Work Text:
The universe, Catra decided as she ducked under an awning, hated her. And no, she was not being dramatic.
Let’s rewind, shall we?
Catra woke to darkness. That was the first sign of something amiss. Normally, thanks to the position of her room, she woke to the sun shining directly in her eyes. So while the sun’s absence was by no means unwelcome, it was unusual. The second thing that caught her attention was the noticeable lack of an alarm. Either she’d turned it off in her sleep, or she’d woken up before it went off. Considering the previously mentioned lack of light, Catra guessed it was probably the latter.
Rolling over, she found that yes, she had, in fact, woken up early. Four hours early, to be exact. Instead of the normal 7:00, the glowing blue lines of her clock read 2:49 a.m. A ludicrously early time at which no one should ever be awake, for any reason, ever. For a moment, Catra entertained the thought of this being some kind of uncomfortably realistic lucid dream. But her phone showed the same time as her clock, and, at least in Catra’s experience, dreams usually weren’t very good at the whole ‘time’ thing. So, not a dream. Great.
Catra tried going back to sleep. She only lasted about five minutes before the urge to pee—which was probably what woke her up in the first place—became too strong to ignore. So, with a loud groan, Catra heaved herself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Squinting against the bright lights, she took care of business as quickly as humanly possible, then felt her way back in the dark. The bed squeaked as she collapsed onto it, eager to return to the blissful nothingness of sleep.
You can imagine her annoyance when that didn’t happen. Despite her best efforts, she remained, for some god forsaken reason, awake. And they truly were her best efforts. She tried everything she could think of—calming music, breathing exercises, imaging a calm scene. She cracked open her window and curled up under the blankets, the scientifically proven most comfortable way to sleep. She even tried that thing where you tell yourself to stay awake, which basically tricks you into falling asleep. Like reverse psychology on yourself. No dice. Every new method just seemed to wake her up more. But it was fine. Who needed sleep? Not her.
Instead, Catra grabbed her sketchbook. If the universe wouldn’t let her sleep, maybe it would let her draw. Settling into her rather uncomfortable desk chair, she grabbed a pencil, flipped to an empty page, and waited for inspiration to come.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And . . .
Nothing. Catra’s forehead hit the desk with a loud thump. Not even the hint of an idea. Her mind was completely blank. All those thoughts that had been keeping her awake? Gone. Like they’d never been there at all.
Not willing to give up yet, she tried sketching a few basic things, just to get those creative juices flowing and all that. Nothing too complicated. Shapes, mostly. Spheres, cubes, pyramids, cylinders. She drew a decent looking coffee mug, then immediately ruined it by trying to add a hand. She tried to draw some of the things on her desk, but nothing really came out how she wanted it to. After a few minutes of failing, she felt too much like snapping her pencil to keep trying. Apparently, waking up at an ungodly hour was not conducive to well executed art. Who would’ve thought?
Not a big deal though. There were plenty of other exciting things to do in her room while the rest of the world slept.
A list of all the exciting things Catra spent the next three hours doing, in order:
- Solitaire on her phone
- A Rubik’s cube she had no memory of owning, but that she completed rather quickly
- More solitaire
- A puzzle. Well, part of a puzzle. She dumped the pieces out, sorted them, assembled the edges, then got bored and put it all back in the box
- Solitaire, once again
- Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, in that order
- Yoga. That was fun. Strenuous, yet relaxing. Getting to see a bunch of attractive women in leggings was also a plus. She’d have to try it again sometime, preferably after the sun had risen
- A crossword puzzle on which she used the guess and check method for about half the letters
- Tetris
- Sudoku
- Instagram again
At 7, she deemed it late enough to leave her room. Ms. Weaver was usually awake by now, which meant, at the very least, Catra wouldn’t get yelled at for waking her up. She’d definitely get yelled at for other things, but you can’t win them all, as they say.
A peek into the hallway showed no sign of Ms. Weaver. Still in her room then. Or lurking in the shadows waiting for Catra to come out, but the first option seemed more likely. Quiet as her namesake, Catra crept toward the kitchen. She snagged a box of cereal from above the fridge (it didn’t really matter which one; they all sucked), and poured herself a bowl. If she ate fast enough, she could make it back to her room before her foster mother came out.
In a shocking (read: completely unsurprising) turn of events, that didn’t happen. Catra had only a few bites of cereal left when Ms. Weaver emerged from her room. A wave of cold seemed to follow her as she floated into the kitchen (she didn’t actually float, but her upper body never moved when she walked, so it kind of looked like she was floating). Catra couldn’t stop the shiver that ran up her spine.
Weaver didn’t acknowledge Catra—she wasn’t sure if that was good or bad—so Catra tried not to acknowledge her. Tried being the key word. It was hard to ignore her when every sound she made set off Catra’s fight-or-flight response. By the time she finished her cereal, her muscles ached with how tense they’d become. Weaver said nothing. Keeping her head down, Catra rinsed out her bowl and placed it gently in the dishwasher. Silence. Hopeful that she might actually get out unscathed, she inched toward the hallway.
