When Narancia was five years old, he broke a picture frame of his parents on their wedding day.

It was just an accident, he'd ran into the dresser it was set atop while playing with the little toy plane his mom had given him for his birthday and it just fell off. His father had come in to see what the banging was and had seen the broke frame, the picture with a large tear in it from a fragment of glass and had smacked Narancia upside the head with so much force that he'd landed hard on the ground, his toy plane clattering across the floor.

His father didn't say anything, just stormed away angrily and slammed the door behind him, leaving Narancia on the floor of his parents bedroom with a throbbing head and a toy plane with one of its wings broken off.

Narancia had crawled over to the precious toy, picking up the wing to try to put it back together but once something was broke, there was just no fixing it, and now it was ruined.

And that was how his mom had found him an hour later, a snivelling mess in the corner of the room cradling his toy in his arms.

She'd scooped him up into her arms, stroking his hair while he cried. When she found the bump from where his father had hit him, she sighed with a troubled expression on her face.

"Forgive them," she said simply, pressing a kiss to the bump.

Narancia had never liked it when his mom looked sad so he rubbed at his eyes and nodded quickly with a wavering smile and proclaimed himself a big boy who was all better now. She'd grinned at him, setting him on the bed to bend down and pick up his airplane.

Sitting beside him, she rested the orange plane in her lap and put one arm around Narancia to pull him closer.

"Whenever the bad things hurt you," she said, turning the plane over so it was rightside up. "You can just fly away, okay? Just like this plane. Just close your eyes and fly through the sky until you're so far away that nothing hurts you anymore. Got it?"

Narancia had eagerly nodded his head.

Satisfied with his answer, his mom had lifted the broken wing and found the crack where it had broken off. She'd examined it for a minute so before placing the wing back into the slot and pushed. There was clicking noise and she pulled her hand away and it was like brand new.

His mom had to be magic, that was the only explanation Narancia decided. And if she could fix a toy with just a single touch then surely she knew how to fix things much worse than that.

There was one day when he was supposed to be sleeping that he'd crept out of his room to get a drink and peered into the kitchen and saw his father yelling really loudly at his mom. He sounded really angry and Narancia knew to be scared when his father used that voice. But his mom just sat there, expressionless, and the next day Narancia's father came home from work with a big bouquet of flowers and hugged his mom tightly and said he loved her and things were okay again.

"How did you do that?" Narancia had hissed quietly when his father had left the room.

His mom had grinned down at him and said, "I just flew away for a bit."

So Narancia listened to his mom.

When he got bad grades at school and his insegnante lectured him in front of the whole class, he flew away.

When the other kids stole his lunch and shoved him in the hallways and threw chalk at him, he flew away.

When his mom died, Narancia decided she must have just flown away a little too far, and that maybe if he flew enough, he'd get to see her again.

So he flew away when his father beat him and berated him, he flew away when his friends would make him steal pastries and alcohol, he flew away during his trial, and he flew away from the juvenile detention center nearly every day. There had never been a time where he wanted to fly to his mom more.

Narancia's memories of living in the streets, digging through trash bins for food, sleeping in dark alleyways, they were all blurry at best. He'd been flying away for most of it. He always thought that was a good thing, that he couldn't really remember that well, Bucciarati always told him it was.

But when he woke up in the hospital, when he saw Fugo for what was really the first time, eyes and mind too hazy to really see the blond back in the alley and at the restaurant, Narancia thought that maybe, for once, he didn't really want to fly away.

After all, Fugo was just so interesting, he had all these stories and fairytales that Narancia had never heard before and knew so many things about different countries and different people that Narancia never wanted visiting hours to end.

They would talk for hours about absolutely nothing at all and Narancia would stay there, in the hospital bed, and he'd never felt more alive.

But then the visits started to slow down as he got better and eventually, when he was finally discharged after nearly a month, Bucciarati, who had only come to see him a handful of times anyways but who had left as big of an impression as Fugo had, if not more, had handed a wad of cash and told him to go home. No amount of begging and pleading to stay with them and help them and be useful worked and so he obeyed.

Once again, Narancia started to fly away.

His father wasn't happy to see him. His former friends weren't happy to see him. His insegnante wasn't happy to see him. Absolutely no one wanted him to be back.

Which was just fine, Narancia didn't want to be back anyways, it wasn't like he was doing it for any of them, he was just trying to repay his debt to Bucciarati and to Fugo by doing what they said.

But he was always, always, always doing what other people said, wasn't he?

