Fugo had noticed how quickly Narancia began to improve on his arithmetic when he used stationery he liked. It seemed that working on long division with a multi-pen and fruit-printed notebook went by easier than with plain composition journals and wooden pencils. They had been working at Fugo’s desk for the last hour and a half, when Narancia finished his work and pushed the book towards his tutor with an assured noise. Fugo took the work and, clicking the red ink down on the multi-pen, held it at the ready to circle any mistakes.

 

“See this answer here? Remember to put the bar over these two numbers, because they’ll continue to repeat forever.” Fugo said while drawing a thick red line over the first two digits after the decimal point, since the older boy had kept repeating the numbers before crossing some out and going to the next problem. They had only practiced this sort of answer starting yesterday, so Fugo hadn’t expected Narancia to know what to do in that situation yet. Perhaps he was feeling more patient today. Narancia nodded with a bit of clarity, staring at the paper as Fugo steadily went down with the pen hovering over each response.

 

“Yeah, everything else looks good. Good job, Narancia! That was really fine work today.” Fugo exclaimed with a relieved smile, looking the other boy in the eyes. Bucciarati had taught him how that could convey sincerity, and even if Fugo was rather averse to such an approach, he’d always make the exception for Narancia.

 

The raven-haired boy’s face was still concentrating, though, when he met Fugo’s stare. Blinking twice, Narancia seemed to snap back to the moment, shouting, “A rock star!”, while pointing at the younger gangster with conviction.

 

“...What?” Fugo responded, trying to parse where the hell that response came from. “Your bangs are so long now, Fugo! You look like a singer in a rock band!” Narancia continued, barely waiting for his friend’s confused inquiry. Fugo frowned. “Did you hear what I said after I finished looking over your paper? You got most of this right, but remember what we practiced yesterday-” He continued, trailing off as Narancia nodded fervently. “Yeah, yeah, I heard it! But we already worked for like, the entire afternoon, and then I realized your hair keeps covering your face when you lean over to read, and I couldn’t figure out what you looked like until now!” The smaller boy finished, as if his explanation made these observations fit into the context of their tutoring any better.

 

Fugo’s frown grew into a bit of a scowl. “I don’t know what that has to do with your studying. And besides,” He said, standing up to push in his chair. “If anyone has hair fit for a rock band, it’s probably Abbacchio, not me.” The pale boy finished, shaking his head so that the bangs would hang out of his face. He hadn’t noticed until Narancia pointed it out, but it really had been some time since he cut his hair. Fugo was struck with a sudden pang of self-consciousness, hoping that it hadn’t been a look that inconvenienced their work as gangsters, or worse, made Narancia think he looked silly-

 

“AH! You’re right! He looks like he’s in some hair metal band!” Narancia was abound with laughter, bringing his legs up to his chest in the wicker chair. “It’s the makeup that makes it fit more than his hair, though. But, but! You’d still look cool as hell with that makeup too, I think. You could be the keyboardist!” the smaller stand user barely finished saying, before erupting into more snorts of laughter. Fugo rolled his eyes and grumbled. “I’ve never worn makeup, Narancia. And where the hell would I even get something like that goth stuff Abbacchio wears anyways?” He said, waving his arms widely. The taller boy didn’t even know why he was entertaining this ridiculous hypothetical, but here he was.

 

Narancia’s laughter died down, and he looked at Fugo like he had said something painfully obvious. “Uh, from Abbacchio’s stash? Duh.” Fugo’s eyes shot open wide, before poking his index finger at Narancia. “Are you kidding me? That’s his makeup, Narancia. Key word here, his. Not mine, or yours.” Fugo huffed, crossing his arms. “What makes you think he’d let us even use his shit in the first place? You’ve seen how he glares at Mista when he tries taking his desert. Honestly…” He continued, turning from Narancia while talking to pack the supplies scattered across his desk into the orange rucksack at their feet.

 

He looked up to see amethyst eyes gleaming with mischief. “Who ever said we’d ask ?”

 

And so, here Fugo was, against his better judgment, tip-toeing with Narancia into the bathroom, shutting the door behind them ever so carefully as to not alert the rest of the team. In the end, it had come down to Narancia pulling his puppy eyes routine, his bottom lip quivering as he pleaded with Fugo. Damn him.