“Catrina.”
So close. She could keep walking, but she wasn’t in the mood to deal with the trouble that would cause. So, fists clenched in frustration, Catra took a bracing breath and turned around.
Weaver stood at the counter, watching coffee drip from the Keurig into her mug. Without looking away, she said, “I have a guest coming over for dinner. I want the house spotless by the time he gets here. Is that understood?”
Oh great, another dinner with one of Weaver’s asshole clients. That meant two hours of Catra biting her tongue and smiling like she wasn’t three seconds away from flipping the table. Seriously, Catra deserved an Oscar for her performances at those dinners.
“I expect you to be on your best behavior tonight,” Weaver continued, which really meant, “keep your mouth shut and I won’t confiscate your sketchbook for a month.” Catra’s nails dug into her palms as she bit back a snarky comment.
The coffee trickled to a stop. Weaver took a careful sip from the mug, deemed it adequate, and walked slowly to the table. Only once she’d sat down did she finally turn her beady gaze to Catra, studying her like a predator sizing up her prey. Catra fought the urge not to flinch. It was almost impressive how small Weaver could make her feel with just a look. Like a bug under a magnifying glass. Her eyes did most of the work, really. They were like black holes in her face, and Catra feared they would swallow her whole if she looked for too long.
“You’ll need to wear something nice. None of your ill-fitting, boyish clothes,” she said, venom in every word. “I bought you a dress for a reason. Use it.”
Yeah, sure. That’s gonna happen, Catra thought. “Yes, ma’am.”
She turned to leave, only to be stopped by Weaver’s voice once more.
“Oh, and Catrina? You may not care about sleep, but the rest of us do. I expect you to be quiet the next time you wake up early, or there will be consequences.”
God, she really couldn’t do anything right, could she? No matter what, Weaver always found something to punish her for.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Is that all?”
“Watch your tone girl,” Weaver said, voice dangerously low. Catra’s blood went cold. “I will not have you talk back to me in my own house.”
“May I leave, please?” Catra ground out.
Weaver picked up a magazine from the table and began idly flipping through it. “You have twenty minutes.”
Storming back to her room, Catra proceeded to push her allotted twenty minutes to the very limit. Was she tempting fate? Absolutely. Did she care? No. Fate could kiss her ass.
She emerged just as Weaver was preparing to barge in. Then began Catra’s torture. She worked while Weaver hovered, critiquing every little thing she did. If there was even a speck of dust left after Catra swept, she had to do it again. If the plates weren’t clean enough to see her reflection in, she had to wash them again (why did they even have a dishwasher if Weaver made Catra do them all by hand?). The worst part had to be the lack of music. Chores sucked, but they were always more bearable with music or a podcast. Unfortunately, Weaver didn’t allow “distractions,” so Catra was forced to listen to her nagging with both ears wide open. And because snapping back would only make things worse, Catra had to take the abuse in silence. (At this rate, her tongue would be a bloody pulp long before dinner.)
Dealing with Weaver was difficult enough on her usual six and a half hours of sleep. Dealing with her on less than three was nearly impossible. In the end, Catra’s patience lasted about an hour, which, all things considered, was fairly impressive.
The kitchen table did her in. Under Weaver’s watchful eye, she wiped it down, taking care to get every crumb and coffee stain. Weaver took one look at it and told her to wipe it again. So she did, albeit a bit more aggressively than the first time. She was confident there was not a single particle on that table. Yet Weaver made her wipe it a third time, because why the fuck not?
Once the table was sufficiently scrubbed to hell, Weaver moved onto the kitchen counter, but Catra was done. If she stayed in that house a minute longer she was going to commit murder. Whether that murder would be Weaver or herself, she had yet to decide, but someone would die.
Throwing the washcloth on the—already clean—counter, Catra looked Weaver in the eyes, putting every ounce of her anger into her voice as she said, “You want it clean? Do it yourself.”
Weaver recoiled as if she’d been slapped. Catra was by no means a perfectly obedient child, but she rarely openly talked back to Weaver. The consequences of such an act just weren’t worth the minute or two of satisfaction she’d get. But she was truly at her wit’s end here, and desperate times call for desperate measures.
Then, instead of enjoying Weaver’s shock as she so dearly wanted to, Catra walked away. She tried to make it seem more like storming off, but she couldn’t help the slight urgency in her steps. She’d just pulled the pin out of a grenade, and she had no desire to be nearby when it went off.
Slamming open her bedroom door, Catra wasted no time in grabbing her backpack, which already contained everything she’d need for a situation like this. She paused only to grab her jacket and phone, sliding the phone into her pocket and gripping the jacket tightly. She’d put it on once she was out of the danger zone.
