Hi hi, misfu/fumis friends! September 1st is just three weeks away, which means #fumisweek2025 is almost here!!
In preparation, we'll post some fun fugo+mista related polls ☺️!
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⚠️ Content Warnings (has some spoilers) ⚠️: (Internalized) Transphobia, some ableist and queerphobic rhetoric (they mean well but they're uneducated on the topic and it shows)
🗒 Synopsis: Fugo and Mista are celebrating their anniversary with a little surprise trip to Napoli. The drive there has a couple roadbumps.
(This fic plays in an AU in which Fugo never went to law-school but instead studies History/Archeology in Isernia for various reasons!)
Fugo used to despise mirrors; Getting caught up in the details was a vice that never showed mercy, and looking at the reflection in those translucent surfaces always offered oh so many details to get caught up in.
It was not as uncomfortable an ordeal when Fugo was still younger, with an undeveloped body that had yet to witness the horrors of puberty. When flesh hadn't yet distributed uncontrollably to shape into a parody of itself and people only thought that the child that the Fugo-household seemed to drag behind itself was girly, not a girl. But then hormones kicked in and shaped Fugo. For the longest time every reflective surface was a trap, showing off every blemish.
Fugo has since developed a much kinder relationship to mirrors. It does help that Mista owns a lot of them. Floor to ceiling in the bedroom, dotted in circles across the main hallway, a big one for two people in the bathroom and even the glass wall that stops the showerhead from spraying all over the tiled floor has reflective mirror-elements in it when one looks closely.
It also helps that Fugo has a second life now. A second set of clothes. A second set of hygiene products. A second set of beauty products. A second bed to sleep in, even if shares that with his–
Fugo looks away from the rearview mirror of Mista's car. They're driving somewhere undisclosed, though Mista had promised that it wasn't going to be too rowdy of a place and that the only people there would be some of his friends. Maybe it wasn't smart to tag along with a man that your parents didn't know you were visiting once a week, but Fugo trusted Mista. Had to trust the other, if only so the good things in life would remain where they are.
“You good, babe?” Mista asks, shifting gears before putting a hand on Fugo's knee. ‘Babe’. It took Fugo a bit before that word stopped being associated with being the dainty one. The feminine one.
Usually it's a word that Fugo relishes in. Babe meant that they were closer than one might suspect based on how their relationship worked. Mista essentially financed and housed Fugo's double life.
“No, I'm not good,” Fugo grumbles with crossed arms while looking out through the window on the passengers side.
Mista doesn't look over, eyes firmly trained on the street.
“You didn't like the flowers?”
Right. The flowers. It was a risqueé present to get, considering Fugo’s opinion on these frilly things.
The bouquet had been beautiful, albeit oddly arranged. Obviously there had been no count of four, given Mista's disposition, but there had been only a few flowers to begin with. A handful of carnations framed by butterfly bushes and a heavy handed amount of green foliage. The colours had been an odd mix of blues and purples, with two carnations breaking from the pattern with their green hue.
"I love the flowers,” Fugo says, voice wavering. The flowers had been lovely, Fugo just wishes that maybe they could've spent more time at home to take a closer look at them. Mista could be so deliberate with his symbolism and Fugo had a hard time following sometimes.
“Okay… Is this a guessing game now?” Mista asks with a teasing lilt to his voice. He lifts his hand off Fugo's knee to shift gears again, before returning to its spot. His thumb starts to rub slow circles where the bone juts out. Fugo has been trying to gain weight, to no avail after Mista complained that ‘that boney ass really digs into my thighs’.
The other had laughed it off as a joke, but it stuck with Fugo.
“Babe?”
“Can you not call me that right now I'm not–” feeling it.
Mista doesn't pull his hand away, but he gets quiet. Fugo feels dread clog in the cavities of his–
Fugo lets out a frustrated noise, something between a yell and a whimper, beyond pressing both hands into the space beneath the ribs, where nausea roils.
“You kinda need to tell me what is up so I can fix it,” Mista reminds him, and it's so frustrating. If anything Mista keeps making it worse.
“Fugo?”
“Where are we going, Mista?” Fugo asks with a weak voice.
For a moment there is quiet. Mista still doesn't look at Fugo.
