Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13968582.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      ジョジョの奇妙な冒険_|_JoJo_no_Kimyou_na_Bouken_|_JoJo's_Bizarre_Adventure
  Relationship:
      Pannacotta_Fugo/Narancia_Ghirga
  Character:
      Pannacotta_Fugo, Narancia_Ghirga, Bruno_Buccellati
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Vento_Aureo, Altered_Mental_States, Hurt/Comfort, Trans_Male
      Character, Masochism, Protectiveness, Mild_Gore, Dirty_Talk, mild_vore,
      Is_that_a_thing, you_might_say_it's, metavoreical, Possessive_Behavior
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-03-14 Words: 4159
****** Box Me In, Hold Me Still ******
by ChimaAmla
Summary
     Sometimes it takes things going very, very wrong to make them to
     finally go right.
Notes
     Alt-J's 'Every Other Freckle' goes well with the second half of this.
Fugo dropped himself onto the couch, stretching his legs out and sighing.  He
opened his eyes when he heard a page rustle, and he looked over to see Narancia
curled up in a tangle of limbs in one of the armchairs, half-camouflaged
against its gaudy print.  Narancia’s nose was buried in a comic book, and Fugo
watched him lazily as his eyes flickered back and forth across the pages.
Narancia’s feet tapped excitedly against the arm of the chair and he snickered
at something and flipped the page.
Fugo sat up sharply.
“What the  fuck,  Narancia!”
Narancia practically jumped out of the chair, half up onto the arm of it and
Aerosmith shimmering into view over his shoulder before he realized it was
Fugo.  “Holy shit, don’t scare me like that!” he started to slide back down
onto the seat, but was back to standing on the chair a moment later to keep the
comic away from Fugo’s snatching fingers.
Fugo got a hand on it anyways and dragged it down against Narancia’s grip.
 “You claim you can't read, so what is this!” He shook it under his nose.
“It ain't the same!”  Narancia shoved a hand against Fugo’s face, trying to
push him away, and yelped and snatched it back when Fugo snapped his teeth at
him.
“Oh, and how, pray tell, is it different?”
“The letters don't jump all over the place here!”  Narancia jabbed his finger
against the page and refused to let go even when Fugo dragged him out of the
chair by his grip on it.  “Give it  back!”
That gave Fugo pause.  “I...what?”
“I said  give it back!”  Narancia kicked him in the shin and Fugo yelled and
shoved him, sending him half to sprawling.  Narancia was back on his feet a
second later, switchblade flicking out in his fingers, half-crouched and ready
for Fugo to come at him.
Fugo lowered the comic and glanced at it in his hand, but it was just a regular
issue of Spider-man.  “I’ll give it back when you explain about the letters
jumping.”
“They run all over the fucking page in the textbook, but they sit still long
enough for me to fuckin’ read 'em there!” Narancia snapped like it was obvious.
Fugo narrowed his eyes and tried to find the punchline.  “Books don't move.”
“Sure they do!  All the fuckin' time!”  Fugo glanced down at the comic again,
then held it out slowly.  Narancia hesitated for a half-handful of seconds
before he came just close enough to snatch it out of his hand.  “Makes me sick
just lookin’ at 'em,” he muttered.
“What kind of joke are you trying to pull?  It's  print,  not a TV.”
Narancia snarled and threw the comic book down suddenly, jabbing an accusing
finger at Fugo.  “Don't you pull this shit with me, Fugo, not you too!” His
face was twisted up in fury and he looked like he was going to throw himself at
Fugo fists-first, or maybe cry.  “I  know  what I'm seein’, and it don't matter
if the whole world tells me I ain't, but don't you fuckin’ do it too!”
He stared at Fugo for another few moments and then stomped away, stalking out
of the room with his shoulders up around his ears.
Fugo stared at the empty doorway, mind whirling, and finally swiped the comic
up off the floor and started after him.  Narancia was nowhere in sight, so Fugo
worked his way through all of Narancia’s usual haunts in the suite; on the
counter in the corner of the kitchen, the space between the top of the armoire
and the ceiling, the sunny spot on the floor in one of the bedrooms he liked to
fight with Mista over - Fugo finally found him in corner of the bay window of
the dining room, tucked half behind the leaves of one of the big potted plants.
“Fuck off,” Narancia muttered before Fugo even had a chance to say anything.
Fugo leaned against the wall on the other side of the plant, flicking through
the comic without seeing it as he tried to find the right words.  “I know
you’re not a liar,” he finally drawled with what he hoped was the right amount
of casualness. “You’re an idiot, not a liar.”
