Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ichiro Iseri sits slumped over the cafe table before him, impatiently bouncing his knee as he waits for his phone to charge. He lazily stirs the obscenely sweet, frothy hot-pink drink he’d ordered. Bringing the straw to his lips, he takes a sip. Just like the last time he’d tried it, the drink elicits a scrunch from his features as sticky-sweet waves of pure sugar assault his palette. Uttering a quiet “bleh,” he pushes the drink to the other side of the table. Even looking at it makes him want to retch. He doesn’t know what he expected.

Glancing out the window of the small cafe, he takes in the vast expanse of the mall he’s found himself nestled within. It’s nothing like Kumamoto, to a degree he couldn’t have possibly prepared himself for. He watches masses of people milling about, each going about their own lives—a thousand unique faces a minute. Each a drop in an abyssal sea. Ichiro breathes it all in, and is hit with the sinking certainty that he’s going to drown.

A flash of color and a light buzz at his side immediately snaps him away from people-watching. A sliver of relief works its way down his spine as he finally unlocks his phone, and is greeted by the cover of his favorite Diamond Dust album. If nothing else, he should be able to call the agency and sort out his keys. Crawling back home after failing to even enter his own apartment simply wasn’t an option, not after everything.

Suddenly, though, his sister’s caller ID lights up his phone. Unsurprising, given all the missed calls his family had tried to make while his phone was dead. He accepts it.

“Oh, you finally picked up,” Suzune says, in an exasperated, slightly scolding tone. “Mom, he finally picked up!”

“Sorry, I ran out of battery,” he replies, cold and distant. The hairs on the back of his neck bristle.

“Where’d you even go off to? Your uncle called us earlier, said you failed to show up entirely.”

“I know. I’m working on sorting out the keys.”

His father’s voice sounds, muffled and bitter. “Enough,” it spits. “Let him stew.”

Ichiro clenches his fist to stop it from trembling.

“Bye.”

“Hey. Are you sure you’re gonna manage on your own?” Suzune says, a little hushed, and sounding concerned.

“Sorry, my battery’s running out,” he lies, as he ends the call. He sighs deep through his nose, and rests his forehead in his folded arms. The casual dismissal with which his father spoke, as if his failure was an inevitability—it makes him want to scream. Ichiro would make it here, or die drying. After reaching in and fishing through his travel bag, he pulls out his earbuds. He pops them in, and dials the music up loud enough that it drowns out everything else.

Eventually, he takes out his phone again, and starts to scroll. As he absentmindedly browses his feeds, though, something catches his eye. “Wait, that’s…” he mutters, as he scans the post. His sudden exclamation of “Ten PM?!” turns a few heads, but he pays them no mind, and rushes out of the cafe.

Sure enough, when he comes up to the great mouth of Kawasaki station, a set of familiar chords pierce the air, and freeze him in place. He slowly turns to their source, and almost can’t believe the sight before him is real. At the station exit, standing defiantly in front of a lone mic, is the Momoka Kawaragi, in the flesh, baby-blue guitar slung over her shoulder. Ichiro stands enraptured as she begins to sing.

“E-excuse me,” he says. At the lack of a reaction from the woman before him, he tries again a little louder. She turns her head towards him.

“Y-you’re Momoka Kawaragi, right?”

Momoka regards him with an even expression, and responds with a simple “Yeah.”

“I-I’m actually a pretty big fan, of you and Diamond Dust, that is.”

“Thanks,” she says, already getting up to leave, paying Ichiro little mind. As he watches her start to walk away, a tugging at his gut—a raw instinct bubbling in his core—compels him to call out to her.

“Um! I really, really like your songs! I just moved here—from the countryside. Your songs gave me the strength to leave.”

At that, Momoka pauses. She turns to him again, this time with a budding intrigue in her eyes. “I see. Wanna buy my CD, then?” From her pocket, she produces one of her independent CDs with a small flourish, and presents it to him.

Ichiro pauses for a moment, then perks up. “O-oh, of course! Let’s see, they’re a thousand, right?” he says, as he rootles around his wallet. Momoka smirks, and snatches one 100 yen coin from his palm.

“Thanks.”

“But—wait—that ain’t a thousand!”

Momoka barks a laugh. “And that’s your problem?”

“Oh no! Did I say something dumb?!” Ichiro flusters.

“Nah, I’m just happy that someone like you is a fan. Warms my heart.”

They share soft smiles, and for a moment, Ichiro feels a wave of reassurance wash over him. Something in Momoka’s warm and genuine gaze makes him feel like everything would work out, somehow. His reverie is interrupted by two imposing figures rolling up and glaring at Momoka.

“Hey kid, this is our spot,” one of them spits.

