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Kei's nine years old and it feels like a confession. In some ways it is. In most ways it isn't, it's just a fact.
"I'm not a boy."
"Oh," Says Kaito and he shrugs before going back to lifting up rocks to look for more creepy-crawlies, "Okay then."
Kei's ten years old and it still feels like a confession. In some ways, it's not.
"I'm not a boy."
"Oh," Says Eriko, then she grabs her bag of lip glosses and nail polish and garish eye shadow palette, "Then can can I do makeovers on you?"
Kei's eleven years old and it still feels like a confession. In most ways, it is.
She tugs on her mother's arm and demands her quiet attention.
"I'm not a boy."
She looks down at him, with an eyebrow raised and an unimpressed expression.
"You better not be going around and saying things like that at school or to your teachers," She tells him cooly, looking boredly back up at the shelves, "I'm not putting up with that."
"Oh," Kei says simply, "Okay."
Kei is twenty years old when Kaito buys him a skirt. It doesn't feel like she has a secret with him.
It's a circle skirt, and it swishes against tight-covered thighs when Kei turns her hips.
"It's a good colour on you," Kaito says from where he lounges on his bed, watching Kei twist and turn in the mirror.
"You think?" Kei considers, expression blank, "You know I can't take this home though, right?"
It's a deep burgundy colour, patterned with black polka-dots. The fabric feels light when she runs sweaty palms over it.
"Keep them here, if you want more. I just said I was buying it for my girlfriend."
Kaito doesn't miss the dusting of red on Kei's cheeks -- adorable -- and thinks about other fashion styles that would suit her. He'd probably run himself into poverty. He's well aware that he'd probably buy out an entire stores supply of skirts if it meant that Kei would keep that peaceful, contented look in his eyes.
"Were you?" Kei asks, looking at Kaito behind her through the mirrors reflection.
There's a beat of silence and Kei's heart feels as though it's ready to climb out of her chest and sidle up with the rock stuck in her throat.
"That's what I told the cashier," Kaito blinks slow.
"It's bad to lie," Kei turns her eyes away from Kaito's reflection, but it's only a few seconds before Kaito's face appears again, just over her shoulder.
Arms slip around Kei's waist and Kaito's chin digs into her shoulder. A shudder works it's way through Kei and there's no way that Kaito didn't feel that tremor.
"I'm hoping I wasn't."
Shaking hands run over Kaito's bare arms, Kei feels electricity shoot through her palms every centimetre of the way until her hands find Kaito's.
"I'm hoping you weren't too," And oh, oh that doesn't feel like a confession, but it'd feel like lying if she'd said anything other than that to him.
"I know," Kaito murmurs against her neck, pressing a soft kiss there while Kei's knees go weak, "I'm glad."
Kei turns around to face Kaito properly.
Kei is twenty when she has her first kiss.
Kei's twenty-eight. Her hair reaches her shoulders.
It doesn't feel like a confession when Kaito is down on one knee, telling her that he can't wait to see the dress she chooses.