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Swear to shake it up, and you swear to listen!
Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention...
Trish had had a long day. After successfully beating Pannetonne Vespa, the rest of the team decided to take a break inside Coco Jumbo’s room. Mista and Narancia were debating the finer points of Disney films, Giorno was reading a Vogue Italia, and Fugo was seemingly dozing. Abbacchio, meanwhile, was outside driving. Bucciarati, on the other hand, was pacing around the room. While he wasn’t emanating a kind of anxiety, it was clear that something was on his mind.
The fiftieth or so lap around the room was quickly stopped by Fugo, who raised himself up from his nap. He wiped the sleep from his eyes as he spoke: “Bucciarati, I apologize if this is a bit forward, but your zippers are clanging so loudly that I can’t sleep.”
“Ah. Fugo, my apologies.” Bucciarati placed his head on the back of his neck. “I’m just…” He trailed off.
Something was clearly troubling Bucciarati, but none of the others batted an eye. Was that just how he was? Trish wanted to ask, but… he was just her bodyguard. What right did she have to pry, when he was putting his life on the line for her? Also, more importantly, she didn’t want to get attached to any of these boys. If one of them died because of her…
She shivered. All she was good for was making trouble for others. For running away. Maybe if she ran away, they’d all be safe. Maybe...
Narancia piped in, cutting off her self-flagellation: “Oi, Bucciarati, what’s for dinner? I’m starving. ”
“That is a good question. Who would like to join me to grab some food?”
Giorno, Narancia, and Fugo raised their hands. “Trish,” Bucciarati said, looking her way as the other boys got up and moved to where their leader was, “do you have any preference?”
“...Seafood would be nice,” She confessed. “But, frankly, if you get anything, I just need mineral water. You know, only the French kind. I—”
“—‘I can’t drink the Italian shit.’ Yeah, yeah, we know.” Mista got up, repeating her words from the day before, when she’d met the team. “Well, Princess, consider it done.”
She pouted. Princess? It wasn’t bratty to ask for the finer things in life. She had standards. Hell, her mom and her had lived right above the poverty line for years. She earned it. Unlike Mista, especially, who smelled like he hadn’t had standards a single day in his life. Did he even know what deodorant was? Ah, well.
Trish wasn’t sure whether to be angry, or flattered that one of them remembered. “...Thanks,” She said quietly. She blushed a bit. Mista, seeing this, gazed back at her with surprise. Meanwhile, Bucciarati stopped his pacing in earnest, and placed a hand on his hip as he addressed Trish.
“Sorry, Trish, I’d let you out, but… Well, you saw what we’re dealing with. I can’t risk you being killed. Mista is more than capable enough of turning them into Swiss cheese, but I’d prefer to not have to dispose of any corpses today.” Bucciarati explained this with a sort of apologetic frankness. Even if she was basically under house arrest, at least he wasn’t an asshole. Better than Pericolo. Pericolo hadn’t been a bad person, and he wasn’t an asshole, of course, but the fact of the matter was that he was preventing her from leaving his care. At least here, the boys were in her general age bracket. Still… There were hits on her. Whether she was with Pericolo or Bucciarati’s boys, that didn’t change.
Trish nodded.
“Trish, I’ll be leaving Abbacchio with you. He’s skilled at hand-to-hand combat, so he should be able to take anyone who tries to cross you if they somehow get past Mista. Is that all right?”
Another nod.
“All right,” Bucciarati replied. “Well then. Boys, let’s go. Abbacchio, come on in and watch Trish. Mista, keep guard of Coco Jumbo, okay?”
“Got it, boss.” Mista flashed a thumbs-up his way.
With that, the boys were gone. Trish was left alone for a moment. The air inside Coco Jumbo, now that everyone had left, had grown cold. On a hot day like this one, it was a nice reprieve, yes, but… it was too cold. She shivered yet again, this time less from fear and more from the chilly air. Trish huddled in on herself, wishing that she had a blanket. It would have been nice…
Then, Abbacchio entered. Leone’s long, alabaster hair shone in the sunlight streaming through the top of Coco Jumbo’s room, and his comically large belt buckle—marked with an ‘A’ in gold, because if there was one thing these boys lacked, it was subtlety in their clothes—he waved. “Hey, Trish.”
“Hey.”
