Chapter Text
Like a falling meteor burned on collapse, Ran fled the scene, her combat boots clacking against cement with an intense fury. Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off! She could feel steam pouring from her ears, her eyes glued tight into a scowl. She wasn’t crying. No, she wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. Not when the flame in her eyes dried any tears away in a heartbeat.
“Ran, you know I worry about you. If you’re serious about this whole being a girl thing, you should really act more like a proper young lady. Why not start with how you dress?”
Dad’s words echoed through her head -- they seemed to bounce off the sidewalk as she tried to escape. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Is she supposed to throw out all her jackets and jeans, replace them all with froufrou dresses and garish skirts? No way in hell. She was fuming at the idea, ready to burst into a fiery rage and tear down this whole damn city. She blazed onward and before she knew it, arrived at CiRCLE’s outdoor cafe.
The weight of her guitar case hit all at once and she nearly collapsed right there, breathless. Her pulse was roaring -- her heart almost broke out through her chest. Everything settled around her as a gentle breeze grazed her cheeks. She was out of the woods for now at least, and the irritable geyser in her heart went dormant once more.
Odd. Every seat was empty and the building’s interior was black as the night. A note hung from the glass door above the CLOSED sign, citing interior maintenance and contract issues. Dammit, just her luck. She paced back and forth in hopes someone else would show up and reveal it was a prank, but all that remained were tender winds and her reflection in the window glass. Her own image glimpsed back at her. Turtleneck beneath her leather jacket, torn jean-shorts, and tights. A far cry from a ‘proper young lady’ -- but what did it matter? She got the whole ensemble from the women’s section anyway, should she really have to prove herself any more than that? Her reflection blinked, silent. She held out her hands and stared. They were rough, enormous, and her shoulders were much too broad. Easily clockable, yuck. At least her sweater covered up the Adam’s apple, but she couldn’t do much about her voice, deeper than a trench beneath the sea. She groaned, and discomfort flowed through her body like a cloth drenched in water. Shit, maybe Dad was right.
The aura around her grew restless, her scowl tightened. Would she really look like a normal girl if she dressed any different? The red streak through her hair and her resting bitch face weren’t particularly ‘proper’ either, but she wouldn’t dream of parting with them. He probably thought it’d cause some domino effect, that changing her wardrobe would change her attitude. Doubtful -- that witch Minato dressed like a well-mannered maiden, and her personality was anything but polite. And as for her body, there was no fixing that. She was just… stuck like this.
Before those thoughts could build up steam, familiar fingers blocked her vision. “Raaan, guess who~?” Moca’s playfully cocky tone was unmistakable, like a blizzard’s endless winds. Dangerous, yet somehow comforting.
“Kasumi, right?”
“Bzzzt, wrong again!” Her voice shifted into whining, on the verge of spitting out crocodile tears with each syllable. “Come on, babe! How could you forget your adorable and precious Miss Moca?”
Envy boiled in Ran’s heart. Moca’s vocal range was incredible, like some kind of nightmare creature capable of reaching inhuman pitches. The two of them were alike, born without the knowledge of who -- or what -- they really were. Dysphoria was an unwinnable lottery, but that girl seemed to hit the jackpot: soft hands and slender fingers, shoulders narrow enough to be a non-issue, and a voice befitting of the awful goblin she was.
“Anyway,” Moca lifted her fingers from Ran’s eyes and spun around ‘til she was in front of her, hair rumpled beneath her sky-blue hood. “Practice is cancelled, obviously. You should really check your texts more. Everyone’s waiting at the mall.”
As always, she ignored the suggestion and sighed. Then she threw her arm back and slapped her guitar case. “Can we stop by your house to drop this off?”
Moca tilted her head curiously, but her lips remained shut. She must’ve figured why. Wouldn’t have been the first time. “Kaaay. Wanna hold hands today?”
Ran stared at the coarse skin on the back of her fingers. Eugh, it felt like paint peeling off wood. “I’d rather not.”
