Chapter Text
she can't really say when it starts.
if she were to look back, mitsuki thinks that maybe the uncomfortable twist in her belly began that first real interaction at the cd shop. oosawa-san and her sad eyes, talking about how music was meant for solitude. how she could only have it alone, in the safety of her headphones. she was a girl, just like mitsuki, who lacked connection. she'd looked so — so lonely, there, with a smile that didn't quite sit right, and mitsuki thought she was too pretty to smile like that. too pretty. mitsuki had felt it, then, that twist in her gut. the squeeze of her heart. it shouldn't, it shouldn't, because oosawa-san was just a girl.
a girl with big, sad eyes. a sharp grin. pretty hair. a girl who was so popular, well - liked and envied, shared something in common with a wallflower like mitsuki. of course, it wasn't the first time mitsuki had seen her, seeing as they were classmates and all, but somehow, in that very moment, it was like something slotting into place. it was almost unbelievable, but lonely sees lonely — and in that moment, mitsuki saw. she saw.
maybe it begins there. maybe it starts there, in the very beginning, like some green string of fate tied to their pinkies. a kind of binding, looping loosely around their fingers in a way neither would ever be able to escape from. was that destiny? or was it just that lonely sees lonely, and something told mitsuki that day to look. oosawa-san needed it, in the moment, and mitsuki — mitsuki —
she stares at herself in the mirror, now, with a quiet sort of contemplation. it feels like it's been so long since that moment, since oosawa-san stared "onii-san" in the eyes, star - struck and aching. it feels like her and oosawa-san have lived years and years since then, have gotten to see one another in ways that takes time. effort. mitsuki has not put effort into anything but music in so long, but sometimes —
sometimes it feels like oosawa-san knows her. like she is known. but is she? is she known? because the reflection looking back at her appears foreign, strange, in this light. she's in her bedroom, the place that is so wholly mitsuki, but nothing feels right, not with how oosawa-san brought up onii-san. maybe it's because she feels weird suddenly, but for a moment, mitsuki doesn't know who she's looking at.
onii-san? mitsuki?
does it even matter?
she thinks it matters. it has to matter, doesn't it? it matters if oosawa-san is only seeing onii-san. of course it does, because they're — they're friends, aren't they? her and oosawa-san? everything they've shared, everything they've learned, it has to matter. it has to mean something, to oosawa-san. right?
something ugly twists uncomfortably in her gut, and mitsuki has to break the eye contact with herself in the mirror. she cares if oosawa-san doesn't see her. the thought comes unbidden, a nagging little creeping of a voice. you care if she sees you. you care that she doesn't. she sees onii-chan.
mitsuki has spent an incredibly long time invisible. after getting hurt, after losing friends just because of who she was, what she did or didn't like to wear, it became her choice to wallflower away, stick to the shadows, be so plain that no one glanced twice in her direction. and for a while, it wasn't bad. she wasn't even lonely. she hadn't wanted to be seen.
and then, aya.
it's strange, the way things change. oosawa-san barreled into her life with knotted hair and a pair of headphones, and suddenly the carefully crafted, quiet life mitsuki lived for herself was turned askew. oosawa-san stepped into the cd shop and without knowing it, made some sort of a home inside of mitsuki's chest. here was a girl with her hackles raised, with her barbed - wire defenses, and all it took was someone like oosawa-san, who loved music as much as she did, to slip between the cracks.
like an unexpected bridge in a beloved song, mitsuki was hooked.
she doesn't know if that's a good thing or not.
music has always been a comfort, a solace — it has helped mitsuki through her grief, through her loneliness. music helped her not even be lonely — it hadn't mattered if she didn't have friends, because she had music. there was always music to hold her, to soothe her. when everything got too much, she could drown everything out until it was just less. no one else, and nothing else, mattered.
and while that hasn't changed, while music is still her safe space, the place she can retreat to when everything is too much, she's started hearing music in other places. in other ways.
oosawa's laugh, pretty and warm. it's more acoustic than electric, it's less intense than the music she normally listens to, but koga loves it.
it sounds soft, light. oosawa-san laughs and it feels prismatic, a pink floyd album cover. rainbows, the glisten of sunlight over everything — oosawa-san was like a sunbeam, radiant and warm. she hears music when oosawa laughs, when she talks, even when she cries. mitsuki remembers that day, and as numb as she'd been, oosawa had cut through. it was the first time anything, anyone, has ever broken through, but at the sight of her tears, it was over.
she couldn't stay numb. she couldn't be alone. oosawa-san had weaseled her way through the music in her ears, demanded her attention, and mitsuki was helpless but to give it to her. she could never stay numb around oosawa-san, and maybe that was the problem. the issue. mitsuki hears music when she sees her, and music has always been good. how is she supposed to unlearn how oosawa-san sounds to her? how is she supposed to pretend that means nothing? it raises another question, heavy and hungry in her mind.
