Chapter Text
The door cracks open shortly after the clock ticks midnight. A faint shadow cast against the rather frayed wallpaper. The gaudy, dull patterns covered with various posters and polaroid photos that have a green glow cast over them from the illuminating alarm clock numbers. A shadow that is joined by the outlines of the billow of the curtains from the open window next to his bed. With a summer breeze that creates a soft, repeated ambiance of the rustle of the wind and the fabric lightly hitting the wall with a dull thump before lifting up once more.
It all falls silent with the sudden slam of the windowsill.
The cool air is cut off in an instance, letting the heat thicken in the room once again; the stifling smell of sickness joining. Nearly unbearable. A stumble of footsteps comes closer to the bed. Their knees almost buckling at the speed.
“Mista.”
They grasp with a sudden shake of his shoulder that makes him groan. It should be worrisome, startling even, with the amount of noise and the sudden touch that followed from frantic movements.
He doesn’t know who it is in his room at this time of night, nor does he truly care, his muddled mind tells him. He’s finally just fallen asleep after the back–to–back restless nights he has experienced. The long hours spent tossing uncomfortably, with the want of nothing more than to be able to sleep, but unable to with the wired feeling of pain coursing through him that only deteriorates his body further.
Whoever this is; fuck them. Even if that says anything over his self–preservation skills considering the occupation he’s found himself in that relies solely on intuition for survival.
The voice is familiar, as such, a level of alarm doesn’t quite register. His mind slow to process, it slips past him. Or tries to, at least, though sharp nails dig into the skin of his shoulder, careful to avoid the bandaged wound.
With a huff, he tries to shoo the person away when he sluggishly grasps his pillow and flings it back to hit the looming body.
The pillow is yanked from his hand and thrown to the floor with a stomp. The bed creaks with a sudden pressure. There’s another shake of his shoulder.
“Please–”
The desperate tone that nearly borders into a plea should be the moment where his mind snaps alive to alert him, truth be told. Especially when there’s a faint voice in the back of his head that tells him that this is a voice that has never once begged with that amount of panic.
It remains a fight to wake himself up. To allow the sense of urgency to cut through the haze. It’s been this way since the last mission, and ultimately he has to curse the strength of the painkillers when he places the blame solely on them.
Everything around him remains so sluggish. An effect that he hates the most, but Bucciarati was insistant over the medication to the point he ended his speech with a straight–forwarded threat that he would shove them down Mista’s throat himself if he didn’t see the two placed on the tray gone by the time he came back from a meeting.
“Mista, for fuck’s sake; wake up!”
There’s a hit delivered to his upper arm. A sudden burst of bright pain against the healing wound that has him jerk. Finally, the tone begins to try to register as he cracks his eyes open. He groans in annoyance, listening to the voice as he slowly shifts to sit up in his bed.
“Finally–”
His brain kicks to life as that pleading voice reflects the pure fear in the previous words and the call of his name. The choked sound of holding back followed by a hushed whisper as if to not be caught. Blinking, he clears the fog as the burst of blurry pink that sits in his vision settles.
At the sight of Trish, he jerks. Everything clears at once.
“What’s wrong?” He demands, immediately on edge.
Uncharacteristically, she shakes in front of him. Her eyes are wide, her pupils dilated, and they constantly glance back towards the tightly shut door. Her chest is heaving at a rapid pace that her breaths nearly come out as wheezes with the speed. He’s surprised that her legs can bear to hold her weight with the force of the full–body tremors. It’s quite eerie, in retrospect, and doesn’t help soothe him from the edge he finds himself on.
It’s not common for him to see her in such a state.
Her strength has always impressed him. From the moment she had chosen to stay with them and the longer he’s gotten to know her, he has seen how deep that strong–willed nature has gone. Though, as much as Trish trusts him, there are moment of weaknesses that she tends to keep hidden from him.
In the beginning, Mista had thought she was similar in a way to Narancia; someone who found it easy to talk about their problems over whatever troubled them. A difference from someone such as Fugo and Giorno, who you had to spend hours prying into for them to admit a mere sliver of what’s wrong. He found that she was a mix between them. That it depended on the size of the problem.
