Work Text:
It starts, as most things, do, with a text message.
They’ve developed a system. It’s one that Anne definitely knows about - and had actively encouraged, back when there was no therapist in the entirety of Los Angeles that could help them recover from the intense trauma they had all suffered - but isn’t involved in, because she has parents that love her and an entire network of friends she had made during the two months she was separated and left on Earth to mourn, and she doesn’t need her friends the way that they so desperately need each other.
It’s a system. One that Sasha had agreed to, anyways, and she thinks maybe the soulmates junk wasn’t too entirely off when, after spending an intense thirty minutes staring into the mirror in self-loathing, her phone buzzes with the Super Mario theme; she snorts, pulling herself away from the mirror to check.
[Marshmallow]: 💚?
[Sashy]: house is empty, come here.
[Marshmallow]: omw
~~
Here’s the thing: Sasha doesn’t hate her scar.
She doesn’t, really. Most days, it’s nothing more than a physical reminder of the person she’s left behind, like the crumbled remains of the cocoon she emerged from while in Amphibia. Even when Anne had apologized for the mark, Sasha hadn’t felt upset about it– and she had told Anne as much, brushing off her apology, insisting quite firmly that she’d gladly take one thousand marks from Anne’s sword if that’s what it took to be someone Anne could be proud of. Anne had laughed at her for that and said that one mark was too much, and maybe it had warmed Sasha’s heart, but that was that.
She doesn’t hate her scar.
But it is annoying. hearing people ask her about it all the time. After the first month back in Los Angeles, she had started delicately applying concealer to the mark, painting over her face so that maybe, people can just… forget. Forget that she’s scarred, forget that she’s weak, forget that she’s not the Sasha Waybright who skipped class one day and returned over a year later.
The problem with this, then, is that eventually she forgets too, and there is still smudged concealer on her face when she texts Marcy, and there is scarred flesh on her cheek that stands out amongst the makeup as she opens her bathroom door ten minutes later.
Marcy’s already sitting on her bed, only ten minutes after texting Sasha for confirmation that she can come over, because… of course she is. She’s been staying with her sister, who doesn’t live that far away from where Sasha’s dad lives, and besides, she probably was already anxiously waiting in front of the back door that’s always unlocked, debating on whether or not to step over that line without permission.
That’s her Marcy.
If Marcy sees the smudged makeup, she doesn’t say anything about it. Then again, she doesn’t look like she wants to say much of anything at all; she has one of Sasha’s own hoodies on, tugged high enough that it nearly brushes her nose, and she’s sitting with her knees tucked into her chest on the bed, small and unassuming.
She really needed that emoji check, Sasha thinks, and she wipes the back of her hand against her sweatpants, letting the bathroom door close shut with a startlingly loud bang.
Marcy doesn’t even flinch at the noise.
“Wow Marsh, you look terrible,” Sasha quips, like she has any room to talk. She hadn’t been expecting company and it shows; she’s still in sweatpants and a tank top, her hair recently chopped off into a messy bob, and worst of all, she’s taken off her fucking makeup. She’s exposed, but she doesn’t mind it really– not for her girls.
Marcy does finally peek up though, and she, too, looks terrible, though it’s the kind of terrible that Sasha had mildly expected when she was sent the emoji ten minutes ago. There are deep bags under her eyes - bags that never really went away, so familiar Sasha hardly notices them now - and her scar, like Sasha’s, is on full display, the faint imprint only noticeable if you’re close enough to look for it.
Sasha likes that scar. She likes running her finger over the indent, having the excuse to brush over Marcy’s cheeks and above the bridge of her nose, gently combing through her hair so that she can rub soothing circles into the mark that stretches past her ears. It’s hardly visible, anyways; not like Sasha’s.
But she still doesn’t say anything. Not a word, just half-lidded eyes batting up at Sasha, her mask off for the world to see.
There’s a reason, after all, that she doesn’t go to Anne with these sort of problems. Only Sasha. She doesn’t like Anne seeing her without her carefully constructed mask, and Sasha can relate because she’s the same way.
They’ve done this often enough that there’s a routine to it now. Sasha turns her tv on, picks up the remote, and crosses her room to sit on her bed next to her moonbeam, offering her arms out enticingly. “Come on, Marsh– you look like you’re gonna collapse.”
Marcy makes a non-commital noise in the back of her throat, but she obliges, scooting forwards to drop herself into Sasha’s arms. Despite the hoodie, she’s shivering, so Sasha pulls the blankets over them as well, holding her.
Maybe it’s a little strange, her willingness to hold her best friend. Sasha doesn’t think so, not after all that’s happened, all that they nearly lost. She never wants to let go of Marcy again. Besides, at least here, she can stop focusing on herself, letting her thoughts wash away as she pets Marcy’s hair soothingly, eyes on the tv screen.
They’re halfway through the cheesy movie she had picked out when Marcy finally shifts, hands now fiddling with the strings of the hoodie, and she doesn’t look as far away anymore, though there’s something bleary in her eyes. “Hi,” she mumbles, her voice rough from disuse but lovely to hear all the same.
“Hey there,” Sasha greets back, snorting amusedly, “welcome back. How do you feel?”
Marcy wrinkles her nose, her face screwing up in a grimace. “Better, now that you’re here,” she says, trembling less now though she stays curled in Sasha’s arms, pliant and small. “Sorry.”
“Hey, what did we agree on? No more apologies.” Sasha flicks Marcy’s nose lightly, snorting again when Marcy blinks owlishly at her in return. “You came to me for a reason, though. What happened?”