“Fuck  off,”  Narancia spat, and through the screen of leaves Fugo could see
the whiteknuckle grip he had on his open switchblade.
“...I’m sorry, all right?” Fugo forced himself to say.  “I believe you. I
should’ve believed you from the start.”  He chewed the next words over, then
tried to say them as playful as he could.  “You’re too terrible at lying.”
“Fuck you,” Narancia said, but there was no bite in it.  Fugo reached slowly
around the plant, just enough to set the comic book at Narancia’s feet.
“Come out?” he said cautiously.  “I’ve got an idea.”
The switchblade flicked in and out of its sheath a few times, and Fugo leaned
back against the wall and waited.  Narancia pulled the comic in toward himself
with his foot, picked it up and rifled through it, went still again.
“Okay, fine,” Narancia finally muttered and unfolded himself from the corner of
the window.  “You’re still an asshole, though.”
“I never claimed otherwise,” Fugo said as he pushed away from the wall.  He led
Narancia over to the dining room table, pulling one of the notepads over as
they sat next to each other, and Narancia groaned when Fugo started writing
numbers down.
“No, not right now, fuck this--”
“Just try.  I want to try something.”  He pulled more numbers out of the air
and wrote a few simple problems down the side of the paper.  He took the first
pair and put them into the standard stack multiplication method. “They don’t
sit still, right?”
Narancia didn’t even have to answer; his shoulders were up around his ears
again and the glare on his face said it all.
Fugo started writing again, this time putting the first problem into a lattice
and adding a couple more lines to fence in the base numbers.  Narancia had
perked up before he even started explaining. “Now you just multiply these and
put the answer here, and this here, and then add the channels together and put
the sum here,” he demonstrated, and when he glanced over he could see the light
in Narancia’s eyes.
“Yeah...yeah!  Box 'em in so they can't wiggle around, hold the little fuckers
still!” He grabbed the pencil from Fugo and all but attacked the page,
scribbling numbers around his own messy lattices and filling them in like
crosswords.  It was an ungodly mess, but he seemed to be getting somewhere,
finally, after all this time struggling.
Fugo leaned back just in time to see Bruno glide into the room.  He reached out
a hand so Bruno could trail fingers against his in greeting without disturbing
Narancia’s half-mad focus; Bruno looked over his shoulder a moment later, down
at the mess Narancia was turning the notepad into.  He arched an eyebrow and
Fugo shrugged,  whatever works, right?,  and Bruno gave a half-nod of
acknowledgement.
“I have a job for you, Fugo,” Bruno finally said.


Honestly, it hadn't even occurred to Fugo he was probably going to die.
Even when he was on the ground all he could think about was dragging himself
up, slamming his fists into that bastard's face, burying his teeth in his
throat-- he just had to  get up--
He barely saw the hail of bullets through the blood in his eyes, but he  hated
them.   This was  his  job, Narancia should be back at the hotel,  safe,  he
had  no right--


The room was dark and quiet.
There was just enough light coming in from the window to make out the familiar
shapes of his bedroom.  The suite furniture was as immaculate as always, the
closet neatly shut, the mirror casting a faint square of light back onto the
hardwood.  The O2 sensor leading from his right index finger to the heart
monitor next to the bed, though, and the IV snaking out of that wrist, those
were new.
Narancia was sprawled gangly over the armchair in the corner, head thrown back
at an uncomfortable-looking angle and snoring softly.  He had a bright orange
bandaid in the crook of the elbow of the arm thrown over his face. It was oddly
endearing.
The world spun slow and hazy and nice when Fugo looked down at his own half-
propped-up body more carefully.  Only his right arm was out from under the
blanket, but the shapes of the rest of his limbs were still there, which was a
quiet relief.  He was in his second-favourite pajamas, the delicately-
embroidered strawberries just barely visible against the pale silk. His hands
were sluggish and clumsy when he tried to push the blankets off enough to get a
look at himself; morphine, it must be, in with the saline solution.
“Oh, shit, you okay?” Narancia said with a quick patter of bare feet on
hardwood.  It was an effort for Fugo to turn his head up as Narancia stood over
him, and he hoped his glare showed through the haze of painkillers.
“You were supposed to stay here.”  He was relieved to hear his voice come out
mostly normal, if a little hoarse.
Narancia’s face twisted from soft concern to an angry, closed-off glower.  “And
it was supposed to be an easy job that didn’t need more than one person.  We
both fucked up.”
He fiddled with the edge of the blanket and didn’t look at Fugo.  Fugo waited.