Something she deemed small? Easy. Even better if she knows it’s something that they can relate to. Something she deems is on the larger scale and a deeper look into herself that she fears they won’t understand? God help him, and good luck.
Only Bucciarati has seen those moments to a degree. Mista never knows how the man does it.
“Trish.” He calls out softly when she doesn’t answer.
She tries to. Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out. She flinches at an invisible force, causing him to scoot to the edge of the bed to come closer in order to catch her attention. For him to be the sole grasp of it. It works when her eyes snap back to him with a newfound focus.
“There’s someone in the house.” She whispers rather fearfully.
If he wasn’t awake before, he is now with that icy feeling that washes over him.
Mista curses.
Of course, this has to happen when they’re the only ones home. With the others attending some sort of grand party for Passione, that Mista was too injured to attend. An excuse he was rather quick to give. Anything to avoid that stuffy suit still hung up on the handle of his closet door and the forced mingling he would have been forced to endure the whole evening.
He never quite got Trish’s reasoning for staying back. Kept entailed behind a closed door through hushed whispers with Bucciarati and Giorno. It left the two of them alone, and a quick glance at the bedside clock shows that it’s only been a couple of hours since Trish had originally left his room after their hang out to drift off early.
“I just, I felt– I keep hearing–”
Mista pays no mind to the jumbled stutters when he stands, shuffling his whole weight on one leg with a grit of his teeth and a sickening swirl of his stomach. A mission gone wrong that left him severely injured in multiple areas to the point he found himself unable to walk for a long period of time, but it’s a pain that he wills away as he reaches for his gun.
“Stay here.” He orders. Even if it would be better to have someone by his side. Let her try to regain her bearings, is the reasoning that he gives himself; even if it’s partially for himself to not have to worry over her being hurt. He’ll call her if he truly does need her help, but for now, he believes that it’s fine for just him and the Sex Pistols. She knows where the extra gun is kept to offer a safety tool besides her Stand.
He waits for the responding nod. For once, Trish doesn’t argue about coming along in a misguided way to prove herself. Mista slips from the room; as always, the adrenaline keeps the pain rather bearable and out of the forefront of his mind as he staggers down the hall, readying himself.
Except…it’s clear. The whole damn house is clear.
Mista stands aimlessly in the middle of the living room. He sent the Sex Pistols out to cover every inch simultaneously, and there’s nothing. Even on the third check. Everything’s the same; nothing’s broken, he’s checked underneath beds and inside of closets; no one’s hiding. Windows shut. Doors locked. It’s quiet. He waits. It all remains the same.
“What the fuck?” He murmurs, glancing around once more.
Mista may not have Narancia’s ability to track breathing, nor Giorno’s ablitiy to sense life, but if someone was surely around; they would have used his weakened position to strike him down in an instance. He knows how this life works; injuries make you an easy target. Especially when he played it up. Enemies would have become arrogant, and believed their mission to be easy with the sight of the longer it became to hold himself up and the buckle of his knees every couple of minutes when staggering forward to recheck another room.
There’s nothing. Not even outside, when the Sex Pistols check the property lines. With a hang of his head, he pulls the curtain shut with a screech of the metal rod against the rings.
He wishes that he can say that he’s annoyed, but there’s only another cause of concern for him about this all. This isn’t Trish playing a prank on him. He can tell when she’s bullshitting him for her own amusement. Always a glint in her eye, but that had been replaced with the pinpricks of fear. That terror was clear. It was pure. An emotion as strong as that cannot easily be faked.
There’s an explanation here somewhere, and he’s inclined to figure it out as he turns on his heels back towards the stairs.
Trish paces the room. Her eyes are foggy and unfocused as she tightly grips the spare gun that Mista keeps in the drawer. Her breathing has slowed, but only as if to hide her presence. Her mind is a jumbled mess of spiraling images and terrifying thoughts of how this night could go one way or another.
