Author Note: Second-person narration is from one character to another, as if they are retelling their stories. Trigger warning for discussion of sexual abuse (in the past tense, nothing graphic).

This is a chapter in a larger part 5 backstory collection. Heads up, everyone is gay. If you want more, you can find all seven chapters and a preview of a Giorno-era retelling under my author name.

Learning to Fly

(Narancia)

I never told you before about why I trust Bucciarati more than anyone.

It was a day when I was new to the team. Yeah, long before you and me. Before Mista, definitely before Giorno. I think Bucciarati and Abbacchio were still together back then, even. We were sitting around in the restaurant – both of them, and you, and me. I forget what you said – some stupid joke about underage hookers – and all you guys laughed, and I couldn't handle it. I didn't say anything, I just took off out of there like a fast little bird.

I hid in the next alley, behind some old boxes. I couldn't make it any further. I didn't know what to do, because I didn't want you guys to think I was a weakling but I also felt all crushed up inside and I knew I couldn't go back.

About two seconds later, Bucciarati turned up. He almost ran past, but I realized at the last second that my foot wasn't hidden enough and he saw it when I pulled it in to hide better.

"Narancia?"

"No, it's someone else! He went that way."

I listened to his footsteps as he picked his way around the trash to find me.

"Don't come looking over here," I said in a hurry. "Nothing but trash in this alley. Try the road. That kid seemed fast. You better run, he's probably a mile away by now!"

"You're not trash," Bucciarati told me. "You're treasure and I'm lucky I found you."

I was curled up in a tight ball, but he found first one hand, then the other, and pulled me up. I didn't unball, though, so he ended up lifting me off my feet. He didn't know what to do when I still didn't put my feet down on the ground.

"What's the plan? Are you just going to hang there?"

I swung back and forth and he nearly dropped me, but Bucciarati is crazy strong and he hefted me higher instead. I mean, I was fourteen then, so I was also crazy tiny.

"Until you give up on me," I said, letting my arms roll back behind my shoulders so my head hung down into my knees.

"That could take a while. Why don't we go down to the beach and test out your stand while you're waiting?"

He's always been too clever for me. I still wanted to give up, but that sounded really fun. I brushed the ground with my toes noncommittally.

Bucciarati swung me back and forth. It crossed my mind that I was probably going to throw his back out, the way he was leaning forward while holding me off the ground.

"I can't do this forever," he told me. "I'm going to throw you, so be ready. On three. One… Two… Three!"

With a last big swing, he let go of my hands and I arced up through the air before skidding down on my feet. I slid and stumbled, but I ended up upright.

"Cool!"

"You're really something else." Bucciarati walked up past me, resting an arm around my shoulders and steering me to the sidewalk, the sunny street. "I'm glad you're on the team."

For a second, I was glowing, like when a teacher praises you at school. He was smiling down at me and I already knew he didn't smile much. Then I realized it couldn't be for me. It couldn't be real.

"You don't mean it," I said, looking away. "You're just trying to say the right thing, like adults always do."

"You're making two mistakes there. One, you're assuming I know what's right. Two, you're assuming I know about being an adult. I don't – no one's ever shown me how. I just say things I mean and regret them later if I have to."

He ruffled my hair, but like, awkwardly. Like he didn't know how deep it was going to be and kind of surprised when his hand got tangled. That felt real. Like a real person's mistake.

"Oh," I said. "Okay."

"I'm sorry I discouraged you from joining the team the first time. I thought you'd have a safer, happier life if you went home. Was I wrong?"
I nodded.

"What happened?"

"I got suspended at school."

"That's it? You got suspended and you just gave up on your life?"

"I got suspended for fighting back. They make fun of me for being dumb. And looking like a girl. Or a boy. Usually I laugh it off, but two of them grabbed me and I flipped the hell out."

"Oh. I see."

"There's this one boy, he's kind of in charge. He's such a fucking prick. Perfect hair, perfect little collar shirts – I swear his mom dresses him every day – anyway, he hates me. Or maybe he likes me. I have no idea. And his crew always back him up. So I pulled a knife on them before when they had me cornered in the bathroom once, and the principal was super understanding about it. I told her – I told her about juvie and some of what happened, and she even managed to give my knife back, like under-the-table even though she wasn't supposed to."

"I see. So you got suspended."

"Yeah. But that's not this time. This time, Alfredo – that's his name – he found me at my locker alone and he – he started telling me all these things he was gonna make me do. And I told him to leave me alone and he pushed me into a corner and then I just started screaming. Like I couldn't stop. Because of everything – everything that happened before. And the vice principal came this time and he doesn't get me – I mean, he really doesn't get it at all. He picked me up and that's when I totally lost it. It's a good thing he got my knife off me first or I would have stabbed him for sure and then it would have been all over for me."

"You mean they would have expelled you."

"They would have sent me back to juvie! Juvenile detention! I can't, I can't, I can't go back there! I just can't! But I can't control myself, either. When things happen to me, I just go off like there's nothing I can do about it anymore. And the worst part is, I still don't know if he meant it!"

"If who meant what?"

