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Narancia minded his own business. Usually.
That was what smart kids did—and he was a smart kid, even if he didn’t know why five times ninety was four hundred and fifty. He just knew that it was. It was a fact that had been branded in him by the intense feeling of hands throttling him, rattling his head against the wooden table as he was pelted with insults.
He didn’t blame Fugo, or maybe he did, but just didn’t care. The teen had taken him out for gelato and struffoli, both of them equally bruised and battered. Fugo had caught the mascarpone cream as it melted in a little rivulet down Narancia’s purpling wrists, dabbing his napkin there and glancing away with an odd expression. Narancia remembered feeling equally odd, clutching the now used napkin in his fist.
When a bit of honey from the struffoli smeared over the not-yet-scabbing slash where Narancia’s knife had nicked him, Fugo had winced. In the same instant, Narancia was there, offering the balled up napkin. It was the only one they had between them. Fugo had looked so weird when he accepted it, and it was the smaller boy’s turn to look away, his stomach turning like a sickness.
Too many sweets, Narancia had told himself.
Now, standing in the hallway and peering through an open door, his stomach was still flopping, and he felt downright awful —and this time, it was something completely different. Blond hair that was the wrong shade of pale, and far too long and soft . Not Fugo. The terrible feeling in his gut, like he was looking at something he shouldn’t? Not struffoli.
“Just take them off, Mista.” Giorno’s voice was serene but teasing as Mista leaned back into the deep frame of the window that he was propped up on. His cheeks were dark, a mix between the ruby of his knit cap and the scarlet of his sweater’s high collar.
Narancia caught a glimpse of fingers quickly unfastening Mista’s belt, before Giorno’s back shifted to block the view. When Giorno’s knees hit the floor, Narancia’s jaw nearly followed. This wasn’t happening. Giorno wouldn’t—Mista wouldn’t—would they? Together?
A million aborted half-thoughts crashed together in Narancia’s mind as his knees knocked against one another, and he gripped the doorframe with all the drama of the actresses in the dumb movies Mista liked to watch so much.
“T-this is your fault!” Mista hissed, bringing one hand up to cover a sound from his mouth as he whimpered, “Oh God, I can feel it, Giorno, you gotta—” The boy’s mouth wouldn’t stop running, and he squirmed against the window as his pants went slack around his hips.
Narancia could see Giorno’s shoulder blades shifting beneath the blue material of his suit, knew his hand was moving as the other, more visible one stayed on Mista’s thigh to hold him steady.
“It’s in my hand, now.” Giorno said, tone still calm. He looked up at Mista with what Narancia could only assume was a heated gaze—Narancia found himself equally affected and a thousand times more embarrassed as everything caught up to him at once.
It was like reality had been whirled at him with a slingshot, slamming into his gut and making him re-evaluate a lot of things as he backed slowly away from the door. He was quiet as could be, before a meter or two of distance had him turning on his heel and fleeing as fast as his legs could carry him.
Giorno barely turned to regard the sound of fleeting footfall, before a disgruntled Mista was tugging his pants up around his hips hurriedly. He watched the flustered boy with amusement, before turning his attention back to his curled fingers.
When he opened his fist, a shiny brown-black stag beetle sat in the palm of his hand, its legs waving in the air as it struggled to flip over. It seemed to be one limb short, a singed stump wagging in vain where a long, segmented leg should have been. With the nudge of a manicured finger, Giorno flipped it over.
“ Lamprima aurata —” The younger boy pronounced the Latin with ease, turning his eyes to Mista as he took the creature between his thumb and index finger. “—people used to wear them as jewelry.” Giorno added, offering it to Mista. “They’re fairly harmless, compared to cigarettes.”
Mista spared one reluctant look at the beetle and shuddered. When it turned back into a half-smoked cigarette, pinched delicately between the younger boy’s fingers, Mista shot Giorno another look and began digging in his pockets instead.
The corners of Giorno’s lips curled into a sly smile as he turned to stub the cigarette out in the ash tray. He didn’t really have a problem with Mista smoking. He was just a touch cruel in his sense of humor.
“Feel like it’s still crawlin’ all over me.” Mista said, tossing his lighter onto the window sill beside him, and propping his ankle atop his opposite knee. He slouched forward, opening up his pack of cigarettes and pulling out a new one.