The two of them sat there in awkward silence for a bit, stewing in words they both wanted to say, but couldn’t. Trish shuffled. She let out a small brr.
Leone’s eyes shifted in her direction. Trish curled up even more, absolutely mortified. He got up, went to the corner of the room, and found a blanket. It was green, and appeared fuzzy; most likely fleece. Walking to the couch where Trish sat, he plopped it on her, then sat down on the opposite end of the couch, leaving ample room as he did so.
“Thanks,” She said, her face muffled by the blanket she held as she unfurled it, covering herself in it in a sort of swaddled cocoon.
“No problem.”
And… silence once more. She had to say something. Anything!
“So… Abbacchio. Uh… Thanks for earlier, too. With the Stand.”
“It’s my job,” He responded frankly. “But I’m glad to help, kid.”
While he likely hadn’t meant to say something that hit a nerve, this throwaway comment sparked something within her. A sort of nagging. Did any of these boys care about her, outside of the assignment? Did they dread being there with her? She didn’t want to be a bother, or to be a burden. When she was with her father, would he love her the way her mother had loved her? Would she ever be in a room where someone wanted her to be there again—or, in other words, a room where someone loved her?
This thought chilled her to her core.
“...Abbacchio, as my bodyguard, I order you to be honest. Uh… please.” Hopefully that made her sound less like a spoiled brat.
“You don’t have to order me, but sure, lay it on me.” A coy smile crept onto his face. He looked as if he were trying not to laugh.
“Uh… Abbacchio… Do you hate being stuck with me? Like… I know you are all working for my father, so I know I’m just cargo and I’m not anything more than that, but do you all… Secretly hate me? I know it’s not a big deal, honestly, since it’s just a job assignment for you, but… I would feel very bad for you if that were the case. I mean, hell, I’ve been nothing but trouble, and I was super rude to Fugo—is that the name of the boy with the hole-y shirt? Yeah, I think it is. Still... ” Trish’s words tumbled out of her lips, a waterfall of anxiety. She didn’t dare look at Abbacchio. She could feel tears prick the sides of her eyes. Why was she crying now? For fuck’s sake, why was she such a mess?
She let out an involuntary sniffle, pulling the blanket closer to her. Trish waited in silence, hoping, for some reason, that he’d say, I hate you. We all do. That way, if one of them died for her sake…
...Well, it wouldn’t hurt as much. It wouldn’t hurt like her mother dying on her. It wouldn’t hurt like she was hurting right now, scared out of her goddamn mind, and so anxious that she was constantly on the verge of vomiting. It would hurt less if she were hated, because as she found out, the closer she became to others, the more it broke her when they were taken away.
“I don’t hate being put on Trish duty,” Abbacchio responded after a lot of thought. Abbacchio didn’t seem like the kind of man to give her honeyed words for the sake of her comfort, and it seemed like he was being truthful.
“...You don’t?” She echoed, pulling the blanket down to look at him.
He shook his head. “Nah. Kid, I said it before, and I’ll say it again. You’re clearly going through some shit. I won’t pry.” Leone crossed his arms as he went on. “But hey, this is the first bone you’ve thrown me. Thrown any of us, actually. It’s kinda refreshing.”
“...Really?” She asked. “But.. Abbacchio…”
“—Trish,” He said, a bit more firmly this time, “I can’t speak for the others, but I enjoy speaking with you. You’re a lil’ spitfire. I appreciate that.” Leone smiled at her.
“...I’m a brat.” Trish responded softly. “I’m sorry.”
“Brat? Nah, kid, you can be bratty, but you aren’t a brat. You’re clearly scared shitless.” The way he spoke suggested an underlying meaning that Trish just noticed: I’m the same way. This was an important distinction to Abbacchio, it seemed, as he turned to face her as he spoke. “Trish, I’m a bastard. A fuckin’ asshole. I own it. You, on the other hand, know what you want, and you’re a smart kid. Own that, too. Don’t apologize for things like snapping at Fugo, or asking for mineral water, okay? The boys may give you a hard time about it, but if they do, I’ll tell ‘em to can it.” He then added, slightly bemused, “Also, honestly, you using his shirt as a towel to wipe off your hands was one hell of a power move. I still tease him about it.”