 

Opening the topmost cabinet, Narancia less-than-gracefully pulled down Abbacchio’s makeup bag; A large pouch with a shiny black vinyl exterior. The fact that it was in the highest compartment made Fugo hesitate once more. The goth really didn’t want them to raid his things. “Narancia, let’s just-” He said in an urgent whisper, as the smaller boy shoved a black plastic tube in his face. “Woah, check it out! This is heavier than I expected!” Narancia said in awe, moving the cosmetic up and down curiously, testing the weight. Fugo tried to continue but was cut off once more as Narancia almost dropped the tube in his hands to search through the bag some more, catching it just in time. He had to admit, it was certainly heavier than he had expected, too. Fugo noticed the fine, raised print running along the side of the tube, reading ‘ Diorshow ’, with a twinge of curiosity.

 

“Just… Keep that rifling down, okay? We don’t want anyone to find us in here.” The younger boy urged, grumbling as Narancia waved his free hand towards him dismissively. Rolling his eyes, Fugo put the tube back into the bag, just as the raven-haired boy pulled out another cosmetic. “This one’s even heavier! I think it’s lipstick…” Narancia said as he turned the object over and over in his hands, moving his head around like some kind of bird to analyze it at every angle. It was when Narancia looked at the base of the makeup that he started snorting in laughter again, and Fugo jumped to put his finger over his lips to shush the smaller boy sternly. Covering his own mouth, Narancia simply leaned into Fugo and showed him the base of the lipstick; ‘ Succumb to Plum ’ was written in bold letters against a dark purple paper sticker, likely the actual color. “Heh heh… Isn’t that the tackiest name you’ve ever heard?” Narancia said, muffled by his own hand while he continued to hold back his laughter. Well, he certainly had a point there, Fugo thought, his mouth curling upwards into a tiny smirk as a bit of the previous tension he had felt left the room.

 

Being around Narancia was like that more often than not, Fugo found.

 

“Huh. I wonder if this’ll look nice with my skin tone?”

 

Of course, he was snapped back to reality at those words, no longer feeling Narancia leaning against him; The older boy now facing the mirror intently and… Applying something? Fugo blinked before leaning over to see what Narancia was doing, and the tension that had left just moments ago came back. The tanned boy’s bottom lip was covered in clumsy, streaky lines of warm purple, and Narancia seemed intent to do the same to his upper lip. “What the hell Narancia! Stop putting that on your face, it isn’t-” Fugo stopped himself from finishing with it isn’t hygienic , realizing that the whole reason they were here was to put Abbacchio’s makeup on him instead. So, he backtracked and instead hissed, “You’re supposed to be putting that on me.”

 

Narancia just turned to him with an unimpressed pout. “Oh, come on , Fugo! I was just trying it out for myself. I never said I didn’t wanna get made up too!” He continued, still applying the lipstick in swirls of movement much too heavy handed. “Here, see? I finished puttin’ it on nice and quick for you, so I can put it on you now too.” He puckered his lips twice in the mirror, seemingly oblivious to how some parts had too much and some too little, and turned with the same clumsy incoordination to Fugo.

 

By this point, Fugo had had quite enough of Narancia’s funny business. He grabbed at the smaller boy’s arm perhaps a bit too harshly, and held it still in a vice grip. “Listen to me, just because you don’t care about having your lips look like you smeared your face in grape jelly, doesn’t mean I don’t. So either apply it with a little more finesse, or I’ll do it myself.” Fugo seethed, clenching his free hand tight in an effort to not insult Narancia further. He really didn’t want that tube of lipstick shoved up his nose today.

 

“Ugh, fine… But if it ends up looking like ass, that’s on you, Fugo!” Narancia exclaimed, and the pale stand user was relieved that it wouldn’t devolve into a fight. Yet, at least… The smaller boy held out the lipstick tube as he studied Fugo’s face with a newfound level of attention, and for the second time that day, Fugo felt acutely self conscious of his appearance. He didn’t know if his teammate was about to draw a huge smiley face across his lips out of spite, or actually apply the prune-toned makeup with unforeseen precision and grace. Fugo couldn’t decide which would be worse for his heart.

 

“Relax.” Narancia said sincerely, his amethyst eyes now staring into Fugo’s overworked own, as the older boy reached his other hand out to gently, firmly grip his friend’s jawline to steady himself. Fugo tried his absolute damndest then to relax his upper body, instead directing that tension to his scraping fist, the knuckles now snow white while his face flushed beet red.