"Alfredo, if he meant – all the stuff he said about me. Or if he was just saying anything he could to hurt me. It was away from his crew, so he might have meant it. Or not. I just… I just wish I knew if he hates me or if he actually likes me, but like, in a fucked-up way, you know?"

"Oh, kid. I do know. I know exactly what you mean. Trust me when I tell you that it doesn't matter what he feels about you, if that's the way he's going to express it."

"Yeah, but… I wish I knew if someone actually hated me that much, you know? It really stings. And it just hurts every time I think about it."

"And that's why you couldn't go back when you got suspended this time."

"No! I still would have gone back. You told me to, I promised you. But my dad…"

"There's more to this story? It's only been a month!"

"Yeah… They made my dad come in for a hearing and everything. Since I nearly stabbed the vice principal. So that's normal. But my dad, he just sat there and nodded. He heard everything that's been happening and he didn't have an opinion. He didn't tell me I was ridiculous. He didn't tell the school to keep them away from me. He just sat there and then he drove me home and he didn't say anything."

"And that's when you ran away."

"No! I tried to be a good kid! I tried so hard. I figured I was suspended at school so I could make it up by doing everything right at home. I got up early to make my dad breakfast, and I did all the dishes and lots of chores around the house. I did everything mom used to do and I was really perfect. I was!"

"I'm sure you were."

"I was!"

"But even though you were perfect…?"

"He didn't notice me at all. Just like he never noticed mom. And I couldn't take it anymore so that's when I ran away and joined the mafia. I'm sorry. I know you didn't want me, but I couldn't think of anything else."

"Narancia, it's fine–"

"I walked all night trying to think of a plan. I thought of becoming a pastry chef, but you have to go to school and I'm failing everything, even gym. And I thought of running away with the circus, but there isn't one. Or I could be a stowaway – I would be a great stowaway – and they'd make me be a sailor when they finally figured out it was me eating their food, not rats, but probably they'd make fun of me even worse than school kids and I couldn't get off the boat, and what if they hurt me? I'm not a great swimmer and I'm afraid of sharks in the deep water. I always wanted to be a guidance counselor and help kids like me figure their shit out, but obviously I can't do that, because I can't even get through a school day myself!"

"Oh, kid–"

"So I don't know what else to do. I can't even go back to my own gang because my bro sold me out so bad. I'm gonna beat him up really bad if I ever see his dumb face again and I can't stand to see him get hurt, so I'm avoiding all of them. I'm really sorry. You told me not to come back and I came back anyway. I just don't have anyone else to go to. I'm really, really sorry."

"It's okay, kiddo. It's honestly fine. You've been through a lot. You're on the team now, so don't worry about it."

"I'll leave as soon as I figure something out. I promise."

"Well, no. You lost the right to do that when you joined Passione. If you try to run away, they will definitely track you down, beat you up, and make your life here much worse. This is a dangerous organization, especially for kids. My team is the safest place for you, and it cost me something to claim you. It will cost much more to protect you if you try to leave or switch teams."

"It cost you…? Wait, you picked me? You didn't even want me!"

"I didn't want you to join, because it means giving up all your choices. You'll never be free to choose a normal life now; Passione won't let you go. You also risked your life – if you didn't get a stand, Polpo's 'task' would have killed you. It's a terrible bargain you made. I hope you regret it less than I do.

"That said, since you're here, I absolutely want you on my team. I picked you because I believe in you, and also because I don't trust anyone else to keep you safe."

"Why would you care? You don't have to care about me!"

"No one's stopping me." Bucciarati punched my shoulder, but lightly. No zippers. We had been walking downhill through the maze of little streets that's this side of town. We'd get to the water eventually, but it could take a while. "Let's take a shortcut. Stay close, okay?"

Sticky Fingers was suddenly there walking with us – Bucciarati walks fast, so I was hurrying to keep up next to him. One punch and the building wall next to us peeled apart. I expected to see the inside, like the backroom of a store or a restaurant kitchen or maybe someone's apartment, even though that's usually on the second floor in these buildings. But it was just black and wavy purple. Bucciarati walked right ahead into it. There wasn't even a ground. I didn't know how to step in.

"Come on," he said, turning back for me. "It's just a void. Sticky Fingers controls it. It's safe. Safe enough, anyway. As long as you stay close."

"Am I gonna fall through the floor in there?"

Bucciarati crossed his arms and tapped his foot, acting all impatient but I could tell he was having fun. Yeah, seemed like there was a floor there, even though you can't see it. I tried one foot but it was still too weird, walking into that shapeless space the first time.

"Is there air?"

"Are you a scientist or something? I'm breathing and talking in here, and that's good enough for me. Now are you coming or not?"

I took a deep breath and stepped into the zipper space – the void, he calls it a void. It took so long to catch up to Bucciarati, walking heel to toe with my arms out wide like on a tight rope. I let all my breath out in one big oof.

"I made it!"

"I told you, you can breathe in here. Look, you're breathing right now. And you don't have to walk like that. The whole thing's – just take it for granted, okay? But don't get far away from me or I don't know what will happen."

"Got it. It's totally safe."

"More or less."

"Until it isn't."

"Exactly. You get it."