“We're driving to a restaurant in Napoli called Libeccio. It's one more hour before we're there,” he finally concedes, and it doesn't lift any weight off of Fugo's shoulders. Mista finally looks to him.
“Is that it? Sorry to keep it a secret, I just thought it would be a harmless surprise when we got there.”
Fugo deflates in the passenger seat. Not knowing where they were going wasn't the problem. This body was the problem.
“They'll know immediately," Fugo presses out.
Having said it out loud the thin veil of pretense rips in too like a thin cotton sheet. Fugo can feel his – Who the fuck is she kidding? – her eyes grow wet. This is so stupid. Taping down her protruding flesh and putting on makeup that tricks the unobservant ones that her jawline is sharper than her feminine features allow may work if it was someone else trying to play pretend, but not her. And what for? She doesn't feel better like this. She feels like a poodle in a costume.
“You said your friends would be there!” she goes on with her voice shrill and exposing. “What were you even going to tell them? ‘Hey guys, this is my boyfriend, no homo though! Cuz she got a pussy and all so it's fine, she just crossdresses as a guy!”
Fear and anxiety make room for anger then. How fucking dare he show her up like that! Put her in this fucking situation! They had a fucking deal! She's his fucking sidepiece and he makes her be him.
“I'm not going to your shitty restaurant so all your mafia friends can point and laugh!”
Mista's thumb stops circling then and he risks another glance in her direction.
“Hey. Don't knock Libeccio's. The food's amazing.”
The last synaptic safety in Fugo's mind snaps.
“Is the fucking food all you can think about right now?” she screeches, slapping his hand away. “Don't fucking touch me! Fuck, I'm a fucking degenrate. Who the fuck puts a fake dick in their pants a pretends to have no tits? They're not even that fucking big, what's my fucking problem?!”
Mista doesn't visibly react, now with both hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. It really doesn't matter what he does though, Fugo knows somewhere in the back of her mind that she'd keep yelling anyways. It's almost liberating, how their consciousness seems to drift off, leaving the body to simply observe it thrash in the seat and hit itself over and over. It's a pathetic shitshow.
“You just kind of accused me of a lot of stuff,” Mista says in response and it snaps Fugo back into reality. She isn't sure if she should feel better or worse that her glorified sugar daddy is taking this meltdown seriously now. “Honestly, it's cool. I'm not mad or hurt. We should probably talk about it before dinner, but maybe not while I'm driving. Don't wanna’ navigate the roads while you're in stabbing range and argumentative,” he explains and dread builds in her chest again. Fuck she doesn't even remember what she really said, she was just screaming something that felt right in the moment.
“That being said, I wasn't gonna introduce you that much. Maybe say ‘This is Fugo’. Usually you tell people that you're my boyfriend pretty quick so I figured that was how this was gonna go.”
Mista brakes suddenly as someone cuts across the line. He hits the side of his steering wheel and gestures wildly with his hand before muttering some insults under his breath and letting out a guttural sigh. For another moment no words are exchanged. Fugo can feel the adrenalin from earlier seep from her skin as a cold sweat. Then Mista speaks up again
“Are you…? My boyfriend? Or is it like a… switching thing where you're a chick today?” he asks tentatively.
Fugo doesn't have any words. Switching? No. No Fugo doesn't switch, she just deludes herself sometimes.
“I have a fucking vagina,” she deadpans. “How– How could I be anything but a girlfriend?”
“I don't know how that shit works, Fugo,” Mista shoots back, and for the first time he sounds frustrated. “Transsexual people just kinda exist I guess. You know there's people who have both, right?”
“Yes, but that's not the same! It's a birth-defect that-” Fugo tries to explain but is promptly interrupted.
“Dude, I have alopecia, that's a birth defect too,” he says with his teeth clenched. Mista makes a sharp turn, getting off the highway. “But you don't see me combing my bald-ass head in some weird esoteric ritual to appease barbers. Maybe your cunt's a birth defect too. Born with dick in spirit,” he says, waving the same he had used earlier to hit the steering wheel. “Like someone who's missing an arm.”
Fugo can't help but stare at their boyfriend. What the fuck had this conversation devolved into.
