Chapter Text
Connie does not, in fact, sleep in her bedroom that night. Hell, she doesn't even sleep in her own house. Being a very normal teenager with very normal problems, she parks the dondai into her very normal school's parking lot and conks out in a very normal sea of wrappers and what her spine registers as a very normal umbrella, because that is a very normal coping mechanism to arguing with her very normal mom about very normal PTSD things.
(And dreams of pink scales.)
(And dreams of pink scales on her own skin.)
(And dreams of a horrible, horrible song.)
(And hates herself for it, like fusing into Stevonnie once will magically make corruption cooties rub off on her.)
Then she just kind of... keep doing it. It's surprisingly easy to keep it up. Daniel has his own family issues, and he doesn't ask questions when she pops by his house for a shower. People tend not to go near her at school anymore, especially when she looked off. That was what got Jeff a broken arm in middle school, after all. Steven has to suspect something by now, since it's his car, but he never says anything.
(It kind of reminds her of middle school all over again, of the thrill of keeping secrets from her family. Things had been so much simpler back then.)
Connie knows one call to Bismuth and she'd have a couch again, but that would undoubtedly get the Gems attention, and that's the last thing Connie wants right now. They've got so much on their own plates- as a coworker, as a friend, it's best she pick up her big girl shorts and get through it on her own.
I've been so tired lately, Steven texts at two A.M., but now I have too much energy. Help?
And Connie goes, much like a cat summoned by the clicking of fingers. Beach City is a dull honey orange this time of early morning, lit mostly by the two or three streetlights and a couple of awkwardly placed Gem gadgets. She cranks up the music. The radio croons about growing up and love. Fucking traitor.
She parks just beside the rock wall and turns that corner to find a million pink bubbles floating all around, all with little shards of light inside. Connie has never been prior to the bubble of an actual Rose Quartz, but she imagines the shade of bubblegum to be the same soft, gentle one Steven has.
(She's seen Rose's bubbles. They were darker. Sharper. Secretive bubbles.)
Suddenly nervous, she laces her fingers around her midsection. "Quite the romantic setting, Universe."
"Sorry," he says, and laughs awkwardly and shrugs. It's nice to know he sees it too. "I couldn't find a flashlight."
It's been a week, she realizes dimly. It feels like no time at all. Steven is Steven, never aging in increments, only in sprints. His body is patient and kind even when his mind and heart grows older and sadder.
Steven steps forward a bit, and it's only then Connie realizes he has her sword in his hand. That doesn't scare her, though she wonders if it should. It's only been a week.
"Connie," he says, "My knight."
"Absolutely not," she replies, already knowing. "The light is terrible for this."
He held the hilt out with a sideways smile that's just a bit disconcerting. "Don't tell me you haven't missed sparring."
Damn, he's good. "In the dark?"
"It's not dark. We've got bubbles."
"I won't go easy on you, Universe," she says, and takes the blade made especially for her.
"Good," he says, and forms bubbles around his hands.
There's not an easy way to attack Steven. When they were younger, it was all about proximity- if she got closer than his bubble would expand, then she could land solid blows. But then Steven learned to control the size of his bubble. Then it was distance, climbing the spikes to stand tall above- if he let go now, she would win. Then he learned how to open holes in his bubbles.
Then he learned to make them on his hands.
Then he learned how to box.
So, yeah. He's gotten fairly good at offensive measures.
But Connie has the great pleasure of owning a decently sized anime sword, and she swings that sucker down hard. He dodged to the left, punches the next swig aside. Connie trades a couple of blows with him that way before taking a few leaps back.
Steven summons a shield and an honest, true smile. "Nice try!" He chucks it, and she slices it cleanly in half. "Um. Very nice try?"
"You always forget your weak spot," she chided him, shifting her grip on the handle of her blade.
"Hey, I like my shield."
"You can't adapt what isn't yours, Steven."
Steven put his hands out in front of him and began to grow a bubble. Connie felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she went to the side, leaping over an old chunk of rubble. Or maybe it's new? The beach has seen its fair share of wars.
An explosion, like the snap of gum, is all the warning she gets before Steven grabs the tattered edges and wields them like dancing ribbon. Ethereal pink coils around the sand like a snake as Connie takes a risk and runs towards him, bellowing a war cry. Steven twists his wrists and her sword is entangled.
"This is new," she notes.