Looking back was like looking out of a tunnel. Looking forward was like standing on a cliff in a perfect midnight darkness. But Bucciarati knew exactly where this void ended and he made Sticky Fingers punch the end of the tunnel – it's not a tunnel, though – so we could keep walking. He just kept striding forward that way with his tall legs and I had to hustle to keep up again, and then the next punch took us back out into sunlight, out the other side of the building.

We were at the edge of the sidewalk – I looked back, and the building was already closed behind us, looking normal – but we were stepping into traffic and I jumped back. Bucciarati grabbed my hand and pulled me along with him. Sticky Fingers punched the air and a long zipper split the whole street, straight across, like Moses and the Jordan river. We just stepped right in. The cars didn't notice us at all. They kinda phased around us, like a lens effect around the edge of the zipper and then the car would be on the other side without splitting or slowing down or anything.

"Cool!"

"Yes, it is. Are you hungry? You didn't really eat before running off and I'm guessing you didn't steal breakfast beforehand."

I nodded, then shook my head, then settled for: "Yeah."

Next building was a bakery. Bucciarati took us in the front door. He neatly pocketed two large danishes with one hand while leaving plenty of money on the counter with the other hand. By the time the store clerk turned around, he had walked us through the wall into the back room.

"You need anything else?"

I shook my head, but I couldn't help eying the steaming fresh-baked loaves. Bucciarati glanced at me and smiled. He handed me one of those round glossy brown loaves to carry, the kind that are a little sweet inside. I think they use egg in the dough. I wrapped my arms around it and followed Bucciarati into the next void, still hurrying to keep up with him.

We kept coming out the backs of buildings and jumping down staircases. It made me realize how steep Naples actually is, when you don't take into account the way the streets cut along the slope. In no time, we got down to the waterfront and Bucciarati rushed us along until we got to where there's actually a small sandy beach, before it turns into big boulders and then the tide wall again. No tourists – it was a weekday morning in the fall.

Bucciarati sat us on a bench and we ate the pastries, then tore chunks off the bread loaf. I ate until I was full, which hadn't happened in weeks. I mean, we always had food at home, but I hadn't really been eating. It felt so good, being full. I leaned back and felt the warm sun and wondered if I could be happy. But the laughter, your joke from earlier, floated back into my head. I glanced sideways at Bucciarati. What would he think of me if he knew?

"Come on," he told me, standing up. "We can't laze around all day. Mafia life's not easy for young guys like us. We're meeting one of the smuggling teams at noon. Before that, we need to test out your stand. Because if we end up in a fight today, we can't go in without knowing your capabilities. Okay?"

I nodded.

"Go ahead, raise your stand."

"What, here?" The beach was right below a main road. Stores and restaurants faced us. I didn't know yet that normal people can't see stands at all.

"Nowhere better. Come on."

"Aerosmith, take off!"

I felt the same thrill as the first time my stand had appeared. It felt like it was me taking wing, soaring high above the sand and waves. It was me with the warm sun on my tiny wings. Power waited for a twitch of my will – effortless unlimited bullets to protect me and my dreams. I sent Aerosmith wheeling up above our heads, as high as it would go, which is pretty high.

"Great range," Bucciarati told me. "Can you see what it sees?"

I pulled down the radar. "Yeah, with this."

"What the hell."

"It shows me what's alive in the area."

"How?"

I didn't know yet. "I don't know yet."

"Okay. We'll work on that. How far out can it fly?"

I showed him. He whistled.

"That is a really great range, Narancia! This is a great stand for surveillance. Scouting the area. Not much for combat, but you said you're good with a knife and Fugo and I both–"

"Don't worry, it has ammo!"

"What?"

I strafed the beach, then dropped a couple mini bombs in the water for emphasis. The huge splashes were very satisfying.

"I take that back. What a well-rounded stand! What's the limit on your ammunition? You need to re-load, or wait between firing or something?"

"No. Why would I?"

"Oh my God, you just have unlimited ammunition on this thing?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Show me."

"Why?"

"It's unusual. I believe you, but I'd like to be certain."

I shrugged and sent Aerosmith on a course back and forth across the beach, running its guns the entire time. Rata-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat! Sand clouded up into the air. Bullets glittered on the ground. I sat down on the warm sand and leaned back on my elbows. Bucciarati dropped down next to me and we just watched my stand go and go and go.

"Okay, that's enough."

"I could go on."

"I believe you."

"I could go on forever!"

"Yes, you could. That's enough, though. Let's give it a rest."

Instead of bringing Aerosmith back, I stopped firing and let it spiral up and up into the sky. I don't see what my stand sees, but I get quick flashes of vision, like a dream crossing over with reality. Abbacchio calls them insights. He gets them, too. I don't know anyone else who does. In my flashes, I watched Naples dwindle far below. It occurred to me that cars were like toys, and maybe people were tiny dolls after all. Maybe I was a tiny doll in some kid's story. It would explain why things just kept happening to me.

"I think I'm a doll in someone's story," I told Bucciarati. "I mean, we're all just dolls, right, and for some reason I'm the one she picked that's gonna have all this stuff happen. She's probably still deciding if I'm gonna die."

He nodded. Most people laugh at me when I say shit like that. You'd smack me and tell me to be serious.

