feeling died fast, and the leather that adorns him feels weighted as the straps suffocate him; the leggings joining the sensation, and the bold colours feel as if they’re burning his eyes.
He just wanted to experiment.
Narancia tugs the shirt off. A struggle as it clings to his skin. He throws it to the ground. Stomping on it for good measure with a socked foot that eventually moves to kick it beneath his bed. Sensitive. His jaw clenches. He smooths it in an instance. A face going blank. It could never stay like that.
“Fottuti stronzi,” He mutters to himself, snatching a discarded shirt from amongst the piles of clutter to pull over his head.
He wanted something new. Felt like he could have it. It was stupid. He just…
He yanks the leggings off, stumbling back as they tangle with his legs. Falling back into the bed, he kicks them off. Sending the fabric through the air to fall amongst another pile. He’s back to square one. Staring straight up at the ceiling. This time laid sideways in the bed, and his legs dangled over the edge.
He had wanted something new. Started by Narancia joining Abbacchio on what should have been a quick trip to the store. That was weeks ago, but it had led to Narancia standing bored in a clothing store. He remembers the mental thought of knowing why Fugo never volunteered to join the man; yet he fell for it every time. Abbacchio doesn’t know how he can be that dense either. He tends to just leave him by the entrance and goes about his own way. Narancia could have walked home at any time.
Instead, he wandered between aisles. Fingertips running over interesting fabric. Remembers thinking the music playing over the speakers was shit when he saw it.
An outfit clearly meant for a woman, he knew that, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. Taking in each and every detail.
Lost in thought, he didn't hear the steps.
Before you whine more, I’m ready to go, the man had said, and likewise Narancia didn’t hear the voice. He didn’t move. It passed him by. Eyes pinned forward.
Abbacchio had paused beside him. Shopping bag in hand and following his gaze. You want that? He pointed.
Three words pulled him from his mind. A flat tone that made it not a joke, but a serious question. Giving a harsh blink, he shook his head before he even allowed the words to sink in. Finding himself caught, he was quick to brush it off.
No. I’m not a girl, he spoke fast, or a queer.
He felt small underneath the bright lights. Yet, he forced a smile and a nonchalant attitude. He expected a chuckle, maybe even a nod of approval. Instead, he got a firm smack to the back of his head that made a loud sound just as his unfavorable yelp. Heads turned.
Don’t use that word, Abbacchio’s growl was too low for them to hear. He stormed off without a further glance, telling an observer to fuck off as he passed. Eyes darting at once. Narancia still felt them. He looks at the mannequin once more. A white blank face doesn’t shake off the feeling.
Narancia jogged to keep up with him. The skirt didn’t leave his mind. Even as he went back. Even as he picked something else he felt like could blend.
He should have known better. It was drilled through his head enough. He’ll let the clothes rot beneath the bed.
Fugo sighs, tugging off his tie as he falls against the bed that’s not his own. Watching how Narancia’s body lifts twitches slightly with the bounce. His eyes are pinned to the Gameboy as he sticks his tongue out in concentration. Or frustration. Fugo stares, not quite ready to move back to his own room for the night. It’s weird to find Narancia’s presence less overstimulating and even comforting in certain moments when he relaxes from the day with this bone deep exhaustion the mafia is expected to bring.
Narancia leans back, coming to lie next to him. Head hovering slightly, and Fugo shuffles closer, letting him rest it on his shoulder. Narancia turns to lie on his side. Facing Fugo. The younger of which grunts at the further weight on top of him and the Gameboy coming to rest on his chest, but he doesn’t move away, even wrapping an arm around the older’s shoulder to steady him. His eyes slip shut.
The way it tends to go with them. As if all of their fights had meant nothing.
It’s tempting to fall asleep like this. Most nights he would. Especially when he has finally returned from a mission that kept him overnight for multiple days. He’s exhausted. Bucciarati was just the same. As he walked by the kitchen, he stole a glance at the voices emitting. Pausing slightly at the sight of Bucciarati being held close in Abbacchio’s arms. His tired murmurs were indistinguishable as Abbacchio pulled his hair from the braid, reaching for the golden clips. It still manages to confuse him to see them this way.
But Bucciarati has been smiling more. That’s all Fugo needs to keep going.
He thought sleep would come easily, but there’s a nagging pull in his mind. Narancia doesn’t make a sound beside him.
“Have you eaten today?” He asks quietly. His mind won.
Narancia remains quiet. The only reason is his focus is pinned on the game, and Fugo rips the device out of his hands. Any other time Fugo can’t get him to shut up for the life of him. Always a headache.
“Hey!” Case in point, the boy shrieks.
