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It had been about three weeks since they had found Fugo again, and it had only been about one week since he had started coming out of his room for any length of time. Trish smiled up at him from her place on the couch where she sat filling out application forms for local high schools. “Rough night?” she asked at the sight of the bags under his eyes.
Stifling a yawn as he nodded, Fugo plopped down on the couch next to her, peering at the papers. “You’re thinking of going back already?”
“No time like the present.” Trish knew the longer she waited, the harder it would be to return to a normal life. Giorno had guaranteed safety for them, but that didn’t stop all of them from worrying, and she knew the best way to get over that worry was to face it head on. “What about you? Have you given any thoughts about going back to school?”
Fugo snorted. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I’d be allowed in anywhere. ‘Attempting to murder a professor’ and ‘being in the mafia’ don’t exactly look good on an application.”
“You’ll never know until you try.” Trish offered him a hopeful smile.
In response, Fugo let out a huff and shook his head.
She decided to drop the topic and focus on the forms. It took the better part of an hour, and during that time, she noticed Fugo shuffle around in his seat, eventually drifting off to sleep next to her. Trish sealed the forms in an envelope and placed them on the table to be mailed tomorrow. With nothing better to do for the time being, she returned to the couch and flipped on the television, hoping it wouldn’t wake Fugo.
He didn’t look comfortable, Trish observed. Fugo’s knees were pulled up to his chest, arms crossed, and chin tucked, almost resembling a ball as he laid on his side. She noticed that his bangs had fallen in front of his eyes. Trish knew she didn’t like the way her own hair tickled her face when she slept, so very carefully she moved the strands away from his face. His hair was… soft. It wasn’t like she made a habit of touching people’s hair to compare them, but “soft” was never the word she thought of when she saw Fugo’s unruly hair. And yet, as she gently brushed the stray locks away from his forehead, it felt like downy feathers under her fingertips.
“What are you doing?”
Trish jerked her hand back, feeling a warmth spread across her cheeks. “Your hair was, um…” She gestured to her face as she fumbled with her words.
“I can move my own hair out of my face, thank you,” he said coolly, sitting up. On the surface, Fugo looked mildly annoyed, but there was a hint of fear lingering behind his eyes that reminded Trish of a cornered animal.
It was an expression she had seen once before on his face.
Early on after they had settled into the house, one of the few times Fugo had come out of his room, she was chatting with him over breakfast. Even though she had been doing most of the talking, she was grateful to finally have some company and was enthusiastically telling him a story from her childhood. While she didn’t do it often, something she had picked up from her mother was reaching out and grabbing people’s arms for emphasis when talking, so when she reached a particularly exciting part of her story, she did just that. The reaction was not something she expected.
Fugo nearly knocked his coffee over in an attempt to escape her grasp. The same wary look in his eyes was present that day as he held himself in almost a defensive manner, staring at her a moment before retreating to his room without another word.
Trish had never considered herself an especially affectionate person, especially not physically, but for as much as she used to complain when her mother hugged and kissed her, she missed it now. When first being escorted by the small group of Passione members, she was very cautious around the bunch of strangers, but as she grew to know them and consider them friends, that began to change. Narancia, she had come to find out was not afraid to invade personal space, and while at first it was off-putting, she now treasured the memories of how he used to sit too close on the couch and lean on her shoulder to read her book along with her. Bucciarati as well, while always professional, had held her hand and comforted her during moments of stress, and she found that, often at night, she would flex her fingers, longing for a similar comfort.
It wasn’t like that now.
Giorno, she had quickly realized, reacted to touch similarly to how Fugo did, albeit less severely. And while Mista was no stranger to slinging his arm around people, Trish found she preferred not to be close to him as he raised his arms.
And this reality had left her fairly starved for touch.
“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head to clear away the thoughts. Dwelling on how isolated she still felt wouldn’t help matters any.
Fugo tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at her. “Are you,” he started, slowly and softly, still staring at her with guarded eyes, “okay?”
“Are any of us?” she replied, vaguely wondering what face she must have been making for him to say that. In as casual of a motion she could, Trish touched under her eyes to make sure she hadn’t been crying without realizing it, which wouldn’t be the first time it would have happened in recent weeks.
His mouth twitched. It certainly wasn’t a smile, but it was an acknowledgment.
No. They weren’t.
Cautiously, Fugo crawled closer to Trish on the couch. Sitting on his feet, he hesitantly reached out, placing his hand on her shoulder. For a moment, his hand just rested there, feeling entirely too rigid for either of them to be comfortable, but gradually his grip softened. A light blush crept up his face as he began to move his thumb soothingly against her shoulder.
Trish stared back at him, and as slowly as he had reached out to her, she lowered her head, brushing his hand with her cheek. She closed her eyes, taking in how warm his hand felt against her, knowing it was the closest thing to an embrace either of them were going to get in the near future. Balling her hands into fists in her lap, she desperately wished she could fall into his arms, to feel safe and shielded from the world around her. But even this gesture, for now, was enough.
“Thank you,” she murmured, voice catching as he pulled his hand away. Using the back of her hand, Trish wiped away the tear that had leaked out of her eye and sniffled.
Fugo nodded jerkily, looking down at his hands. “Look, I know I’m not…” He shrugged, brows drawing close together, nervously wringing his hands. “But, if you ever need someone, I’m here, okay?”
Trish blinked, somewhat taken aback by the offer considering how closed off he had been. “Okay.”
He nodded again, sitting back and curling in on himself.
“I’m going to make some tea, do you want some?” she offered, turning off the television and walking toward the kitchen.
Fugo shook his head, resting his chin on his knees.
Figuring the conversation was over and he would go back to his room to sleep more, Trish made her tea and brought it back into the living room, somewhat surprised to see he hadn’t moved at all. She grabbed a book and sat down next to him.
“I’m going to try and see if I can sleep out here,” he said, already shifting into a more comfortable position. As she made to get up though, he added, “You can stay in here if you like.”
Trish offered him a small smile, opening her book and taking a sip of tea.
It didn’t take long for Fugo to begin softly snoring, and Trish couldn’t help but take note of how close he was to her. She hadn’t asked what any of them went through to get to the point where being in the mafia at such a young age was an ideal situation, and as far as she was concerned, it wasn’t any of her business. After all, none of them questioned her about her own past, and she was content to keep it that way. Because of this though, she knew there were many walls each of them had put up that would not fall down easily. But as she turned the page in her book and listened to Fugo’s snores, she couldn’t help but feel that some cracks were beginning to form in a few of them.