"I often think I'm a character in someone else's story," Bucciarati admitted. "It would explain all the shit that happens in my life, and why it's so bitterly ironic. You'd think it'd be a thriller or a detective novel or something, since it's a story about joining the mafia, but it's not. I think it's a horror story. Maybe."

"Nah, it's one of those coming-of-age fantasy stories they have in the young adult section at the library. The kind with a scary cool title done in foil and people posing in front of monsters on the cover."

"Yeah, you're probably right. If it was horror, I'd be dead by now."

"No, 'cuz you're the main character!"

"I'm really not. That's the most worrying part. Main characters face plenty of hardships, but they have a rising series of small victories, even if they also meet with setbacks. I'm not really a side character; I can see where they've set up for a proper arc of character development. But I'm definitely not the protagonist. Sometimes I think I'm a… deuteragonist, I think it's called. A second main character. Like Watson."

"So like, if the story was about you and Abbacchio–?"

"No. That's another worrying part of this theory. Abbacchio's the protagonist of his own separate story. It's a detective series where he solves cold cases using his mysterious abilities. His story is all dark and glittery. Mine's bright and vaguely nautical. I'm just a recurring love interest in his story, and Abbacchio's a supporting character in mine. It doesn't give me much hope for either of our longevities."

"Huh. So what about me?"

"I don't know yet, kid. I hope you're your own main character. For now, let's just try to keep you safe. Hey. I had another thought about your stand."

"Yeah?" All this reading class talk was making my head spin.

"Can you use it to fly places? Maybe if you stand on it–"

"Like a flying skateboard!"

"Or hang from it. Exactly. Do you want to try it?"

"Yeah!"

I brought Aerosmith down right away, enjoying the thrill of a nosedive. It came to rest on the sand and immediately started to fade. By the time I stepped on top of it, it was gone. My foot came down on sand.

"Intriguing. You can't materialize your stand holding still?"

I shrugged. "I can't really hold still myself. It kinda makes sense."

"Okay. What if you grab on while it's flying slowly?"

That worked. I yelled with joy as Aerosmith carried me up. As it swung into a vertical lift, I got both arms and legs wrapped around it so I was ready to pull some real moves once we got some altitude. I did figure-eights and spinning dives and tight spirals until I felt like throwing up, then I came down and dropped myself on the sand.

Bucciarati ran to my side. "Are you okay, Narancia? That looked wild!"

"Yeah! Better than ever!" I was already on my feet, head spinning, nearly falling. I braced my hands on my knees and laughed like a maniac. "That was sogreat! Hey, do you want a turn?"

"Can you do that? I weigh more…"

"I'm sure I can! Here, I'll bring Aerosmith over. You just grab on when you're ready."

I flew Aerosmith in lazy circles around his head. Bucciarati was hesitating, but I could see he was grinning like a kid at Christmas. I was proud of my stand.

Bucciarati grabbed Aerosmith's wings and in the same instant, I felt huge, strong hands close over my arms and pull me down. I screamed and pulled my knife, spinning on the spot, but there was no one there. Without even thinking, I drew Aerosmith toward me and opened fire on the space around me – to no effect, except that Aerosmith pulled Bucciarati with it and slammed him into me, knocking us both to the sand. Tangled with another body, I was instantly overcome with panic, slashing and kicking and screaming like a wildcat. Not even a breath later, Sticky Fingers had my hand – the one without a knife – and was pulling me to my feet. Bucciarati scrambled upright, facing me, trying to put distance between us.

I stumbled backward. "Where did they go? Where did they go!"

"Narancia, calm down!" Bucciarati said. "It's just us here! Nothing's attacking you. What happened? You were fine and now you're not."

"Something attacked me." I gasped for enough air to speak. "I felt something huge grab my arms! Something invisible – is it gone?"

Bucciarati laughed. He put his hands on his knees and laughed hard.

"Don't laugh at me! I'm not just a weak kid! I tried to shoot them but – but nothing!"

"Narancia, I'm just relieved. Nothing attacked you. Don't you see? You felt me grab Aerosmith's wings and it startled you. That's all. Nothing happened."

"I felt–? But that's impossible."

"No, it's obvious. You feel everything your stand feels."

"I don't!"

"Oh. You wouldn't have noticed yet, since your stand is an airplane. It's not like it touches many things. Look, see where you cut Sticky Fingers with your knife? I'm bleeding, too. It's called reflected damage. We feel what our stands feel. We bleed together."

Bucciarati closed the cut on his arm with a zipper. He mended the tear in his jacket with another – the zipper disappeared and the fabric was whole. Magic. Only a streak of blood on the white cloth remained.

"I'm – I'm sorry," I stammered. "I didn't mean to attack you. Only – I thought–"

"It's nothing. My tailor will be disappointed in me, but that's par for the course."

"I'm sorry!"

"It's fine! I'm not hurt. See?" Bucciarati flexed his arm. It seemed fine.

I sat down hard on the sand and held my head. I understood that I'd been fooled by my own senses, but my heart was still pounding. I closed my eyes tight, fear and worthlessness chasing each other through my head.

"Narancia? Are you okay?"