“Answer.” He slams it on the bedside desk, listening to the tiny noise emitting from the speaker as the character dies.
Narancia stares at him with a furious blaze that doesn’t hold for long when he looks away. Knowing full well he’s pressed into a corner. He groans. It’s not fair.
“No.” He says simply in a bitter grumble that nearly makes Fugo’s face go red with rage, but he suppresses it down when it will do no good. It’s more difficult than he makes it known.
It’s simply common knowledge within this team that Narancia struggles with eating. Severely so. He tries to hide it, and in the beginning he was getting away with it, but Bucciarati is perceptive. Fugo too. It hadn’t taken long to notice the ability to skip entire meals throughout the day without so much as a blink from the boy. He only came to the team dinners without even a snack throughout the day.
He’s thin. With the hand resting on the mid–section of his back, Fugo is more than aware of how bony his spine feels against his palms. Can only imagine the ribs.
“Why not?” He grits out with force.
He’s trying to help, even if Narancia doesn’t see it that way; viewing him as a nagging bother instead, but it’s only because he cares. So much more than he can properly show. First friends tend to have that effect on one.
There’s a mumble. Before Narancia sighs.
“I forgot.” He responds the way he always does. Sometimes it’s the truth. Other times, it’s one big fib that Fugo can see through easily because Narancia makes it so. It only furthers to make him angrier until it all dissolves into an explosive fight. He gives Narancia a look. There’s a shrug. “Just…Mista and I got into a fight, and then Abba piled on, and both were being assholes, and–...I just haven’t been wanting to leave my room.” He admits, and Fugo knows it’s the truth. Some of it.
He nods silently. “Doesn’t mean shit when you still have to eat.”
Narancia doesn’t respond. His eyes fall away slightly.
Fugo eases him off of him, sliding from the bed and making his way towards the closet. Narancia shuffles to sit up against the headboard. Just watching.
Fugo gets a different version of Narancia, he believes. The rest of the team sees a boisterous ball of never–ending annoyance. One who can’t leave well enough alone through the expanse of energy coursing through him. He gets that version too, practically doubled from comfortability, but there’s someone else in the quiet moments such as this. Where it’s only the two of them.
Narancia always looks tired in those moments. Haunted. He doesn’t like thinking about it.
The lockbox sits deep in the closet. Hidden beneath clothes that he pushes to the side. Narancia says nothing. Sits in the creeping dread as Fugo flips open the lid. Rummaging through the hidden food he would snatch from the kitchen. His stomach shifts at seeing it all. All nonperishables. Long–lasting, and easy for travel. Fugo simply takes a granola bar.
The fight for survival he once knew clings. Habits formed stick with it as new ones make themselves known. It’s a feeling he can’t shake.
Bucciarati got him the lockbox. He said nothing about it. Just placed it in Narancia’s closet when he was out on a mission. Narancia knows he must have seen the backpack full of clothes and food. Thread–barren, and still waiting for use. A thick wad of cash from each paycheck stuffed between shirts.
Fugo tosses him the pack. Staring him down until Narancia unwraps the wrapper and takes a bite with the roll of his eyes. He’s always been neurotic with this.
He huffs at the approving nod. Overbearing. Still, he shifts all the same when Fugo sits back beside him. Chewing slowly, Narancia turns to look at him. Still dressed in the revealing top of the cut suit. His hair goes past his shoulder. Not as long as Abbacchio’s, but longer than Bucciarati’s. He notes that. Alongside that sitting this close, he can smell the still lingering traces of perfume. His face scrunches.
Fugo turns towards him. Irritation is clear from the burn of the stare, but no words are used. “What?” He asks.
Narancia shrugs. “Can you cut my hair?”
The request makes Fugo blink. “Why?”
“It’s getting too long.” Just beginning to brush against his shoulders. The messy strands tickle his cheeks.
Fugo stares at him. You were wanting to grow it out, is on the tip of his tongue, but he keeps that solely as a thought to himself. “Sure.” He says. Despite it being late and he’s exhausted.
The rest of the house is asleep as they set up in the bathroom. Fugo dragged the kitchen chair in. The mirror lights cast a warm glow down on top of them. Neither says anything. There’s only a quiet snip of scissors.
He’s making that face, Fugo notes from one glance. The one he doesn’t like thinking about. It comes as dull eyes staring straight forward at his reflection. Never straying. The hair falls. Neither looks at the mess below them.
“What was the fight about?” Fugo can’t hold it back any longer. A swirling thought that ate at him in just a short amount of time, and it burst out.
Narancia says nothing. Keeps his eyes pointed forward. Fugo waits for nothing that will come. Slowly continuing as the silence grows. He hates it.