“...T-Thanks.” Trish sniffled a bit more. Her sniffling, it seems, had become full-on crying. Wow. How embarrassing…!
Abbacchio was silent, but Trish heard a bit of rustling in front of her. “Open your eyes, kid.”
Huh? She did as Abbacchio recommended, and found a gray handkerchief, held out to her. It had L. A. embroidered on it in lavender thread, and a sort of silky, luminescent sheen.
“Take it. Don’t thank me. I’ve got enough thanks already.”
Taking the handkerchief with a nod of acknowledgement, she dabbed at her eyes and sniffled a bit more. Trish took in a deep breath, then chided herself: “Shit… I cried all of my makeup off…!”
“Don’t worry about it, kid. You’re lucky you’re stuck with me.” He smiled. “I’ll get a mirror. Where’s your makeup?”
What was he thinking of doing…? “It’s beside the wardrobe. You know, the bathroom. Why?”
He wordlessly got up, then returned with a hand mirror and some makeup remover in tow, along with her makeup bag. “Here, remove the mascara. Start fresh.” He opened up the bottle and dabbed a bit of makeup remover onto a disposable cotton pad, and handed it to Trish.
She took it, bewildered. “...Abbacchio, what…?”
“You said you liked my makeup, right? Earlier, in that Stand’s maze. So, I’m doing your makeup today. Got a problem with that?” He’d pulled out some concealer and some foundation as well, and held the bottles in his hands, having placed the makeup remover on the ground.
“...Oh, I don’t! I don’t.” She managed, a bit flustered. Trish began to dab away the makeup as quickly as she could, pointedly not focusing on how puffy her eyes were, or how her mascara had made small, jet-black streams across her cheeks. “Sorry, I just haven’t had help from a man with makeup before. Most men I know don’t wear makeup, so…”
“Well, I do, and I look amazing.” He said this as if it weren’t bragging, but fact. To be fair… He did look amazing. It was, indeed, a fact. “I promise I won’t fuck it up. You’re lucky Mista isn’t doing this. He doesn’t know what a lip liner even is. ”
“—I heard that!” Mista chimed in from above, his large, dark-brown eyes crowding over the top of the key. He appeared to be a giant. “Big words to say to a guy with a gun, Abbacchio.”
“Shut up,” Abbacchio chuckled. “We both know you’re using it to compensate, yeah?”
“Fuck you, Abbacchio!” Mista snarled.
Abbacchio appeared to punch the air, bending his arm a bit and placing his hand on the inner part of his elbow, making sure that he made direct eye contact with Mista as he did so.
Ah, yes. The Italian classic of gestures: The Umbrella. Or, as her mother had explained once after she’d done it at some prick who’d catcalled her while Trish was with her, the fuck you.
Trish laughed at that, which made Abbacchio smile. She could hear Mista laughing a bit outside of the turtle as well. Trish noticed that, if anything, they were all friends… No, more than that. Family.
“—So, Trish. Requests?”
“...Oh! Uh… Um… I’d like… Flashy lipstick, please.” She managed, snapping back to the matter at hand. “And uh… some flashy eyeshadow, please. The shimmery kind…?”
“Purple’s what I’ve got.” He gestured to his own eyelids, lightly shimmering between blue and violet in the early-evening sunlight. Abbacchio’s entire look was so foreign to Trish; she didn’t know, before meeting these boys, that men could be beautiful.
“...Uh, yeah! The kind that the stars wear, y’know. Like Gweneth Paltrow. She’s my favorite.”
“Got it.” With that, Abbacchio went to work. It was oddly comforting to have someone do her makeup. He had moved closer to her, getting into her space a bit. Trish, a bit belatedly, realized that she’d moved closer to him in turn. Shockingly enough… She wasn’t scared of him, anymore.
“So, Trish, tell me. Did you normally do your own makeup, or did you have an attendant to do it?”
“...No. Always me, except for when my mom decided she wanted to do it. She was so good at it. I think you all think I was far richer than I actually was.” She confessed. “My mom and I barely scraped by.”
As she said this, he finished putting some foundation to cover up the spots he’d wiped away, the comment making him pause. “Wouldn’t know that from your high-class tastes.” Eyebrows furrowed, he asked, “Even with the Boss giving her money?”