People usually touch me at this point. I think it's because I'm small and look like a hopeless child when I ball up. Bucciarati sat down an arm's length away from me. It was my first hint that he might understand me a little bit.

"I'm here," he said. "You're still dealing with something that happened before. I can tell. I'll keep you safe, so take as much time as you need to put yourself back together."

I spent an ounce of my remaining will to look over at him. He was just sitting on the sand, looking relaxed with his chin on his fist and his elbow on his knee. He glanced my way.

"We just need to be ready for an escort mission at the port in two hours. You're still good for that, right?"

I nodded, then I watched the waves for a while. One after another, they threw themselves onto the shore, each one falling short and sliding backward into the next one coming up. I wondered if that was going to be my life.

After a few minutes, my breathing was normal. I forced myself to sit like a normal person. I forced myself to try smiling, because maybe there were still things to smile about.

"I like my new stand," I said, starting small.

Bucciarati turned toward me. "Yeah. You should. I'm damn glad you're on my side, because I don't see how I'd fight your stand at all."

"I like the team, too. Only…"

"That joke Fugo made about me was out of line. I know. We shouldn't have laughed."

"No, it's fine! I can take it."

"It made you run away. We can tone it down."

"I'm not like that! I used to laugh at all those jokes. It's fine, I'll get used to it."

"Narancia… It's not because we think it's funny. Fugo and I laugh at each other all the time because otherwise we'd be crying alone. You don't have to be alone with your secrets, either. I'm getting that something really messed up happened to you in juvenile detention. You can talk about it or not. Up to you."

"No. You wouldn't want me on the team if you knew."

"Yes, I would. Ask Leone what he's been through. Ask Fugo. Then tell me I wouldn't want you on the team."

"That's not fair. You don't even know what happened."

"Yeah? Bet I've been through worse."

"You haven't!"

"Have."

I crossed my arms, at a loss. Grown-ups don't talk that way, you know?

"Bet you anything," Bucciarati said, suddenly grinning. "How about this? If your story's worse, I'll take you on your first mission as planned today. And if mine's worse, we're blowing off that escort mission and stealing a boat for the afternoon instead. And I'll make you practice your hang-gliding. It will be exhausting. How about it?"

"Wait, really?"

Bucciarati held out his hand expectantly, so we shook on it. "Deal. What do you got?"

You know when you sit down to lunch at school and everyone compares what their mom packed them and you see if you can make a trade? That's what it was like. Only I packed my own lunches anymore, so I baked cookies just so I could get kids to trade me their chips and junk food. Father would never let me buy fun groceries. Today wasn't cookies, though.

I shrugged. "Okay. They locked me up. And two of the guards. Um. They beat me up. Every day."

It sounded so lame when I said it just like that.

"That's it?"

"Um. Because they enjoyed it."

"Yeah."

I couldn't get the words out. It felt like I was strangling.

"Some secrets will kill you," Bucciarati said quietly, watching me struggle. "I think you'd better tell me."

"They were..." No. Don't say it that way. "They made me..."

"They were inappropriate with you?"

I nodded, awestruck by how easily he said the words.

"I'm sorry. That's awful. I've been in that situation, too."

"Wait, you have?" That was impossible. "No! You're too strong! And you're fine! You're completely normal! How could anything have ever happened to you?"

"Oh, kid," he shook his head. "If you knew the half of it. For today, just this. My patron - the person in charge of me, since I joined Passione too young - he sold me into abusive situations over and over. Most every team I was ever on, there was someone who beat me or fucked me. I got so inured to it, I started bargaining with them so at least I'd get food or a warm place to sleep. That's why Fugo calls me a whore sometimes. Or a hooker. That was it today, wasn't it?"

"But... you?"

I couldn't connect the two images - Bucciarati, fierce and beautiful in his spotless white suit, and tiny child Bucciarati making a deal with his abusers. It didn't make any sense.

"What, you think people stay broken forever?" He was smiling at me, a cat's smile, not a happy smile. "You're safe now, Narancia. My team is a safe place for you. You'll outgrow this. I don't mean it's easy to move on. But you're more. You're going to be more than they ever imagined."

"How?" The word just broke free, so I scrambled to make sense. "How did you get over it? I mean, feeling this way."

Bucciarati considered. He's so strategic. "Do you mean feeling vulnerable, like it might happen again?"

"No! I know they won't come after me. Unless I go back there. I mean feeling gross. And weak. Why don't you feel like I do?"

He nodded. "I did. I used to. In the worst moments, I still do."

"So what did you do?"

"Refuse. They want you to feel that way. You know that? They want you to carry the shame for them. There was a point when I was sixteen - at that time, I worked for a capo who basically kept me like a mistress, in exchange for good treatment on his team - and I started seeing other people. Because why not? Why would I let myself be defined by all the things I never wanted, when there's a world of things I do want?"

"For sex?" I wish I had a filter sometimes.

"Yeah."

"I can't even imagine. Wanting anything, I mean. Wanting anyone."