 

The first swipe went on the center of his bottom lip not unlike how Narancia used a pencil; heavy-handed at first, but getting better as time went on. As the color was spread outwards slowly but surely, Fugo found himself able to stare at his friend’s face now at such a short distance without being noticed, Narancia’s brow scrunched up in intense focus further below. 

 

You wouldn’t be able to notice the slight droop above Narancia’s left eye if you weren’t at this distance anyhow, or knew the raven-haired teen’s history beforehand. Bucciarati still insisted on taking Narancia to get a fresh bottle of eyedrops every month out of precaution, although it often ended up being Fugo accompanying him instead. At the opposite end of the spectrum, Fugo’s gaze lowered to Narancia’s bronze nose, the faintest of a diagonal scar crossing over it now from when Fugo had taken things too far last month with a steak knife over introducing the ‘x’ variable to equations. He felt guilt pulse through his body, and squeezed his hand hard once more.

 

“‘Kay, I think I’m done.” Narancia announced, giving Fugo a final one-over before nodding, satisfied. The sudden lack of his shorter friend in his face once again felt awkward, and Fugo scrambled over to the mirror with Narancia as they both stared at their reflections with wide, curious eyes. The first thing Fugo noticed was how pale he was; He distantly remembered how paints and other color-related things often had warm or cool undertones, and that this ‘ Succumb to Plum ’ bullshit was really not his color; warm and cinnamon-y in a way that didn’t compliment his ghastly cool skin and the smattering of youthful freckles across his nose and cheeks. His painted lips spread into a wide grimace, feeling like the entire experience had been an immense failure and waste of time.

 

“It looks cute on you, methinks! That expression makes you look like a mini-Abbacchio, though.” Narancia said, after a few muted “oohs” and “aahs”. Flushing at the compliment (Narancia thought he looked cute !?), Fugo scoffed it off. “Seriously? I think this color looks awful on me.” He said, noticing the way Narancia stared at him in the mirror intently. It was only then that Fugo realized how nice the lipstick looked on Narancia’s sun-kissed skin instead. It matched the rich mauve undertones of the older boy’s black leather top, and if he was being honest, the uneven patches across Narancia’s lips (much fuller than Fugo’s own, he now realized) only made it all the more charming.

 

Scruffy and scrappy, but stupidly endearing because of that.

 

“...Huh. It looks better on you, though. Maybe you can join our hypothetical goth band.” Fugo said, a little stupefied by this turnout that was successful in its own right. Narancia practically beamed at him, clattering the lipstick on the counter to grab Fugo’s hands in triumph. “You really think so!? But, shit, I can’t play an instrument…” He said, looking down as if he had just remembered that fact. “But, but! I can be the freakin’ sweet dancer! And you guys can, like, have me lip sync or something.” He grinned at the conclusion he came to, a bright, toothy expression that made Fugo’s heart swell with a multitude of affectionate feelings and his death grip dissipate. He giggled an awkward, stifled giggle, which just made Narancia laugh as well, a sound that came much easier from his painted lips than Fugo’s own.

 

“Now that you mention it, though… I haven’t the slightest idea what sort of dances goth rockers even do.” The taller boy said absently, angling his head to see if the room’s lighting was having any effect on how he saw the warm tone on his lips. “It depends on the size of the venue, mostly.” Fugo heard the gruff reply, nodding in placid acknowledgement.

 

But that voice was much too deep and assured to be Narancia’s. Narancia was staring at the mirror with his own mouth agape and silent, anyways.

 

Feeling the air go dreadfully cold, both boys turned around slowly in abject horror to the tall, brooding man in black looming over them. Abbacchio’s features were lit from below like how one would use a flashlight beneath their chin at a campfire for dramatic effect, and boy, did it make him look even more like some kind of folk monster than he already did. His eyes were wide and expectant, boring holes through the mortified faces of the boys below.

 

“A-Abbacchio, we were just-” Fugo began, stuttering as he scrambled to gather his bearings. It was all for naught, though, since as soon as the words left his mouth, Abbacchio growled , and picked up both boys by the back of their shirts to haul them out of the bathroom with a furious huff.