The older one expects the night to end just like that. Going back towards his own room as the scissors are put up. The door creaks shut behind him, and he believes that’s it. He brushes the empty wrapper of the granola bar off his bed. Ignoring the weight in his stomach.
Then, it opens again.
Fugo comes back dressed in his nightclothes. He doesn’t need to ask, and Narancia doesn’t need to question. They lay side by side. Listening to the continuous pour of the rain. The wind has picked up.
Narancia doesn’t turn his head, despite feeling the stare on him. He believes he can hear his thoughts. Every unsaid question.
With the sound of rolling thunder, eyelids manage to shut.
One pair squeezes tight together. Static swirling behind. A body grows to shift and twitch. The rustle against the bedsheets.
“Mama!”
Comes the shriek in the night. The body sits up straight. A faint whoosh flies past his ears at the sudden rise. Fast–paced, it makes his head spin. Dizzy, and his chest is tight. He can’t breathe. The bed is creaking with how hard his body shakes. He blinks.
“Nara?”
He jumps, having forgotten Fugo’s presence. The younger boy blinked awake blurrily. His eyebrows knotted in concern as his face pinched together. More questions grow.
“You alright?” He can't refrain from asking one of them.
Narancia breathes shakily. “Mama…” He whispers again to himself as the vision begins to settle. His bedroom. The townhouse. He tries to take a full breath.
Fugo’s eyes soften. “Another nightmare?”
Narancia stares at the wall. He doesn’t remember the dream, but it doesn’t still the way his face crumples in on itself. His knees pull to his chest. Sniffling in the dark, quiet room.
There’s so much that he wants to say. So much that it burns. Eats him alive. He just wants…
A tear slips. It’s mortifying. He wipes it away. Fast. It dries as if it was never there.
Fugo sighs quietly. “Just…whenever you’re ready…you know that I’m here, right?”
There’s no response. He doesn’t expect one. Narancia has shut down. He lies back down. Let the growing sun rise behind them. Closing his eyes as he feels the shine spread across his bed. Closed eyes as if they could erase the moment from Fugo's memory.
Fugo shifts closer. Nudging, until his head is resting in the crook of his neck. Sometimes it feels as if they are the only ones who understand one another. The vulnerability they try to hide comes out between each other. That’s not a bad thought to have, Fugo finds, when he does anything for Narancia, including holding him close. Narancia’s the same as his arms reciprocate, wrapping around him.
Underneath the word ‘weak’ in the dictionary, you’ll find a photo of Narancia Ghirga plastered below. At least, he’s sure of it. Believes that everyone around him can see the same.
Be a man. He tries. What…What is a man? He never quite figured it out. Strong, he supposes, but there’s more. Narancia drew references from his father. Then it changed. He looked at the older boys he surrounded himself with. Followed their orders. Each and every one they gave him.
He thought he knew what made one a man.
After all, he learned that violence was key for survival, and that’s what a man does. He still believes it to be one. It’s essential. Expected. Nearly each day he washes blood from his hands. His own or others. He has to avoid the mirror for the bruises that will form.
His face is kept straight. Through the worst of pain, he keeps it that way, because boys don’t cry. He’s never seen Bucciarati. He’s set to follow in his footsteps.
Narancia wears his split knuckles with pride. The use of Aerosmith is an even greater pride. Both a symbol of a man.
He tried to take references from the gang. Broad ideas of what a gangster would be. The typical toughness that you see through rose–coloured glasses when a certain glamor is created by the movies. In reality, they aren’t what he thought.
The room is silent. Save for the radio that is sat in the windowsill that is playing a quiet opera on low volume. A sway to the curtains passing the device by. The winter day finds itself to be unnaturally kind. An early spring, Bruno supposes.
Narancia sits at the edge of the older man’s bed. Staring. His eyes flickered between the different brushes and containers spread across the wood of the vanity. Watching as Bucciarati dabs a sponge against the back of his hand where the skin coloured liquid sits. The movements are soft as he goes around his face. The liquid disappears, taking the freckles with it and turning them invisible.
He hasn’t said anything about Narancia watching him. Barely a glance when he had crept his way in. He’s used to seeing Narancia’s always lingering shadow out of the corner of his eye. Clingy, right? Narancia feels himself tense.
The man hums lightly along with the song. Going through his routine without a blink.
Narancia doesn’t understand. He watched his mother do the same. His aunt. Grandma. A few cousins. Never his father. Nor his uncle and his sons. Always a woman, never a man, because that’s just the way it is. Never grew to question his father, his grandpa, or the older boys before. He knew they were right.
At least, he thought they were right. They were teaching him what it means to be a man. Did no one tell the man in front of him now the same?