Giorno glanced down to Mista’s lighter, before turning on his heel and making to exit. “I’ve got to talk to Buccellati about something. I’ll see you later.” The younger boy gave a casual wave behind him, not turning until he was shutting the door behind him.
“Yeah, yeah. See ya, GioGio.” Mista nodded at the other’s retreating back, as he felt around for his lighter. His fingers closed around something cool, but when he brought it up to his face it was soft and damp.
It croaked at him, and leapt out of his hand and onto Mista’s lap. Mista bit down on his cigarette as he reeled back, then let out a cry.
“Gio-Giorno. . .!”
On the opposite end of the villa, Narancia’s heated face—which had been buried in the palms of his hands—lifted up as he shot up off the bed to fumble with his CDs. He managed to hurriedly slide one into his boombox, which he hauled over to his bed.
“Can’t you guys be even a little quiet?” Narancia lamented to himself, as he tugged his headphones on and sank his burning face in a pillow.
Narancia had come to terms with a lot of things since his first encounter.
Giorno and Mista were together. Or, at least doing things —again, together. That was cool. That was great. In all honesty, he was happy for Mista. Proud, even. Giorno was intelligent, kind (but intimidating), and, if he were to be entirely honest, hot .
Mista was the sort of guy who deserved to have something pretty and blond in his arms, and hell, Narancia had witnessed the two of them doing good by it when they worked together. Giorno sharpened all of Mista’s soft sides, while Mista took the edge off of Giorno.
Really, Narancia could be mature—so if they wanted to do whatever they wanted to do, Narancia didn’t care.
He just hoped they closed the door next time.
And he certainly wasn’t envious.
He tapped his fingers against the surface of the table, staring past the pink curls of Trish’s hair to where Giorno and Mista were seated at a tiny booth in the corner of the caffé. There hadn’t been a big enough table open for them to all sit at one, and so they’d split. Mista’s eyes meeting Narancia’s as he slid into the corner booth had the younger boy going rigid and red-faced, and turning on his heel. He deposited himself at the nearest table, pretending not to notice when Giorno slid into to same side as Mista—who did that?
A table away, Abbacchio and Buccellati were leaning over their cups, conversing quietly. “Conversing”, of course, meaning Buccellati chatting pleasantly away, while Abbacchio sipped his black coffee without scowling for once in his life.
Fugo sat across from Narancia, staring out a window. Trish had her fingers splayed out in front of her, eying the polish and checking for any chips. It was rightfully awkward, with Narancia’s mind too occupied to start legitimate conversation.
Eventually, olive-colored eyes meandered back to the pair tucked away in the corner of the shop. Narancia didn’t mean to stare, but he couldn’t help it. Minding my own business my ass , Narancia thought to himself, what the hell were they thinking, doing something like that where anyone could see them?!
Narancia hardly noticed when the waitress slid his drink in front of him, along with a tall glass of mineral water for Trish, and something fruity and topped with cream for Fugo. The girl walked between the tables, passing Buccellati’s when the man smiled and said the coffee was good, and no, they didn’t need anything else. She slid in front of Narancia’s view, blocking Giorno from sight.
Mista seemed to be pursing his lips, as he watched through the side of his eyes as Giorno conversed with the waitress. Giorno certainly wasn’t the type to flirt, and so Narancia assumed he was probably busy deflecting the girl’s own flirtations. Honestly, he was surprised it wasn’t Mista stepping in to try and take what Giorno didn’t want. His standards were so low.
Narancia glanced down long enough to unwrap his biscotti and shove it through the layer of whipped cream on the top of his drink, down into the overly-sweet coffee beneath. He stirred it idly, looking back up.
Really, how did Mista even get Giorno? He remembered the time he’d watched Mista get splashed by a puddle when a bike drove through it. The biker had flipped him off afterwards, then Mista and Narancia had walked six blocks just to take turns pissing on his motorcycle when they’d found it parked in an alleyway. Giorno seemed far too classy for Mista.
Hadn’t Giorno also gotten wind of that rumor that Mista didn’t shower? Of course Trish had started that—and it wasn’t true, since Narancia spent half his mornings in the shower trying to sing Gin & Juice louder than Mista could sing Goodbye to Love .
Narancia’s eyes went wide with realization. He’d been wondering why Mista had recently started singing You’re the One during his morning showers, instead. Was Giorno the reason?
Gross.