She’d hoped Weaver’s shock would incapacitate her until Catra could make it to the front door, but the woman descended on her the moment she left the hallway, spitting the usual insults. Catra shouldered past her, mostly ignoring everything she said. It was nothing she hadn’t heard before, nothing she hadn’t already hardened her heart to.
Just as Catra thought she’d made it, Weaver switched tactics. A hand wrapped around Catra’s wrist, nails digging into her skin, yanking her to a stop. When she tried to pull away, Weaver’s grip became tight enough to bruise.
“How dare you,” Weaver was saying, snarling really, her face twisted with malice. “You ungrateful little wretch. I give you food and shelter and clothing and this is how you repay me? No wonder your parents abandoned you. I should’ve done the same when I realized how useless you are. Especially after you drove Adora away.”
And that . . . ouch. Digs about her parents she could handle. She didn’t remember them, was too young when they left her. And she clearly didn’t care what Weaver thought of her. But bringing Adora into it? Yeah, that hurt.
“Oh please,” Catra snapped, hiding hurt behind anger as she always did. “Adora didn’t leave because of me. She left because she finally realized what a manipulative, controlling, selfish bitch you are.”
For the second time that morning, Weaver recoiled. Catra took the opportunity to yank her arm back, finally freeing herself from Weaver’s grip. Her nails left scratches along Catra’s wrist. Weaver tried to grab her again but she was already gone, throwing the front door open and tearing outside. She could hear Weaver behind her, still spitting curses, but wasn’t too concerned. The old bat probably hadn’t run in years.
“Get back here,” Weaver shouted as Catra bolted across the lawn. One of their neighbors paused in retrieving his mail to watch her go by. “Catrina. Catrina!”
Catra ran.
A blanket of gray covered the sky, giving the neighborhood a dull, washed out feeling. On the horizon, the darkness of an oncoming storm brewed. Wow, the weather was really matching her mood today. Cold air stung her nose and cheeks as she ran down the sidewalk, passing house after house. Weaver’s shouts had faded from hearing range, and Catra figured she was probably safe now, but she maintained her pace just in case. She slowed to a normal walking speed after a few blocks, breathing heavily from the exertion. She took a moment to slip her jacket on, though it didn’t actually do much to protect from the cold.
Popping her earbuds in, Catra took the time to put on some music. Her destination was pretty far, and if she had to walk the whole way, then she’d walk with a soundtrack. Out of spite, as a silent “fuck you” to Weaver—the homophobic bitch—she put on her gayest playlist. Girl in Red, King Princess, Hayley Kiyoko, Mitski, Brandi Carlile, Troye Sivan, a bit of Ricky Montgomery sprinkled in there. The whole shebang. Truly a playlist that would make Weaver shrivel up and die on the spot. Music queued, Catra pulled her hood up, shoved her hands in her pockets, and continued her trek.
The walk was nice. A bit long, but the music helped pass the time. She ended her journey in a better mood than she’d started it. (Not hard to do, but still.) Her destination was Scorpia’s house, her usual hangout spot when she needed to not be home for a while. She strolled up to the front door with the confidence of a regular visitor and knocked. No answer. She knocked again. Thirty seconds went by. Silence. Brows knitting together, she rang the doorbell. Nothing.
Feeling her pleasant mood dropping further with each second, Catra pulled out her phone. It was upon finding her latest conversation with Scorpia that she remembered something very important. Scorpia and her parents weren’t home. They were visiting family across the country, and would be gone for almost two weeks.
Not ideal, but not the end of the world. Scorpia’s parents knew about Catra’s less than pleasant living situation, and had given her a key to their house for moments just like this. (They were far too nice for their own good.)
Catra reached into her jacket pocket for said key, only to come up with nothing. Checking her other pocket revealed the same thing. Her pant pockets could barely hold a piece of lint, so her keys obviously weren’t there. Frowning, Catra pulled off her backpack. A quick search revealed nothing, so she knelt down and began pulling things out. Her laptop, her sketchbook, her very nice, rather expensive tin of colored pencils, her Hydro Flask, a pocket knife, her wallet, the little burgundy stuffed cat she’d gotten as a baby (the only thing she had left of her parents). Not to mention all the little things—gum, chapstick, a pad of sticky notes, pens and pencils, some concealer, a granola bar. But no keys.
Of course. Of course she didn’t have them. They were probably sitting on her desk, or somewhere equally obvious that she’d completely ignored while leaving. Why was she even surprised at this point? Everything else had gone wrong this morning, why shouldn’t this go wrong too?
Her only other option, Entrapta, also happened to be out of town at some nerd convention for stupidly smart tech geniuses like her. Which meant Catra was alone.
She slammed her palm against the doorframe in frustration, hissing at the resulting sting. As she tried to rub the soreness from her hand, she looked at the doorknob. Did she know how to pick locks? No. But she could learn. It couldn’t be that hard to find a comprehensive lock picking tutorial. Hell, there was probably a WikiHow article on it. There was the little detail of it being kind of, you know, illegal. But did it still count as breaking and entering if she was allowed to be there?