Marcy is quiet for a long moment, her silence magnified by the tv in front of them. For a moment, she just stares into space, and Sasha wonders if she’s even going to get an answer, or of she’s going to have to pretend that everything is fine and offer distraction after meaningless distraction.
“...a kid in class today saw one of my tube scars,” Marcy finally says, and she sounds so robotically monotone, like she’s reciting something she’s read instead of a recent memory. “In the bathroom, when I was washing my hands. She didn’t say anything, but I could… I could tell, you know? She wanted to ask if it was… purposeful. I don’t know what I would’ve told her.”
And that is a sentiment that they both share, apparently; the lingering fear that someone is going to ask about their scars, the belief that they will be judged for them, the burning desire to hide away and pretend they don’t exist so they don’t have to relive traumatic memories. Sasha doesn’t even dislike her scar, so she can’t imagine how it feels for Marcy, who does dislike her scars.
“You wouldn’t have to tell her anything,” she says, because it’s true. Marcy owes her story to nobody, not after everything she had suffered and the pain she had gone through. “Seriously, Mars. They don’t deserve any explanation for your scars, and if they say anything about it, just let me know and I’ll beat them up for you, got it?”
“You shouldn’t have to beat people up for me,” Marcy complains. “It’s… fine, I’m just tired. You know I don’t sleep well.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” Sasha holds her a little bit tighter, stroking her hair. “Why don’t you stay here? We can have a sleepover.”
“Without Anne?”
“Anne’s real busy this time of year, you know that. It’s why you came to me, right?” Sasha smiles, and she wipes at her cheek, catching the rest of the makeup. Marcy’s eyes flick up to her cheek with that one movement, because Sasha doesn’t let herself be vulnerable around them even after Amphibia, and she knows that. She knows that, doesn’t she?
“Okay,” she relents with a yawn. “But I don’t really want to actually do anything; I’m tired. Can we just… stay like this? Cuddling?”
“Aww, Marsh, you’re so cute,” Sasha coos, grinning victoriously when she sees Marcy’s cheeks heat up. “Of course we can stay like this; it’s not like I had any plans tonight anyways. Want me to make dinner?”
“Last time you tried to cook, you burnt water,” Marcy deadpans. “I thought I was a bad cook.”
“Wow, see if I do anything nice for you again!” Sasha playfully shoves at her shoulder, and Marcy shoves back, and now she’s smiling, which is good. It’s good, that’s what Sasha had wanted right? To make Marcy smile? To help her forget about her troubles?
At least like this, she’s not focused on her own scar, her own problems like she had been. Sasha’s never been very good at giving over control to others, but she thinks she’s finally found the solution, and it comes in the form of letting her best friends, the ones she loves the most, take control instead. She’d rather give them the world nowadays– it’s a sentiment she thinks they all share.
“We can go over to Thai Go later,” Marcy says with a giant yawn, and she may not be trembling as much anymore but she still looks so cold and tired and small. “But not right now. I… hurt all over, I think.”
It’s a big admission for someone who had once been too prideful to admit she was hurting. Sasha thinks she might be proud of her and how far she’s grown, though she can hardly focus on that when she herself has grown too; maybe she’s just happy for them both growing, becoming people that might be deserving of Anne one day.
One day, it’ll be worth it.
“Your scar’s not covered,” Marcy says wondrously, cutting into Sasha’s thoughts with a sleepy look on her face. She reaches upwards, trailing one finger against the thin mark on Sasha’s cheek, her finger becoming dirtied with concealer. “That’s new.”
“Well, I can’t wear makeup all the time,” Sasha huffs with a roll of her eyes. “I… forgot I took it off before you texted.” A lie, it’s all a lie, will she ever learn how not to lie?
“I like it better without the makeup anyways,” Marcy says, and her hand falls as she curls back into the clingy position against Sasha’s chest. She doesn’t elaborate on this, but Sasha thinks she knows what Marcy would say if she did: a reminder that you’re just as fucked up as me. There’s a reason, after all, that she doesn’t go to Anne.
“Don’t think about it too hard, sweetheart,” she drawls with a roll of her eyes. “We can’t have a proper sleepover without Anne anyways– might as well break our own rules and relax.”
“Sasha, Queen of Sleepovers, not wanting to stay up all night?” Marcy yawns, but her eyes are fluttering nonetheless, and she’s still clearly exhausted from the day. “Okay. If you say so, Sashy.”
Something warm flutters hard in Sasha’s chest. She tries not to think about it too much; it’ll drive her insane if she does.
It’s not how she thought she’d spend her evening - Marcy in her arms, the tv blaring in the background - but Sasha realizes abruptly that it’s easier, having someone around. She knew that before– of course she did, how could she not realize that she felt lighter when she had her best friends at her side? But other than when Marcy had brought it up, she hadn’t even thought about her own scar, and it doesn’t make her feel icky the way it had before she had shown up.
Before she lets herself fall into rest as well, though, she picks up her phone, awkwardly texting around Marcy.
[Queen Sash]: mars is spending the night with me
[Queen Sash]: wanna come over later?
[Queen Anne]: i was wonderin y she wasnt answering her phone
[Queen Anne]: i can be there after my shift at work
Sasha smiles to herself, and she sets her phone to the side again, combing her fingers through Marcy’s hair, and she’s able to drift off into a light, peaceful rest, content in the knowledge that despite everything, despite what her classmates and parents might say and despite what her scar might say about her… she is loved.