what does she sound like to oosawa-san?
does she even have a sound, or is "onii-san," all oosawa sees? somehow, despite it just being mitsuki, they feel like — like different people. questions swirl, press in hard and sharp and painful. mitsuki presses her palm flat against her sternum, desperate to ease some of the ache, there. it hurts. she remembers the creeping dread of loneliness when she'd gotten sick, how it'd felt to have no friends, and this feels sort of similar, except her thoughts all circle around oosawa-san. what is she supposed to do with all this feeling?
she can't fully name it. maybe mitsuki doesn't want to, maybe it hangs on a precarious balance, this friendship with oosawa-san. maybe she doesn't want to name it because what if naming it changes everything forever? what if the friendship they've built, the connection they made, what if it's something mitsuki can lose? she can't she doesn't want to, but it's becoming more and more evident that she doesn't want to just be onii-san. she can't just be onii-san.
not to aya.
mitsuki glances back at the mirror, at the swirling confusion, the dead - eyed stare. in the moment, she thinks she's angry. it feels like anger, like shame. she feels something, and it's not the sweet warmth oosawa usually brings — rather, it's ugly, dark. deep. it snarls. bites. the feeling keeps whispering in the back of her mind, condescending and full of disdain. aya doesn't like you, it coos, patronizing. she only liked you when she thought you were a boy.
a boy doesn't look back at her in the mirror.
it is only koga mitsuki.
she's always liked "cool" things. "masculine" things. it's gotten her loss, time and time again. but for once, for once, it'd gotten her a friend. the way she liked to dress had attracted somebody, somebody like oosawa-san, and maybe mitsuki clung to this onii-san person for as long as she had because for the first time, someone had liked her because of it. oosawa-san thought she was cool, and oosawa-san was pretty, and funny, and surprisingly easy to talk to about music, about anything, and —
it had backfired, as all things do, but for a little moment, a small pocket of time, aya had liked her. except...had she? she'd liked onii-san.
this is the pattern, the cyclical grief. there was no winning, because oosawa had never liked mitsuki.
it hits her, suddenly, that that's what she really wanted — for aya to like her. and that thought was dizzying, spiraling. suddenly, mitsuki feels like her chest is a little too tight, like no matter what she does, she cannot take a deep enough inhale in. she wants oosawa-san to like her. she wants to be liked by oosawa-san, for her to look at mitsuki and like mitsuki. to hear music when she talks.
look at me, aya. me, not onii-san, but me. can you see me?
would you like it if you did?
this thought, too, comes unbidden. sudden. would oosawa-san even like the other parts of her? where onii-san was cool, mitsuki was boring.
she doesn't think there's anything all that special about herself. there was an air of mystery to onii-san, an element of confidence. behind the mask, mitsuki was someone else, in a way. a layer of protection. except that she wasn't, because everything onii-san felt and experienced and did, it was still all mitsuki, and now — now everything feels so convoluted. so confusing. she hadn't meant to separate herself from onii-san, but in keeping it a secret for as long as she did, maybe it created that rift. that barrier.
but she wanted to be more. it wasn't enough, anymore, for oosawa-san to just like onii-san. mitsuki wanted to be cool. mitsuki wanted to be confident. it was her who wanted to talk music with aya, to walk with aya, to laugh with her. to make her laugh, to make her blush the way onii-san always used to. how bizarre to be jealous of yourself.
the thought makes her pause uncomfortably, her mind skittering to a sudden halt. jealous? is that what this is, is that the feeling that's been brewing since oosawa-san mentioned onii-san for the first time in ages? it had brought back all the memories, all the fears, all the worries.
oosawa-san hadn't used that name in so long, that for a while, mitsuki forgot all about how they really became friends, and it was over an interest in onii-san. i'd never be able to talk to onii-san like that, oosawa-san had said, and it brought that divide back. that rift. suddenly, mitsuki and onii-san weren't the same, because oosawa-san couldn't treat them ass such. so — is she — jealous of onii-san? it doesn't make a lot of sense, because she is onii-san.
she just worries oosawa-san doesn't see it that way. to her, onii-san was a guy. something she eventually found out was figmented, and fake. onii-san doesn't exist, and along with that, all the feelings oosawa-san might've had for him dissipated. onii-san was a guy at a cd shop.
with a glance back to the mirror, mitsuki grimaces. she isn't one. she isn't a guy, and it shouldn't matter, because oosawa-san can be friends with mitsuki. she's friends with plenty of girls. it shouldn't be a problem, it shouldn't be bothering her like this, but that's where the problem comes in, isn't it?
that's what mitsuki is trying so desperately to avoid thinking about? because this isn't about being oosawa-san's friend. she can acknowledge they became friends. mitsuki had put on that whole performance, just for her. she'd declared a desire for friendship, just for her. so none of this — none of this should make her as mad as it does. but somewhere down the line, despite how amazing being aya's friend is, she wants —
she wants —
her phone buzzes.
it goes off in her pocket, and mitsuki leans her weight on her good leg to fish it out. somehow, she knows it's oosawa-san, but it isn't a hard guess. no one else really calls. the timing of it knots something in her chest. "oosawa-san?"