She blinked a bit as a large, poofy kabuki brush put some sealing powder onto her face. “He didn’t; who gives money to an ex?” Some blush followed, tickling her cheek. Trish was successfully able to restrain any kind of chuckles, but it was a struggle. It tickled so much!
“Someone who should be paying alimony, and who should know they’ve knocked up that ex.” Leone sighed, then got to work putting on her eyeshadow. “Look, I’m not gonna talk shit about the Boss or anything, but he didn’t tell your mother where he went when he left? Also, Trish, don’t blink.” He pulled out an eyeliner pencil. “I’m going to be putting my hand around your face now so I don’t fuck up the eyeliner. Capische?”
“Sure, that’s fine.” As Leone cupped her head into one of his hands, she shrugged. She looked up at the ceiling, seeing Mista’s body in the distance through the skylight. “And, no, he didn’t. My mom couldn’t find him.” Trish would have shaken her head, but since Leone had just begun the last of the eyeliner, she was frozen in place. “She finally found Pericolo a few months before she died.”
“Wow. What an asshole.”
“...Didn’t you say you wouldn’t talk shit, Abbacchio?”
“It’s not talking shit if it’s true,” Leone shrugged. “But, hey, I’m here ‘cuz of Bucciarati, so in the end, it doesn’t matter if I say something that isn’t kissing the Boss’ ass.” He let go of her face. Trish found herself surprised that, oddly enough she actually missed the kind contact.
“Ah, I see.” He began to apply her mascara as she then repeated, still working out what he’d meant, “—Here for Bucciarati?”
“Look, I’d do anything for Bucciarati. I pledged my loyalty to him. He just happened to pledge his loyalty to the Boss. It’s a long story, kid.”
“I’ve got time,” Trish responded with a wink.
Leone smirked as he outlined her lips with a lip liner, gesturing for her to come toward him. He placed his hands around her cheeks once more as he jabbed back, switching to a lipstick of indefinite color. Or, at least, one that she couldn’t see at that moment. “Look, Trish, I know we’re having a bonding moment and all, but you’re gonna have to wait a bit for that .” He laughed a bit. “Also, I’m done.”
Then, with the barest bit of hesitation, she finally managed to ask, moving away from Leone, “May I see?”
With a nod, he turned the hand mirror over to Trish. She looked like a princess out of a dark fairy tale. Dark lipstick—teal verging on green, it seemed—which contrasted beautifully with the shimmery lilac eyeshadow Abbacchio had decided on for her. It looked amazing.
Trish was legitimately shocked in the best of ways. Speechless. It was surreal; she could see herself in the way he’d done her makeup, but it was as if she’d been reborn as a new young lady. A Goth Phoenix.
“So, what do you think?” Leone smiled, admiring his handiwork.
Tears threatened to drip down her cheeks yet again. Why? Of course, it finally hit her: She was happy. “I love it,” Trish said, almost breathless. “Not my usual, but I adore it. Thank you.”
“Like I said, I wouldn’t fuck it up.” Abbacchio patted her shoulder.
“Uh… Abbacchio?” Hearing Trish’s voice quaver, Leone perked up and looked at her with an expression Trish didn’t really recognize. Not pity. What was it...?
“Sorry about… Y’know.” She pointed to her eyes, barely managing to keep in the tears threatening to well out. “I just… I missed this.”
He had been about to give her his handkerchief yet again, then decided against it. “You all right?” The look he had in his eyes was that of pure fear. Of, oh, shit, what did I DO? Granted, Leone didn’t really seem to understand how to comfort a crying teenage girl, so he just sat there awkwardly.
“Good enough for now,” Trish replied, taking the handkerchief anyway and dabbing away a few tears. “Though… Abbacchio, will you…” her face flushed again. “I, uh—As my bodyguard, I order you to sit with me.”
“...Like I’m doing now…?”
“No, no, but—!” Trish, a bit embarrassed, cleared her throat. “Look, Abbacchio, you’re the first one here to... Look... I’m sorry, I’m just…” She looked at him squarely in his sunset-shaded eyes. After taking a deep breath and steadying herself with it, she said, “This is the first time this entire trip I haven’t felt scared out of my goddamn wits, and I…” Trish trailed off. “This is the first time... I haven’t felt like cargo. So. Abbacchio, sit with me.” She then amended, a bit bashfully: “...Please.”
