During your time in the trials you and Franco had somehow stuck together. Not out of kindness or love—no, simply because even fucked-up people deserved companionship in a fucked-up world. Besides, if anyone was going to cuss at you for staring, it might as well be Franco.

And that’s what you were doing. Staring. Hard. His back faced you as he fumbled with his lupara, muttering under his breath, see over the past few weeks you’d been trying to get him to put on matching couple outfits, and well..the guy had a temper to match his head size, didn’t help that he was as stubborn as a mule in a minefield.

So you just kept staring.

Finally, Franco snapped, spinning around. “Che cazzo guardi, eh? WHAT?!”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you tackled him, he cursed, lupara clattering to the floor as you pulled looted clothes from your bag, getting to work, dressing him up like a pastel fever dream.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he shouted, thrashing as you wrangled a red bow tie on him choking him “accidentally.”

Minutes later, Franco sat cross-legged on the grimy floor, seething. You’d dressed him up like a fucked up doll, baby blues and soft whites clung to his barrel chested, ~~short~~, menacing figure.

His fists clenched as you smoothed the red bow tie on his chest, cooing at your handiwork like this was a normal day in the suburbs and not a death maze run by an evil corporation. “Dio santo, I swear I’m going to kill you,” he hissed, his face flushing a deep red. “I look like a fuckin’—” He stopped when you told him he looked adorable, words failing him as his hands twitched at his sides.

His face slowly faded to a soft, embarrassed flush creeping up from his neck and ears. He huffed, as if caught between ripping the whole thing off and—God forbid—accepting the compliment. “It’s… blue,”

He looked like a pissed-off blueberry, but dammit if he didn’t adore you for it. Love, huh? It made a man do stupid things.