"ah! koga-san! did i leave my commuter pass over there!?"
it sits, pretty and pink on mitsuki's bookshelf, a little out of place for the rest of the room. yet, because it's oosawa-san's, something about it — fits, too. like it has a place here. she keeps leaving little reminders that she's wormed her way into mitsuki's life, and right now, it just makes her feel — weird.
"ah! yeah. i found it, and then forgot to call you..." distraction had hit. mitsuki and her big, uncomfortable feelings. how long had she been sitting there, stewing? how long has she been looking at herself in the mirror? with another glance, she still doesn't feel right. real.
oosawa-san babbles on the phone, none the wiser, her brothers trying to interfere in the background. "oh thank god! sorry about that. can i come over to pick it up tomorrow morning? and i'll walk you to school again!" she sounds bright, but mitsuki just — burns. it's as if someone had put her favorite song into minor key, and now everything just feels — feels —
"...hey. oosawa-san..." she watches her mouth move in the mirror, but her voice doesn't sound like her own. maybe i sound more like onii-san like this, she thinks bitterly, her eyes narrowed. it all just hurts, all of a sudden. oosawa-san has been so good to her. mitsuki knows that her uncle cares for her, that he'd do anything for her, but it feels different, somehow, when oosawa-san does it. she's been going out of her way, walking her home, getting her snacks, carrying her things.
she's been — constant. ever - there. they lock eyes across the room, and oosawa-san is bouncing over, asking how she can help. it's been so nice, it's been so damn nice, that the thought of it all being for onii-san absolutely pushes her over the edge. she can't help herself. "are you being nice to me...just because i'm onii-san?"
it takes a full few seconds for it to register, it seems, judging by oosawa-san's silence. "EEEH? wha—"
"ah, um...forget about it. okay...er...see you tomorrow..." she can hear another exclamation of surprise on oosawa-san's end as she ends the call, and the room is back to silence.
what had she done?
"ah, shit..." mitsuki's brought back to her senses, that thrum of jealousy fizzling out for it's replacement emotion — shame. what was she thinking? oosawa-san has been nothing but kind to her. who cares if it's all for onii-san?
mitsuki stops herself there. she isn't stupid enough to continue that line of thinking, because she's already established it isn't true. she cares. she does.
with a heavy sigh, she sits back down on her bed, tossing her phone to the side. it lands on her pillow, and she leans forward to reach for the commuter pass. her fingers trace the shape of the lip - outline of oosawa-san's case, her touch delicate, feather - like. the case is so very oosawa-san that it pulls the tiniest smile to her mouth, something small, and fond, and indulgent. the lips are pink, a little bit glossy, just like oosawa-san's always are. pretty, pretty. she thinks of oosawa-san's mouth, the purse of her pout, the way her lips stretch when she smiles, how they always seem so soft, and —
oh, god.
in a panic, she tosses it as well. it lands with a sad little flop right next to her phone. what the hell was she thinking? she couldn't. she couldn't. it wasn't fair to oosawa-san, to think about her like that! where did it even come from, anyway? a pointless one. fleeting. it'd leave as fast as it came on, mitsuki is sure of it. all it was, was — confusion. this whole thing with onii-san is scrambling her brain, messing with her thoughts, playing with her head. all of these feelings for — for oosawa-san, it was just — it was just because mitsuki wanted to be cool. she wanted to be what onii-san was, but as mitsuki, and she just didn't know how.
that was all.
flushed with embarrassment at herself, that lingering, nagging shame irritates her enough that she has to stand again, has to do something, because she feels restless. oosawa-san's mouth shimmers in the peripherals of her mind, and mitsuki is doing her best to pretend it isn't. she tells herself that of course she cares if oosawa-san likes her, but it has nothing to do with anything else. they were friends. friends. friends. she is pushing away any and all thoughts she was having earlier, because she was just — just —
it doesn't matter.
i'll apologize tomorrow. it's a quiet promise, an internal one. she'll tell oosawa-san she was being ridiculous, petty. the injury has taken a lot of her freedom and ability, and it's made her cranky. she'll bow, she'll be earnest. she is sorry. she's sorry any of this is happening, that this ache in her chest is real. that she cannot stop thinking about it. she's ruined things, mitsuki thinks. how is she to come back from this? how can she even explain it?