Bucciarati applies the makeup without any further thought. It’s the norm for him. That much is clear from the steady precision of his hands. He looks at peace with each movement. Narancia feels his face scrunch. It’s close to disgust, and he wonders if Bucciarati can see it reflected in the mirror. Just in case, he turns his head. Focusing elsewhere. What makes someone like him turn to this? Someone whom he views as so strong. His hero. Painting himself like he’s a woman.
A buzz breaks him from those venomous thoughts in his mind. He blinks. Sitting straighter. Bucciarati reaches for his phone. The hum changes tone. Straying from the song and turning towards himself. There’s a sigh. A few clicks. Then a tiny chime from the response sent.
“The meeting has been canceled.” He says, placing the phone down and reaching out towards a brush. “Perhaps for the best. Didn’t quite feel like going.” He chuckles, knowing full well he would never have an option to skip.
Narancia doesn’t say anything. Just watches how he drags the brush through the pink powder of one of the containers. Not much. Never a lot. Precise. Narancia zones in on the dust cloud kicked up from the gentle taps Bucciarati does on the side. Ridding any excess.
“You and I could find something to do.” Bucciarati finally turns to him once swiping against his cheekbones. The pink transferred. "It’s been a while since we have done something one–on–one together. There was that movie you were talking about earlier…” That was weeks ago. Why does he remember? “...I assume it’s still playing?” He smiles, already making mental plans. Doesn’t his mind ever rest?
Why can’t Narancia be like him? He pauses. Does he need to be? He questions as the makeup feels burning in his sightline. Is that a fair thought when he’s seen him in action? Choose him as his leader without a thought.
The silence has lingered for too long. He wasn’t aware until Bucciarati tilted his head.
“You’ve been quiet.” His voice drops into something serious. Low, like it’s not just them as the only ones home. The concern is more than heard when the silence is always worrisome for someone such as Narancia. His bright one. His splash of the sun, he likes to mentally refer to him as when he brings a certain colour to their lives. “Share a thought?”
Narancia shuffles against the bed, looking down at the floor.
His brain feels as if it’s crawling.
“Nara.”
He didn't realize his mouth was opening and closing. His fists clenched against the blanket on the bed. Forcibly digging it against the mattress that he feels beneath his nails. He tries to tell himself to hurry and respond. Tell him it’s fine. That the movie sounds great. Begin to ramble to give the man peace of mind, and keep his strength. Because men don’t talk about–
“My old friends…” Slips from his mouth. He freezes. The words keep coming. “There was a boy in the neighborhood.” Older or younger? He doesn’t remember. Was he taller than he? Blonde or dark hair? “He liked the colour pink. Wore makeup, I think.” There was no hiding him. “They cornered him in an alley to beat him.”
The room suddenly feels cold. As if the bitter winter they were experiencing slipped through the front door to settle in their home. When he looks up, Bucciarati is staring at him. His face is blank.
“I see. What did you do?” He asks quietly, his voice not accusing. Open and sincere, the way it always is.
The hole he’s dug himself into feels deep.
“The one I looked at as an older brother–” Why does he keep talking? “I tried to tell him to let it go. He knocked my tooth out.” His head had hit the alleyway wall as he crumpled. He still remembers the kick to his ribs. How breathing burned for weeks.
There’s always a gap in his front teeth when he smiles, Bucciarati has noticed. He never knew the cause. Had assumed it to be from life on the street. He’s correct, but he never did like having to think about Narancia’s past. How surface level it all is, and nothing more because Narancia doesn't give them much. No words. Only a visual of what's left. It makes him frown to have to imagine Narancia being beaten for trying to speak sense. A likewise empathy that is extended towards a boy he has never met. Yet, he can’t be surprised.
“It’s an unfortunate reality.” He says simply, “A cruel reality, but you knew he was wrong. You tried your best to help. That’s the type of person you should be, Narancia.”
What? Narancia feels frustrated when none of it makes sense to him.
“Why do you do it?” He’s staring at the collection. Feeling his face twitch once more.
Bucciarati’s eyes know full well where his sight is, but they don't stray from the boy. “Do I need a reason?”
Yes. He wants to shout. Yet, he keeps silent. Bucciarati waits for a response that won’t come. He doesn’t outwardly react.
It’s sudden when he rises. Narancia walking forward. As if he’s in a daze. He stops short of the vanity, looking at the different palettes and feeling a wave of nostalgia at the sight of them. His hand reaches out before it pulls back as if he’s been burned.
His mouth moves. He…he thinks he tries to call out. Bucciarati’s name forming on his lips.
Help.
It dies out before the first syllable can be said. He can’t say it. The dam had been built for a reason. He can't let it burst now.