 

Bucciarati looked up from his report to see Abbacchio hauling his two youngest teammates into the living room like two sacks of potatoes. Actually, they looked more like two kittens caught in the act of stealing food by their owner, now that Bucciarati thought about it more. Fugo had his hand to his forehead, gripping tightly at the furrowed flesh, and Narancia’s arms were flung over his head in sheer embarrassment. He couldn’t help but feel bad for all three of them, really.

 

Mista, however, was keeled over, raucous laughter escaping his lips as he pointed at the seemingly guilty teens. The Pistols mirrored their user in the uproar, little crumbs of bread and cheese escaping their mouths as they had been smack dab in the middle of snack time. The noise striking a nerve in Abbacchio’s already overwhelmed brain, he dropped both teens unceremoniously in the center of the living room. Walking around to the front of both boys, he crossed his arms, sneering. “Don’t give me any bullshit, you little twerps. Why the fuck were you digging around in my shit and putting it on?” He demanded, tapping his foot at a rapid, impatient pace.

 

Fugo motioned to answer, unsure in that terrified moment if he was going to try and save his skin by blaming Narancia or accusing Abbacchio of opening the bathroom door when it was occupied (It had been left open a smidge, in reality). However, he was cut off before he could get a word out by the older teen, who had jumped up to stand his ground against their towering teammate. “WE WANTED TO BE GOTH ROCKERS, OKAY!?” He practically screamed, his posture puffed out to make himself look bigger than he was. The room fell dead silent, with all eyes on Narancia as he heaved deep breaths to keep up the appearance of being tough.

 

In all of Fugo’s wisdom, he had no idea what to expect now.

 

It was Abbacchio who broke the silence first. His eyes screwed shut, the oncoming headache of hearing so many squealing teenage voices in such a short amount of time making him deflate significantly. “For fuck’s sake… I don’t care, just… I would’ve helped you two morons if you just had asked ,” He finished with a more characteristic grumble, before turning around to head down the hall. Bucciarati had jumped up to follow behind, calling out for Abbacchio with a gentle smile. Fugo knew that they’d most certainly have an awkward scolding later from their capable boss, but he was glad the more imminent crisis had been averted.

 

“Goth rockers, huh? It’s a pretty good first try. I’d say you guys look more like half-baked circus clowns, though.” Mista snickered through a muffled bite of food, having returned to his meal with his six hungry mouths to feed. Fugo felt irritation bubble up to get Mista to stop adding insult to injury, but he hesitated when he saw Narancia’s slumping posture. Compared to only a few moments ago, the raven-haired teen looked so… defeated.

 

“Hey, Fugo..? Sorry about making such a mess. I won’t do it again…” He said solemnly, eyes unable to meet the pale teen’s face. It was the same tone Narancia used when he felt bad about stabbing Fugo for the umpteenth time over something trivial, although this time it had involved a third party. His bottom lip quivered, still painted that obnoxiously warm purple tone. It suited his skin tone.

 

So, Fugo laughed. Like the stuffy giggle from the bathroom minutes before, but louder now. A cackling sort of laughter that was interrupted by intermittent snorts and moments of dry heaving. Fugo couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed that hard, but it probably had also been with Narancia. While the older teen had obviously gotten them into some trouble, it was outweighed by the free, light feeling in his heart that made Fugo feel like, in all honesty, the kid he was.

 

Narancia watched him with a look of equal confusion and concern, while Fugo simmered down and put his hand up passively. “No, no, it’s alright. Really! I… I had a lot of fun doing that, Narancia. Honestly.” He said through a few more giggles, noticing how quickly Narancia’s expression changed from dour to delighted. “Seriously!? I thought we would’ve never seen the light of day again! But it was totally worth it, though.” He grinned wide, bits of the lipstick rubbing off onto his teeth now in a silly, lighthearted manner.

 

“Although… No offense, but this shit’s really uncomfortable. How the hell does Abbacchio wear it all the time?” Narancia said, rubbing his fingers absentmindedly across his lips. Fugo leaned over to grab his hand. “No, stop, you’re going to smear it and make it worse. You’re right though, this stuff feels weird.” He admitted, sighing.

 

Both boys kept poking at each other’s faces with mixed reactions of humor and annoyance as they stumbled back into the bathroom, looking for makeup wipes. Mista watched them both leave as quickly as they had arrived, sighing contentedly as he carefully divvied up a piece of cheese into six equally-sized portions.

We’re livin’ the dream , he thought.