“Oh really? I don’t see your name on it,” Momoka snarks back. The two exchange glowers before Momoka relents, heaving her guitar case along her back. “Come on,” she tells Ichiro, who tentatively follows behind her. Once they’re a good deal away, she locks eyes with them again, and throws a gesture he doesn’t recognize. After a beat of silence, she leans over to him, and whispers “Run,” just as the two musicians across the street erupt with anger and give chase.

As it turns out, Ichiro is very out of shape, and judging from the way Momoka is similarly heaving after running, she probably is too. She leans against a railing, and pulls the same gesture as before.

“Jackasses…”

“What does that gesture even mean?”

“Oh, um!” Momoka puffs out her chest, and dons a confident smirk. “It means, ‘thank you.’”

“Why were they so angry, then?” Ichiro mutters somewhat to himself. He hears Momoka snort.

“Hey, what’s your name, by the way?” she says, throwing her gaze over her shoulder.

“Ichiro,” he answers. “Ichiro Iseri.”

“That’s not what it means at all! It’s like, the complete opposite of that!” he groans, as they walk down a quaint Kawasaki street. The abject mortification he felt when he realized what he had done to the poor girl working the counter at the beef bowl place would probably haunt him for the rest of his days, he reckons.

“I’m sorry, really,” Momoka says, while very obviously trying not to laugh.

“Ah, here we are,” she says, as they come up to her place. After wrenching the door open, she beckons Ichiro inside while she takes her shoes off.

When he flips the switch at the end of the hall, the lights in the room before him flicker on, bathing the space with a gentle yellow hue. Momoka follows behind, setting her guitar down against a stack of boxes, and offering to make some coffee. Ichiro lingers, eyes trained on her guitar.

“It’s so cool…” he says, near reverently.

“Wanna try holding it?”

“Can I?”

Momoka responds by waltzing over and placing the guitar over his shoulders. “There you go.” She steps away, and rests on a stool.

Ichiro tests the feel of it in his hands, almost afraid to touch it. “It’s… heavier than I thought.”

A snicker sounds from beside him. “Looking pretty awkward over there.”

“Of course I am,” he says, slumping his shoulders.

Momoka smirks. “Come on, I was teasin’ you. You just need to get used to it, and then you’ll look super cool. Aren’t you still in high school?”

“Well, I’m seventeen. I’d be in my senior year if I hadn’t quit school.”

Momoka hums. “I was exactly your age when I quit school and came here with my friends. Of course, I’ll be going back soon.”

Ichiro’s face twists in confusion. “W-wait, what? Why?”

“I’m quitting music, and…” Momoka’s eyes go distant for just a moment, but he catches it. “And I’m going home.”

“There’s no way you can do that!” he starts, righteous indignation beginning to simmer within him. “Your songs are too good, you can’t quit!”

“Can and I will,” she replies. “I’m not making enough to cut it solo. That’s just how it is.”

“But you can’t!”

Momoka huffs. “What did I just say? Jeez, you’re more stubborn than you look. What happened to the lost little lamb from before?”

Another argument sizzles on the tip of Ichiro’s tongue, but before he can voice it, the door opens, and a man walks through. “Evenin’,” he says as he walks past, and Ichiro returns it, somewhat taken aback. Momoka gives him a small nod as he goes by.

After a beat of stunned silence, he turns to Momoka, his demeanor having taken a one-eighty. “W-was that your—that was—your boyfriend, right? And you’re—” He doesn’t finish, Momoka giving him a firm flick right between his eyes.

“Calm. The. Hell. Down. Roommate,” she says, stressing each syllable. “He’s my roommate, and nothing more.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Besides, he only likes guys, anyway.”

Ichiro’s eyes widen. “Wait, he’s…?”

“Yeah, he’s gay. You’re a country bumpkin, but surely you know what that means.”

“H-hey, what’s that supposed to mean?!”

Momoka pauses, and does a once-over of Ichiro as he sits before her, hands neatly folded over his tucked knees. 

“...You kinda look it, you know.”

Ichiro flusters. “W-what?! I am not!” he says, a little firmly.

“You got something against it?” she says with a raised brow.

He instantly shrinks in response. “No! No, of course not—I just…” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m not, okay? I like girls. Girls are better.”

Momoka snorts. “Agreed.”

“Yeah, they—” Ichiro starts, before he pauses, and does a double-take. “Wait, you too?! Is everyone in Tokyo gay?!”

His exclamation earns a hearty laugh from Momoka. “What, you disappointed?” she says, wiping a tear from her eye.

Ichiro regards her earnestly with wide sapphire irises, and tilts his head to the side. “...No? Why would I be?”