Maybe that was what Bucciarati wanted him to realize, or maybe it was just something Narancia had needed to learn for himself, but he remembered Fugo and the vague story with as few details as possible about why he didn't have a family, and wasn't that because Fugo had stopped listening to other people?

And so instead of flying away, Narancia ran away.

No one really understood why Narancia's Stand was a plane and Narancia liked it that way.

Mista said that at least the guns on it suited him, since he'd never met someone with an explosive temper like Narancia's. When Narancia had pointed out that Fugo was worse than him, Mista had shrugged and said they were different.

"That guy… he's got a lot to be mad about."

It was super irritating that Narancia didn't know what Mista meant by that for the longest time.

Abbacchio just hadn't cared, not even bothering to look up when Narancia tried to show the unfriendly man his Stand for the first time, hoping to make a good impression. Bucciarati, who'd been sitting across the table from Abbacchio, had quickly jumped in and said that it was 'an interesting interpretation' of who Narancia was. Which meant that the capo then had to explain what Stands represent to Narancia and Abbacchio had quickly gotten pissed that Bucciarati was ignoring him and stormed off. So much for that good first impression.

But when Fugo had first seen his Stand though, he'd said it was perfect for Narancia.

"Way up in the clouds, just like your damn head," Fugo had smirked, and Narancia had said to not make fun of his height and Fugo had found that really funny for some reason.

As Narancia fit into the group more and more, his excursions into the sky began to decrease.

The first time someone had caught him flying away was Mista, who later confessed that when he'd first seen Narancia like that, he'd thought he had an aneurysm or something, just staring off into space vacantly without responding to Mista's best attempts at getting his attention.

Narancia had sheepishly explained what he'd been doing and Mista had listened to him patiently with those warm eyes and had pulled him into a tight hug and promised to not tell the others until Narancia was ready to tell them himself. Then he ripped Narancia's bandana off and noogied him so hard, Narancia's skull burned for a few days after.

Narancia was pretty sure that was what having a big brother would've been like and if he took a longer bath that night to cry, well, no one would be the wiser.

All of them were quickly replacing the image of Narancia's father in his mind when he thought of family, and Narancia would never have it any other way. But his mom was always there in the back of his mind, with her kind smile and tired eyes and magic fingers that pulled him towards the sky.

He wondered what it would be like to fly with Aerosmith and confessed to Bucciarati one day that he liked to imagine that Mr. Smith was actually a tiny version of himself, piloting the fighter jet through the air with the ease of a pro. Because that's what Narancia was, surely he'd flown enough already to be a master at it!

Bucciarati had asked him why he never looked in Aerosmith's cockpit and Narancia had flushed and said that he'd tried many times, but that the glass was always frosted over. The only thing he could see was Mr. Smith's silhouette.

Bucciarati had been quiet for a few seconds before saying, "Maybe you just don't know who's your pilot."

Narancia had asked his capo what he meant but Bucciarati had just said that if he didn't understand, then he should think about it, and that one day, he'd reach the answer. When he was ready.

When Narancia loudly proclaimed he was ready for anything at all, Bucciarati had laughed and rubbed his head.

"Go to bed, little volatore."

So Narancia had and that had been over a year ago and up until recently, Narancia still hadn't figured out what he'd meant.

And then Giorno had walked into their lives. Giorno, with his lofty dreams so high in the sky that Narancia felt like he couldn't reach them no matter how far he flew.

He didn't know what to think of this boy, because that's what he was, a boy, a child, but he carried himself so much higher than that. Narancia found himself often forgetting that he was the older of the two, although he'd never admit that to anyone. Giorno acted like he was so old that he must've lived, three, no, four lives already and it still wasn't enough. When Narancia had mentioned that to Mista and Fugo, Mista had just started shrieking about four again before dissolving into mutters about what that could mean for Giorno.

Narancia decided that being in love like that makes you really stupid.

Fugo had apparently been thinking about that though because he said, "Sometimes you see things and hear things and do things and you die. But when you open your eyes, you're still alive, even though you're sure you were dead. So you just start living all over again."

Even though it sounded kinda lame, Narancia was pretty sure he knew what Fugo meant.

Narancia had barely had time to fly during the next week, things just kept happening one after the other and it was the most Narancia's life had ever been. He wasn't sure what that most was, but he knew it was true.

And Trish had almost been killed, by her own father, and the boat was speeding away, and Narancia thought that maybe he'd understood what Bucciarati had meant for once.

And even though leaving Fugo was the one thing Narancia had promised himself he'd never do, he did it anyway.

