Chapter Text
"You really should've just asked for help immediately, you know." Knife said, dusting off stray curls off her shoulders. He sounded grouchy, but Suitcase knew better than to assume he actually was.
Suitcase grumbled under her breath as Knife snipped the scissors close to her ears. She was dreading the razor, but Knife shaved the sides of his own head, so he'd probably know how to not mess it up. He's currently busy evening out the length of the curls in the back - in Suitcase's defense, it's not like she could see or even reach back there. Not her fault it looked like a mess (his words, not hers).
It'd been a long night and she could feel her eyelids drooping, and the nervous (but mostly excited) tapping of her foot had turned into flexing and unflexing her toes in her slippers.
"I know," she groaned, "But I hadn't exactly planned on cutting off my hair tonight."
He snickered as he cut off a particularly long curl. "Gender-crisis induced breakdowns are not usually planned."
The day hadn't even been anything special - same old boring routine as always. Hotel OJ was nice, don't get her wrong, but she felt a little cooped up. She didn't expect to miss the show, especially considering everything that went down on it, but waking up every morning with a purpose helped keep her mind off herself. Now she didn't have a lot to keep moving forward for, so she felt a bit stir crazy.
She didn't even remember what set her off. One minute she was getting ready for bed, the next she was crying over a pile of curls in her bathroom sink with a concerned Knife knocking at her door. She had texted him at some point; some very concerning texts probably, considering that he only seemed half-awake as Suitcase launched into his arms. Must've been woken up by the notification and rushed out the door. She hoped he didn't wake Pickle up just because she was a mess.
They had talked for a while, Suitcase unable to stop herself from explaining everything to anyone willing to ask - how wrong her skin felt, how her clothes didn't sit right on her body, how her reflection didn't look like her. It had never bothered her in the past - she just assumed it was normal. That everyone felt nothing when looking at their face in the mirror, locking eyes with a stranger that they'd walked alongside their entire life. She had never felt joy over her appearance. It hadn't been an issue before, but something about the stress of the competition and the lack of safety from her family's comforting presence had slowly pent up frustration in her.
Today just... Happened to be the tipping point.
Once her tears had dried and she didn't have anything left to say (or rather, no more words to express herself with), Knife shared his own experiences.
She knew he was trans, it was never something he hid, never seemed ashamed of. It was a part of him, of his life and identity, and he was proud to be trans. He said that he had felt discomfort and dysphoria growing up, and that once he could form the words to describe it, his moms had helped him transition. Knife was very clear with the fact that his transness was his euphoria, not his dysphoria. Suitcase might be trans, she might not, she might be something else completely - it didn't matter as long as she was happy.
"Baby steps," he told her, "One step at a time. Let's start with fixing that mess on your head, and then in the morning we'll talk more."
The scissors made a distinct clank! noise as Knife put them down next to the sink as he picked up the razor. Suitcase balled her fists, grabbing at the end of her sleeves as the oh-so-familiar dread crept into her bones.
"Alright, I'll go as quickly as I can. You sure you don't have earplugs?" Knife murmured as he inspected the razor, making sure the settings were right and the blades were clean.
Suitcase shook her head (the lack of curls brushing against her neck made her heart beat a little bit faster). "I only have my headphones, and those would get in the way... Just be careful, okay? I'll, uh- I'll just pretend it's a really loud fan, or- or something."
Knife rolled his eyes. He clicked the power button twice, testing to make sure it was working before turning it off again. "Alright, if you say so. I'm not gonna do anything fancy, so don't come crying to me if you're not happy with it."
She turned her head to look at him, locking eyes for a brief second. Despite his words, the crease between his brows gave away his otherwise concealed worry. "I trust you. I'm just scared. The sound of the razor, it's..." she trailed off, breaking eye contact in favor of staring at one of the corners in her bathroom. She didn’t know why it freaked her out so much, but she didn’t want to dwell on it either. Too many revelations for one night.
Knife scoffed. "Whatever. Let me know if you need a break."
In lieu of a response, she turned her body back around in the chair and faced the wall. The harsh buzz of the razor made her tense up, but as it would turn out, her habit of spacing out during stressful situations was a blessing in disguise. Before she knew it, Knife was snapping his fingers in front of her face, standing slightly bent over in front of her.
"I asked where your broom was, space cadet." He brushed off some hair from his pants.