“It ain’t gonna be math.”
Fugo blinked.
“If you’re gonna die.   Math  ain’t gonna be the last thing we do together.
 I’m gonna be right next to you and we’re gonna.”  Narancia broke off. His
hands were gripping the blanket so hard they were shaking.  His lips were
pressed together with little movements still twitching them, like he was
clenching his teeth on the bitter words in his mouth.
Fugo slid his hand across the bed to close his fingers in a light circle around
Narancia’s wrist.  Narancia grabbed his hand around the O2 sensor like it was a
lifeline.
“I don’t want to die either, but it’s going to happen someday,” Fugo said
quietly.  “Probably sooner for soldiers like us.”
“Well, don’t,” Narancia said sharply, voice thick and fingers like a vise
around Fugo’s hand.  “I’ve had enough of people leavin’ me behind.”
Fugo slid his thumb against the knob of Narancia’s bony wrist, back and forth,
Narancia’s heartbeat fluttering like a bird’s under his fingertips.
There was a deep line of not-quite-pain in his shoulder as he raised his other
hand slowly, trying to keep it steady as he settled it on the back of
Narancia’s neck.  Narancia ducked his head at the touch, hiding his face behind
his bangs and letting Fugo slide his hand up into his hair. There was a distant
ache in Fugo’s ribs on one side, and when he tested the idea of pulling himself
up he realized the knife wound in his shoulder must go down onto his chest,
too, from the line of not-pain that he now realized trailed halfway down to his
belly.
“I’m not sure I can come up there,” he said quietly, and when Narancia glanced
at him he gave him a wan little smile and tugged gently on the back of
Narancia’s neck.
Narancia had too much on his face for Fugo to even begin to decipher, but then
he leaned down and crushed their lips together like he was starving for it.
 Tongue and teeth and wet lips, pushing desperate, and if he closed his eyes
then the whole world was Narancia’s mouth on his and their fingers tangled
together.
“Why’d you wait so long?” Narancia complained from halfway inside his mouth.
 Fugo gave a breathy laugh.
“Why did you?”
Narancia kissed him again instead of answering, leaning over him and bracketing
Fugo’s body with his skinny arms.  Fugo let his hand slide down over Narancia’s
shoulder, his skin impossibly soft under the dreaminess of the morphine.
 Narancia made a small noise into his mouth and it was so perfectly between
sensual and adorable Fugo couldn’t stop himself laughing quiet into the kiss.
“Shut up,” Narancia whined, and Fugo grinned against his lips.
“All right.”
There was no rhythm to it, but they were settling into it anyways, tongues
playing against each other with little wet noises that sounded amazing in the
quiet dark.  Narancia shifted over him with another little noise and his wrist
pushed tight against Fugo’s side, right in the middle of the ache, and Fugo
gasped at the sudden pain.
“Shit,  I'm sorry-” Narancia was pulling away, but Fugo grabbed him as tight as
the morphine would let him.  Every little bruise made itself known with the
motion, and he was suddenly  very  aware of how hard he was.
“No, it’s,” he tried to catch his breath.  “It’s okay, it’s good, it’s good.”
His voice sounded desperate and strange in his own ears.  Narancia was stock-
still against him except the heaving of his chest, face trapped tight against
Fugo’s neck, and Fugo forced himself to loosen his grip.  “...Sorry.”
But Narancia didn’t move, stayed bowed over him with his face tucked in the
junction of Fugo’s neck and shoulder.  “I ain't, exactly, got all the bits you
might be expectin’,” he finally said, haltingly, and Fugo blinked, feeling slow
and stupid with the morphine and arousal distracting him.
“Is that a problem?” he asked.  “For you?”
Narancia laughed high and a little mad.  “Shit, I'm supposed to be askin’  you
that,” and then he was kissing Fugo again like he wanted to dive into his mouth
and live there.  Fugo’s heart pounded in his ears and he forced himself to tear
away from Narancia’s wet lips.
“Wait, the, you need to turn off the alarm,” he made himself say.  He tried to
point at the heart monitor but his hand moved sluggish and strange and heavy,
and it ended up being more of a vague flop that landed on the blanket by
Narancia’s knee.  He laughed a little. “We’re lucky it didn’t go off already.
It should be easy to find.”
“Lemme just bring it over for you to read,” Narancia mumbled and leaned back,
and Fugo managed to get his hands on Narancia's.
He fumbled Narancia's fingers into something like a snapshot pose.  “Box them
in.”