Moca instead tangled her arms around Ran’s elbow, her hands clenched the leather of her sleeve. She made another stupid voice, this time a nearly a Himari imitation. “How about I play clingy girlfriend today~?”
“Fine, do what you want.” Ran felt her jaw loosen and her head clear up, refreshed as they started off toward the Aoba household. Moca tugged on her jacket and rubbed her face against the leather, making kissy noises and brazen glances the whole way there.
Honestly, Ran barely remembered how they ended up like this. They were best friends as kids, then became boyfriends as they entered adolescence. It just made sense for them to date, she couldn’t explain why. A couple years down the line and not much has changed. Well, aside from them both being girls now. Same as always, just how Ran liked it. Moca was the laid-back prankster and Ran was the feisty powerhouse -- cool and confident, fueled by a blazing passion like a comet in her heart. With Moca at her side, she could unleash that passion full-force up on the stage. She felt invincible when they were together. That was love, right?
The shopping mall’s entrance was topped by a tall archway of pale white brick and tiled windows filling the frame. Himari whined about how she was getting soooo bored waiting for them, but quickly shut up when Tomoe’s fingers rummaged through her hair. “Sorry we’re late,” Ran said politely.
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it!” Tsugumi smiled without a hint of malice. She was such a sweetheart, always so forgiving, always putting up with Ran’s attitude and Moca’s antics without complaint. And though Ran knew she was too humble to admit it, Tsugu was the strongest out of all of them -- always the girl to make things happen, always the one to go the extra mile.
Together they wandered around the mall for a couple hours, grabbing burgers and sodas between aimless visits to assorted shops. Somehow they ended up in clothing store, probably Himari’s idea, and Ran couldn’t shake the itch from her dad’s backhanded ‘support’ while skimming through all the girly and vibrant dresses and blouses. God, she was really hoping it’d be gone by now, but it stuck to her like a housefly’s incessant buzzing in the late-summer. Somehow, it bit right through her skin and led her confidence to waver. She wanted so hard to believe he was full of shit, but if so, why was it impossible to ignore? She grabbed a striped pink-and-white dress with frills down the sleeves, pleats beneath the skirt, and crammed herself into a fitting room stall before Moca or anyone else could see the shame on her face.
She stuffed the dress over her torso aggressively, wrinkling it while jamming her head through the collar. And when she looked in the mirror, the annoyance on her face was blatant: brows furrowed and an unmoving, dour frown stapled on her lips. The soft colors and ornate design was such a stark contrast between her red-streak and punk-black hair alongside her favorite pair of combat boots. It felt stuffy around her neck and worse, exposed her Adam’s apple to the light of day. Not to mention, it was too dainty, too serene and subdued -- like a muzzle keeping her from shouting to the heavens, chaining her down to earth.
She opened the stall door, greeted by four gazes of shock. “W-what do you think?” The others were speechless. Moca’s mouth was covered by both hands, and even then her snickers snuck through. They all stood in awkward silence for about half a minute as Ran’s brain went haywire. “Oh god, I must look so stupid right now. Why did I listen to him? Why did I let him talk me into this? Shit, shit, shit.”
Tomoe broke the silence. “It’s, uh... different?” The insincerity in her eyes was plain as could be. Poor Tomoe. Always so cool, so driven and so considerate. Yet the hesitance in her voice leaked through and Ran couldn’t help but feel it like a needle in her arm.
“Well…” Himari spoke. “It’s unexpected, but if that’s what you wanna wear, I’m sure you can make it work!”
Ran’s lips shriveled and shrunk, her cheeks about to burst. She was blushing like mad and couldn’t even tell if it was from flattery or humiliation. She envisioned her dad in the background, nodding in approval with a stern smile. Just say it’s stupid, dammit. Just let it end before she walks out of the store like this. She hated it, she utterly hated it. But the voice in her head told her this was the only answer to those gnawing thoughts.
“Yeah! I support you all the way, Ran!” Not you too, Tsugu. That was the hard part of having such accepting and benevolent friends: they never told you if they thought you were ugly, if they knew your voice didn’t cut it, if they could tell you looked way too much like a guy to call yourself a girl. Even her troublesome girlfriend, who had dropped the subdued laughter for an unsettling silence, was too kind to insult her. Even when insult was what she needed most right now.