It was too much of a risk. If someone saw her, they’d probably call the cops, and Catra would rather not spend the day in a holding cell. She might act like a rebel, but she wasn’t actually that much of a rebel. She’d table that plan until she got desperate.
Queueing her music again, Catra repacked her bag and left Scorpia’s porch. The D’Ream’s house was only a few minutes from the city proper, so she headed in that direction. She figured she could window shop for a bit, maybe hang out at the mall. Worse came to worse she’d find a Starbucks to plague. She had options, okay. She’d be fine.
And she was fine. Until she got to the city. In her earlier frustration Catra had forgotten about the storm clouds lingering in the distance. They were no longer lingering, and they were very much not in the distance. Catra was made aware of both these facts when the storm clouds started spitting water at her, as storm clouds do.
Basically, it was raining.
And not just sprinkling, or drizzling, or showering, or any of those other nice words people use to describe rain. No, it was fucking pouring. As in obscuring your vision, rain so hard it hurt, pouring. As in gutters overflowing in a minute pouring. It was the kind of rain that made people use phrases like “raining cats and dogs” (which is a terrifying image if you think about it for more than a second). A veritable ocean fell from the sky.
Her jacket—chosen more for fashion than function—helped for about a minute before becoming completely useless. And, because she hadn’t bothered to check the weather and she wasn’t clairvoyant, she didn’t have an umbrella. Mildly annoying, but she could deal with it. She’d just wait out the storm in the nearest store. She could totally pretend to shop for an hour. Not a problem.
Except it was Sunday, which apparently meant that every goddamn store in the city was closed. (Had she known the sabbath was such a widely followed thing, she would’ve chosen another day to storm out of the house in a rage.)
Catra hesitated to say it couldn’t get worse, because it would the moment she said that, but this did seem like rock bottom. On the bright side, she was wide awake now. Any lingering exhaustion from her early morning vanished the moment the water hit her skin.
For a moment, she debated just laying down and letting the rain take her. Maybe she’d catch hypothermia and die. Or get hit by a car. Either way, at least then her misery would be over. (Okay brain, tone down the darkness a little bit.) Instead of doing that, she plastered herself to the wall of the nearest store, taking refuge under the awning. Not that it did much. Seriously, was the awning just for the aesthetic? What was the point if it didn’t actually cover anything? She was going to leave a bad yelp review.
Squinting through the torrent of rain, Catra could just make out the lights of a store down the street. From that distance, she couldn’t make out what kind of store, but that wasn’t important right now. As long as it wasn’t a grocery store, she’d take it.
With a sigh, Catra darted back out into the downpour. Surprise, surprise, it was just as cold as it had been a minute ago. Maybe even colder. She was shivering by the time she reached the store, every inch of her clothing covered in water.
Good news: not a grocery store. The window decal showed a large coffee cup with the words Bright Moon Café under it. The lights were on, and the blurred outlines of people could be seen through the glass. That was all Catra needed to shove the door open and stumble inside.
Warmth wrapped around her like a hug, and Catra could have cried in relief. It wouldn’t make her clothes any less wet, but it would at least cancel out the cold. The smell of coffee, that heavenly smell, filled the air, and if the cold hadn’t already woken her up, that certainly would have. String lights lined the tops of the windows, though they seemed to be more for the aesthetic than anything. Stronger lights hung over the front counter, their covers upside down coffee cups of all different shapes and sizes. Tables and chairs filled the space, with a few armchairs arranged in one corner. Cute coffee related signs and aesthetically pleasing pictures decorated the walls. It was a nice place, very Instagram chic. Not usually somewhere Catra would hang out, but right now, she couldn’t care less.
It was fairly empty, likely because of the weather. Two women sat across from each other at a table, talking quietly. They both looked over when Catra walked in. The one on the left, a dark skinned woman with white hair and an undercut, raised an eyebrow at Catra’s disheveled appearance, but said nothing. Her partner, a pale woman with lavender hair, smiled kindly when Catra met her eyes. Catra averted her gaze without returning it.
The café’s three other occupants were at the front counter. Catra only spared them a brief glance, spotting two girls behind the counter and one guy on a barstool, before looking away. She made her way to a corner table, throwing her bag on one chair and dropping into another. She peeled off her jacket, glad to be rid of at least one wet article of clothing. It wouldn’t do anything to help with her shirt and pants, but it was better than nothing.
Pillowing her head on her arms, Catra closed her eyes, letting the sounds of the café wash over her. The murmur of conversations drifted toward her, too quiet to be anything more than background noise. Music played throughout the building, some soft instrumental song that mixed perfectly with the rain pounding against the windows. Occasionally a sink would turn on, or a door would squeak open, but mostly it was quiet. Peaceful.