"In the closet. Is it done? Can I look?" she asked, voice mostly composed. It was only a little bit wobbly.
"Nothing's stopping ya. I sure ain't. It's your hair." The floorboards creaked as he stepped out of the bathroom. He gave her a small smirk before disappearing further into her hotel-room-turned-apartment.
The chair screeched as she stood up, shutting her eyes. She took a deep breath - in through the nose, hold, out through the mouth, repeat. Anxiety pooled in her gut, its presence unwelcome but familiar. It's just hair, right? If she hates it, it'll just grow out. She turned towards the direction of her mirror, anticipation building as she scrunched up her face and took one last deep breath before opening her eyes.
In actuality, she only had a second or two to admire her new haircut before her vision blurred with unshed tears. Normally the off-white, almost yellow hue of her overhead lights in the bathroom bothered her, but right now? It illuminated the brown curls on her head in a way that reminded her of the aged and worn pictures her father kept of her as a baby in his wallet. She looked like a memory, from a time before she became a stranger. A memory from when time was easier - when she didn't have to form her own identity around the rules she'd been taught and the expectations placed upon her. She didn't know the (slightly wobbly, definitely blurry) Suitcase that stared back from in the mirror, but she wanted to. It felt like she was always meant to know her.
Sniffling, she slowly tilted her head around, trying to take in as much as she could. The haircut wasn't anything fancy; short on the sides, poofy on top. Knife had shaved the sides fairly close to her skin, but her curls made the fade between short to long look seamless. It was admittedly rough around the edges - some curls were too long and the sides were a bit uneven, but Suitcase wouldn't trade it for the world.
"... So?" Suitcase jumped at Knife's voice. He was sweeping silently by the doorway.
Too tired to reach up and wipe away the tear that ran down her cheek, she just offered him a weak smile. "It's... It's perfect."
He hummed slightly, studying her face for a short moment. Suitcase sat back down, arms hanging by her sides. Letting the broom rest against the wall, Knife knelt down next to her and gently grabbed her elbow and wrist, guiding her arm up so she could feel the back of her head.
"Ideally you'd have a hand mirror for this, but since you don't keep necessities, you're just going to have to trust me," he grumbled and adjusted his grip so he was cupping the back of her hand instead of her wrist. "I shaved down your hairline on your neck a bit, made it more square. Not by a lot, but a little goes a long way." Suitcase felt the short hair under her fingertips, her heart beating in her ears. No more bobs, no more pigtails or ponytails, no more hairdressers refusing to cut her hair shorter than above her neck.
"Thank you," she whispered. Knife readjusted her arm so it laid in her lap. As he was grabbing to do the same with her other arm, she grabbed the sleeve of his hoodie lightly. She leaned forward and grabbed him as best she could, the awkward angle made it into a facsimile of a hug. He seemed to get the memo though, because he wrapped his arms around her and let her cry into his shoulder.
Eventually, though, Knife cleared his throat and pulled away. Suitcase blinked the tears from her eyes. His gray t-shirt had a wet stain; it vaguely resembled a turtle. He gently swiped away a stray tear from her cheek before reaching up and rustling her hair, eliciting a hey! from Suitcase, followed by silent, clearly exhausted giggling.
"You should go back to bed," Knife muttered, letting Suitcase grab his arm as she stood up, slightly dizzy from the headache slowly making its presence known.
"You too," Suitcase mumbled as they walked to the front door of the apartment. "Thank you again for everything. I... It means a lot, a lot more than I can express."
Knife waved his hand dismissively as he opened the door, stopping in the doorway to look back at Suitcase. "Don't mention it. Really, don't. If Salt and Pepper come screaming at me for a makeover, you’re hearing from me."
In lieu of an answer, Suitcase gave a small, shakey smile. Knife scanned her face for a moment before smiling back; slightly lopsided, more of a grin if anything.
"Goodnight, Suitcase."
"Goodnight," she exhaled as he closed the door after him, the light from the hallway fading into nothing. Sighing, she flopped down on her bed before rolling over and grabbing a pillow, settling in for a long night of dreamless, exhausted sleep.
In the morning she would have to call her dads and talk everything through, and start facing... Whatever it was that happened tonight. But that was a problem for tomorrow’s Suitcase. For the first time in forever, she felt a little bit lighter as she closed her eyes.