This time, it’s she who lets the voice from behind her slip past.
It’s sudden when there’s a firm pressure around his wrist. It doesn’t hurt, but she jerks regardless. Her heart jumps and there’s a spike to her breathing. The pressure doesn’t let up, and another hand comes forward to slowly pull the gun from her hand. A breath of air escapes her. Not quite a gasp with the lack of strength and the tremble in her lips.
She tries to keep a hold of it, her free hand clenching itself into a fist to ready herself to strike the way that Abbacchio has taught her, but the hand around her wrist moves to her pressure point to loosen her grip further.
“It’s okay.”
She lets the quiet murmur register. She tries to latch onto the familiarity with a swallow of the noise of fear that threatens to leave her when the weapon is finally pulled from her hand. When she turns around, Mista comes back into her field of vision. His hands held high with the palms facing open, both guns tucked into the waistband of his pajamas.
He smiles sheepishly. He knows in retrospect, the correct motion would have been to provide her space and not a sudden touch, but the gun in her hand had brought complications that made him override what would have been his first choice in order to avoid the chances of either of them being harmed. Mista won’t say it without further questions, but he believes he knows what this is.
A moment of silence between the two before he quietly sighs, and lowers his hands.
“There’s no one here.”
Trish snaps out of her lucid state instantly. She blinks. “What?” She chokes out. “No.” With a shake of her head, she forces herself to remain steady. “I felt–”
“I checked the house. Three times throughout. There’s no one here, and nothing’s out of place. No forced entry, no one hiding, no sense of an enemy Stand nearby. It’s clear.”
She continues to shake her head. “I know what I felt, someone was there!” Trish says in a hushed voice, the anger seeping through prominently over not being believed.
Mista raises an eyebrow. ‘Felt’. The wording is odd to him. “What did you feel?” He asks, matching her wording regardless. Though his mind buzzes with further questions. Did she see anyone? Hear anything? Or is this all based on feeling alone?
“I just– It was a presence; watching eyes, that cold chill you get when you sense someone is there.” Someone who means you harm, her mind hisses. She swallows harshly. It became something more, that voice in her head continues, it grew. “A figure in the corner of my eye, slams like there was a door opening or closing, footsteps, muffled…voices…downstairs.” Her voice goes slow when the list continues. She pauses.
Trish looks back at Mista. His expression open as he waits.
“It wasn’t real.” She breathes in sudden realization. “It was all in my head again, wasn’t it?”
Mista’s silence says it all.
She looks at the floor. Desolate and defeated. She should have known. It should have been a realization that came to her when she sat up in her bed with a beating heart and a piercing feeling of needing to escape. Shakily, Trish nods. Her shoulders tremble even as her posture hunches together and her arms wrap tightly around herself. There’s a slight burn in her eyes that she is quick to blink away. Pathetic. Of her to act like this. Of her to breakdown in front of Mista.
“Sorry.” She whispers because it’s all that she give. All that she can manage in a moment such as this when she feels a sense of shame well up inside of her. She goes to move past him to leave, unable to bear another second under his gaze, but Mista blocks off her path.
“Come on, Trishie, you can stay.” He smiles brightly, biting back a chuckle when she scowls at the nickname he uses solely to annoy her. “The sleepover offer still stands.” A scowl that turns into a scoff and a roll of the eyes.
“I doubt you want someone crazy in here while you’re injured and trying to rest.” She’s already ruined the minimum sleep he’s finally gotten, and appeared in such a way. God, she’d rather sink to the floor of her own bedroom in embarrassment. “Just forget this happened, Mista. I’ll go back to my room and leave you alone.”
“Nah.” Mista shakes his head, ignoring the self–doubt that clearly eats at her when he keeps a warm smile of reassurance. He switches tactics, knowing to watch the way he pushes this. “You’ll laugh, but I don’t really like to be alone when I’m injured. You’ll make me feel better if you stay.”
