Chapter Text
The old apartment is almost too big for Fugo without Bucciarati here listening to music on the pull-out couch. Good for him though, running off into the sunset with Abbacchio however long ago.
It’s grounding, being in the old apartment Fugo shared with his boss. It’s a good reminder of the last time Fugo saw Bucciarati: standing alone on an island, staring unblinkingly at a shrinking visage of his back as he disappeared across the waterline in a speedboat. It’s a good reminder that isolation is what traitors get.
Fugo sits cross-legged on his bed, using the lumps in the mattress to help prop his knees up. Without the others, it’s a lot quieter. Makes it easy to focus on his book.
Fugo starts work tomorrow.
It’ll be a nice night for not sleeping, especially when the sun finally sets. Hot, though. Fugo’s lived in southern Italy his whole life, but he’s never gotten used to the summers. He has the window open so it’ll be cool enough that he won’t be sweating while he’s lying awake in bed.
He flips the page of his book.
“It won’t be long until she’s fond of you,” Constance was looking— God damn it, what’s happening?
Fugo flips the page back. He scans for the part where he got lost.
Fugo bares his teeth. He flips back another page. Jesus Christ, how is he expecting to do his fucking job if he can’t even read a damn book?
Pings rattle against the window to his right, and something smacks Fugo in the temple. A shower of noises bounce around his room. It takes Fugo a second of processing to realize there’s pebbles covering his apartment. “Hey!” he yells. He jolts up and storms over to the window. Who the fuck is going around throwing handfuls of pebbles? Are they trying to get their ass kicked? He hopes they’ve got some kind of death wish, cause when he’s done with them there’s not gonna be—
A surprised Oh fuck echoes from outside into Bucciarati’s apartment. Fugo shoves his head out.
There’s only one soul below the second story window—Mista: shoulders hunched, eyes squinted, head tilted away.
“Sorry! Didn’t think it was open!” he yells up.
Fugo blinks, fingers tightening around the windowsill. “Why’re you throwing rocks at my fucking window?” Two can play at this game. Fugo can throw them back at his fucking head and see—
Oh shit. Wait. Isn’t Mista his boss now?
“To get your attention. It worked, didn’t it?” Mista nods his head back. “Get down here.”
Fugo swallows. “You couldn’t have just knocked?”
“Would you have answered?”
Another thing Bucciarati kept in good condition at their apartment is the front door’s peephole. “Always know who’s at the door before letting someone know you’re home.”
“Yeah, that’s why,” Mista calls up. He gestures with his hand. “Now hurry up and get down here. We’re going on an adventure.”
Oh God, there’s a mission for him already? He’s not supposed to start until tomorrow. He was gonna spend the night getting back into the mindset of I-am-actively-making-my-life-more-dangerous-than-it-already-was. But Mista’s his boss now. Mista’s the second in command, and Fugo hasn’t even had his first day. Sure, he’s—
“Just—” Mista cuts himself off. “I just wanted us to go watch the sunset. We…” He rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s been a while. We’ve gotta discuss some shit. C’mon, already.”
Fugo swallows. Fugo checks his watch. It’s barely 8.
“The sun doesn’t go down until 9,” he yells back.
“Exactly.” Mista shrugs. “Gives us time to talk.”
Fugo’s stomach sinks. “About what?”
Mista groans. “Will you get your ass down here, already?”
Fugo sighs. He’s already going in tomorrow morning. He doesn’t see what Mista could want that can’t wait until then.
Except Mista’s his boss now. So it’s not like he has much of a choice.
Mista hasn’t moved by the time Fugo makes it down the stairs. Mista turns and walks. Fugo hurries after him.
Fugo has time to think in the silence on the way. This can only be about one thing: Fugo’s a traitor at heart, and he’ll never truly have a place back in Passione. At the very least, not without proving he deserves one.
It’s a long walk. Mista brings him to the park where Bucciarati taught Fugo to people-watch. They walk until they hit the viewing platform. It’s completely clear of people, but there’s a good view into downtown. As good a view as a mid-level platform can have in Naples.