Bucciarati watches. Summoning Sticky Fingers, an additional seat is pulled next to him. Hitting the back of Narancia’s knees. Bucciarati motions him to take it.
It’s just some foundation. Nothing more. The touch is gentle as it’s patted into his skin.
Narancia lets his eyes slip shut. Listening as the music crescendos around them. His face softens further when Bucciarati begins to hum once more.
“What do you think?” Time passes. The sponge is placed down. Eyes open to turn to the mirror.
Narancia is silent. He practically looks the same. Only a little lighter when it’s Bucciarati's tone compared to his skin. The blemishes are covered. Smooth and clear. The makeup light weight feeling that he would never know it’s there.
The voices in his mind are loud. Disgust is prevalent.
“Can you take it off?” He asks ever so quietly. Head tilted down to not watch Bucciarati’s expression. There’s a small hum, and he listens to the shuffles as Bucciarati pulls a drawer out. Murmur a small ‘a–ha’ when he finds what he was looking for.
Then, Narancia’s chin is tilted up. Bucciarati drags the makeup wipe down his face without a word. Hesitantly, Narancia lifts his eyes, but there’s not an angered expression on the older. Care–free and light.
Bruno sees his confusion.
“You tried something new, and it didn’t hold interest for you. That’s okay, Nara. I’m not upset.”
“Really?” He murmurs. There’s a nod.
“Promise. Why would I be?”
He doesn’t know how to answer.
“It’s all personal choice. I won’t disparage you for it.” He smiles at him. His palm had moved to cup his cheek slightly before he pulled away. Narancia wanted to lean into it, but he supposes that doesn’t make him strong, does it?
“I don’t think twice about it.” Bucciarati continues in a whisper. “It’s for skin. Never says whose.”
If only that could be so easy to believe. Still, his lips rise. Bucciarati smiles back. Not allowing the strain when he sees the brief glimpse of the long since missing tooth.
“What was the movie again?” He remembers. Of course he does. He just wants to hear Narancia speak. Watching in relief as that carefree cheer comes back as they step out of the townhouse. The sun is warm against their skin.
That night, the insects chirpped lightly just outside the cracked open window.
Closed eyelids flutter.
The hands are everywhere.
Found in the present. Remaining in his dreams. Roaming hands that he blocks out with each blink up at the ceiling. He’s sure there’s pain. There was in the beginning. There should still be…He can’t feel it anymore. The sensations pass him by. All a haze and his head feels as if it’s floating. The wood stain on the ceiling morphs above him. Forming shapes and patterns that he traces with his eyes. He blinks. His face twitches.
It always ends the same. The money sticks together. Grim tied together with the heavy smell of sweat, clotting the room. He’s pulled up by a face he’ll never remember. His clothes are thrown at him. His pants aren’t zipped, and his shirt isn’t buttoned when he’s shoved out of the motel room. Stumbling into the alleyway.
He always shoves the bundle of cash deep into his pocket. Kneeling to tie the ratted strings of his shoelaces. He stares at the peeling soles filled with holes.
It’s second nature motions as he walks down the street, whistling lowly to himself as the moon stretches overhead. He tries to find a place to lie low tonight. Eyelids heavy as sleep tries to call. Sometimes he’ll answer. Other times he has to ignore it.
With dirt–stained hands, he pulls the money from the pocket. Counting through. At least the fucker didn’t leave him short.
Would his mama be proud of him?
The thought makes him freeze in his tracks. Pain rushes back. The lower half of his body feels like lead, and the sharp feeling in his stomach that feels like a heated knife nearly makes his legs buckle. He manages a few short steps. Feeling a bittersweet taste filling his mouth. He collapses. A lithe figure hits the darkened sidewalk as the wind blows around him. He gags. A trail of foamy saliva dripping down that he forcibly coughs up.
The money grows crushed in a hand tightly gripping the stone. His brain feels like it’s crawling. Being pulled apart piece by agonizing piece. He knows the feeling well. The memories that try to claw their way to the surface as retribution for his actions. Despite the way he tries to shove it back. Or the few short ways he’s tried to pray for forgiveness. Unsure of why. He…He can’t. He can’t think of them. Won’t allow himself to.
The vision of the street wavers. He forces himself to stand.
His eyes burn when he blinks awake. Laid in an actual bed. The cotton mattress is warm against his back, but it’s worsened by the way his pajamas are clinging to him. He stares straight–forward. Reminding himself that he’s 16–years–old now. How…How old was he in the dream?
How could he allow himself to be so weak?
The bittersweet taste comes back.
It’s just another night.