As she sat there, warm and relaxed, her exhaustion began to catch up with her. As did the panic she’d been suppressing since leaving her house. Because she had no idea what she was going to do. Breaking into Scorpia’s house was obviously not an option, that would be insane. But she couldn’t afford a motel for the night. So either she made some new friends fast, or she went home, and there was no way in hell she was going home.
The whir of the espresso grinder cut through Catra’s exhausted panicking. Someone started stage whispering, though their words were still too quiet to make out, while someone else shuffled around. One of the baristas making a drink, no doubt. The noise faded for a moment, the music and rain sweeping in to fill the silence, before Catra heard footsteps. She assumed they were going to the two women, but quickly realized they were headed straight for her. She bit back a groan. Was it too much to ask for just five minutes of peace?
The barista stopped beside her table. Catra made no move to lift her head. Maybe if she ignored the girl, she’d take the hint and leave.
Nope. The barista just cleared her throat, obviously unable to read the ‘go away don’t talk to me’ vibes Catra radiated. Catra didn’t bother holding in her sigh as she reluctantly lifted her head.
“What the fuck do you—Oh.”
Catra was not often at a loss for words. In fact, she prided herself on always having a response to things. But as she stared into the gray-blue eyes of a girl she hadn’t spoken to in three years, she found herself completely and utterly lost for words.
“Hey Catra,” Adora Grayskull said.
Catra stared, and stared, and stared. And then said, the words a mere breath, “Hey Adora.”
Something in Adora’s face changed at the familiar greeting, not heard in three years. Something shifted, loosened, brightened, and Catra found herself unable to look away from her childhood best friend, her first crush, the girl who broke her heart (the girl she was still in love with). Why? Of all the cafés in the city, why did she have to stumble into the one Adora worked at? How could she be that unlucky? Whatever she’d done to piss God off must’ve been bad, because he seemed to be doing his damndest to make her day as miserable as possible.
Adora shifted on her feet, and the movement brought Catra’s attention to the cup in her hand. She looked between Adora and the cup. “What is that?” she said, and was embarrassed by how rough her voice sounded.
“Oh,” Adora said, eyes darting down as if she’d forgotten about her package. She held it out, a strained smile on her face. “Um, here. It’s just coffee. Black. The way you like it. Well, you used to like it that way. I don’t know if you still do. But it’s, uh, on the house. You, you look like you need it.”
Ah, same awkward Adora. So easily flustered. It was almost painful hearing her ramble like that, like she’d done so often when they were younger. Catra used to make a game out of it, seeing how tongue-tied she could make the other girl before she finally gave up on talking altogether. Hearing that same stumbling now almost made Catra smile, almost made her cry. She wanted to hug Adora. She wanted to run.
“Is that your way of telling me I look like shit?” she asked, cracking just the hint of a grin. It was something a younger Adora would have laughed at, would have agreed with in that teasing way that negated any cruelty.
This Adora’s eyes grew wide, panic taking over her features. “Wha—no. Of—of course not. I would never I just—you—I—“ She stopped, took a death breath. Reorganized her thoughts in a way she never would have three years before. Huh. “You just, you look really tired,” she said, less frantic.
The Catra of three years ago, hell, even the Catra of one year ago, would have taken that as the insult it was never meant to be. She would have shot back some cutting remark, trying to distract from the perceived weakness. But Adora wasn’t the only one who had changed, and current Catra could do nothing more than sigh.
“Yeah,” she muttered. She felt tired. She’d felt tired for the last three years. She’d felt tired her whole goddamned life. She just didn’t have the energy to hide it now.
Averting her eyes to avoid the concern on Adora’s stupid, earnest face, she looked at the complimentary coffee. She cleared her throat, nodding at the drink. “Um, thank you, by the way. For the coffee.”
Adora blinked, taken aback by the thanks. A smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Yeah, no problem. I uh, I have a sweatshirt in my locker if you’d—if you’d like something a bit warmer than, well—“ she gestured to Catra’s wet shirt “—that.”
She’s pitying you, Weaver’s voice said in Catra’s head. She thinks you’re pathetic. That’s why she left.
Fuck you, I’m cold, Catra told the voice.
“That would be nice actually,” she said slowly. Adora’s smile grew.
Adora retrieved the sweatshirt and Catra used the bathroom to strip off her wet shirt. The sweatshirt was warm and soft, big in the way Adora’s clothes had always been on Catra. And of course, it smelled like her. That mix of deodorant, mint, and freshly cut grass that was always so uniquely Adora. It was a smell that reminded her of morning walks and evening bike rides, trips to the gas station after school and days spent at the park, soccer games played in the cold and lunches eaten in the shade of towering pine trees. It reminded her of tense nights in the dark, panic attacks in the school bathroom, whispered confessions and silent tears. It reminded her of secrets and promises and broken hearts.