huffing, she prepares herself for sleep. her usual routine is slower with her injury, but it's been enough that even this happens with ease. when she's finally back at her bed, she makes sure to grab the commuter pass case by the wrist strap, holding it between thumb and pointer as if there was something wrong with it. as if she couldn't touch it. she places it back on the bookshelf, ready for the next morning.
sleep doesn't come easy. it never usually does, but tonight is hardest than most nights.
not even music helps. music, the one balm to her soul.
all she can think about is oosawa-san.
with her eyes on the ceiling, and the moon slowly transitioning back to the sun, she knows this has to stop. if she wants to keep her friendship, she can't — she can't think like this. she can't feel this way. it's a resolute decision, one that leaves her with little room to argue. oosawa-san was important to her. jeopardizing that because she had some silly little jealousy for something in the past was stupid. the plan sounds good. fair. an apology, and then she'd never look back.
however, when sleep finally takes her, it seems that oosawa-san follows her there, too.
it's not fair. it's not. in her dreams, oosawa-san is exactly the same. small hands, bright laugh, pretty smile. her hands tug mitsuki's wrist, pulling her along to the concert they never got to share. never got to experience, together. this, too, was another loss. is this what it could've been like, if she'd actually gone to see rhcp with oosawa-san? she knows she's dreaming, because it's always hard for her to hear dialogue when she dreams. everything is muddled, muted. oosawa-san is talking to her, but mitsuki feels like she's underwater trying to listen to it all. even still, her touch is real. solid. she can feel oosawa-san's fingers around her wrist. she can feel the way they tug at the hem of her shirt, brush the skin there with a jolt of connection when mitsuki lags a bit too far behind.
her laughter is bell - clear, even here. the music is loud and thrumming, but mitsuki hears oosawa-san's laughter over it, and — and isn't that how it always is? oosawa-san, over everything else? she turns her head, clearly saying something to mitsuki, but she can't hear. "what?" she tries. her own voice feels faraway. suddenly, though, she really wants to know what oosawa-san is saying. "did you ask me something? i can't — i can't hear you. oosawa-san, i can't..."
oosawa-san leans in, her smile pretty, stretched wide. her lips are glossy. mitsuki watches, transfixed, as she speaks, even when the sound doesn't register. she watches the way her mouth moves, the way words form. she can't read them, either, but she's trying so hard, she's focusing so hard, but it doesn't matter. oosawa-san looks at her, as if waiting for response, but mitsuki doesn't know to what.
"yes," she exhales anyway. she nods. oosawa-san smiles again, and whatever mitsuki agreed to must have been the right answer. relief only settles for a second, just a moment, before surprise takes it's place. arms snake at her shoulders as oosawa-san steps in. surprise has her stuttering, her palm fluttering nervously right at the dip of oosawa-san's waist where she doesn't quite touch, yet, just hovering in air as oosawa-san situates herself closer. like this, she can really see oosawa-san's lipgloss. something lightly pink and so pretty, strawberry-scented. maybe that's just oosawa-san. mitsuki chokes, just a little, but there are soft fingers twirling the hair at the nape of her neck and oosawa-san is right there and the red hot chili peppers are singing can't stop on stage and mitsuki too can't stop the way her chin dips down, just a little, the way she inhales sharply at how oosawa-san closes her eyes, her lashes soft and pretty against pink cheeks, and oh god, oh god —
her alarm goes off.
mitsuki shoots out of bed, cursing loudly at the sharp sting of pain as she lands on her injured foot. she leans heavily on her bookshelf, and to her left, oosawa-san's commuter pass sits innocently on the ledge. her eye twitches, and she glares at it. it only lasts a second, though, before she's groaning. so much for pushing away her thoughts. what is she supposed to do?
it'd felt so real, she swears she can still feel the scratch of denim against her fingertips from oosawa-san's jacket. she can still smell the strawberries.
i can't.
it's a quiet thought. smaller than her anger, her jealousy yesterday. this one was resigned, a little bit — sad.
she can't feel the scratch of denim, because it never happened. she can't smell the strawberries.
and she can't touch oosawa-san, not like that, because oosawa-san would never step in, would never bridge the gap.
not with mitsuki.
maybe if she was onii-san.
this time, the pain doesn't throb in her foot, it pings somewhere inside her chest, nestled between her ribs. mitsuki gingerly reaches for her glasses, and this morning, her reflection is clear. gone is the confusion from last night, and she can see clearly who looks back at her today: she is mitsuki, and she is a girl.
mitsuki forgets the commuter pass on her bookshelf.
oosawa-san doesn't come to pick her up for school.