Momoka hums, something in the way she looks at him shifting. “No reason.” She gets up from her stool, and goes to check on their coffee. “So, Ichiro, are you going to be okay? This is your first day here, right? What’s your housing situation?” she calls from the kitchen.

“I… have a place, and some savings, too, from my parents.”

“Ah, you’ve got it easy, then. You can do whatever you want. In a city like this, having money lets you—”

“Sorry, but what do you know about me?” Ichiro interrupts, slightly startling Momoka. “You say I’ve got it easy, but you’ve got no idea what I struggle with!” He bows stiffly, and marches towards the door. “Thank you for the coffee. Sorry to bother you.”

Ichiro struggles to close the door, the infernal mechanism proving an equal pain both ways. Once he manages to slam it back shut, he turns on his heel and marches away, hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He’d been a fool to think that he wasn’t alone, that anyone would understand. All his life people had been obsessed with labeling him, branding their own assumptions on his skin. It really wasn’t a surprise then, that she’d be the same. He doesn’t pay attention as his feet take him somewhere—anywhere—just not here. The world around him is hazy as he wanders, city ambience blaring in his ears. Eventually, he finds himself leaning against a railing on the overpass from before, watching cars pass by below, and the way in which his breath forms puffs of vapor in the brisk fall air.

“Ichiro, wait!”

He snaps his head to the source of the voice, and sees Momoka, leaning on her knees and catching her breath.

“You’re… really fast…” After a moment, she reaches into her pocket, and takes out his phone. Evidently, he had forgotten it. She walks up to him, and bows. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. You quit school at such a young age and came here all alone… There’s no way you’ve got it easy.” She strolls up beside him, and leans on the railing as well. 

“Do you have a dream?”

“Nothing in particular, really,” he says, eyes cast down.

“Surely you do.”

He scoffs. “I didn’t come here for a dream. I just felt like there wasn’t a place for me. I just… didn’t fit in. Couldn’t sit there and rot.”

“I see,” Momoka says, her expression grave. “All the more reason to apologize. Now, come on,” she says, gesturing for Ichiro to follow. “Let’s go.”

When Ichiro works open his heavy eyes, he’s met by two slitted yellow ones staring back. Their owner meows, and he jumps. Realizing it’s just Momoka’s cat, he flushes, hoping nobody saw him get startled by it. He stretches, and walks up to the kitchen counter, where a note lies. It’s hard to believe what it says. After finishing reading it, he spots the guitar case lying nearby. Sure enough, inside is Momoka’s guitar, newly adorned with black marker reading “Flip em’ off!” What he does next comes with no second thought, as his instincts carry him and the guitar to the station as fast as he can go.

It’s a few days after their meeting that the first bud of what’s to come blooms. Ichiro stands next to Momoka in line at a convenience store, a six-pack of beer tucked under her arm, a sight he quickly learned was very common. It had come as a shock just how much of an alcoholic his idol was, but then again, so had a lot about her—he never pictured her as such a coward, for one. The alcoholism probably contributes to that, he supposes. The time-worn advice to never meet one’s heroes makes more and more sense to him each day.

“Momoka,” he tries again for good measure. “Are you sure we need to get that?”

She chuckles. “I told you, if I’m gonna spend any time at your place—” She pats the pack for emphasis. “You’ve got to have one of these babies in your fridge. Just the way it is.”

“Well! What if,” he bristles. “What if I drink some while you’re away, huh? You can’t endanger a minor like that!”

The lights above them flicker, and Momoka simply stares at him for a beat. Then, she snorts a laugh. “You and I both know you’re way too much of a goody-two-shoes to pull something like that. Now, let the adult here handle business, hm?”

At that, Ichiro just puffs out his cheeks and crosses his arms, muttering something about her being wrong under his breath. As they walk up to the counter, though, something catches his eye.

“Momoka, why is the name on your ID different?”

The woman in question reacts like she’d had the wind knocked out of her, and goes a bit pale. “No reason, don’t worry about it,” she blusters, instantly shutting him down.

Ichiro remains curious, but decides to let it go. By the time they get home, he’s completely forgotten about it.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, as they enter his apartment. Momoka walks in ahead of him as he hoists one of the bags up onto the counter.

“Yup. I’m the adult here, and you’re letting me freeload.”

“But—”

“No buts,” she says, waltzing over to the kitchen. “Can you put that stuff in the fridge?” 

Ichiro obliges, and starts to unpack and store their spoils. He leers at the cans of beer as he slots them in the back.

“Just so you know, I’m no expert cook.”

“But you still cook for yourself, huh?”

“Yeah, I don’t mind it. Hm, where’s the knife?” she asks, leaning over his shoulder and fishing it out of the bag in the fridge. She then gets to work slicing up a head of cabbage. “Gosh, this knife’s blunt!”