Bucciarati looked out to sea. "You're young. There's no rush. And the same things don't work for everyone. Leone and Fugo would tell you something else entirely. But keep it in mind. It's totally different, having a boyfriend or girlfriend. Making my own choices, being wanted - it made all those bad feelings feel fake. Like I could prove I wasn't the helpless, hurt person that my abusers wanted me to be. Am I making sense?"

I just nodded, completely in awe. Of course I didn't realize at the time how Bucciarati's quest to feel wanted would tear up his relationship with Abbacchio, but that's another story, right? I mean, we all get marked by life, even someone like Bucciarati who's overcome so much.

Bucciarati stood up and dusted the sand off his clothes. "Of course, it also helped when Leone killed my patron and got Polpo's constant harassment under control for me. I still don't know how he did that. Come on. Stealing a boat or going on that mission?"

I used Aerosmith to pull myself up, then dropped lightly onto my feet. "We have to do the mission."

"Do we? Did you win?"

"My story's worse because it's not better yet."

With just a second's hesitation, I pushed myself under Bucciarati's arm so he'd have to hug me. I needed a hug and I didn't even care anymore if he'd judge me for it, but he didn't. He petted my hair and even tried to tuck it behind my ears. Unsuccessfully, of course.

"No one's done that since my mother died." See? No filter.

"My father died, too," Bucciarati told me. "And my mother left us."

He put his chin on my head. I felt like a kid with a family - a kid with a home, far away from all the terrible things that happen to you when you're a runaway.

"My father acts like he's left. I feel like I'm no one's kid. All the time."

"You're my kid now." Bucciarati gives really good hugs. No one else knows it, though. Abbacchio, I guess, but that's different. "You'll grow up on the team. I'll train you, we'll teach you, we'll keep you safe. You'll be like a son to me."

"I might be a daughter, though," I whispered.

"Or daughter," he amended. "Either, both, or neither. Tell me, what did your mother used to do with all this hair?"

"She left it wild. She said it was a fair warning to people I'd meet.

Bucciarati laughed and hugged me tighter, but his arms were instantly loose when I started squirming to get going. As we set off up the beach toward the shipping port, he told me, "You have to wash and comb it tonight, at least. You may be a wild child, but your mother would not want you going around with a bird's nest on your head."

Bucciarati was perfect to me ever since then. You saw how we used to play around – he'd swing me around or throw me or turn me upside down, everything I missed by having such a pointless father. And he gave me all the hugs I wanted and let me snuggle close anytime I was sad. He even put me to bed for the first two years. We both knew I was too old, of course, but he said I'd missed years of goodnight's with my mother, so I could have that until I turned sixteen. I knew it messed up his evening plans with Abbacchio lots of times, but that only made it mean more to me. They both made it work – sometimes Abbacchio came over just for my bedtime, and then I'd hear them talking quietly in the other room over wine or a cake I'd made and it was magic. It was just like having parents again, if my parents had ever talked quietly after answering all my ridiculous questions and kissing my forehead and turning out the lights. Sometimes they left together and sometimes Bucciarati stayed home, sleeping on the couch so I could have the bedroom. But either way, one or both of them would be there when I woke up, at least until I was sixteen.

Bucciarati never made me uncomfortable, either – his hands stayed in safe places, his eyes on me were caring, never more, even when I started growing up. I asked about it sometimes – what if I grow up too pretty and you start to fall for me? – and he'd laugh at me and tell me he knew I'd be a heartbreaker but I'd always be his child. He'd say he'd be the one to walk me down the aisle when I found a nice boy or girl I wanted to marry. He never thought it'd be you. I'm sure that's why he had trouble letting you ask me out in the first place, since he thinks of you as his own age even though you're really halfway between us. I love Bucciarati for choosing my feelings over his when I told him I wanted you and he had to ignore our age gap. He always supported me, just like his real child.

Things went slower with Abbacchio, or maybe just a normal speed but me and Bucciarati are both way too fast to trust strangers. Good thing I found you early, or my dating history would look just like his. Abbacchio didn't show affection for me right away. He just watched me, or more often I'd notice his stand half-appeared and watching me while he pretended to ignore me. Then at meals, he started making sure to order my favorite foods and passing them my way without a word. He always turned up in the morning with a cappuccino for Bucciarati before they walked to the restaurant together for morning meeting. In no time, he had a café mocha for me in the other hand.

So many mornings, I let him in and went back to frying ham and eggs, sipping mocha while he went to sit on the edge of the couch and wake Bucciarati up with kisses, an arm around him, a hand touching his cheek or hair. That made me blush, but I'd secretly watch them in the reflections on the microwave over the stove; Bucciarati updated the kitchen when he found out I liked to cook. Bucciarati never noticed me noticing. Abbacchio knew because of his stand, but he never said anything. At first, it made him self-conscious and I tried to keep my eyes on my cooking, but later on, he stopped minding. He'd give me an ironic smile or a silent laugh when we sat down to eat and I was still blushing about it – neither of them blushed. Their relationship was so straightforward in those days.

I loved pretending they were my real parents. It hurt a lot when Abbacchio got brisker by the day, the kisses replaced with a sharp word; when Bucciarati stopped coming home and Abbacchio's first job of the day was to locate him at some lover's house. He'd swear, then apologize to me for swearing; we'd eat what I'd cooked, and he'd walk me to the restaurant and roll his eyes at you as he set out again to find Bucciarati.