It’s not a total lie, and she knows it. A tie between Narancia and Giorno over who stays with him the most when he’s like this. As such, she pauses. Her expression conflicted, but Mista knows that he’s won when she allows herself to come closer.
Though it doesn’t feel as if it’s a win when there’s an uncomfortable silence that settles over them and Trish just looks so haunted from where she sits against the bed frame. Even though she stays, it’s not the real her when she remains so far away. Trapped in her own mind. The tension doesn’t ease from her. Her shoulders held so tight together.
This isn’t anything new.
The paranoia. The thought that someone bears her harm. In the beginning, the lack of trust she held towards them had more than made sense. With the loss of her mother, and suddenly being thrusted into the hands of a mafia team that her father ran with little no choice. Add that to her father believing her life a harm to his own, and how easy of a choice it was to make to dispose of her; Mista would be on guard himself.
Though even in the aftermath when the dust settled, it only continued to grow. In a different way that appeared almost confusing.
While trust has begun to build, it could always regress in a matter of an eye. As if she was two completely different people. Some days, she’ll smile bright at them, engaging with witty remarks that will make them laugh. Other days, she’ll be cold and distant. With on edge actions, as if there’s an invisible force telling her that someone intends to bring her harm. Whether it’s them or someone unknown. It’s always based on feeling. Even if their actions are innocent, she tries to read into them. Each day is different, and it’s a roll of the dice each time the sun rises.
It’s eerily similar to Diavolo, but Mista would never dare to say it out loud.
He can tell that the actions are not purposeful. Just as much as it hurts them, it hurts her to feel such a way with no control over it. He can never tell what causes them, however. How deep these thoughts truly run.
Mista never bore the brunt of it. Only Bucciarati knows, and in a way; Bucciarati can be easy to read if only by a split second. It’s in those first few moments when he left her room, or she left his office. Their faces could hold a thousand of emotions, but wipe blank in a mere second if need be. Fast enough that Mista can’t piece it together in its entirety.
He never pushed. He just watched in silence. The aftermath always remained the same. With the need to hide, though, she doesn’t get it tonight.
Instead, her posture remains hunched together with her eyes pinned to the floor, as if afraid to meet Mista’s own, and her hands come up to run through her already frazzled hair, squeezing her skull together lightly like she can rid the thoughts that way.
“I hate this.” She whispers.
It’s an open vulnerability. The same concealed fear that he’s learned to read into. Just the same for Fugo and Giorno when they feel too guilty to admit to their thoughts. He’s seen it before, memorably, when she visited Bucciarati in the hospital. Her face was kept passively blank, but her eyes held that guilt, anguish, and fear when Bucciarati’s eyes had looked upon her. A fear that it was her fault. Her apology given in the same tone as tonight, even if its different circumstances.
Mista glances over with a deep breath. “I know you do.” He whispers.
The way she hid said so. The way she kept quiet confirmed it. Willing to continue to hurt herself than to reach out for help.
It’s not a surprise that his words must confirm something to her. That there truly is something wrong with her in the worst possible way that they shouldn’t bear. It has her curling in on herself more. Her knees draw to her chest. Mista watches closely. He should have remembered that she reads into looks and remarks poorly with another sense of paranoia that they must look down on her.
“Trish–” He goes to speak first, but she doesn’t allow him to.
“I’m going to be just the same as him.” She blurts. A sudden urge to jump over the mental roadblock that lights up Mista’s heart. Though it’s quick to crash down over him what she means.
“Are you kidding?” Are the first words out of his mouth. “You’re nowhere like him. You never will be.”
Trish scoffs. Unwilling to believe. “The paranoia; it’s all him. I’m fated to be just like my father. Bucciarati says that I’m still rather young. That it may be on–set symptoms for something more that will become more apparent when I’m older. What if–...What if I go down the same route as him from it?”
She feels as if she’s already on that path. She keeps that part silent. Unable to say it out loud, as if it will speak it into truth, and her world will crash around her. To Mista, the thought isn’t surprising.