When Mista pulled Giorno’s cup over and topped it off with a bit of fresh, steaming tea, Narancia could only grimace in disdain. The expression intensified when the older boy started fixing it—and you didn’t put three scoops of sugar in another’s cup if you didn’t know exactly how that person liked it. That was way too much. The implication that Mista did know how Giorno liked his tea was just as sickeningly sweet as the tea Giorno brought to his lips once the waitress left, or the smile that graced them after he’d taken a sip.
Mista seemed to bask in the attention when Giorno thanked him, slouching back against the booth and resituating himself in the seat as he beamed.
God, infatuated Mista was gross.
Narancia brought his biscotti up to his mouth to take a bite, only for it to sag limply from being over-soaked in coffee. Half of it broke off and fell back down into his drink, splashing froth and coffee everywhere. Narancia cursed, instantly reaching in to try and salvage his soggy biscotti before it turned completely into mush.
After managing to fish it out and shove it past his lips before it fell apart once more, Narancia was met with both Trish and Fugo offering him a napkin. The former had a slightly repulsed look on her face, and the latter was simply staring, deadpan as always. Narancia grabbed both of the napkins, and began mopping up the mess he’d made.
“Trish, Fugo,” The boy started, wiping his mouth on his forearm despite the fact that he had two napkins clutched in his hand. “Have you guys noticed Mista and Giorno acting weird?”
Fugo’s chin met the palm of his hand as he gave half-hearted shrug. “Mista’s always weird.” The younger boy started, looking to Trish. The girl seemed to agree, hiding a slight grin behind her glass of water. “Giorno’s weird as hell, too. Just in a different way.” Fugo finished, bringing his drink to his lips and taking a sip.
A grunt rumbled its way from Narancia’s throat, and he laced his fingers around the warm porcelain of his cup. The conversation seemed to fizzle out after that, and as usual, Narancia couldn’t help but let his attention be directed towards the corner booth once more.
Giorno was faced away from Mista now, but Narancia caught the ever-so-innocuous glance have gave down to his lap where—oh. Oh no. Narancia felt the sheer horror funnel into his mind when he saw Mista glancing down, his arm disappearing below the table at an angle that would put his hand right about where Giorno’s crotch was. It was moving rhythmically, as if Mista was doing that . . .under the table. . .
In the middle of a restaurant? Is no one else seeing this?!
Narancia must have let out a whimper, because immediately Trish scrunched up her face, looking at the boy with slight concern.
“Narancia, are you—“
“Bathroom!” Narancia shouted, shoving himself back from the table with enough force to make Fugo’s drink spill against his suit. Narancia’s chair scooted noisily across the terra cotta tiles, and the boy didn’t even recognize the violent anger licking at the red of Fugo’s irises “I-I’m sick! I’m gonna be sick!” Narancia lied as he fled the scene, with all eyes in the restaurant directed at him.
In the corner of the shop, Mista looked from the sight of Narancia’s retreating form, back down to the boot he had propped up on his knee. Giorno narrowed his eyes, watching as Mista resumed scraping with a fork at the wad of chewing gum stuck to the sole.
“You’re really using your fork to do that?” The younger boy said, not sounding like he truly cared all that much.
Mista huffed, managing to scrape the most of it free, and wiping the fork off with his napkin. “I’ll just have the waitress bring me a new one.” He responded, brows fitting about his eyes in a look of annoyance as he vigorously scrubbed at the spot with his napkin. “Seriously, who just—spits gum on the goddamn street—oh, shit.”
“Hm?” Giorno looked back down, placing his cup back against the saucer.
“Crap. Scoot, will ya? I got gum on my hands.” The older boy waited until Giorno had slid out of the booth, before making his way to the bathroom.
When Mista pushed through the door, he was met with the sight of Narancia gripping the sides of one of the bathroom sinks and staring into the mirror like he was having some sort of intense identity crisis. Narancia’s eyes met his in the reflection, and Mista cocked an eyebrow at his odd expression but stepped forward and started washing his hands anyway.
Narancia was still staring at him, flinching when Mista shifted in front of him.
“Could you move? I need the soap.” Mista said, regarding the younger boy with squinted eyes. “Got something sticky on my hands.”
If words could concuss, these would have.
S-Sticky?!
Narancia nearly screamed right then, pressing himself right up against the stall door and as far away from the older boy as possible.