Catra looked at herself in the mirror, dressed in Adora’s too big sweatshirt, the bags under her eyes made worse by the bathroom lighting, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. Look at her. Five minutes in Adora’s presence and she was a mess. All those stupid feelings she’d been shoving down for years rising to the surface like helium balloons, completing ignoring the walls Catra had built to stop them.
It was bad enough that she’d fallen for her best friend in the first place. That had only lead to a broken heart and three years of pain. But to realize after seeing said best friend that she was still in love with her? Even after everything that happened? That was pathetic. Weaver would be cackling like a maniac if she could see her now.
Sighing, Catra grabbed her shirt and left the bathroom. Adora was back behind the counter, and Catra finally took the time to examine her two companions. The other barista was a short girl with bright pink and purple hair that seemed to sparkle in the light. She seemed to be in the middle of telling a story, waving her arms around as she talked, face shifting through a myriad of emotions. The third member of the trio was the guy on the barstool. He had one elbow on the counter, chin propped in his hand, the white of his smile standing out against his dark skin. He also seemed to be wearing a crop top? Yeah, she wasn’t sure what that was about.
As Catra studied the three, she found herself reaching for her sketchbook. She flipped to an empty page, settling back into the chair as ideas started filling her mind. She sketched a few outlines first, workshopping different poses. A quick drawing of the counter, to establish position, then onto more detailed line work. She focused on the two goons first, snapping a quick picture with her phone so she could zoom in and get the details of their faces. She tried to capture Crop Top’s smile, and posture, the way he focused so completely on Sparkles as she talked. He took more time, given that he required an entire body, not just a head and torso. Sparkles was easier, though Catra got stuck for a few minutes trying to properly capture the manic energy she radiated.
But Adora was the real focus of the drawing.
Adora had been Catra’s model since they were children, since Catra had first picked up a pencil and paper and begun to draw. She was and always had been Catra’s inspiration, her muse, the thing Catra couldn’t live without drawing. As if she’d been born to draw Adora. Catra had spent years learning every facet of Adora’s features, every callous on her hands, every freckle on her face, every twitch of her lips. The way she smiled, the way she laughed, the way her brows furrowed when she frowned, the way her eyes dimmed when she was upset. (The way she looked at Catra sometimes, her eyes filled with something that gave Catra hope. A foolish hope. Adora could never love her. After all, how can a ship possibly love an anchor?)
Catra had filled sketchbooks with Adora’s face, page after page after page, as if those drawings were her only purpose in life. As if stopping would kill her. In Catra’s mind, the drawings had always been love letters of sorts. She could never tell Adora how she felt, was too much of a coward for that, but she could show her. She could immortalize her in a thousand sketches and a hundred paintings, and maybe one day Adora would be able to read the words Catra could never say aloud.
It had been hard when Adora first left. Catra couldn’t draw without drawing Adora’s face, so she didn’t draw at all. Why would she even want to? Her art had always been for Adora, because of Adora. Even drawings that weren’t of Adora were for her. Every flower and tree, every building and car, every landscape, every portrait. All meant for her. All to draw her approval. All to produce that soft look that made Catra’s heart race. But without her, Catra had no reason to continue.
“Why can’t you just draw for yourself?” Scorpia had asked once. “Why does it always have to be for someone else?”
Catra had laughed at the question, told her she wouldn’t understand. She had never been one half of a whole, had never interwoven her life so completely with another’s that to live without them felt impossible. She had never loved the way Catra had loved Adora, and so she could never understand.
But the question stuck with her, until she couldn’t just laugh it away anymore. Until she began asking herself that same thing.
Her first piece in a year and a half was a sketch of Scorpia. It was rough, done with none of the ease and surety with which she’d always drawn Adora. But it was Scorpia. And it was done not so Adora could see it, but because Catra wanted to do it. Because drawing was something she loved, and she refused to let Adora or anyone else take it from her.
She still drew Adora sometimes, but her face no longer filled page after page in Catra’s sketchbook. It had been a while since she’d drawn her, actually, Catra realized as she studied the trio. A few months at least. A few months since she’d haunted Catra’s mind, refusing to leave until another page was dedicated to her. It felt nice drawing Adora again, drawing the real Adora, not the memory of her that lived in Catra’s head. It felt like coming home.
She’d changed in the last three years, of course. She was taller, bulkier. Her shoulders were wider, her arms and legs more muscular (not that Catra was looking). Her jaw was sharper, the lines of her face more pronounced. But it was the same smile that pulled at her lips. It was the same laugh that echoed through the room, loud and carefree. The same stupid hair poof. The same golden retriever excitement that seemed to permeate every atom in her body. And when she looked at Catra with those same blue-gray eyes, her cheeks dimpling and her eyes alight with joy, it still felt like Catra was looking at the sun. It still made Catra feel like she was the only thing Adora cared about.
(That wasn’t true, of course. Catra hadn’t been the only thing Adora cared about in three years. But that knowledge didn’t stop her traitorous heart from flipping like a gymnast when Adora’s eyes fixed on her.)