Admittedly, he knows. She’s not the only one, and she knows that. He’s overheard her and Giorno speak before over the fears they both hold towards their fathers. Son of God. Daughter of the Devil. A nearly poetic sort of connection between them that Mista had at first found beautiful, then tragic when he watched the toll it had taken on them. Both are born from evil men. One they share the burdens of their sins.
The conversation always goes quiet when he enters. Though, Mista knows how heavily it affects them both.
Giorno tries to act as if it doesn’t bother him. With his head held high and a rather rigid posture, he pretends that it’s not there. That his father doesn’t exist. That the actions that Polnareff told him he committed are from someone else he bore no connection to; that there’s not a chance that he will be just the same.
Trish is the opposite. She internalizes her father so deeply that he’s become a majority of her thoughts for the past few months, even if she won’t admit to them.
A fear towards him only grows to a fear towards herself.
“There’s a difference when it comes to you and him, Trish, trust me. None of us have ever seen you as the same–”
“Forget it.” Trish snaps. Her jaw clenched together when she realizes what she has admitted to. Thoughts and feelings that can easily be used against her when they see the opportunity to strike her down. Her hands tighten their grip around her knees, her nails digging into her skin, leaving crescent shape marks. Red and burning.
“No, come on–”
“I said forget it!”
There’s no way that he is right. She knows what she believes is the truth. Maybe they’re too blind to see it. Maybe they’re lying as a meaningless comfort to her. To not provoke her suspicions. In any way that she looks at it, she comes to the same conclusion that they’re lying.
“Where’s the sleeping bag? The one that Giorno uses when he stays with you?” She deflects instead.
For a moment, it’s silent. In a way that nearly has her breaking out in a cold chill, though she still doesn’t look at Mista. Thankfully, there’s a sigh. She deflates in relief when he stands to walk towards the closet.
She knows that it’s not over, however. That Mista won’t just leave well enough alone, and the upcoming morning would only create another sense of dread all the same. Though she finds a bout of luck on her side when it’s avoided with Giorno’s late appearance, joining them in the night that creates another opportunity for her to hide and ignore the problems that lie beneath her.
Trish goes on like normal. As if nothing happened. She never stormed into his room in a frantic panic. She never believed the delusions given to her. The paranoia in it all ignored. Their conversation voided.
Mista can’t bring it up. He’d tried before. Trish had only brushed him off in a cold manner. No amount of pushing could amount to anything when Trish would only snap and begin to ignore him. The others take notice, of course they do, but Mista knows better than to tell any of them what has happened when Trish looks terrified at the prospect. Especially when Bucciarati turns questioning.
“Mista.” He says one evening as the two sit outside in the garden. A brief moment of alone time between them when Giorno had gone in with the intention of grabbing something. Mista’s sure that it was planned and purposeful.
He hums, intentionally sounding nonchalant and avoiding his gaze. His eyes kept on his book, though he doesn’t see any of the words. He goes to turn another page in his wait, but Bucciarati’s calm hand rests on his wrist. There’s a beat. Mista knows what the man wants, but is unsure if he can give it.
Though, he proves himself wrong by always being obedient. His eyes lift up.
Bruno may smile at him, but it doesn’t quite ease the nerves.
“What happened?” He doesn’t beat around the question.
However, Mista plays dumb. “What do you mean–?”
“Guido.” Bruno silences him with a raised eyebrow. “Please, don’t.”
Mista tensed underneath his grip.
“I’ve noticed a tension between you and Trish. Ever since the night of the party. Did something happen?” Bruno asks him rather softly. Voice quiet as if anyone can overhear when it’s just them in their own private bubble. His eyes are sincere, and the warmth of his palm is a comforting weight. “Just as you all have sworn deep loyalty and even devotion to me, I have done the same with each of you. As your Capo, I was there, and it remains just the same as your Don. I do not wish for you to hide anything from me when I am more than willing to listen and provide you with anything from what ails you. You just have to talk to me.”
Mista nods. His muscles relaxing with that soothing voice. “I know. I trust you more than anything.”
Bruno’s smile grows at that. “Then talk to me.”