Narancia looked at his hands, then Fugo, then the monitor, and then reached out
and dragged it over like he wanted to fight it.  He frowned and covered up half
the monitor’s screen, face tight with focus in the glow of the display, and
Fugo just barely heard him mutter “Don't let 'em wiggle around.”  He pushed a
button, hesitated and glanced at Fugo with his finger over another. His eyes
were wide and dilated between the light and the dark, huge, endless wells, and
Fugo felt like he was tumbling head over heels toward the bottom of them.
Narancia looked back at the monitor and pushed another button, slid his other
hand across the screen to block out and read another part, and the unsteady
pride pulling at the corners of his mouth was good enough for Fugo.
Fugo realized his hands were already stroking and gripping Narancia’s thigh,
and he slid them up to his waist to tug Narancia toward him.  Narancia came
over easy, kicking the blankets down Fugo's body and swinging a leg over his
hips, and he grinned giddy and laughed when he settled back against Fugo’s
erection.  “Oh, wow, you weren’t kidding.”
Fugo just let his head fall back against the pillows, panting quietly at the
sweet pressure of Narancia’s weight on his hard-on through the silk of his
pajamas.  Narancia’s hands were cool on the sides of his face and then his lips
were warm against Fugo’s, and Fugo let himself sink into the feeling of
Narancia’s tongue against his own, the heat of his skin, the thick, wanting
pain of Narancia’s knee pressing light against his broken ribs.  Fugo’s head
fell back again and he couldn’t stop his hips rolling up against Narancia’s,
cock straining for friction.
“Shit,”  Narancia said and squirmed on top of him, hands going up under the
bottom of Fugo’s pajama shirt and baring his belly to the cool air.  They
traced down again slower, circling what Fugo could only assume were bruises the
morphine had dulled the feeling of to nothing.
Fugo reached up to fumble with the buttons of his shirt, but his hands were so
stupid at the moment it was worse than a lost cause.  Narancia’s fingers were
quick on them, though, and when Fugo’s shirt slipped open across his chest he
could see the neat line of dark stitches marching forward over his left
shoulder, all the way down to where his pectoral started to curve in again.
“Damn.  He really got me.”  Fugo frowned as he looked at it, feeling stupid for
letting the bodyguard so close in the first place, and stupider for not dodging
back those last few centimeters more.  Narancia’s fingers settled light over it
from where it started on his shoulder, trailed down so slowly; it was too light
to bring any pain up out of his dulled nerves, but he felt every stitch as they
caught on the whorls of Narancia’s fingerprints.  It was as intimate as if he’d
plunged his hand into Fugo’s chest and cupped his heart with his bare fingers.
Then Narancia’s lips were on the slice in his chest, his tongue light and wet
against Fugo’s heartbeat, and he might as well have put his mouth on his cock
for the noise it pulled from between Fugo’s lips.
“ Fuck,  Fugo,” Narancia breathed against his skin as he squirmed on top of
him, rolling his hips for his own friction.  A lost noise worked out of
Narancia’s throat and Fugo gripped tight to his hips, slid his hands down to
cup his ass, and then Narancia was leaning back far enough to roll onto his
back between Fugo’s legs and struggle his pants off.  “Shut up,” he whined when
Fugo laughed, and then he was on top of Fugo again and the laugh broke off to a
gasping moan at the feel of his naked cunt against Fugo’s cock.
Narancia was wet enough the silk between them was soaked through in a moment,
and Fugo bucked up against him and panted at the blinding shot of pain and heat
the movement sent through him from his ribs.  Narancia’s lips were on his
shoulder again, and when his teeth dragged against the hot skin around the
stitched-up gash Fugo breathed, gasped, fuck probably  moaned  into Narancia's
ear.
“You know they said I was too little?” Narancia snarled against his skin as his
teeth popped across the knots of the stitches down his chest one by one. “They
wanted to put some  stranger's  blood in you.”  His voice was quiet and
vicious, territorial, and Fugo wanted to climb into him, live behind his teeth.
“Let me in,” he panted harsh against the cup of Narancia’s ear as his hands
dragged Narancia’s shirt up his back, “Let me in let me in, I want to, to open
you up and crawl under your  ribs--”
“Fuck,”  Narancia shuddered on top of him and crushed their mouths together.
 Fugo pushed his tongue past Narancia’s gasping lips, traced his teeth, let
Narancia push back until their teeth clacked and his lips ached and he tasted
blood.  “You’re killin’ me,” Narancia panted as he pulled away enough to, and
when he sat back Fugo groaned at the pressure on his cock and dragged himself
up through the bright gasping pain to press his lips to the center of
Narancia’s chest.