It’s sudden when he jerks. A raw noise escaping. It sounds like choking. There’s quiet. Then it returns another jerk. Narancia rolls onto his side. Feeling his body twitch with the motion. With a strangled noise, he tries to push himself up. Only halfway up before the retching reaches its point.
His body shakes violently, and he flinches at the sudden cold, wet feeling. He gags. Feeling the way his jaw aches at the forceful pull. A crack emitting. He tries to breathe through it when another wave hits him. Another wet noise leaving him.
Through it, he can’t hear the door open. The light of the hallway shining in. He’s clutching his stomach.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, Narancia!” A sudden voice cuts through. “It’s like you’re a fucking toddler!”
Narancia shakily lifts his head to see Abbacchio standing in the doorway. A glare on his face, and his arms crossed. Lacking makeup, and Narancia nearly lets out a delirious giggle that that's the first thing he realizes. The man looks disgusted. Reasonable when the boy is covered in his own vomit.
“You couldn’t even attempt to make it to a trash can?” The man continues harping on. The glare turned into a sneer. “This is disgusting–”
No, no, no, this wasn’t meant–
A sob leaves him. Then another. And another. He’s only furthering Abbacchio’s comments, but he can’t stop! The cries are the sound akin to childish wailing. Deep and gut–wrenching torn from a teenager’s chest. It takes Abbacchio back. He’s seen him cry before, but not like this. The few tears he saw slip were always brushed away and hidden. Now, hot tears roll down the boy’s cheek as he howls. The fear and pain ring loud within each intake of breath. His breathing is fast, and he’s making these choking sounds around the thick saliva coating his mouth.
Abbacchio doesn’t know what to do as he remains standing by the doorway. “Uh–”
Oh, how stupid he sounds.
The boy is lurching again, and Abbacchio manages to snap out of it to dive for the trashcan. Placing it beneath his chin just in time. His disgust remains evident. Lips curled together. Narancia doesn’t have to look to see it. He can picture it perfectly. Long since learned the way Abbacchio views him.
Bothersome. An annoyance. Headache. A leech.
Silence falls, and both of them wait for the other. Abbacchio for a type of explanation, expectant while all Narancia is expectant for is another shout aimed his way. He sniffs. Stiffens when the trashcan is slowly lowered. A quiet thump on the ground. Abbacchio remains standing over him.
Then, there’s a quiet chuckle. “Not the best week, huh, kid?” The man asks quietly. Narancia feels further tears prick his swollen, red–rimmed eyes. He still doesn’t look at him. Seemingly, it acts as a type of answer when feet shuffle away. “Let me–”
“I want you.” Narancia forces himself to say. His voice was hoarse. Scratchy, irritated, and painful. It barely holds.
Yet Abbacchio hears it all the same. It makes him pause.
“What?” He questions quietly. Narancia doesn’t respond. He shakes his head. “I can wake Bucciarati.” He seems settled in that decision.
This time, it’s Narancia who shakes his head. His hands ball together into fists as the tears continue to roll.
“Fugo?” He pushes on.
Another step to the door. Another shake of a head.
“I know that he’s probably the last choice, but even Mista would be better–”
“I want you!” Narancia screams. The tears rolled down faster. He hits at the bedsheets. “You, Goddammit!”
Why? Abbacchio has to bite the question back. How is he any better than the rest of the team members he has offered? He stays still. Not moving. Not to the door, but not any closer to Narancia.
“What happened?” He finally settles on asking.
Narancia hiccups. “I had a nightmare.” It’s honest, but no shit.
“Of?”
Eyes stare off. Familiar. Dull purple. This time, they don’t look at him as they did the night he watched him hold Mista at knifepoint. Abbacchio has a feeling of what. One that’s been circling his mind for a while.
“Prostitute,” He says simply. Narancia’s head snaps towards him. “That was the word Mista called you, and it set you off. Why?”
The cold regret washes over Narancia, but the man doesn’t budge. His eyes are piercing. They feel like they crawl over every inch of his body. Analyzing any twitch of his features.
“I just really wanted to eat, Abba.” Underneath those searching eyes, the boy begins to break. The exhaustion is seeping in. His shoulders falling as his body curls tighter into itself. His eyes look so haunted. Abbacchio knows that look. He’s seen it before. In… “On the street, I– It was a way to make money.”
He felt his stomach drop. That can’t be right. Just less than a year ago, Fugo broke down at a similar moment. He didn’t think that–
“How old?” He forces out, replaying every moment. The focus was on Fugo, but he tried to search his mind for where Narancia was in the background. Remembers the way his eyes would meet his. Intense, but hazy, and he never allowed himself to think much of it.
Narancia looks away now. He shrugs. Unwilling to answer because it makes his stomach swirl, and he’s thrown up enough. Abbacchio decides not to push it. He has no right. It was a cruel question to ask. A fucked-up question he'll beat himself down for.