“I don’t know how to word it.” Mista admits with a sigh. "I don’t know if I can. You know her, Bucciarati. It’s hard for her to admit when anything’s wrong, and when she does; she comes to you and it’s only if she’s ready.”
“You feel as if it would be betrayal if you spoke on her behalf.” Bruno muses. His eyes flicker with understanding.
Mista does. While it was sparse in the moment, it was still a confession. Trish would never confide in him again if she believes he’ll only run to Bucciarati and spill whatever she had the courage to admit.
Each friendship is different. It holds its own knowledge between one another. Mista knows things about each of them that Bucciarati doesn’t know. The secrecy never stemmed from a distrust towards Bucciarati, but more so to build trust in the relationships between one another. Surely, Bucciarati understands that. Aspects of himself that he has only shared with Abbacchio, Giorno, or Fugo.
So, Mista nods. “I’m handling it.” He reassures him. “I know that it doesn’t look that way, with her ignoring me, and everything; but if you give it time and I remain patient, then she’ll feel safe enough to come back to me. I’m sure of it.”
Bruno hums. “As much as you trust me, I trust you.” He reminds. “I know that I can’t mediate everything between everyone, but it never hurts to offer my help to keep us together as a team.”
Mista smiles back. His heart warm. The backdoor creaks open, finishing their conversation as Giorno creeps back out.
He’d meant everything he said, but he forgot just how stubborn Trish can be. Even more so when it involves her father. The prospect of who makes DNA and the fear of what she can inherit from him always makes her shut down. Mista has a hunch on why, but never a semblance of an answer to confirm it.
It remains disheartening, but he does as he says. He remains open and patient, playing her game and acting as if nothing has happened.
In a way, however, he fears as if he waited too long when the house was awakened by a crash in the night and a commotion downstairs. By the time Mista has stumbled down the stairs; a scene has already played out and finished, but through the aftermath he can put the pieces together.
With Fugo’s sprawled body in the entryway, and Bruno kneeled down next to him, pressing a tissue against the lower half of his face. Mista can’t see him from how he’s angled as he stands behind on the steps, but he can see the blood begin to stain the tissue and the residue on Fugo’s hand. The front door is opened, having been slammed with enough force that the photo frame on the wall had fallen with a shatter. It’s glass frame pieces scattered across the floor.
Giorno and Narancia stand at the entrance of the back hallway, watching in silence, before they’re abruptly forced to the side when Abbacchio flits past them with an icepack in one hand, and a first aid kit in another to join Bruno and Fugo.
There’s one missing. No one needs to tell Mista for him to make the correct guess.
“Where did she go?”
No one turns to look at him, but he can tell that they all heard him. Not as if they had a choice to ignore him when the room was kept in stifling silence. Even so, no one answers. Abbacchio and Bucciarati trades looks with one another. A silent conversation that finishes with a nod before Abbacchio takes Bucciarati’s place in propping Fugo up.
“You took worse hits, kid.” The man chuckles, ignoring the scowl that Fugo gives.
Bucciarati stands, moving towards the door and blindly reaching out for his coat. Mista doesn’t let him get that far.
“Bucciarati.” He calls. He steps forward to join him near the front door. “Let me.” Comes his quiet request. Nothing more of an explanation.
Bucciarati pauses, eyes flickering towards him. Someone has to go. They know better than to let Trish be by herself in a middle of a mindset such as this one. They’ll fear for her otherwise. Maybe it’s a stifling atmosphere, one that might make her stand more on edge, but they do it for her safety. To reassure her that no one is truly out to get her, despite what she feels. Sometimes what she sees or hears. Hallucinations are rare, the delusions via paranoia more prominent.
Silently, Bucciarati nods. Knowing that it’s for the best. “Very well. However, you will take your phone to be able to reach out if you need any of us. Understood?”
Mista nods right away, turning towards Narancia expectantly. He’s not going all the way back up the stairs for his own. With a blink, Narancia catches on as he pulls his from his pocket to toss forward.
