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“Mista, if you kick the seat one more time….” Fugo says carefully, the calm in his voice betraying how close he is to losing it.
“IF YOU WANNA BE MY LOVER! YOU GOTTA GET WITH MY FRIENDS!” Mista screeches. It’s awful to listen to, but Fugo notes that Trish doesn’t seem to mind from where she is— giggling sweetly beside him. The warm buzz in Fugo’s chest is almost worth the headache developing between Fugo’s brows.
“Don’t stress out the driver, he’ll drive off the road and take both of us out with him.” Trish chastises, lounging in her extremely reclined passenger seat.
“Why don’t you move your seat up so Mista can get some space back there, huh?” Fugo huffs, side-eyeing the girl as she curls up in her seat; Trish’s hip juts out— the curve of her waist becomes hard to look away from.
Fugo takes precautions to keep his eyes on the road.
“Then he’ll start kicking my seat!” Trish says as if she can’t believe Fugo would suggest such a thing.
“Sounds horrible. I can’t imagine what that would be like.” Fugo says dryly as the second verse of the song comes to an end. He prepares himself.
“IF YOU WANNA BE MY LOVER! TRISH!” Mista stamps his foot square into the middle of Fugo’s seat.
“You gotta get with my friends,” Trish finishes, “Make it last forever~ Mista!”
“FRIENDSHIP NEVER ENDS!”
“This friendship is about to end right now.” Fugo’s knuckles turn a deathly white.
“Alright, alright, kill-joy. We’re just having some fun.” Mista hums, reaching over to turn the dial down. Baby Spice’s verse quiets into background noise.
“I’m sure you’ve had plenty.”
“You should start having some fun too, Fugo.” Trish muses, her nose scrunching up as Mista’s outstretched arm passes her face. “And you,” she refers to Mista, “should start using cologne like you said you would.”
Mista’s cheeks puff up like that of a hamster’s, “You said you liked my musk! It’s sexy, isn’t it?”
“Says who?”
“You totally did!” The gunslinger teases, beaming wide as if he’s caught Trish in some sort of trap— as if he’s got her. Fucking idiot , Fugo thinks, Trish has you , not the other way around .
Although much to Fugo’s surprise, Trish doesn’t outright rebut that ludicrous statement. Instead, her expression turns haughty and she only turns to the other side. The curve of her waist is just as prominent on both sides, Fugo notes in a non-creepy-way. It’s good to know she doesn’t… have scoliosis.
“I said it was a comforting smell! That doesn’t mean it’s sexy.”
“Wait,” Fugo’s mind reels, all 152 points of his IQ scrambles to make sense of what Trish had just said, “Did you actually say that you liked the way Mista smells? When was this?”
“I told you! I didn’t! I just said it was comforting!” Trish says, her voice overlapping Mista’s recount of that-time-when...
She suspiciously sounds embarrassed. Does she…?
“Comforting is a positive word, so you have to like something in order to find comfort in it.”
“The genius said it, so it must be so!” Mista said triumphantly, poking Trish’s shoulder again and again. “I don’t blame you, Trish. I’m just a mega sexy guy.”
“Alright, now that’s pushing it.” The blond refrains from rolling his eyes as they pass an intersection. Some idiot on a motorcycle cuts him off. At his curse, he notices Trish perk up to glance at him.
“At the very least, I have more sex appeal than you .”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Fugo straightens his back, suddenly made insecure.
“Don’t be upset, Fugo. You’ve got the brains and I’ve got the beauty- that’s homeostasis or some shit.”
“It’s really not.” Fugo finds himself worn out all of a sudden. The drive back to Naples seems incredibly long. Why then, Fugo wonders, did he volunteer himself to accompany Mista and Trish to meet with some foreign bigwig coming from across the sea? First and foremost, why did Trish, only a student, want to keep hanging out with them? And why did Bruno allow it? Isn’t he supposed to be her surrogate-father figure or something, keeping her out of harm’s way?
Fugo supposes that it’s not as if Trish needs to be cared for. However, he likes the feeling of caring for her anyway.
“How many people have been lining up to date you ?”
Trish makes a contemplative, albeit mildly disgusted face, “Is this what dick measuring contests are like?”
Mista makes some sort of noise of disbelief that kinda sounds like a horse, Trish snorts but quickly covers it up. The gunslinger continues, the pitch of his voice giving away how betrayed he is, “And what about you?”
“I asked you first.”
“I asked you second!” Fugo starts to feel his blood pressure rise.
“If one of you takes your dick out, I’m getting out of this car without concern whether I live or die.” Trish warns, the expression on her face making it well-known that she is, for all intents and purposes, the daughter of the previous mob-boss Diavolo.
“Look at me, I’m super swole.” Mista flexes to make his point. “I guess something like this is unattainable to a secretary , isn’t it?”