“Don't call me dude,” they just say, flabbergasted.
Mista jerks a nod, eyes laser focused on the street again. Traffic wasn't even that bad, and Fugo wonders what goes on in Mista's mind. What kind of thoughts was the man concealing?
“Can I call you babe again?” Mista breaks the silence, less agitated than before, almost pleading.
Fugo sinks deeper into the passenger seat, “Whatever.” It's a ‘yes’ in their shared language of idiosyncrasies.
Then they stop talking. The radio stays off, only sometimes flicking on to inform Mista of traffic. Eventually the landscape changes from hills and trees to the beautiful neapolitan ocean line.
“The beach looks good,” Fugo says, and it feels like the first thought he had in the past hour.
“Yeah, it's nice!” Mista immediately gushes. “Bruno sometimes takes us out on a boat he has, if you mention it to him he's gonna try to convince you to tag along for it!”
Fugo hums before speaking up again.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers. Before Mista can say anything he sits up and goes on.
“I don't know what got over me. I just– My make-up looks so bad today. And I'm dressed wrong. This is too… normal for a restaurant.”
Mista hums, turning into an open parking area.
“And– And– We really can't win! Because what if they think less of you when they find out you're dating someone like me? It's the mafia, Mista!”
Mista turns the engine off, still staring ahead, but his eyes are still focused. He must be listening.
“And I just… I feel so silly. Wouldn't it be easy if I stopped pretending? I make a cuter girl anyways,” Fugo warbles, voice breaking on the last meters.
Mista turns around then, lips pressed into a thin line.
“You're a guy,” he says. He says it in a way that sounds shaky to Fugo's ears.
“I wish I was a guy!” Fugo corrects.
“Babe, you're a fucking guy, alright? Nobody in Napoli is gonna give you shit for it, trust me.”
Trust me, sounds scarier from Mista than from other guys. It's a promise of sorts. An insurance that he'll make sure to make his promises true.
“And rest assured; We'll be sitting at a table of faggots. You'll be hard pressed to find a straight cis mafioso in all of Italy. It leans pretty queer overall.”
Fugo chokes out a humourless laugh.
“Maybe I should've joined the mafia instead,” he jokes and it gets a chuckle out of Mista.
“You make a hot guy, sweetheart,” he adds and it makes Fugo laugh wetly.
“Sweetheart? Really? The big guns, this early?”
“What can I say?” Mista stretches his arms and back out as much as the low roof of the car allow. “I spare no expense for my sweetie. Talking of expenses: We can get the outfit and make-up fixed before dinner. I was planning on taking you shopping anyways; Gonna get you a neapolitan wardrobe,” Mista promises, looking excited. Fugo is worried at the way those eyes shine.
“We're never making it to dinner, are we?” he asks, and Mista scoffs, waving him off.
“Pshh, they'll wait for us. Now let's go, I've been waiting for this day all month!”
“I know,” Fugo groans as he unbuckles from his seat. Mista just jumps out, never having been buckled up in the first place. “You'd think that how you've been celebrating this isn't really an anniversary anymore. It's just six months anyway. It's more like a… Sexmensesversary.”
Mista is by his door holding it open and helping him up from the low seat of the car with his eyebrows wiggling. The second Fugo steps out he takes a deep breath. Salt and sunlight mingle to this beautiful, summery fragrance. They should come to Napoli more often.
“All I heard was sex. I figured we'd do that at the end,” Mista interrupts Fugo as he takes in the scenery.
“Sex menses, as in six months!” he immediately complains, glaring up at Mista's grinning face. “You pig! It's Latin! You’re Italian, you should know this!”
As Fugo yells Mista is pulling him close, pressing them flush, chest to chest, before pressing a kiss on Fugo's forehead. After a dazed second Fugo angles his face a bit better so Mista can press another onto his lips. The taller man peppers Fugo's jaw with kisses and it feels divine in the most mundane way possible.
“Sure babe. We'll have the Sexversary another time. Now let's get you something sweet before we do anything else. You're cute when you're angry but I fear for the store clerks' emotional well being if they pick the wrong shade of red for a hungry Fugo.”
Fugo looks up at Mista with absolutely no expression before raising his foot and kicking it down on his designer shoes.