Ultimately, she didn’t get far. A feat made easy when he sends out the Sex Pistols to scatter themselves around the property. Not by a longshot as he discovers, though Mista has to curse when he needs to climb the lattice to get to the section of the roof she’s on.
“Are you fucking serious?”
Trish jumps at the voice that comes from behind her. Her head whips around with an audible snap as she sees Mista. His expression is heavily concealed, but Trish can still see the traces of anger and has heard it very much reflected in his voice. She stutters before she looks down as Mista approaches.
“Do you know how worried the others are? Do you know how dangerous it is to run away during…”
An episode? He nearly wants to say, but stops himself short. He knows better than to put it into technical terms when Trish will only spiral deeper with it.
Trish blanches. There’s not a way to defend herself or make a good enough case to be believed. Ultimately, she’s merely surprised that it’s Mista who went after her and not Bucciarati, although Bucciarati would have been more nerve–wracking and devastating to face.
“I–” She tries to say something just to put anything out there, but her voice dies in her throat and she can only click her mouth shut. She surprises even herself when she finds herself flinching the closer Mista approaches.
It makes him pause when he catches onto it. A tiny sigh leaves him. “I’m not going to hurt you, Trish.” He says quietly. “You just scared me, is all.”
God, did she.
He waits for her shoulders to relax. Silently, she gives a small nod, and Mista takes that as permission for him to come closer. He sits down next to her. The wind howls around them. The trees swaying with its branches too close for his liking. Mista can see why she comes out to this spot. It’s secluded, but keeps her close to home.
The only reason she had been found was by Number Five tearfully calling out her name from above Mista, that served to alert him.
Even now, Number Five remains clinging to Trish, resting in a part of her hair. If it bothers her, she doesn’t make it known. Nor does Mista even believe so when he’s noticed that she’s always held a soft spot for the Pistol.
“What happened?” He asks. Voice open without a trace of judgement.
Trish breathes in deeply. Her face angled away from him. “I woke up, went for some tea.” A rough night. Maybe not only for her.
“Fugo was behind me.” She never heard his bedroom door open, but she heard his footsteps directly behind her.
“I don’t–...I don’t know why, I knew it was him,” He greeted her. Sounded happy and relieved that he wouldn’t be alone.
“But I just got this sudden thought that he would hurt me, and I swung.”
She cringes at the remembrance of the crack that had echoed. The sudden thud of Fugo falling to the floor with a painful shout. There had been a need to leave when the horror had dawned on her and two different thoughts pulled terribly at her mind. Guilt for striking him in the first place, and fear that he would retaliate via Purple Haze.
It’s why she hadn’t hesitated to run, but something had mentally kept her from leaving the property.
Mista hums. “Was it always like this?” He asks. When Trish freezes from beside him, Mista levels her a look. “Come on, Trish, I don’t care what the answer is the way you believe that I will. I want to help, not look down on you.”
Trish refuses to look at him. Her eyes kept pinned on the night sky. She wishes that he could leave well enough alone. She never preferred the serious side of him. It should be easy for him to leave. It should be easy for her to ask for him to leave as a way of avoidance. Though she remains silent.
It’s easy for Mista to wait.
“There were…signs.” Trish finally admits. “When I was younger. I had a hard time making friends. They viewed me as cold and standoffish, and I–...I believed they would hurt me.” Just the same as she does now. A thought process that never changes.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” She muses. “It just felt as if they would.” A feeling that she still can’t shake. “It…I love my mama more than I can ever make known, but it was always a point of tension between us. She always wondered why I couldn’t be like the others. I tried to shove it down for her. Especially when she became sick. She worried enough about me, I didn’t want to add more.”
Like how her trusted mother slowly became an enemy to her mind when she viewed her sickness as a betrayal. She always felt sick after that thought.
“Mista.” She calls out quietly. “My whole life I’ve always had this pattern of distrust and suspicion towards everyone. As if everyone meant me harm. Some days are better, but God, I always feel like the ones I am trying to trust will only end up deceiving me. That’s why it’s so hard to open up. I fear that it will be used against me.”
