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“Where’s my bra?” Hot Pants asks, attempting to make herself presentable in front of the mirror. It’s less that she cares how she looks, and more that she doesn’t care to give him the satisfaction of leaving her disheveled.
From where he’s still draped across the bed, Diego puts about half a second of effort into glancing around without even turning his head before shrugging.
“Not like you need it,” he says.
She shoots him a Look.
“You're a monster, Dio.”
“That’s not what you were saying an hour ago.”
“Diego,” HP grits out, and he rolls over onto his stomach, eyeing her warily as she continues, “If I recall, you were the one who was beggi—”
“Whatever,” he mumbles haughtily, cutting her off and reaching for something on the ground. “Here’s your damn bra."
He launches it at her like a rubber band.
She huffs as she catches it.
“A monster,” she repeats emphatically.
—
She comes home to Diego lounging on her couch, though she can’t remember having given him a key.
Almost immediately, he sighs, but otherwise fails to provide any sort of explanation as to his uninvited presence. Hot Pants, somewhat accustomed to his histrionics, hardly bats an eyelash, instead shuffling to the kitchen to put away the groceries hanging from her arms, pretending not to see him.
It takes him about thirty seconds to sigh again, more loudly.
Diego lets a beat of silence pass, listening to the sound of closing cabinets and deliberate business. Feeling impatient, he calls, “HP?” with perhaps more of a whining edge to it than necessary.
“If this is about Johnny Joestar, I swear,” she replies, recognizing that particular tone, reemerging from the kitchen.
“But it’s a disaster! He’s—,” he starts to protest.
With a longsuffering hum, she drops to the couch next to him, carding her fingers through his hair. It might be a comforting gesture, if it weren't bound to lead to complaints later if she musses him too much.
“Nope. Not listening,” she insists firmly. “Either you can quit complaining and tell the asshole you like him, or you can quit complaining and get over it.”
With an indignant scoff, Diego pulls away from her touch, staring at her as though she’s said something vile. “I don’t like him. I want to kiss his stupid mouth. And maybe more. There’s a difference. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s—,”
“If you don’t shut up—,” Hot Pants begins to threaten, but he continues as though never interrupted,
“— got a thing for Gyro—,”
“Dio, we’ve been over this—,”
“— and meanwhile I just want to take his clothes off, but then he acts like he hates me—,”
“Seriously, can you blame him—,”
“—and I just—,”
“Only want whatever you can’t have?”
Diego finally falls silent, pouting a little.
“Well,” he points out, with as much dignity as one can in the wake of pining over something unrequited (A crush? Lust? It isn’t clear to anybody, perhaps least of all himself), “I've had you plenty of times and I still come over.”
“Get out of my apartment.”
Diego presses a kiss to her jaw. “You sure?” he prompts.
Shoving him away, she growls, “Yes.”
He doesn’t argue with that tone.
—
“Honestly,” he murmurs, and she feels the brush of his eyelashes against her stomach, “I don’t know /why/ he doesn’t like me—,”
“Is now really the time?” Hot Pants grumbles.
The answer to that question has been a resounding “yes” in Diego’s book for weeks. In the middle of a movie? Over dinner? At 3 am when she’s just about to drift off to sleep? Oh, yes. Yes, now is always the time to bring up Johnny Joestar.
“It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong,” Diego says to her navel.
“Have you considered that maybe it’s because you’re really annoying sometimes?” she suggests.
“I’m charming and handsome and talented,” he declares to the juncture between her leg and body.
“And annoying,” she reminds him, tugging his hair til he whines in protest.
Pausing, he peers up at her reproachfully.
“Besides,” she goes on, “I thought you didn’t like him. Why does it matter whether he likes you?”
“Because,” is all he says, and he bites the soft of her thigh hard enough that she yelps.
—
Hot Pants just laughs when he accidentally says Johnny’s name in bed. She is benevolent enough to wait til they’re finished before teasing about it.
—
“He slapped you?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. If there is one thing he appreciates about HP, it is that in this moment she manages to be neither condescending nor amused, digging an ice pack from the freezer.
“Punched,” Diego corrects, rubbing his jaw. “And honestly—,”
“Don’t even say it,” she interjects quickly, but it’s too late,
“— it was really attractive."
“You disgust me,” Hot Pants says, but kisses his forehead regardless as she presses the ice to his face. “Did you hit back?”
“No,” he answers slowly; significantly. His lips, swollen from more than just a punch, peel back from his teeth in a too-wide grin that says a lot more than she actually cared to know.
She shakes her head, eyes flickering skyward as though in an appeal for patience.
“Guess it’s not so bad between you two after all, huh?” she comments lightly, hoping that the affirmation will get him to finally drop the subject.
“Oh, it’s a disaster,” he counters, sounding quite pleased with himself in spite of the words.
—