Mista leans his elbows on the handrail. He spares a glance behind him—the first of their trip—and gestures forward with his head. “Figured we got some air to clear before work.”
Fugo swallows. He trudges up beside Mista and stands straight with his arms at his side. He grabs the hem of his shirt and rubs along the seam. Great. Fantastic. Sudden confrontations. Those always go well for him.
“Look,” Fugo starts. “I get it. You don’t have to do this.”
“Nah,” Mista says. “I do. We’re gonna have missions together. We gotta be on the same page. So—”
“Just tell me what page to be on when we get there.”
Mista takes a deep breath in.
“Okay,” he says, face pointed skyward. “I want this to be a one-time conversation, a’ight? Make sense?”
Fugo swallows. Right. Boss.
“Yes, Signore.” God that feels weird. Signore.
Mista reels back. “Don’t do that. Why’re you doing that?”
Fugo blinks. “What?”
“Signore. Why’re you doing that?”
Is he… joking? He’s the second-in-command. It’s proper decorum. Does he— Does he think Fugo’s being sarcastic?
“You don’t trust me,” Fugo says. He knew no one in Passione would trust him, but even about showing simple respect with titles? Something acid burns at the base of his throat. It’s different knowing he fucked up that badly and seeing it. Especially coming from Mista.
“Look, just talk to me. You’re acting like a real jackass.”
Muscle memory would have him roll his eyes, but he swallows the urge. It can’t be like how it used to be. Fugo’s a damn traitor.
“Don’t pretend it’s not true,” Fugo forces out instead. Mista’s always been an honest guy. It’s one of the few things Fugo’s always admired about him.
Mista groans and runs a hand down his face. He leaves it covering his mouth.
“God, you’re not making a lick of sense. If I didn’t trust you, would I have invited you, alone, to the middle of nowhere just as night’s falling? I know you think I’m stupid, but do you really think I’d forget how Purple Haze works?”
Fugo flinches. “Sorry.”
Mista throws his arms up. “Man, what the fuck is up with you? Sorry? You’ve never apologized to me in—”
“You’ve never been my damn boss.” Fugo’s nails dig into the heels of his hands.
Mista’s words taper off. He tilts his head.
“I’m not your boss,” he says. “Who told you I was your boss?”
Fugo blinks. He turns to Mista. “You’re the second in command. By default—”
“Nah, it’s like… department feels like the wrong word, but it’s two separate departments. You’re an advisor. Like Pol.
Fugo’s brows draw together. “Like who?”
“Y’know, P— Oh. Hm. I’ll, uh… introduce ya tomorrow. That’d take a little too much explaining now. Just— look—”
Mista turns fully to Fugo. He shoves his hands in his pockets, but stands with his back straight, mirroring Fugo’s own posture. It’s striking how much taller Mista is. Fugo can’t remember noticing that before.
“As far as I’m concerned, we’re straight. Bucciarati gave us all the option to ditch, and I don’t hold it against you. I just wanna make sure you know that I don’t think of you as a… like a backstabber or anything. We’ve always been on the same team, Fugo, and as far as I can tell we’re always gonna be.”
There’s silence. Fugo focuses on breathing, on blinking, on processing, and on holding Mista’s gaze.
“Got it?” Mista finally asks.
Fugo swallows. He nods.
“You sure? I’m not gonna say it again.”
“Got it.”
Mista turns back to the railing.
“Good.”
The sky transitions to nautical twilight—where the world is bathed in blue. It gives contrast to the edges of Mista’s face. Has Mista always had sharp features, or did Fugo somehow miss them before?
“Why now?” Fugo asks. This doesn’t seem like anything that couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
Mista shrugs. “Figured if I didn’t get it over with, you were gonna be up all night kicking yourself about it.” He pulls out a phone. “Sounds like something you’d do, anyway. Thought this might help. I’d hate for you to be sleep deprived from day one.”
That’s…
Fugo’s not sure what to think about that.
“C’mon.” Mista locks his phone and pushes away from the railing before Fugo can figure it out. “Speaking of which, it’s getting late. Let me take ya home.”