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It was the first time Trish had returned to Naples, nearly half a year since the week her life had been torn apart. She hadn’t felt ready to go back, but someone with a budding music career doesn’t turn down an opportunity for a recording session with a successful producer. So when her manager told her to go, she went. She had texted Mista a half-hearted suggestion to meet up, but Trish was only there for one night, and Mista and Giorno were busy. So that was that.
It had been a long day in the recording studio, and Trish was eating a late dinner in a restaurant near her hotel. It was nice but not too fancy, with a bar and an elegant piano that Trish had noticed with interest when she walked in, although nobody was playing it. She took a seat in the corner, where she could see who came in and who left - a new habit.
She was nearly done with her meal when piano music began to fill the room - their player must have come back from a break. Trish, who had played piano for her whole life, had a tendency to pay attention when someone was playing nearby, to note their techniques, her fingers twitching along involuntarily. Their player was quite skilled.
She idly glanced over to the player, facing away from her, with ruffled pale blond hair and - that jacket . She’d only ever seen one person with a jacket like that, a sickly chartreuse with holes haphazardly cut into it, surely by hand. She’d ordered him to take it off so she could use it as a hand towel, once. Pannacotta Fugo, the one member of Bucciarati’s team who’d chosen to stay behind. The living reminder of that grim week knocked the wind right out of her.
Trish realized that she’d never really spared a thought for what had happened to Fugo after he left. The last time she’d seen him had been on a boat in Venice, as Bucciarati escorted her to meet a father she had never known. She had assumed she’d never see any of them again, but had only been right about Fugo. She’d asked about him, on the plane to Sardinia, afraid that he’d died and nobody had told her.
“Bucciarati gave us all a choice, and he’s the only one who stayed behind. Coward.” Mista had spat. Trish wished she had been given a choice to stay behind without the certainty of death. Trish had been too afraid to ask him if he thought she was a coward too. She hadn’t blamed Fugo then, and couldn't blame him now.
If he was here, he wasn’t in Passione anymore. Either Fugo hadn’t gone looking for them, or they hadn’t gone looking for him. Trish recalled that Mista had mentioned once, on her first day with them, that he’d been on the team the longest. Trish knew what it was like to lose everyone close to you at once. She didn’t even know if he knew that Bucciarati, Abbacchio, and Narancia were dead. She wouldn’t want to be the one to tell him. She’d never been good at that sort of thing. And in a way, their deaths were her fault. Maybe he’d get mad at her.
Trish was sure Fugo hadn’t noticed her. She could slip out of the restaurant easily, and he’d never know she’d been there.
But he’d been part of it. She had only known him for two days, but she’d only known the others for a few more, and she’d give anything for a chance to talk to any one of them. Maybe, in some other world where he had gone with them after all and died like the rest, she’d feel the same way about him.
The restaurant was nearly empty by now. It was late, in the middle of the week, and only a few patrons were at the bar, talking in low voices. She paid her tab and drifted up to the piano, dropping in a tip. Fugo gave her a nod, eyes half lidded, lost in the music. He didn’t look up enough to see who she was.
“Do you take requests?” She leaned against the piano, crossing her arms.
“If I know it.” He still hadn’t looked at her. He didn’t recognize her voice, but of course he wouldn’t. She wouldn’t have recognized his, either.
She made her request. The piece had been her mother’s favorite. She’d tried to teach Trish - they’d gone through it over and over - but this was one Trish could never quite master. Without a word, Fugo began to play it beautifully, his eyes closed. It must be one he knew well.
Trish took the opportunity to observe him as he played. There were dark circles under his eyes, skin paler then she remembered. When Trish had been watching him from her table, she’d observed how he’d nervously glanced at the door whenever anyone walked in.
“That was beautiful,” Trish sighed when he finished playing the piece. “I didn’t know you could play,” She didn’t know anything about him at all, really. Why am I even doing this?
Fugo looked up in confusion, but whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat. He gaped up at her. “ Trish ,” he whispered hoarsely.
Trish hesitated. What had she been thinking? Of course her presence would upset him. “Sorry if I’m bringing back bad memories. I just didn't expect to ever see you again.”
Fugo said nothing, eyeing her warily.
“I’m doing fine, you know,” Trish continued. “Starting a music career, actually. Pop music. That’s what I’m here for, actually, a recording session. I live in Milan.”
“That’s....good.” Fugo’s voice was strained. He’d returned to playing softly, a few simple chords, to keep his hands busy. He looked down. “Trish. I’m...sorry.” He said it stiffly, like he didn’t quite mean it, but felt that it was expected of him.
Does he think I’m angry at him? “For what?”
Fugo frowned up at her. “For abandoning you?”
Oh . “Don’t worry about that. To be honest, I would have done the same thing.” It hurt for Trish to admit, but she figured if she could share this with anyone, it would be him. “It was probably the right decision anyway. things got...bad.”
Fugo clenched his jaw. “I heard.”
“Yeah.” Trish wasn’t sure what precisely he’d heard, but if he wasn’t going to ask, she wasn’t going to volunteer answers.