Catra immersed herself in the drawing, letting the rain and music and café sounds fade into soothing background noise. Her hand moved almost without thought across the paper, the earlier mental blockage completely gone. As she drew, she felt her anger and annoyance melt away, replaced by a tranquility she rarely felt nowadays. She forgot about Weaver, about her abandoned keys, about her wet clothes and the uncertainty of her evening, and let the art consume her. Let it push away all other thoughts until it was just her, the paper, and the pencil.
Time slipped by without notice. The rain showed no sign of stopping, maintaining its steady drumbeat on the windows. Catra finished her coffee and debated getting another, but decided against it. The two women continued to talk, their conversation occasionally drifting off as the lavender haired woman began reading a small but thick book and her partner scrolled through her phone. Catra gave into the urge to draw them as well, making a quick sketch and taking a picture to use for later reference. Adora and her friends chatted away, somehow seeming to never run out of conversation topics.
No one made any move to leave, content to sit in the warm comfort of the café. It felt like they were in a bubble, separated from the rest of the world. Just the six of them together in this place. Catra found herself thinking she wouldn’t mind staying there forever.
Absorbed as she was in her thoughts, she didn’t notice someone coming up beside her until they spoke.
“You still draw,” Adora said.
Catra jumped. Her pencil scrapped across the page, leaving a faint line through Crop Top’s torso. She huffed, carefully erasing the errant line. “Jesus Christ woman. Announce yourself next time.”
Adora smiled sheepishly, pink dusting her cheeks. “Sorry.”
“Whatever,” Catra mumbled. She looked up to see Adora holding another coffee cup. “Can I help you with something?”
“Oh, no. I just noticed you were out of coffee. Thought I’d give you another one.”
Catra squinted. “Are you supposed to be handing out free coffee like this?”
Adora shrugged, setting the second cup on the table. “Not really. But who’s gonna tell?” When she said this, her mouth curved into a familiar grin, and Catra suddenly felt like she was back in their room, hanging off the top bunk as they whispered secrets in the dark.
“Your sparkly friend over there might,” she said with a nod to the counter. “She doesn’t seem to like me very much.”
She wasn’t oblivious to the looks Sparkles had been sending her. Sometimes she’d glance up to find the girl staring at her, eyes narrowed. She looked away whenever they made eye contact, though she never seemed embarrassed at being caught. Crop Top watched her too, although he seemed more curious than suspicious. And he at least offered a smile when she caught him.
They were looking at her now, Sparkles with that same suspicious anger, Crop Top with something that seemed like excitement. Why they cared so much, Catra could only guess, but she didn’t appreciate their nosiness.
“Glimmer’s just a bit . . . headstrong. She’s not gonna tell,” Adora assured her, and Catra was content with that, but then Adora said, smile fading, “I promise.”
Catra’s chest tightened at those words. Her knuckles went white around her pencil as memories of a dozen promises, made and then broken, filled her mind. Did Adora even realize what she’d said? Did she realize how much those words had meant to Catra? That she’d held onto them like a lifeline until the day Adora left her? That they had gotten Catra through years of Weaver’s abuse? Did she know that Catra had spent the last three years of her life picking up the broken pieces of her heart, trying desperately to fill the hole Adora had left her with? Did she care?
Nothing really bad can happen as long as we have each other.
You promise?
I promise.
She could feel her lip wobbling, could feel her breath catching with every inhale, shaking with every exhale. The urge to run rose up again, to get out and away before Adora could see how little she’d moved on. Before Adora could see how weak she really was.
But something in Adora’s eyes stopped her. There was an intensity there that turned her eyes into storm clouds of grey, into a raging ocean of blue. Catra wanted to run but her legs were frozen, her entire body trapped under the strength of Adora’s gaze.
She swallowed heavily. “Do you?” she asked, voice hoarse. “Do you promise?”
The storm paused, the ocean faltered, and Adora blinked like she was fighting tears. “Catra,” she whispered.
“Because you promised before,” Catra said, and the words were wet and angry. “You promised, and then you left.”
Adora’s face crumbled. “Catra,” she said again, and Catra wasn’t sure if she loved or hated the sound of her name on Adora’s lips. “Catra I—I’m so sorry. About everything that happened. I never meant to leave, I never meant to break my promises. I—I tried to go back for you, I wanted to go back for you but Mara was already busy enough just taking care of me and we didn’t have enough room for another person. And whenever I called or visited Weaver answered and she—she said you didn’t wanna talk to me anymore. That you didn’t wanna see me again. I thought—I thought you hated me.”
I thought you hated me. I thought you finally realized you were too good for me. I thought you finally realized what a waste I was. I thought I drove you away.
When they were thirteen Catra had taught Adora how to slow dance. Why, she couldn’t remember, but it might have just been an excuse to be close. To feel Adora’s hand in hers, their chests rising and falling in sync, their arms wrapped each other. In her head she’d probably imagined staring into Adora’s eyes, their breaths mingling as they got closer and closer. She’d probably imagined confessing.
