Chapter Text
Fugo tries to have something for breakfast every day. It’s a habit he picked up from his old roommate. Bucciarati used to pass him a water bottle or a Gatorade and say “anything’s better than nothing” when Fugo would mention that it took him hours after waking up to have an appetite.
So, every morning before work, he stops at a nice cafe between Bucciarati’s old apartment and Passione’s base of operations. It’s only been a couple weeks, but it doesn’t take very long for Fugo to make a routine, and the cafe is a nice routine to make as far as they go.
The place is mostly empty every time Fugo stops by. Come to think of it, based on the slightly inflated price of goods, it might be Passione or one of the other Dons' operations. Fugo always chalked it up to needing to make up for a lack of customers, but if they had extortion money coming in from the local grocers and restaurants, then that’d explain a lot.
Fugo takes a sip from his coffee. It clatters when he puts it back on its saucer, and he uses that hand to turn the page on Elizabeth George’s The Consequences of Hatred. He’s not as big a fan of serial crime stories, but he needs something to wake his mind up in the morning, and it’s fun guessing what callbacks are to the eighteen books he didn’t read and what details aren’t.
Something small smacks into his temple, like a fly not looking where it’s going, and at that thought, Fugo slaps the spot, hoping to catch it before it lands on any of his food.
He… caught it. Surprising. Usually takes him a few tries to actually nab a fly. Except the thing in his hand crinkles when he curls his fingers to get it off his face. It doesn’t feel like a bug though. He pulls his hand away to look, and instead of an insect, he’s holding something… paper?
Laughter to his left, and there’s Mista. In sweats. On his crop top, there’s an arrow pointing up to his face with the words “The man”. Pointing downwards: the legend”.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Mista says, putting a ziploc bag of something in his pocket. There’s a smirk pointed at Fugo. Sette nibbles at a dried strawberry slice on his shoulder. Fugo’s eyes flick to the cart of silverware and straws set out for the patio customers to use. Mista must’ve launched it from a straw at him, used Sette to make sure it hit, and then rewarded his stand for the task.
“Are you kidding me?” Fugo asks. He throws the projectile as hard as he can back at Mista. The paper moves a few centimeters at a fitting speed, but the wind resistance causes it to fall from about a quarter of the way to Mista. Two pistols materialize and start juggling it back and forth between them. “You realize we’re in—”
“C’mon, there’s nobody around.”
“What’re you doing? ”
Mista throws his arm over Fugo’s shoulder. Fugo tenses under it. “Just got done with my morning jog. What about you?” His eyes flick to Fugo’s cup.
“I didn’t know you jogged,” Fugo says.
“Well, I do. For a while, now, but it’s especially a nice day out for one. Besides, the jog wakes me up mentally after these little guys decide I’ve slept long enough.” He drags the hem of his crop top up to wipe the sweat off his face with “the legend”. His pants’ oversized waistband also shows more skin than usual. That’s when Fugo sees them.
Stretch marks, spearing around the jut of his hip and disappearing under his waistband.
Huh. Fugo didn’t know Mista had those… Hell, Fugo had never really known Mista had any scars. Though, in retrospect, Fugo should’ve at least guessed so. The guy gets shot so much, he might as well be a model at a photography shoot. But of all the scars Fugo would’ve guessed, he’s not sure he would’ve even thought to consider stretch marks.
They aren’t too noticeable compared to Mista’s happy trail, though. The hair there is dark—nearly black—and curly to the point of looking like a field of tangled-together springs. It starts about a hand wide just below Mista’s belly button and tapers in proportion to the vee of Mista’s hip flexors. Fugo thinks his fingers would disappear if he were to run them through—
Mista catches him looking, and follows his line of sight, crop top still in hand and torso out for the world to see.
“Ah,” he says. “You wanna take a picture? I’d be happy to pose, but if you want a tasteful nude, we gotta—”
“What?”
Mista points at his crotch. “You were staring down my pants, dude.”
“I wasn’t! I was looking at your— uh—” Wait. Wouldn’t it be rude to point out stretch marks?