Steven tugs, gently, which is to say Connie loses a couple of steps not of her own volition. "Thanks. I thought of it when I got my powers back from Spinel. I can control all the parts of my bubble- I can even change the shape. Why not the shreds?"
"Fancy." She threw her whole body into pulling back, and Steven allowed her to spread the ribbon taut. "Betcha can't knock me down."
Steven smiled deviously. "Bet," he agreed, then grabbed hold and wrenched.
Connie let go of her sword.
Steven turned bright pink.
Time must slow for him, because in the second it takes for her to blink, the sword is on the ground, and the ribbons are flying right toward her face.
"SHIT."
Connie dodges one, barely. The other wraps around her wrist with a whisper of magic fabric. The sensation is a bit like the dull hum she got that one time she touched a wire that was on but didn't shock her, buzzy and unnerving, and then she's on the ground.
"Connie!" Steven yelled, vanishing the ribbon. Connie rolled onto her back but made no move to get up as he pranced over. "I'm so sorry, Connie, it was just a reactionary thing and-"
Connie spat a little sand out, nonplussed. "That's fair. I played dirty."
"That's okay."
"Is it?"
"Yeah."
She kicked his feet out from under him. Steven landed flat on his back, while Connie sat on his tummy. "I win."
He stuck a tongue out. "Meanie." His peaceful complacence vanished in an instant. "Oh, Connie, your cheek. You're bleeding."
"I am?" She touched the side of her cheek and felt the old stick of blood. "Well, hot damn, I'm bleeding."
Somehow, that made the frown sink deeper into the lines of his skin. Connie watched in startling high definition as Steven's face changed from happy, to sad, to something twisted and uncomprehending. Tears began to leak down his face.
"Hey, hey," she said, grabbing his hand. "I'm okay. We're okay. I'm sorry I was so rough."
Steven tugged his hands free, sitting up slightly. "What's wrong with us?" he asks. "We should be- this isn't- why does this feel so natural?" He rolled them so she was on his back, his hands hovering beside her head. It wasn't nearly as romantic as anime had led her to believe. Steven snorted some snot back up his nose. "We were- we were kids. We are kids. When did we stop playing like kids?"
"Steven," said Connie, hating her weak bitch of a heart for twisting.
"I asked you to come over in the middle of the night for a death match! And that's okay! This is totally a-okay! We're just... we're just alright with that..." Steven threw his weight down on the sand, just barely avoiding hitting his head. "Why is war our go-to game?"
Connie grabbed some sand between her fingers, letting it hiss between her fingers, cool to the touch. "Are we- isn't this a good time?"
"Should it be?"
She didn't have an answer to that.
Steven snorked some more and licked his thumb, trailing it across her cheek. Magic felt like soda bubbles and smelled like strawberries. "I was born broken," he rasped. "Or I was born to be broken. And then I broke you. I'm so sorry, Connie."
"You didn't break me," Connie promises. "And you aren't broken, either. I think... we need better words. To describe the things we are."
"Therapy?"
"Therapy."
"Hooray."
She found it in her to laugh. "You ever heard of kintsugi?"
Steven gave her a blank stare.
"It's a Japanese art to fix broken things. Pottery, mostly. They fill the cracks with stuff that makes it shiny and sparkly and gold, because the cracks are part of what it is." Connie squeezed his hand. "We don't have to be broken if we don't wanna be. We just need to learn how to do that. With, like, our brains."
His eyes seemed to shimmer a little as he pulled her closer, tucking his chin into her hair. "You're a wordsmith, Maheswaran."
"That was far from my best speech, Steven. I referenced an art I barely know and tried to make it into a metaphor. I used like."
"Can I stay here a bit?"
"If we must," she sighs, melodramatically flinging an arm across her face. "I'll push back those meetings with the council of seagulls to next week."
"You should call your mom."
"I know," she says, but is too comfortable to move. Steven's shoulder is soft and warm, and it makes the grit bearable. "I will. In the morning, I will."
(I'm sorry, Connie will say, covered head to toe in sand and bad decisions. I love you. I miss you.
I love you too, Priyanka will reply, because it's true. Sometimes, I just wish we weren't so alike.
And Connie will laugh, then, because she's surrounded by magic and Gems and a secret, heavy and dark, that she'll never tell. Not if Steven won't. Not if the disembodied head of White Diamond won't. I know, mom. But don't worry. This is enough.)
For now, this is enough.