“I’m sorry.” Narancia finally croaks. “I’m so sorry, I’m trying to be–” He sniffs.
Abbacchio purses his lips. His eyes grew softer. He struggles to admit it, but Narancia is admittedly a soft spot of his that he’ll never say out loud. “Trying to be what?” He asks. His tone matches his eyes.
There’s not a response.
“Narancia.” He tries to push.
But the boy only begins to shiver. The state that he is in hits full–force. Abbacchio has to let the unanswered go for now as he looks around, but there’s nothing there in the room that can be used as a suitable rag. With the bathroom being just across the hall, he doesn’t think twice as he makes his way towards the door.
A clammy hand attaches to his wrist. Tight, gripping pressure where the sweat is disgustingly cold and prominent. Abbacchio goes to snatch it away out of instinct, but Narancia pulls harder against him.
“No! Don’t leave!” Narancia’s croaky voice breaks into a sob. His body was shaking so hard.
Abbacchio doesn’t flinch. “I need to get a rag,” Said flat and monotone, that has Narancia flinching.
He’s shaking his head rapidly. Eyes lighting bright with panic as Abbacchio continues to try and move away. His arm trying to shake his hands off. “Please!”
There’s a spark of hurt, but Abbacchio still slips through the hands and out the door. Ignoring the wounded sound that tears from Narancia’s throat as he strides into the bathroom. His heart pounds heavily against his chest. He can feel the way his own hands shake as he pulls open cabinets, pulling a washcloth without a care for the stack of towels that fall from the force. He moves toward the sink. Quick steps as the cloth of the towel darkens, and he adds filling a mini water cup to this strange, late night routine.
Narancia continues to shake even as he enters the room once again. Abbacchio doesn’t pay it any mind as he sits on the clean side of the bed. He taps Narancia’s cheek to get him to turn his head in his direction, gripping his chin to tilt his head over to him, wiping at his face and scoffing to himself over the caring motion. He pulls back.
“Water on the nightstand.” He gestures. Narancia doesn’t move. Merely continues to sniffle. The tears overflowed. Refusing to cease. It makes the older sigh. “Come on, kid–”
“Don’t,” Came the sudden snap. “I know what you’re going to say.”
Abbacchio deflates lightly, but can he be surprised? He knows exactly what he’s talking about. He called him too sensitive before and watched how his heart crumpled right then and there. There’s a harsh swallow, but that’s the thing that Narancia doesn’t want to think of. They see every emotion of his.
“You left me.” Sometimes, he doesn’t help his case.
“Only for a second.”
Narancia’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut. It does nothing to keep the tears at bay. A small sound passing his lips that sounds akin to a whimper.
“Everyone always leaves me.” His lip trembles. “I’m always alone. That’s why I have to be strong.”
There it is. That’s what it all comes down to. Abbacchio tilts his head. “What does strength look like to you?” He decides to ask. Curious to how set this view point must be.
His mouth goes dry as he tries to spin an answer in a throbbing mind. Nothing comes to. He doesn’t know how to word it. He doesn’t know how to make it sound. Narancia feels sick once more. Abbacchio stares down at him before he sighs.
“I’m not looking for that here.” He presses on. The same words that he said to Fugo on a similar night such as this one. Running tears and ragged breaths.
Narancia scoffs. “You are. You always do.” Everyone always does.
If he doesn’t live up, there’s a smile and a laugh. Cruel or pitiful, he doesn't know which is worse.
Abbacchio raises an eyebrow.
“You think I’m stupid.”
“Because you do stupid shit.” He laughs. Barking and loud. Narancia draws further away. “That’s the difference. You lack impulse control, but I wouldn’t say that you’re dull.” The opposite, really. He’s not on the same level as someone such as Fugo, but he’s quick–thinking in an emotional setting. That intelligence is just as important as the intelligence you gain from schooling.
Why have they never told him that? Well, Narancia doesn’t know if he could believe him. “You called me sensitive.”
“I did.” He agrees. “I shouldn’t have. At least…just not in that way.”
“Then in what way–?”
“I’ve cried myself, Narancia. I’ve sought out someone like Bruno. I have the same emotions as you.” His voice is gruff, but it remains that simple. He was wrong. They don’t need to harp on it.
Narancia falls silent. His expression is akin to a fish out of water when he’s left looking taken aback by the sentiment. He looks away. Settled in the silence, his eyes zeroed in on the mess on his clothes. He goes to remove his shirt.