Abbacchio's the one who gave me my favorite bandana. He's the one who moved me from sneakers to proper shoes, from shorts to skirts and leggings when I got obsessed with fashion magazines but couldn't set foot in a store. He just bought everything and dumped it in my room, then returned whatever I didn't start wearing.

Later on, when he'd come to visit in the evenings only to find Bucciarati hadn't come home, we'd take long walks together, all along the waterfront. That's how he knew how much I loved street music and dancing and eying all the outdoor market carts – scarves and jewelry I'd never wear, everything that glitters. That's when he told me about Florence, how he met his partner, his brother he still keeps in touch with, his parents who can't know he's gay or in the mafia so they don't know him at all. Ever since he lost his partner, he doesn't speak to his parents because they keep making wrong guesses about why he's sad all the time. I told him to tell them, but he shook his head. I made him explain eventually, a couple weeks later after badgering him every night – turns out his brother already tested the waters and his parents say they'd disown any son of theirs who turned out to be gay. That shut me up. Obviously I know my father would be that way, but what about my mother? I spent a week wondering if my mother would love me if she were alive, until Abbacchio teased it out of me and pointed out that my mother already let me be a girl whenever I wanted, so probably she wouldn't care if I was gay as well. If I even am – I mean, I love you, but if that's gay, for me.

Abbacchio never told me about his abusive ex, though. I got the story out of Bucciarati eventually, one night that he came home late and drunk and he'd already missed Abbacchio visiting but there was no way I was sending him out across the city like that to find him. Instead I kept him talking to me until he fell asleep, and one of the things I made him tell me about was abusive relationships because I'm scared of them and he just cracked open about Abbacchio's ex and how much it messed him up and how it was becoming a huge part of their breakup. Once Bucciarati drifted off, I cleaned the kitchen instead of going to sleep. I had so many thoughts.

When Abbacchio came by the next day, I stopped him at the door and made him sit down with me instead of trying to wake Bucciarati up. They'd only get into an argument, anyway, with that much combined hangover. I made Abbacchio drink the mocha he'd brought for me, while I attacked a huge bottle of Coca Cola I had in the fridge.

"He told me about your ex last night," I said, trying hard to keep my voice quiet and even. My eyes must have said too much, though.

"He wasn't supposed to." Abbacchio glared at the heap of blankets on the couch.

"I'm sorry. I asked him about abusive relationships and I didn't realize he was talking about you until he had spilled everything. Not that I could have stopped him. He was pretty drunk last night."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Forgot telephones exist. Sorry."

"If you were anyone else, Narancia, I'd say that's a very weak excuse, but I know you're just being honest."

"Sorry I'm so dumb."

"You're not! Not in the least. You're what they call a lateral thinker. It means you think sideways."

"Huh. I guess that explains it."

"Did you get my ex's name?"

"Umm… Yeah, he kept calling him Zo, but I thought that was a nickname."

"Yeah, it is. Good. It's someone in Passione and you might work with him someday, so I don't want you to know all this stuff against him."

"Wouldn't it be safer for me if I knew?"

"He's not like that with everyone else. He's good to his team and he's in a really healthy relationship now. I correspond with his partner; there's a project we're working on, nothing to do with Zo, but you know, it came up so I know he's doing much better now."

"How is that possible? He sounded… horrific."

"So Bruno gave you the gory details?"

"Nothing graphic, I guess, but he said you were in the hospital a bunch and he threatened to kill you and he locked you up in a secret house and lied to the team that he let you go."

"All true, but not the worst of it. I wonder sometimes whether Bruno really understands what happened to me – why I'm still a mess about Zo, why I stayed so long."

"Why's that?"

"Oh… I don't know if I should even try to explain to someone so young. If you never understand the core of an abusive relationship, that would be a blessing."

"But I have to! That's why I was asking Bucciarati about it in the first place! You have to tell me, Abbacchio!"

"Why? Why would you need to know that?"

"I have to because… Because what if I'm in an abusive relationship someday and how will I know?"

"No. That's not why you're asking me now."

"Because… I need to know if my parents were abusive. My dad."

"Good try, but still not why you're asking me urgently right now. There's only one reason why it's urgent. Do you want me to say it?"

"No, I can. I'm sorry, Abbacchio, I just realized you wouldn't like it, after I asked. I'm really worried about you and Bucciarati, and I have to know whether your relationship is abusive so I can know whether it's better if it just… ends. I'm sorry."

Abbacchio folded my hands into his hands. "No. I'm sorry, Narancia. This must be very hard on you, watching us fight like this. You don't blame yourself, do you? Because you shouldn't. It's in no way because of you."

"No… I know it's not me. I just wish I could do something!"

"You already do so much, Narancia. It eases my heart every time I come here and find you here, keeping this house alive. Our walks have kept me… kept me sane, let's say. And I think you do the same for Bruno. If you weren't here, I think he'd be sleeping on the streets again at this point. Don't underestimate yourself. You don't have to do anything more – just keep being your own delightful self. Okay?"

"Are you just saying that?"