He didn't fly away when he was the only one who knew they were being attacked by that shark Stand, he didn't fly away when they nearly died on the plane, he didn't fly away when the safehouse burned down, he didn't fly away when Abbacchio had nearly died.

He didn't, he didn't listen to his mom, he stayed on the ground, with both feet planted firmly on the Earth, and he did everything he could.

Narancia had done his best.

Really, he had done everything he possibly could. That's what he kept telling himself as he flew away, only this time with Aerosmith by his side. Narancia had always wanted to go flying with Aerosmith, and now he finally was. It was his dream.

The streets of Italy were empty, and he wondered where all the people were. There were a few starlings in the sky, and he wondered if this was the sight they always saw. They flew away from the Colosseum, and Narancia wondered who he was leaving behind.

The hum of Aerosmith's engine was familiar, comforting, and it reminded him of the sort of song his mom would hum quietly while stroking his hair on nights when he couldn't sleep.

This was it. He could finally fly away to her. He could finally see her again. That's where Aerosmith was taking him, Narancia could feel it, could feel it pulling him away. Just like he'd always, always, always wanted.

But there was another pull, a strange sort of tug right where his heart was like it was being pierced through.

A memory came to his mind, a memory of sitting on his parents bed when he was five years old as his mom handed back his toy plane.

"But always remember," she was saying, and Narancia didn't, he didn't remember this part, not until now, but he knew it happened, could feel it. "That flying should come second to listening."

"Listening?" he heard himself echo in confusion.

His mom smiled, leaning down to poke an elegant finger right into his left breast, right at his heart.

"Listening to this," she replied before taking both sides of his head in her hands and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

The memory was gone but his mom's hands were still on his cheeks, Narancia could feel their lingering warmth and the brush of lips against his forehead and when they were gone, he tried to chase after them, but all he could reach was Aerosmith.

His Stand was in front of him, just floating there, and he knew it was looking at him.

"Show me," Narancia whispered through wobbling lips, reaching out with shaking arms to grasp the wings of the red plane and pull it close to him like the arms of a best friend.

"Please, I'm ready."

The frosted glass began to fade a second later, as if responding to his wish, and Narancia was sure he saw two people there for a second, someone just behind the pilot with a kind smile and tired eyes and magic fingers that pulled back from the pilot's shoulders and disappeared.

The pilot pulled his mask off and Narancia saw himself smiling back at him.

For some strange reason, he didn't feel like crying at all.

And it was like a curtain had been lifted because suddenly he could hear again, the whoosh of cars driving down the streets, the chattering of civilians walking along the sidewalks, the waves of the fiume Tevere, the strum of the guitar of a street performer, all as if he was right there on the road himself. All the sounds of his homeland he loved.

Aerosmith's soft hum faded into the background of the noise of the city below them, like a steady heartbeat just beneath the surface.

A starling trilled as it flew past them.

When Narancia looked back, the Colosseum was almost out of sight, its graying stone pillars like cracks in the glowing dawn sky. A soft smile spread across his face.

"This is enough," and he knew that it finally was.

Narancia wanted his mom to be proud of him and he'd always done what she said. Even though it seemed like Fugo always said the opposite.

His mom had called Narancia her little storno and it sounded like love. Fugo called him idiota and it sounded the same. His mom had told him to give thanks to their ancestors and to God for the blessings in his life. Fugo told him to thank the living because they were the ones who could hear you. His mom had said to fly away from the things that hurt. Fugo said that the things that hurt all had a meaning if Narancia tried to find it.

But his mom had always said to listen to his heart first, and for once, she and Fugo said the same thing.

All Narancia's life, he'd lived and lived. First for his mom, then for his friend, then he hadn't lived at all. And then he'd found Fugo, and Bucciarati, and he'd lived for them, and then he'd lived for Trish.

Fugo was right, he'd lived so many lives by now that he couldn't possibly count them all. Fugo was always right.

Narancia had so much love to give someone, if only he could find them, but they never gave it back, just threw it away like it was such a burdensome thing that Narancia hadn't wanted to love at all anymore. No matter how much he lived for others, nothing changed.

So maybe he would try living for himself this time.

As long as Fugo would be there with him, Narancia felt like he could finally do that.

And he thought that, maybe this time, all that love wouldn't be a burden this time, but a blessing. And that maybe, just maybe, he'd get it back.

Narancia turned to Aerosmith with a grin and found himself smiling back at him. He opened his arms and Aerosmith flew inside of him and he felt whole for the first time.

"I think… I've had enough of flying."