In the midst of lathering up his hands, Mista turned to look at Narancia. Before he could get another word out to ask if the younger boy was okay, Narancia turned and ran into the furthest stall, leaving Mista surprised and wide-eyed, but altogether unaffected.
After drying his hands, Mista pushed his way out of the men’s bathroom and tossed his balled-up paper towel into the trashcan before the door swung shut behind him. Buccellati and the rest of them stood by the front, ready to leave.
“Is Narancia feeling alright?” Buccellati said, eyebrows knitted in vague concern.
Mista looked at him for a second, lips pursed as he formulated his response.
“Yeah, uh,” Mista’s expression went blank. “I have no fuckin’ clue.”
Narancia was not alright.
Narancia lived his life in fear, now. Every time he opened a door, he half-expected to see Mista and Giorno spread out across the nearest surface doing things to one another.
At night he put on his headphones and let Snoop’s dulcet tones usher him into a quiet, restful sleep, just so he didn’t have to potentially hear anyone moaning anyone’s name in the dead of the night.
He hadn’t talked to Mista or Giorno in a week, aside from a few loose, casual words to deflect any longer conversations from occurring. Narancia hated it, but he was powerless to do a thing about the way his face burned every time he saw either of them. He’d even bumped into Giorno in the hallway, and while the boy said nothing, he flashed a look that, at least in Narancia’s mind, said I know what you’ve seen .
Okay, so it was more of a confused, narrow-eyed look, but Giorno had the kind of face of someone who knew more than they were letting on. Needless to say, Narancia had muttered his apologies and hightailed it out of there.
He didn’t know how he was going to live through this sort of embarrassment.
Narancia closed the door that led to the garden behind him. His headphones were slung around his neck and his boombox was propped up on his shoulder. He’d just gone over his times tables with Fugo, and had managed to not mess up a single time. It was a beautiful day. He was feeling good, feeling lucky, and better than he had all week.
He should’ve known people only felt like this right before the universe took it all away.
“Like this?” Giorno’s voice came from a bit further along the path, and Narancia stopped in his tracks. He could make out a brief flash of blond hair on the other side of the rose-laden lattice. Immediately, Narancia stepped out of sight, kneeling down and placing his boombox down on the grass along with his headphones. Obscured by the foliage, he watched the scene with a sense of hopelessness welling up deep inside of him.
“Yeah, that’s good.” Mista said, his voice huskier than Narancia had ever heard it. He couldn’t see the older boy entirely, only saw him seated beside Giorno on the bench that looked out over the rest of the garden. Both of their eyes were trained downwards, watching as Giorno did something with his hands.
Narancia wondered earnestly—did God hate him?
“Oh, come on, Mista—” Another voice came. Narancia identified it as belonging to one of the six tiny metallic bodies that sat around them, one perched on Giorno’s shoulder. “He could be going a lot faster.” One of them continued—Sei, judging by the biting way it spoke.
“Lay off, guys. He’s doing just fine.” The annoyance was just as clear Mista’s tone as it was in features.
Sei threw its hands up in the air, “You’re just saying that because he’s—” Before the stand could finish, however, Mista’s hand closed around it, giving Sei a good shake.
“Hey, hey, shut it or you won’t get shit for dinner, yeah?” Mista threatened, red rising to his cheeks. “Giorno, ignore them. You just gotta move your hand like this.” He said, turning his attention back to the boy in front of him, who seemed to be taking the criticism quite well.
“We’re gonna miss dinner with how slow blondie is going, anyway. Let’s show him how it’s done, boys.” Sette spoke all of a sudden, from somewhere Narancia couldn’t see. The rest of the Pistols responded immediately, Uno hopping from its place on Mista’s head and dragging Due along with it. Tre shoved Cinque off the back of the bench, and it toppled to the ground before promptly bursting into tears, forgotten among the blades of grass as chaos ensued.
What the hell?
Narancia was going to pass out. Using your stands for sex? Who the hell did something like that? He’d always thought that from Mista’s lame taste in music and television shows, the boy would’ve been as vanilla as they come—but to think that Mista brought Sex Pistols out in bed? How the hell would that even work?
“Guys, that completely defeats the purpose of having him—Your hands aren’t even big enough to do it properly!” Mista came in frustration, as Sei wiggled free from his fist and hopped down into his lap.