It hadn’t been like that, hadn’t been the perfect, romantic dance Catra had envisioned. Adora might’ve been brilliant at sports, but when it came to anything that required more finesse than sprinting across a field, she had two left feet. Catra had spent the lesson laughing as Adora tripped and stumbled over her own feet, unable to keep time for more than a few seconds.
Now it felt like Adora was the one leading, the one who knew the steps, and Catra was struggling to follow along. She felt so out of her depth here, lost in a way she never used to be around Adora. She felt like she couldn’t breathe.
Her entire world view had shifted. Everything she’d held as truth over the last three years was actually a lie. A lie planted by the same woman who’d always lied to them. The woman Catra had sworn she’d never believe, because everything that came out of her mouth was poison. And yet she’d believed this. Like a fool, she’d believe it. And she’d let it destroy the only good thing she’d ever had.
(She’d believed it because in her heart, she knew Weaver was right. Adora had always deserved better than her.)
Adora was staring at her, waiting, anxiety and pain and hope on her face. And Catra didn’t know what to say. “She—she never told me,” she said weakly. Adora’s brow furrowed. “Weaver never told me you called, or came by. I thought . . . I thought you’d forgotten about me. I mean, you’re you. You’re funny and smart and kind and everyone loves you. You’re the Golden Girl. I figured you’d made a bunch of friends at your fancy new school and you didn’t need me anymore.” She laughed, vision blurring as her eyes filled with tears. “I thought you hated me.”
“I never hated you, Catra. I—“ she hesitated, stopped, working her jaw. “I never hated you,” she repeated, and there was so much conviction in her words it made Catra’s heart ache.
“Promise?” Catra breathed. A tear trailed down Adora’s cheek.
“I promise.”
Catra believed her.
She took a second to wipe her eyes, huffing in exasperation at her own emotions. Adora did the same, letting the weight of their revelations settle between them. When Catra finally felt like she wasn’t about to burst into tears at the drop of a hat, she took a deep breath.
“Weaver and I got in a fight,” she said, looking at the two cups on the table. “Honestly it wasn’t even a fight. She was being a bitch and I wasn’t in the mood so I left.”
Adora took a seat in one of the other chairs, eyes on Catra. “And she let you?”
Catra snorted. “No. She tried to stop me.” At this, she pulled down the sleeve of her sweatshirt, revealing the still red scratches on her wrist, the still bruising skin. Adora’s jaw clenched. “I got away, obviously. Usually when we fight I go to Scorpia’s, but she’s outta town right now. So is Entrapta. That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Adora fiddled with the edge of her apron. Catra looked down at her sketchbook, still open to the drawing of Adora and her friends. The friends who were now watching with concern. Well, concern and anger, of course. Crop Top looked like he was almost holding Sparkles back from marching over and demanding an explanation. No doubt they’d seen Adora crying.
Given what she now knew about Adora’s view of the situation, Catra could understand Sparkles’ anger. She appreciated it, even. She was glad Adora had found friends who cared about her. But she was also glad Crop Top stopped her from interfering. She’d probably have to thank him for it later.
“You could stay with me,” Adora said.
Catra’s head snapped in her direction. “What?”
“You can stay with me since Scorpia’s not here,” she said, still playing with her apron. A nice layer of red covered her cheeks. “For as long as you need to. Mara won’t mind.”
“I—why?”
Adora’s irises were rings of steel. “Because I miss you.”
Oh, there went Catra’s breath again. That was just going to be a thing now, wasn’t it? Catra being unable to breathe every time Adora looked at her. Like she was the main character of a shitty romance novel of something.
Adora’s confidence seemed to fade as Catra failed to respond. Her hands, which had stilled during her declaration, resumed their fiddling. “If—if you want to, of course. You don’t have to, I just thought—“
“I want to,” Catra blurted, feeling her cheeks heat up as Adora focused on her again. She cleared her throat. “I mean, I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”
There it was. That smile Catra used to long for, used to crave like a drug. The smile that always made her feel like something precious. Bright and overwhelming, like looking at the sun. (If Adora was the sun then Catra was a sunflower, always facing her, reaching for her, coming to life under her gaze.)
“I get off at two if you don’t mind waiting that long,” she said, practically vibrating with excitement.
Catra looked at Adora, then at the rain still coming down in sheets, then back at Adora. She raised her eyebrows. Adora blushed, smile fading under her embarrassment, though the joy she radiated never waned.
“Right. Right. Rain. Of course.”
Catra didn’t bother holding back her smile anymore. She knew it was probably overly fond, knew it was something people might have teased her for in the past. But she was happy. She was really, really happy, and right now she didn’t care to hide it.
“Get back to work dummy,” she said, voice soft. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“Neither am I,” Adora said, and Catra could hear the unspoken words that followed.
I promise.