He’s struggling to lift his arms, Abbacchio realizes as he glances over. The shaking is so severe that the fingers can’t properly grip at the fabric to ease it off, nor could he when his shoulders give harsh jerks that have Narancia making little noises with each one. Abbacchio watches for long minutes before, slowly, he scoots forward.
“Here.” He says quietly, reaching for the hem, but not touching just yet. Refrains from it when it hits him quickly about what that can look like in a mind already in fight or flight. He glances at him. “I’ll help you if you’ll let me.”
Narancia stares. Eyes already edging on cautious.
“It will just be getting this shirt off, a clean one on you, and that’s it. No further touch. Okay?”
He explains just as he did for Fugo. God, how it will always stick to him. A vivid memory of the boy standing at the kitchen sink late in the night. Sobbing with his hands red from the heat of the water, and his legs trembling. Abbacchio had warned him. Waited until he took him by the arms to sit him down at the kitchen table. The courtesy extends now, and he waits for Narancia’s reaction as the words slowly sink in.
His lips parted hesitantly. Thinking about something that Abbacchio isn’t privy to. His expression is torn. Then, there’s a nod. Slow. Wordless. Eyes averted.
“You sure?” Abbacchio seeks to clarify. His tone is serious. Narancia needs to mean it.
There’s another nod. Faster this time. Still remaining wordless. Abbacchio returns one of his own.
“Okay,” He mutters, grasping for the hem.
It’s only halfway up when he drops it. He stumbles off the bed as if he touched a hot stove. His eyes are pinned to the expanse of Narancia’s stomach.
“Holy shit.” He breathes.
The scars are everywhere. Littering every inch of the boy’s tan skinned stomach and torso. Differing from one another. Some are pale. Some are light pink or red. Age showing on each one. Some are crisscrossing others.
“How–?”
“Street–fighting.” Narancia doesn’t wait for him to finish. He shrugs. It’s normal. At least, in his world, and maybe Abbacchio shouldn’t be so taken aback. After all, Narancia is now in the mafia. Where his blood will be drawn and he’ll earn more scars such as these. “Big brother said that if I won, it would make me a lot of money.”
He smiles. “He was right.” Narancia fucking smiles. “I got used to it. It stopped hurting.” The stab wounds, all the bruises, and the broken bones. Narancia found a way to not focus on them. Numbing the pain.
Abbacchio doesn’t know if there’s anything he can say without the opening of Pandora's box. Narancia’s eyes are shining once more. It’s been a long night.
“Have you eaten today?” He takes a page out of Fugo’s book.
Narancia’s silent. An answer is enough. No wonder the bout of vomiting was painful. He sighs.
“Oh, Goddammit, Narancia. How many times do we have to remind you?” He gets the middle finger. Prick. Abbacchio stares at him for a long moment. “Take a shower. I’ll make you something quick.” Something light for his stomach, and that he’ll have the energy to finish.
There’s a small nod. “Okay.”
It speaks loud when Narancia allows himself to be alone. Abbacchio tries not to think so hard on it as he listens to the steady pour of water, muffled through the wall as he stands in the kitchen. He distracts himself by lighting the stove.
He changes the sheets while Narancia eats. Grimacing to himself, but smoothing his features when Narancia comes into the doorframe to watch him. He searches the house for additional blankets when the boy’s comforter is out of use, already left on a bare mattress. Narancia is following him. Eyes narrowed, and face calculating. He looks uncomfortable with the action. The care that Abbacchio is putting into this, but he keeps going and Narancia stays silent. Letting him place new blankets down before he crawls into bed.
Abbacchio goes to leave.
“Stay?”
There’s a slight hesitation. He wants to decline, have a moment to himself, and continue the quiet night he thought he would have, but Narancia looks so damn desperate and small. Saying no destroys what he tried to ease. So, he nods silently. Finds himself laying on the floor with an extra pillow and blanket.
“Abba?” A quiet voice came.
He hums.
“How did you know you loved Bucciarati?”
Abbacchio tries not to stiffen. It’s random. For him, at least, but Narancia’s face is calculating as he stares at him.
“We’re learning too much about each other tonight.” Is that appropriate to say? He almost doesn’t think so, but Narancia laughs slightly.
“I trust you.” He whispers after a beat. Then he sighs. “I don’t...” He cuts himself off.
He's been doing that, Abbacchio realizes. He hums. “You learn.” He says quietly, making a guess of what he means. “We won’t use it against you, okay?”
There’s silence. He thinks for a moment that Narancia’s fallen asleep.
“Okay,” Comes the tired murmur.
There’s a shuffle.
"I don't really know who I am, Abba."
Those words replay on loop as Abbacchio’s left listening as Narancia’s body gives out and drags him easily to sleep. The night is over, but there’s still a certain tension hanging in the air.