Fugo scoffs, firing back, “Your bad hygiene removes any appeal you might have had.”
It’s so stupid— it’s so stupid. He looks at Trish and Trish returns his gaze with a raised eyebrow.
“Boys, boys,” Trish cut off, “Don’t fight. Both of you don’t have anyone who wants to date you.”
“ Trish! ” Mista gasps, he takes a sharp inhale as if he’s about to go on a rant, and yet nothing follows for a good five or sex seconds.
The silence makes Fugo nervous all of a sudden. He denies pouting at Trish’s comment, and busies himself with wondering about Mista’s sudden muteness.
“Oi, oi…” Trish sits up. The back of her hair is all messed up, being pressed against the leather seats. “Don’t tell me I actually hurt your feelings?”
Fugo peers at the rearview mirror, finding Mista with his arms crossed and pointedly not looking at Trish.
“Mista….” Trish calls, adjusting her seat belt so it doesn’t cut painfully between her breasts.
Eyes on the road, Fugo . He reminds himself.
“Mistaaaaa….” Trish calls, her voice is tinged playfulness, but her expression is somber. “Did I actually hurt your feelings?”
“No.” Mista says coyly, reciprocating Trish’s playfulness. But something from his posture makes Fugo thinks Trish’s words might have actually taken a blow at his ego.
“Mistaaaaaaaaaa~”
“Stop! You sound like Sex Pistols!” Mista ukekekeke’s in his strange laugh.
The pinkette rolls her eyes, “Alright, I didn’t mean it. I”m sure you’re date-able to someone .”
Mista releases a frustrated noise.
“What?” Trish snickers, falling back into her seat. She rolls her head to the side, allowing her bangs to fall across her eyes. Mista, despite still looking like drenched cat, slides closer to Trish, and rests his head on the rest above her.
“Don’t lie to me! It’s so unlike you to be tactful.”
“ Who ’s lying” Trish smachs Mista lightly on the cheek, her palm flying out so quick like a flash of lightning. “Calling me a liar, Guido?”
“I ain’t calling you a truth-er.”
Fugo struggles for a moment.
“Okay, so you have your perks, I’m sure. I was just joking around.” Trish hums, “Your eyelashes are really pretty!”
“Oh?”
“I suppose that if your knuckles are all hairy, it’s only fair that your eyelashes-”
“Fugo! I’m being bullied!”
“Leave me out of this, Mista.”
Trish takes the time to inspect the driver, “Oh, did I hurt your feelings too? What kind of gangsters are you guys, being hurt by silly words… What does my opinion matter anyway?” She says, inspecting her nails.
Fugo makes a noise of displeasure, debating whether or not to respond to that.
At the terse silence, Mista still pouting at her, Trish relents, “You guys aren’t bad at all. You’re good people. You’re both nice. That’s good to have in a partner, right?”
“That’s it? We’re only ‘nice’?” Mista throws his hands up, “Great, we’ll both die alone.”
“Don’t lump me in with you!” Fugo barks.
“Mista, you’re being so sensitive!” Trish calls out, “Fine! I guess you’ve got a good, masculine face. And your arms are very well-defined.”
Fugo gawks at her in disbelief, swerving dangerously to the left.
“Oh don’t look at me like that!” Trish looks flustered, “You’re cute too! You’ve got a great smile and the color of your eyes is pretty.”
“Y-You also…” Fugo says lamely.
He looks away before Trish can see the flushing of his cheeks.
“Mhm, tell me what else you like about me~” Mista easily jumps ricochets, now with his ego fully stroked. He hovers his arm behind Trish, seemingly asking for permission.
Trish, although not known to be the most patient, still plays along. She leans into his touch, allowing him to wrap an arm around her. She drawls as she begins drawing circles on Mista’s cashmere sweater. “It’s obvious you do a lot of legwork since you look so athletic. You’re like a single, stressed-out, dad when you take care of the Pistols.”
“Was that last part a compliment?” Fugo deliberates aloud.
“Some people are into that sort of thing.”
“Are you into that sort of thing?” Fugo accuses, afraid of the answer. He can barely handle Narancia and he’s only one— and yet Trish is into fathers of six?
Trish flips her hair, humming noncommittally. “Don’t be jealous, Fugo. You’re also like a dad. You fuss over Purple Haze like a parent sending off their child to their first day at school.”
“What’s all this about being like dads? Is this some of father-issues kind of thing?”
Trish flicks Mista between the eyes with her manicured nails. “It just means you’re caring and that’s sweet. Don’t read into it.”
Fugo can’t stop the words from tumbling out from behind teeth, “You think I’m sweet?”
“I just said don’t read into it!”
“Trish! Will you start calling us ‘daddy’?” Mista wriggles his eyebrows like two fighting caterpillars.
Trish unlocks the car door and unclasps her seatbelt.