Oh God. Narancia was going to cry. None of the stands he’d ever encountered should ever be used like this. His own stand was a fucking airplane, and Purple Haze? Narancia shuddered. Moody Blues? Too much set-up. That would just be awkward. Gold Experience? Sure, maybe if you wanted your dick turned into an anaconda—could Giorno’s stand even work like that?
Though, Buccellati could totally use Sticky Fingers to zip off—
“Narancia?”
The voice from behind him made the teen whirl around from where he was crouched down in the grass. He lost his balance, falling back against the lattice as he stared up at his capo.
“B-Buccellati? What are you doing here?” Narancia whispered, his voice more of a squeak than he intended. His fingers curled in the grass as he gave a look behind him, and then stared back at the older man as he tried desperately to unthink his most recent thought.
Buccellati took a step closer to Narancia and offered him his hand. “Mista’s teaching Giorno how to shoot. I thought I’d come and—are you crying?”
“No.” Narancia said in a pathetic-sounding voice, wiping the wetness away from one of his eyes as he let Buccellati pull him to his feet. The man started walk past him, over to Giorno and Mista, when Narancia grabbed his shoulder, trying to stop him from having to witness what Narancia had been witnessing all week. “Wait! Hold up, you really don’t—”
“Hey, Buccellati!” Mista came trotting up behind Narancia, who went rigid. “Did you get the food?”
Fishing around in his pocket for a moment, Buccellati pulled out a plastic-wrapped sausage, and tossed it to Mista. The boy caught it in his hands, and turned on his heel.
“Thanks, boss. The Pistols are getting a little rowdy.” Mista called behind him, already unwrapping the sausage and taking a bite, before reaching down and scooping the still-sobbing Cinque off the ground. He offered it the second bite, which it seemed to readily accept, tears disappearing as it feasted.
“I’m sure they’re harsh critics, with someone as good with a gun as you as their user.” Buccellati walked towards the two, before stopping with one hand on his hip.
Mista tore off bits of the sausage, tossing each of the Pistols a piece and watching as they devoured it. “They’re ripping GioGio to shreds.” He said after a second of watching, popping the last of the sausage into his mouth.
Giorno took ahold of the six bullets, and slid them into the barrel of the gun smoothly, just the way Mista had taught him. With a flick of the wrist, it clicked shut, and with a slight flourish he had the grip pointed towards Mista as he held it out to him. “If I can’t reload fast enough, it could put me in a bad spot. They have a point.” Giorno said with a shrug.
“They’re spoiled as hell.” Mista argued.
“They’re good teachers.” Giorno countered.
“You’re a good learner.” Mista took his gun, and gave Giorno a grin as he released the chamber, letting the rounds fall onto into his lap. In the blink of eye, he had the last one sliding back into place in the chamber, which clicked shut. He held the weapon smugly beside his face, finger resting carefully against the trigger guard.
“You’re a show off.” Buccellati came with a sigh, before looking over his shoulder. “Where did Narancia go? He was just here.”
Back at the villa, Narancia was taking the steps in twos as he made his way down the hallway, and skidded with a stop in front of a particular door. He took a deep breath, before knocking on it once, twice, and then another time for good measure, before deciding to just throw the door open anyway.
“Abbacchio, I need your help.”
Narancia stood in the doorway panting. This was too much. He was ready to get to the bottom of this.
Abbacchio’s feet were kicked up on his vanity as he languished in an arm chair, flipping idly through an edition of Vogue . “Then stop needing it.” The man came flatly, lowering the magazine and revealing his face, smeared grey with a charcoal mask.
“I know where to buy that frizzante that Buccellati loves.” The boy countered, shoulders rising and falling and his eyes blown wide. He raised one brow, unafraid of the way Abbacchio’s eyes were shooting him daggers.
Abbacchio stared at Narancia for a long while, his eyes gradually narrowing more and more until he finally inhaled deeply, and draped his magazine over the arm of the chair.
“Fine.”
Narancia and Abbacchio stood inside the closed caffé, watching as Moody Blues replayed the image from the day before of Mista hunched over in the corner booth, poking at a wad of gum on his shoe with a fork.
Abbacchio seemed to be growing more and more annoyed as Narancia made him rewind for the second time. They both watched the scene unfold again, Narancia with reddened cheeks and a sense of shame, and Abbacchio with a look of abject vexation.