“My wh— oh.” Mista runs his fingers over the line of them. “Gotcha. Still—” he gives Fugo a wink. “Offer still stands, but if this is a—”
“How can you already be this inappropriately flirty?” It’s barely eight in the morning.
Mista shrugs, smile tilted.
“Can’t help it. I feel good after I exercise.” He raises an eyebrow. “You want me to stop?I get it. Not many can handle all this.” He waves down himself.
Fugo narrows his eyes. “Can you just—” Fugo groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. What’s even the point? This is just how Mista is.
Fugo preoccupies himself with another sip of his coffee. He holds it in his mouth a little longer than usual, hoping it passes for savoring the flavor.
“Mama used to call them tiger stripes,” Mista says. “Don’t know if I believe that, but it’s a nice thought.”
“What does that mean ‘you don’t believe that’?”
Mista shrugs. “You got any?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“Ah. Well, it’s a nice thought and everything, but, y’know, I’m not a tiger. It’s fine. I know what she was tryna say, but I don’t see what about them I’m supposed to hate y’know?”
Fugo swallows. God, he wishes he knew what that was like. He doesn’t even have stretch marks. He has eczema scars on his elbows and under his armpits, and a paper-white crater sits about as big around as his pinkie on the side of his knee from a mosquito bite. He’s always checked and double-checked every suit so those don’t show through the holes. Though, how many fucking freckles he’s gotten on his chest from this fucking suit is a mystery.
Mista’s stomach growling interrupts Fugo’s thoughts. Mista snorts.
“Anyway. I’m fucking starving after all that exercise.” Mista helps himself to a seat beside Fugo. “Let me have a look at what we’ve got here.” Mista swipes a menu off the stand in the center of the table.
Fugo raises an eyebrow. “You have dried strawberries in your pocket. Is that not for eating?”
“Not if I can help it. It’s more of an emergency snack for the pistols in case they can’t wait until we’re home. I try to ration it for as long as I possibly can, though.”
“Why?”
“Cause I’ve got bills to pay,” he sings. “I’ve got mouths to feed. There ain’t nothing in this world for free. You know I can’t slow down. I can’t hold back, though you know—”
“Stop.” Fugo fights to hold a scowl. “Stop. I get it.”
“I don’t think you do, Fugo. See, you really can’t know what it’s like to be a parent until six yellow thumb-sized children that constantly need to be fed spit out from your soul.” Fugo groans, running a hand down his face, and Mista closes his eyes, getting louder and bringing a hand to his chest. “Ah. To be grabbed by a stand and have an arrow stabbed through your pulse point. The miracle of life.” Mista flicks the laminated menu as he picks it up to read. “So you may know what I’m saying, but until you have kids, you can’t understand.”
“I get it. You’re a bastard. If I pay for your food, will you shut up?”
Mista gasps. “How dare you. Gladly, but the nerve to even offer. Where are your manners?”
Mista tsks, shaking his head with it a few times, but he leaves it at that. He refocuses on the menu.
Within seconds, his eyes bulge.
“This shit’s expensive.” He looks at Fugo. “You really pay 3.50 for a loaf of bread here?”
Fugo rolls his eyes. “It’s only a euro-fifty difference from the grocery store down the road. It’s not that big a deal.”
Mista clicks his tongue. He throws the menu back down on the table. “Sorry, rich boy, but some of us grew up without the two extra euros to spare on jacked up bread. We had to budget out our money.”
The realization snaps its jaws around Fugo’s chest. This isn’t some personality quirk to poke fun at. Fugo’s ability to ask ‘What’s two extra euros?’ is a place of growing up rich. God, he’s an idiot. Way to make fun of Mista in the most douchebag way possible, you colossal—
“Hey, you alright?” Mista asks.
Fugo’s too tired to deal with navigating this conversation. God, he fucking hates mornings. He can’t do this.
Fugo shoves away from the table and stands. He didn’t completely finish, but his appetite’s shot anyway. He digs out his wallet and throws a few random bills on the table.
“Sorry. I’ll see you at work.”
Fugo shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and marches away.
“Hey, wh— Fugo!” gets called after him, but Fugo doesn’t stop.