"I wouldn't lie to you. You bring us a lot of love, even when – especially when we're running short."

"But it's not enough! I have to do something! I can't lose either of you! Unless–" I hugged myself to keep the tears inside and started rocking. "Unless I have to!"

"Narancia." Abbacchio put his hands on my shoulders and held me steady. "You're not gonna lose either one of us. Bruno's insanely attached to you. Besides, you live in his house and you're on the team. You can't even leave if you wanted to."

"But you–"

"I'm not going anywhere. I already promised Bruno, and I guess I should have promised you, too. We might have to break up, but I'll stay with the team. As long as he wants me to. And knowing Bruno, that means as long as you want me to, as well."

"What? You can do that?"

"Oh, you little street orphans are all the same! Yes, people do that. You can be faithful even with a broken heart."

"But… Aren't you gonna be sad? Like, really, really sad?"

"Yeah. But that's not the most important thing in the world. Listen, Bruno's like you; he lost all his family. The team's his family now. And I'm the only one older than him. So when he needs to turn to someone – well, he doesn't have to turn to me, obviously, but I can't see turning my back on him when I'm all he has. Wouldn't be right. Besides. We have you, don't we? I could never break your heart like that, Narancia. No. You can count on me. I'll be here."

"You're saying the most important thing is family, and doing the right thing for them, no matter how you feel."

"Yeah. I guess I'm saying that, kiddo."

"But is it the right thing for you and Bucciarati to stay together? You're family! I want you guys to stay together! But it's obvious you're both getting hurt. That's why I wanted to know if it's abusive, so I can know if it has to stop."

"That is… such a hard question. Damn, I'm glad I never had kids, if this is what it's like. I don't know, Narancia. Abusive before meant he was hurting me on purpose, and making me believe I was to blame for it. Bruno's nothing like that. I'm nothing like that.

"But is it abusive when I drop my emotional baggage on Bruno to get his attention back – over and over? Is it abusive when he walks out on me a dozen times, cheats on me, lies about it, lather, rinse, repeat? Abusive is when someone's in control and they're using it against the other. No one's in control here – we both feel out of control.

"I don't know that it's abusive, but we're both getting hurt. Neither of us knows how to fix it. I think I'm going to have to be the one to end it, since I'm pretty sure Bruno just can't. That's going to hurt both of us. It makes me sick to think of doing it, but every day I wake up sick because we're going to keep hurting each other as long as we're together. I should just do it, but there's always this tiny spark of hope – every time I see his damn face and his damn gorgeous eyes, and I think of everything we've been through, and everything he's been through to get here – and I can't give up with that beautiful, beautiful hope right there.

"So that's why we're still doing this and I'm sorry, Narancia. I know it's hard on you and Fugo both. I'd fix it if I only knew how, but instead you're just waiting for me to end it."

"But you… you still love him?"

"Yeah. That doesn't go away just because we have problems. Or just because we break up. I'm always going to love him."

"Does he know that?"

"I tell him every day. I don't know if he can believe it. Bruno's been through a lot. A lot of stuff you shouldn't know about."

"If you still love each other… Can't you stay together and keep working on your problems? Wait for it to get better?"
"That was my plan, for so long. It's not getting any better, and the way things are going, I can't wait much longer. Every day… Narancia, I don't know how to explain to you. I hope you never feel like this. My mental health is going from bad to worse. It's not Bruno's fault, but he needs the time that I need for myself right now – and I've got nothing left to rebuild our relationship because I'm coming apart so bad.

"I don't want you to know everything, Narancia. It wouldn't be fair to you. Just know that every day is a struggle right now, and that's why I can't keep trying. I would if I could."

"Abbacchio? Am I gonna lose you?"

"I told you I'm staying."

"I mean… if your mental health keeps getting worse."

"Oh. Who told you?"

"They didn't have to. I kind of always knew. And I knew it's been getting worse."

"Narancia… I promise you, I'm doing my best to stay with you. Fugo's helping me. Moody Blues is determined to keep me alive, too, which means I'm basically stuck here."

"But if you want to live, what's the problem?"

"Kiddo. I wish I wanted to live. Because I know it's the right thing to do. It's right for you, and for Bruno, and for Fugo. It's right for the work that I do. But it's not what I want. What I want is a way out, and I can't think of another way out without sacrificing everything I live for. So I keep coming back to this. But Narancia, I don't want you to worry about it. As long as Blues wants to stop me – my stand cares a lot about you and Bruno, and I'm not stronger than my stand. So you probably shouldn't worry. Just trust Blues, okay?"

I just nodded and cleared the dishes. Abbacchio went and shook Bucciarati awake, using a voice so gravelly I knew he must be very sad. But it didn't work that day. Bucciarati apologized for what felt like an hour, but he said it was all too much and he just felt too sick and couldn't work that day. Instead, he worked out the day's assignments with Abbacchio and sent us to the restaurant without him. Not without a long, super-strong hug for me.

"I'm sorry, Narancia," Bucciarati whispered when he let me go. "I'm supposed to be better than this. I'm so sorry, kiddo."

He was home before Abbacchio's evening visit for a whole week after that. But that's it. They broke up at the end of the next week.