She sighs.
“I used to never know why I was this way. It would eat me alive just wondering. Then, I learned. I found out who my father was, the way he thought. The way he feared. It gave me an answer, and everything became clear, but it grew into a fear that I would be just like him. That because he's a part of me, I will be just the same. It's scares me the most. I don't want to be anything like him, but I don't think I get a choice in that matter when, if it was up to me, I wouldn't share his DNA at all.”
A weight feels as if it has been lifted from her shoulders by a mere fragment. However, she still can’t bear to look at him. Fearing what expression she will find reflected on him.
“Will you accept help?” Mista asks. Her head whips towards him.
“What?” She breathes.
Mista comes closer. “Will you accept help?” He repeats.
“I don’t–”
“You don’t want to be like him. You’re scared of it.” He states the obvious. “But if you accept the help we’ve been trying to give you, you’ll break from that cycle. Because, unlike him, you’ll allow us into your bubble. You won’t have to fear us. It’s hard, but if you talk to us and explain it as you’ve done now, we can find ways to ease this for you. You’ll learn to live with this, and some day; it won’t rule your life.”
Trish stares. Her eyes burn, and before she knows it; a sob burst from her throat.
For a second, Mista watches her shake with those choking cries, before silently he scoots closer to her side to pull her ever so gently into his arms. His grip kept light for her to slip from easily if she so needs to.
“We’re here for you, Trishie. We want to help as we care for you so much. You just have to let us in, even if by a fragment.”
“S–Stop calling me that stupid nickname.” She says between cries. A light chuckle escaping her before she nods. She doesn't say anything, but Mista doesn't need her to.
Mista smiles, his grip tightening when her arms wrap around him in a bone–crushing grip.
As the two enter the house, neither of them should be surprised to see Bucciarati waiting up for them. Fugo leaned up against him with his eyes closed and nose bandaged, but Mista can tell that he’s not actually asleep. Proven when he shifts at the sound of the door closing, and his eyes crack open when Bucciarati goes to speak.
“Trish–” He starts.
“We need to talk.” She finishes for him. As both a guess over his words, and as a request for herself. “I…I want to talk.” She clarifies in a quiet voice before her eyes shift towards Fugo. He stays silent.
Silently, Bucciarati nods. “Of course.” He rises from the couch, catching the glance between Fugo and Trish. “I’ll give you both a moment. I’ll wait in your room.”
He goes to leave them, though, pausing in front of Mista with a soft smile and squeeze to his shoulder. His expression is akin to pride that always lights up Mista’s heart to receive.
“Thank you.” Bucciarati murmurs.
Mista nods with a silent thought that it’s nothing off his back before he joins him in the hall.
Slowly, Trish comes forward to sit next to Fugo. Her eyes kept on the bandages, and before she realizes; her hand comes up to gently press her fingers into the bone. Checking. There’s an internal sense of relief when he doesn’t flinch the way her mind told her he would. That he would have a right to fear her, though it slips past her that he’s seen, done, and felt worse.
“It’s not broken.” Fugo mutters. Eyes darting away under her gaze. Hesitantly, he reaches to take her hand. Not to pull it away, but to hold it. “I’ve had worse hits.” He steals Abbacchio’s joke, trying for a smile, but Trish only deflates.
“I’m sorry–”
“It’s fine.” He cuts off right away, squeezing her hand. “You’ve been through a lot. Thoughts aren’t always rational. You’ve seen how I am, Trish, I lash out physically myself. Sometimes due to my anger, other times because I’m scared. It’s not always right, but we’ll learn to work through it even if our problems are not the same.”
Trish stares with wide eyes, an argument on her tongue, but Fugo levels her a further look. She drops it.
Fugo glances back towards the hallway. A smile pulls at his lips.
“He’s nice to confide in, isn’t he? Mista.”
Trish laughs quietly. “He’s not a total dumbass like I thought when we met.”
Fugo smiles wider. “He does anything in the name of family.”
That he does.