face the facts.

“hey,” mista says.

“hey,” fugo replies, and kisses him. mista smiles into it, pushing fugo back up against the wall, hands dropping to rest on his hips. warmth curls beneath fugo’s skin, slow and affectionate, and he pulls back to glance over mista’s face.

“mista,” fugo starts. mista raises an eyebrow. “you’re covered in oil.”

“and?”

“and you smell like gasoline, and god knows what.” fugo huffs a laugh when mista pouts.

“and here i thought i was thinkin’ you actually liked me or something.” his tone is light, teasing.

“i do, y’know.” fugo says, unusually honest. it’s strange how mista brings out this side of him — how mista’s always grounded him, taking his anger and bitterness and guilt and turning his sharp edges soft.

“yeah,” mista says, leaning in. “i know.” fugo reaches up with a palm to block the kiss, scoffing.

“i have no idea why, though. do us both a favor and take a goddamn shower, guido. i think there’s transmission fluid on my pants that wasn’t there before, jesus.”

“is that s’posed to be a dirty j—“ fugo claps a hand over mista’s mouth, rolling his eyes.

“shut up,” fugo mutters, though it’s fond, only half-serious. “c’mon, before you spread oil all over my carpet somehow. that shit’s hard to get out of there, you know.”

“yeah, yeah,” mista says, once he pries his face free. reluctantly, he pads away towards the bathroom. fugo counts his blessings, walking across the room towards the couch. he sprawls out across the cushions, fingers tapping out a dull rhythm against his chest as the sound of running water echoes faintly from the apartment’s bathroom.

how domestic. he thinks that he could get used to this, maybe. he swipes a hand over his eyes, breathing out a tired sigh, and falls asleep to the sound of the shower running.

—

he wakes to the smell of food drifting out of the kitchen and to the sizzle of oil on the pan. mista is cooking, then. again, the domesticity settles uneasily in his chest, foreign. he's been used to being alone for too long — and whenever mista is around, he feels anything but. to have him as a permanent fixture in his home is strange but not unpleasant: mista takes up the emptiness and the quiet but leaves fugo his own space, and it makes something grateful simmer beneath fugo's skin as he pads around the corner to silently watch mista, dicing something on the cutting board with intense concentration.

mista is at his most honest when he's like this, he thinks: engrossed in the task at hand, stance open and relaxed, with none of the lingering caution pulling tension into his eyes, his body.  fugo hasn't asked what he's running from, and mista won't say, but fugo has his guesses.

he wants to keep this mista, the one in front of him, because this mista he knows: honest and carefree to a fault, not giving a shit about what the world thinks, as long as he knows what he wants. sometimes the shadows that pass over mista's face scare him — not because fugo's afraid of what secrets he's hiding, but because fugo's afraid that mista's changed, and that he doesn't know this mista like he did once, like he thinks he still does now.

"enjoying the view?" mista calls, over his shoulder. it startles fugo out of his thoughts.

"don't flatter yourself," he replies, drily.

"you knocked out," mista says, dropping a bowl of mixed ingredients into the pan. "rough day?"

"i think i'm going to kill my professor," fugo mutters. "don't know if i'm cut out for college after all. academia, all this shit."

"shut up. you're the smartest one i know." fugo snorts.

"not high praise, knowing your friends." mista makes a wounded noise.

"hey! listen — remind me to introduce you to giorno one of these days. i bet you'd like him. he's always going on about some philosophical shit, and his family's got some wild connections, like politicians or lawyers or something."

"as if i haven't had enough of family connections for one lifetime," fugo murmurs, shaking his head. "you know, you're smarter than you give yourself credit for, guido."

"i give myself plenty of credit."

"fuck off, i'm being serious." mista shrugs.

"yeah. maybe. school though? that's your thing, not mine, boy genius."

fugo looks away. "don't call me that."

at that, mista turns, eyes flashing away from the stove to glance over fugo's face. he pulls a face, holding up his hands apologetically. "hey, sorry. y'know i didn't mean it like that."

"yeah," fugo says, sliding his hands into his pockets. "i know." he steps closer, leaning back against the side of the kitchen counter so that their shoulders touch.

"class has just got me stressed, i guess. my shit reputation and my family's name isn't helping much." mista hums a reply.

"you know what's a good way to destress," mista starts, and fugo goes bright red. mista stops, glancing at him before snorting, bumping his shoulder amiably. "jesus, no, fugo — i mean, that too, but not what i was thinking."

"i wasn't thinking anything," fugo says, unconvincingly.

"mmhmm," mista replies, clearly unconvinced. "anyway, good food and good movies, man. let's put on some clint eastwood."

"your taste in movies never fails to surprise me," fugo says, deadpan, and mista pokes him in the side.

"never bash eastwood, fugo."

"i hate you," fugo replies.

"you love me," mista says, the corners of his lips already tugging up in a self-satisfied smirk.