“Want to get between your lungs, hollow out a space right next to your heart,”
he insisted as Narancia dragged his shirt up and off under Fugo’s hands and
lips.  “You can live in me, too, I’ll keep you safe. They’ll have to cut me
open worse than this to get at you.” Fugo’s head spun as he kissed and licked
along the dip between Narancia’s barely-there breasts, and his babbling broke
into a needy noise when Narancia reached between them to fumble Fugo’s erection
out from the soaked silk of his pants.  Fugo got a hand down between them to
steady his cock and the whole world went white as Narancia balanced himself
against Fugo’s shoulders, and then he was sinking down on him. Fugo felt the
wet  pop  of one of his stitches tearing free, maybe more, and it was like,
like,  God  Narancia was wet and tight on his cock, he couldn't  think,
everything just a slurred haze of  yes, yes, yes.
He didn’t know when he’d laid back against the bed again, maybe he'd fallen,
but he could hear himself making desperate little hurt noises on every thrust,
bright flashes of agony from his broken rib going straight to his cock.  The
world spun dizzy and uncontrollable, but his blood sang with it as Narancia
bent over him and boxed him in with his arms.
“Nobody fucks you up but me, Fugo, you got that?” he snarled down at him, face
desperate and panting, cunt slick and open on Fugo's cock.  “You ain't allowed
to go out and get yourself killed on us.”
“Never,” Fugo gasped.  “Never leave you, fuck, gonna-” it was too much, the
world turned-over and blinding and inside-out, and he could barely breathe as
every inch of him drew tight and spilled in Narancia’s wet heat.
Narancia moaned and ground down against him through it, shoving a hand between
them to rub himself quick and needy, his knuckles digging into Fugo’s belly.
 Then he was tight, pulsing and bucking on top of him, and when his teeth came
down vicious on Fugo’s shoulder Fugo’s cock throbbed with it. It ate up every
sense, too much and curling him in as orgasm kicked through his muscles and
nerves and veins all over again like it was trying to tear him apart from the
inside out.
Narancia dragged his hand from between them to prop himself up off Fugo’s bad
side, and Fugo dragged in an aching lungful of air.  He shook and gasped,
wondering if his heart would slow down or pound clear out of his chest - every
breath sent a shot of pain through his ribs, and he fought himself back to
something like calm, took stock.  His side hurt like a stab wound, but he could
still breathe, so nothing internal was damaged. His stitches were liquid fire,
but Narancia wasn’t panicking, so they couldn’t have torn open too badly.
As if on cue, Narancia asked “Did I hurt you?”  His fingers brushed across
Fugo’s shoulder. Fugo dragged his eyes open against the hazy-sweet exhaustion
settling into him; Narancia had leaned back and was worrying his lip, eyes
darting across Fugo’s chest.
Fugo couldn’t quite meet his gaze, so he turned his head to catch Narancia’s
fingertips between his lips.  Just enough to kiss the blood off them, just
enough to give himself time to find the right words. “...I thought it was
obvious I wanted you to,” he finally said.
Narancia bent to bury his face against Fugo’s good shoulder.  “You’re so
fuckin’ weird,” he mumbled, and Fugo could feel his face hot against his skin.
Fugo just gathered him down, settling him against the side without the broken
ribs or damaged shoulder, and Narancia squirmed to a comfortable position and
pulled the blanket up over them.  Fugo checked his wrist; the clip had detached
from his finger at some point and disappeared, but the medical tape around the
IV port had held steady enough it was still in place.
Narancia yawned.  “Bruno’s gonna have a shitfit in the morning.”
“I’m sure it will be terrible,” Fugo said mildly.  Narancia was warm and soft
against his side, tucked under his arm, and his quiet breath across Fugo’s
collar was already sinking him down into the dark.
He was almost gone when Narancia’s voice rose out of the quiet.  “I don't think
you'd fit.”
Fugo blinked his eyes half-open to look down at him.  Narancia wasn’t looking
up at him, only the dark bird’s nest of his hair visible from under the
blanket.  “What?”
“You said you wanted to get between my lungs.”  His fingers were curling gentle
and thoughtless against Fugo’s wrist.  “But you'd bust right through my ribs.”
Fugo trailed his fingers along the knobbly line of Narancia’s spine, face
heating as he wondered what else his mouth had let escape.  “They hold your
heart, don't they?” Narancia shrugged against him, and Fugo pressed a kiss to
the top of his head. “So they'd be able to hold me.”
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