That car stopped at an unfamiliar house—small and hidden—the perfect place to hide out in. This is where everyone would be staying for the meantime, all for the sake of Trish's safety. Everyone could only hope that this was the right call and that no stand users were around.
Bucciarati made the announcement with the face of a man trying to keep the peace. “There’s only one bed per room, and each of you will have a roommate for the next week. Deal with it.”
When Mista hears he’s stuck with you, the groan he lets out could’ve cracked the plaster. “Oh great. Just what I needed, sharing a room with you,” he mutters.
You shoot him a glare. “Trust me, the feeling’s mutual. I’d rather room with Narancia and his midnight mumbling.”
He snorts. “At least I don’t talk in my sleep like you did on the train last week."
By the time night falls, and everyone’s mumbling half-hearted goodnights down the too-thin walls, the tension in your shared room is thicker than the air. The bed looks small. Uncomfortably small. One pillow. One blanket.
You both just stand there for a second, sizing each other up like it’s about to turn into a standoff.
“You take the floor,” you suggest flatly.
Mista raises an eyebrow. “You take the floor. I’m not wrecking my back just because you’re cranky.”
“I’m not cranky. You’re just annoying.”
“Wow. Must be that charming attitude that makes everyone think you're fun at parties.”
You huff, ripping the blanket in half and tossing him his portion. “Fine. We’re both sleeping on the bed, but don’t touch me.”
He kicks off his boots, muttering, “Wasn’t planning to."
Eventually, you're both stiffly lying back-to-back on the mattress, with a solid wall of mutual resentment (and maybe a pillow) between you.
A beat of silence. Then Mista adds under his breath, “…You hog the sheets, I’m kicking you off.”
You reply without missing a beat, “You snore like a broken chainsaw, so I’ll be awake all night anyway.”
The first night is awful.
You wake up with Mista’s knee jammed into your back and his arm slung over you like you’re some kind of human body pillow. Groggy and furious, you jab him in the ribs.
“Move! You’re sprawled all over me!”
He groans, not even opening his eyes. “Mmmph. Shut up. You’re warm.”
You almost punch him on instinct. “Get off before I suffocate you with this pillow.”
The next few nights don’t get much better. Every evening starts with a reluctant truce and ends in a tangled mess of limbs, blankets being yanked back and forth like a tug-of-war, and mutual grumbling in the dark.
On night three, Mista trips on your bag left near the bed and crashes face-first into the floor. You laugh so hard you nearly fall off the bed yourself.
“Wow,” you say between gasps. “That was the most graceful fall I’ve ever seen. Want me to get you a helmet?”
Mista groans from the floor. “If I get a concussion, I’m blaming you. And I’m drooling on your side of the pillow.”
But sometime around night five, things… change. Just a little.
You’ve both gotten used to the cramped room, the occasional brush of shoulders, the way Mista mumbles nonsense before he falls asleep. One night he shifts a bit closer and you don’t shove him off. Instead, you grumble something like, “Just don’t breathe on my neck.”
And he smirks in the dark, voice low. “Didn’t know you were that ticklish. Good to know.”
You chuck a pillow at his face.
That night, neither of you falls asleep right away.
“…Hey,” he says after a long silence.
“What now?”
“Wouldn’t be that bad if we didn’t hate each other so much, huh?”
You roll your eyes, but your voice is quieter. “…Guess I don’t totally hate you.”
A beat.
“…Same,” he mutters, and for once, he doesn’t sound like he’s teasing.
You don’t say anything else. But in the dim light filtering through the curtains, your foot nudges his under the blanket. Not quite an olive branch, but not a kick either.
Mista doesn’t pull away.