Back in her normal clothes, she begrudgingly took the dress through check-out. She bit her tongue as the cashier rang her up, trying so desperately to not show just how ungrateful she was. Totally not worth the price tag, totally not for her. But as the clerk scanned the tag, she handed over the money, her only thought about how much she wanted to be done with this.
Days passed, and despite her father’s apparent approval of her new look, she only grew more uncomfortable beneath the dress’ collar. Himari had picked out a new pair of brown loafers to match, and Tsugumi lent her a white hair-band to complete the ensemble. It was awful, suffocating. Maybe lively girls like Aya or Kokoro could pull it off, but that gloomy expression she always wore made her nothing more than a sorrowful spectre in the wind, her blazing spirit completely diffused.
She forced herself to wear it, even to the studio for practice. Anything to keep her dad’s disappointed gaze from staining her memory. But through every song, her voice cracked nonstop and her volume was so low that the smooth vibrations of Himari’s bass strings drowned her singing out. And her arms, stiff, barely let her fingers move around the guitar. She felt sick, like she could collapse at a moment’s notice, yet the symptoms were invisible.
Moca was the first to catch. “Ran, step it up. I can barely hear you,” she ordered.
“Trying,” Ran stammered. Her father’s words came back even as the agony of wearing this uncomfortable, unfitting garment seeped through. Shut up, shut up! She wanted to shout with all her heart, but her flame waned as if doused by frigid waters of the arctic.
“What’s the deal? You aren’t playing like you normally do,” Tomoe commented.
She was right. This wasn’t her, this wasn’t Ran Mitake. This wasn’t the ‘same as always’ punk girl with the pride to carry herself forward. The flicker in her chest started to spark, her frustrations flooding in. Agitated, she roared aloud, “I said I’m fucking trying!”
The whole studio flinched, stunned. She clutched the side of the skirt and pulled it between her fingers. Tear it. Tear it away. But even as she tugged, it wouldn’t unravel. Left with no other choice, she stormed out like a hurricane. All her drive was back, if only for a moment -- better not waste it, she thought.
She sprinted down the hall, launched herself toward the (thankfully empty) basement stage below, and pushed her way into the familiar, sleek white dressing room. The only one inside was Marina, the hard-working staff lady who seemed to always look out for her and the rest of Afterglow. She noticed Ran’s crude entrance in an instant, welcoming her with a warm smile. “Hey Ran! What’s up?”
She barely took a second to catch her breath before demanding, “Is my stage outfit still here?”
Marina stepped back to the closet in the corner of the room and dug through for a minute. Ran’s pulse wouldn’t calm down -- she was walking a narrow tightrope and could feel herself falling without a cushion to catch her. “Found it!” From the closet, Marina pulled out Ran’s shoulderless black shirt, its signature lightning bolt striking relief in her heart. Her crimson tank top and jean shorts were there, too, along with a pair of red boots she had gotten a few years back. Just staring at it, she could feel the light in her return. It was probably bad form to leave her stuff here all the time, but it wasn’t worth the trouble of carrying the outfit around everywhere when she knew there’d be a concert soon.
Marina handed the outfit over, and within seconds Ran had tossed the flimsy striped dress aside. She threw her shirt over her arms and the oversized collar stretched out below her neck. She fastened her choker around her neck, adorned with a tiny lock -- the perfect cover for her Adam’s apple. With boots tied a minute later, she stomped on the dainty dress and left it to rot. Or for Marina to give it away to someone, whichever came first.
The rebellious inferno surged through every bone in her body all at once, as if she’d become whole again. As she turned to the mirror, her reflection smirked back, and the thunder in her mind drowned out any echoes of her dad’s inane remarks. No matter how broad her shoulders or how rugged her hands, she couldn’t betray her true self. Because she didn’t want to be just anyone, just any girl. She had to be Ran Mitake, same as always.