“Trish, while I am glad to fulfill that order of yours, you have to clarify,” He replied, clearly amused at this.
“Uh…” Trish turned bright red. “My… My mom used to sit beside me and share a blanket. I uh… would lean on her. Sometimes, I fell asleep. I know you’re a man, but I’ve seen Narancia fall asleep while resting on your shoulder, or Fugo passing out beside Mista, and I just…” Trish, ashamed, looked back down at the holographic handkerchief in her hands, which had started to look blurry as she stared at it. “...I see that, and I miss my mom, Abbacchio.”
Something softened in his expression, at those words. The inscrutable look wasn’t pity, Trish realized; it was sympathy.
Leone said nothing, but gestured for her to sit beside him. When she did, he felt a kind hand pull her into the crook of his arm where his shoulder met his chest. It was cozy, warm. Trish felt safe for the first time in a long time.
“We’ll protect you, kid.”
She pulled herself closer to him, hugging his torso like a cat clinging to a tree branch, too afraid to let go. “Thanks.”
“Still, you’re doing a decent job of protecting yourself. You still have Medusa, right?” Leone smiled.
Ah; her pocket knife, stashed in her boots. She’d forgotten. “Yeah, I do.”
“Good. Now, how about you show me your favorite looks for the summer?” He pulled out the Vogue Italia Narancia had been sifting through.
Trish’s face immediately lit up with a radiant joy. “Ooh! Yes, please!”
As she and Abbacchio debated the finer points of seasonal trends, she finally realized that maybe, now, she had something new, something she hadn’t expected before; a friend.
As they chatted away, their conversation was interrupted by the others returning. Fugo and Narancia were bickering about nukes, and Bruno and Giorno were seemingly engaged in their own conversation. Still, as soon as Bucciarati emerged, Leone eyed the man with a kind of awe. Now she understood what Abbacchio had meant. Everything clicked. They were both an item. Ah, made sense.
The other boys, meanwhile, were making a ruckus, with Mista and Narancia loudly pulled some plates together,
Bucciarati, turned his head toward the couch, then, seeing Trish awake, smiled. “Trish. Glad to see you got some rest. Would you like to join us?”
“C’mon, Princess,” Mista insisted, a kind gesture thrown her way; a beckoning of sorts. Come here . “This crab isn’t gonna eat itself.”
“Ah, thank you.” She said, smiling. As soon as she got up, Narancia gasped.
“Trish! Your makeup looks like Abbacchio’s!” The young man seemed to be in awe, clearly experiencing a sort of mental disconnect. He leaned a bit closer to her, just to see.
“It’s because I did it,” Abbacchio said with pride.
Giorno smiled from across the table. “It looks quite flattering on you, Trish.”
“Yeah,” Narancia said. “Looks so cool!”
“T-Thank you,” Trish smiled, blushing.
“Abbacchio, do my makeup! Please???” Narancia whined.
Abbacchio couldn’t help but smirk. “Nope. Trish is a special case. Ask her to do your makeup. She’s good at it.”
“Trish, will you do my makeup? Please?” The young man clasped his hands as if in prayer as he begged.
“...Sure, Narancia,” Trish smiled, shooting a look to Abbacchio, who, matching her gaze, smiled back. Narancia, seemingly sated, began to chatter away in the background in gratitude as the others returned to their conversations. She took a bite of her crab—specifically, crab spaghetti with lemon gremolata, a decadent pasta dish that she adored— and was flooded with joy as the acidic taste of the lemon cut through the sweetness of the crab meat.
“Like it?” Bucciarati asked.
Trish nodded heartily.
“Fugo picked it out.” Bruno gestured to Fugo, who blushed a bit.
“Thank you, Fugo.” She smiled at him, as he gasped, then smiled back.
It wasn’t the apology she likely needed to give him, but hey… It was a start. Even if her time with these bizarre boys was temporary, she didn’t mind. But now, Trish finally knew. She wasn’t just cargo. They actually cared. Letting herself become swept up in the chatter of this family-style dinner inside a Turtle’s room, she continued to eat the pasta, and felt something like comfort for the first time in a long, long while. Even if she was still scared out of her mind, even if she was still anxious and mourning her mother, at least now, she wasn’t as alone as she’d thought.