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Fugo enjoys this. Trish sits with them on the porch of their farmhouse, one that gazes out upon fields of pink and white flowers. Nobody knows what kind they are-- though no one cares to.
They rest their head on her shoulder, a sigh of relief as they realize their display of affection is not one sided, as she places her hand on their leg.
It’s a silent way of letting Fugo know they’re not alone, her nails short and painted with glossy shades of pink and black. Her nails are a symbol of her freedom, in their eyes. A sign she’s happy now, able to be herself.
Fugo aspires to have the same amount of confidence she does, their heart clenching in their chest as she moves her hand to stroke their hair, gentle and loving. She reminds them of their mother when they were young, a fragile, sweet woman. In Fugo’s eyes, for a while at least— until she had betrayed them, turned her back on her very own child.
However, Fugo does not see this when they are with Trish, nor do they bear old, tattered resentment. In honesty, they have grown to forget all the awful things their mother had done.
Trish is a girl who Fugo would instill every ounce of their trust, their love, and their life into. Trish is what it means for them to stay young and experience the happiness they felt when they were young with their mother.
Trish is a lot more than Fugo deserves, in their eyes.
She hums as she begins to sketch circles on their head with her nails, running it through their white hair— unkept and unwashed, as it has been for days. The mafia, they know, leaves no time for personal hygiene. The risk of being attacked is unavoidable, so they instead do not shower.
Somehow, Trish does not mind at all.
The front door beside them creaks open, a familiar smile greeting the two. It’s Bruno, they realize as he steps out onto the porch. The scent of cookies just taken from the oven softens Fugo’s senses.
Bruno nods and chuckles, telling them that they had made pastries, and they were just cooling off. Fugo feels their heart clench again, though this time it’s a different feeling than it was before. Bruno goes back inside, and Trish continues to stroke their hair.
Suddenly, their comfortable silence is one filled with dread. The suffocatingly off feeling hangs in the air, but Trish stares out into the fields. Fugo feels their body becoming lighter, their tongue turning dry as they try to reach out for Trish.
Trish looks at them with a blank look of confusion. Her eyes feel emptier than they had before, and Fugo now feels a terrible, terrible bleakness.
“What’s wrong Fugo?” She frowns. “Don’t you remember?”
This is the first thing Trish had said since they’ve been sitting here, like she knows that this is happening to Fugo, and everything is supposed to feel like this.
Fugo misses her stroking their hair, and the shock of looking at her almost kills them, because now her nails are long, like they were when they left her at the pier. They’re not painted, though they’re chipped at the corners and it’s clear she had been biting them.
Fugo wants to scream, but they can’t. The dread pushes their lungs down into their stomach. Guilt floods their head and makes everything so awfully dizzy, they almost can’t stand it.
Trish smiles, and Fugo wants to puke all over the disgustingly bright flowers. “You killed me-- us. We’re dead, Fugo, you selfish bastard.”
Trish starts to get up from where she sat next to them, and Fugo attempts to reach out to touch her. The grains of her face, her hands, her clothes fall through Fugo fingers. She disappeared as if she was never there-- as if they had never touched her. The only thing they can do is stand there, frozen in time, unable to sob, unable to shake, unable to move or speak.
She’s gone, and it’s only their fault. There is no freedom-- nor confidence or comfort. There never was. All that’s here now is the flowers.
Fugo regains himself, barely. All they can do is sit on the porch of the farmhouse, and look out onto the field of pink and white flowers.