“As intelligent as this display is, someone should tell Mista that he can find his parents in the primate exhibit at the Zoo di Napoli. In case he’s been wondering.” Abbacchio began, watching as the recording of Mista accidentally flicked some of the gum onto the floor, before leaning down and bumping his head on the table as he tried to search for it.
Narancia turned to the man, trying not to laugh. “That’s fucked, Abbacchio.”
Abbacchio simply stared at him, not a single part of him looking anything remotely close to ‘kidding’.
When the pair left the caffé, Narancia had the decency to re-lock the lock he’d picked on his way in. They walked through the Neapolitan streets and as a nighttime breeze rustled Narancia’s hair, he felt worlds better, if not a bit guilty from having misjudged the situation so badly.
They’d watched the recording in the study, seen Giorno on his knees with a stag beetle clutched in his hand. Narancia didn’t know what he would’ve done if these situations had been what he thought, and was, in all honesty, prepared to be killed by Abbacchio for making the man witness something like that.
However, Narancia had had a hunch—one that had turned out to be correct. He was just glad Abbacchio wasn’t the sort to give enough of a damn to pry, to question Narancia’s embarrassment or the red flush that spread to the tips of his ears.
When they reached the villa, Abbacchio leaned down.
“You owe me. Don’t forget.” He warned, voice low.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take you tomorrow to pick some up, okay?” Narancia promised, waving his hand behind him as he made his way up the stairs. Abbacchio parted ways, and Narancia swore he saw a tinge of pink dusting across the pallor of the man’s complexion.
Narancia made his way to his room, flopping down on his bed.
He felt restless, like he needed to talk to someone. After a moment of considering going to go annoy Fugo, just to get the whole ordeal off his chest, he decided against it—he didn’t think Fugo would really find it as hilarious as Narancia now did in retrospect.
Instead, Narancia popped another CD into boombox, and started humming and bobbing his head along with the beat. About halfway through 2Pacalyspe Now , and the fluttering feeling in Narancia’s stomach hadn’t gone away. Something about the situation wouldn’t stop nagging at him, and so with a huff he pushed himself up from his bed.
Apologizing was always the thing to do, if for no other reason than the fact that it made Narancia feel better about himself. He hadn’t actually done anything to Giorno or Mista, but he felt somewhat guilty for making a fuss and ignoring them for so long.
Mista’s room was the closest, and so Narancia headed there, first. Over and over in his mind, Narancia recited what he was going to say. Something along the lines of hey, Mista, sorry for screaming and running away from you every time I saw you this past week. I thought I walked in on Giorno blowing you and it made me feel pretty awkward. And then in the restaurant? I thought you were giving him a handie under the table. Haha, funny, right? And you don’t even want to know what I thought you were doing with Sex Pistols. . .
Narancia furrowed his brows as he reached the bedroom door. He could probably stand to condense that apology, and maybe even not mention any of the details whatsoever. There was no reason to make things more awkward than he’d already made them.
Narancia’s hand was an inch shy of the doorknob, when a familiar voice made him freeze.
“You can go harder, Mista.”
What.
The sound of a mattress creaking came faintly from the other side of the door.
No, no way. Narancia wasn’t falling for it again. Mista and Giorno were not doing anything weird, and no , that was definitely not a moan he just heard.
Gathering all of his strength, Narancia threw open the door.
Mista was the one to yelp, quickly untangling his hand from a fistful of loose, blond hair and dragging his bedsheets up to cover his and Giorno’s very naked bodies.
Narancia stumbled back, collapsing in the threshold and bringing his hands up to cover his eyes as he literally screamed . “I didn’t—I didn’t see anything! I saw nothing, okay?! Oh, my god. . .” Narancia cried, louder than the string of Mista’s curses as the older boy swiped his boot off the floor.
“Shut up! Get out!” Mista cried back, his face redder than it had ever been as Giorno lay stunned underneath him, watching the scene unfold.
Narancia scrambled out into the hallway, watching one of Mista’s boots go sailing past his head and thump into the opposite wall. He quickly kicked the door shut, just in time to hear something else thud against it.
Only a moment was spent gathering himself, chest heaving and sweat rolling down the back of his neck as Narancia quickly came to terms with what he’d just witnessed. He didn’t need Moody Blues to sort anything out this time—he knew exactly what he’d seen.