There was another silence. She didn’t feel like leaving yet, so she kept talking. “I have a Stand, you know. Got it the day...the last day I saw you, actually. You just missed her,” she teased with a bit of a smile. Fugo’s eyes widened, but he just kept playing. “Her name is Spice Girl. I don’t have to use her much, now. She makes things soft. Like this” Trish poked the top of the piano, which dipped underneath her finger, snapping back into place when she removed it.
“That’s a good Stand,” said Fugo softly. He sounded like he meant it.
“You know, I never learned what yours did.” He’d left the team before she’d awakened Spice Girl, and though she’d begun to see Stands a few days before, he’d never summoned it while she was around to see.
“I figured. If you had, you wouldn’t have come over here.”
Trish waited to see if he’d elaborate. Eventually he did, sighing.
“When it punches something, it releases a virus that instantly melts people into goo. Even me, if I’m too close.”
“Oh,” said Trish faintly.
“Yeah.”
Trish was at a loss for words, but she was saved by Fugo filling the silence with a question. “Do you ever talk to Mista and Giorno?” He said their names carefully, painfully.
“I have Mista’s number. We chat every once in a while, but not very often. Giorno’s called once or twice.” Mista was always fun to catch up with. Giorno was...strange to talk to, but nice. Trish was glad they kept in touch.
“How are they?” Fugo murmured.
“Good, I think. Busy. They don’t tell me details.”
“Right.” Fugo chewed the inside of his cheek uncertainly. “Trish. I know you don’t owe me anything but could you...not tell them you saw me here? Please?”
So he was hiding from them. There wasn’t just shame, but fear in his eyes. “Do you think....they’d hurt you?”
“I don’t know.”
Trish wondered if Giorno and Mista saw him as a traitor. She’d have liked to tell him that his former friends wouldn’t kill him - would welcome him back with open arms, even - but she knew that might not be true. She knew what world they were a part of. She didn’t like the idea that not dying for her was something punishable by death. But she didn’t have a choice in the matter.
“Sure,” she answered. “I won’t tell them. No problem.”
“Thanks.” Fugo let out a long breath.
There was another silence. Trish watched Fugo’s hands dance over the keys. “You really are good at the piano. Way better than me. It’s just - I never really got to know you. Or any of them, really.” Trish could tell that he knew she wasn’t talking about Giorno or Mista.
“I wish I’d gotten to know you better. Maybe I would have...well. I don’t know. But you seem pretty nice, actually. Now that I’m talking to you. Different than I thought.”
Trish winced, remembering how haughtily she’d acted towards them all in the beginning. Fugo had gotten the worst of it. “Yeah, sorry about the jacket thing. And the rest. I was just...scared.”
Fugo frowned at her, confused. “Scared?”
Wasn’t it obvious? “I mean, I was alone in a group of scary mafia guys. I figured if I acted like that, you wouldn’t mess with me.”
“Huh. I guess I never thought of it that way.” Fugo looked a little surprised, a little guilty. “That whole experience - I always wondered what you must have been feeling about it.”
Trish remembered Fugo staring thoughtfully at her like that. It had made her feel defensive, frustrated. It was strange to think that he’d just been feeling sympathy for her. “It was terrifying. And lonely. I think the hardest part was just having no idea what would come next. No idea what my life would be.”
“Maybe I should have asked you, then”
Trish chuckled. “Honestly, I probably would have just told you to leave me alone.” On a whim, Trish pulled a slip of paper and a pen from her purse, scribbled on it, and held it out. “Here. this is my number. if you ever wanna talk, or something. I don’t know. Sorry if I’m being weird.”
Fugo stared at it as if it might bite him. “You...want to, what, be friends with me? You really must not know me that well. Anyway, I’m sure a person like you has plenty of friends.” He clenched his fists at his side, looking down. “If you’re just doing this because you feel bad for me, don’t bother.”
“I’m not!” Trish protested. “I don’t have a lot of friends, really. The ones I do...don’t know about this stuff.” She waved a hand vaguely, knowing Fugo would know what “this stuff” meant.
He did. Fugo let out a sigh, fists uncurling. “I guess I can understand that.”
Trish ran a hand through her hair. “You don’t have to. I’d get it if you never wanted to talk to me again. But...I don’t know. I guess I just like knowing people are in reach.”
Fugo looked at her for a few seconds, then gingerly took the slip of paper. “I guess I can understand that, too.”
Trish took a step back. “Be well, Fugo. I’m glad I met you.”
“I really am glad you’re doing well, Trish,” he said earnestly. “I’m...glad you came over to talk to me.” He didn’t say he was glad he met her, but Trish couldn’t blame him. She tried not to think about what his life would be like now, if it hadn’t been for her presence in it.
Trish gave a little wave. “Goodbye, Fugo.”
Fugo returned her wave, a little awkwardly, with a hint of a smile. “Goodbye, Trish.”
He turned back to the piano, and Trish left, walking out into the warm night air. Even if they never talked again, she was glad she’d gone up to him. Trish didn’t like when people disappeared from her life without getting to say goodbye, and it had happened far too often.
It was nice, for once, to be able to fix it.