“I’m sorry I don’t have a better one.”

Momoka shoots him a smile. “You don’t have to apologize for that.” The knife meets the cutting board with a dull thwack.

Ichiro groans, and stumbles toward the table. “But I don't have anything sorted out…” He leans over it, and buries his head in his arms. “How am I gonna make it on my own?” Momoka huffs, and he regards her with a pointed glare. “Laughing at my expense, huh?”

“Nah, just seeing my old self in you.” She pauses for a moment, stilling the knife and chuckling to herself about something. “You just have to live and learn, honestly.” Thwack. “Make mistakes. Screw up. Feel dumb. Learn.” Thwack. “Then rinse and repeat to learn some more.” She peeks her head through the doorway. “Ah, you don’t have any plates either, do you?”

Ichiro lets his head fall back down. “I’m sorry…”

Momoka hums, and returns to the kitchen.

“Here, it’s done,” she says, as she places the meal on the table for them. She cranes her neck up, and does a once-over of the bedroom. “You need to get some lights, too…”

Ichiro’s focus, however, lies solely on the steaming pan of vegetables before him. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth; he worries he might be drooling. “So, we’re gonna eat it just like this?”

“You really are from a rich family, aren’t you?” Momoka says as she sits down.

Ichiro flushes, and waves her off. “What? No, that’s—that’s not it, I swear. My family’s like any other, it just… had some quirks, I guess. The way we did things did get me something of a reputation at school, though.”

“I ‘ink I under’and wha’ya ‘ettin at,” Momoka manages while she stuffs her face.

“But then,” he continues, electing to ignore her awful manners for the time being. “I couldn’t force myself to go to school anymore, and ended up dropping out.”

She swallows. “Why’s that?”

Ichiro averts his gaze, and gathers up bunches of his tracksuit in his fists. “Does it really matter why?” He pulls out his phone, for what he hopes looks like no reason in particular.

Momoka just takes a sip of her beer, peeking at him with one owlish eye. “Is that it?”

Startled, he quickly pulls his phone to his chest, and regards her cautiously. “Wha—how could you tell?

She leans forward. “‘Cause you’re an open book. I could see you scowling at that thing like it owed you money. Now, c’mon, show me.”

Ichiro rocks back and forth slightly, but gives in to her expectant stare. “Some of the popular kids from my school.”

“I see. Did they bully you or something?”

He looks down at his bowl, and fiddles with his chopsticks. “I guess.”

“Why?”

“Why should I know?” he bites. “I was always getting picked on. I never fit in with the other boys, and the girls were even worse. Just… stuck between, with nowhere to go.”

Momoka’s eyes widen slightly at that, and she leans further in. “And you never fought back?”

“People like them only pick on people they know can’t fight back. I even ended up in the hospital,” he says, parting his hair and giving Momoka a good view of the scar marring his forehead. The tension in the room suddenly turns thick. “But both the school and—and even my family—they said we shouldn’t make a fuss…”

Ichiro is prepared to go into even further grisly detail, before Momoka’s outstretched palm interrupts him. Only then does he notice just how hard he’d been digging his nails into his palm.

“Stop! The food. I think we’re overcooking it.”

He sighs. “It’s fine. I like my vegetables mushy.”

A brief silence stretches between them, filled only by the pan’s light sizzling. Momoka takes a moment to pile a second helping into her bowl. Ichiro has yet to eat half of his serving.

“I stand by what I said about you singing, by that way.”

“Huh?”

Momoka takes a big chunk of lettuce into her maw. “You could make five songs out of this story alone.”

“You really mean it?”

She smiles. “I really do.”

Ichiro lets his tensed shoulders drop, and stares at Momoka’s guitar in the corner. It’s too dark to read her message to him. He really should get a light.

Ichiro glares at Subaru, who offers a shit-eating grin in return. She looks off to the side, conjuring an expertly crafted (but no less infuriating) air of nonchalance as she twirls her last card in her hand. “Oh, is this little thing what you’re so mad about?” her eyes seem to say as they sneak a peek over her shoulder at Ichiro’s scowl. He looks down at his own hand. Twenty-four cards. He takes a deep, scornful breath, and draws another. Momoka and Subaru burst out laughing. Humiliated in his own home—he feels like he should be used to it by now. He plays a red eight.

“It’s not funny!”

“I’m so sorry,” Momoka manages, still giggling. “But it really, really is.”

Ichiro just huffs and crosses his arms. Ever since The Gremlin Light Incident—as it’d become known as by his two tormentors—he’d been subjected to relentless teasing, the likes of which greater than he ever once thought possible. Though, as he glances down at his comically large wad of cards, he can’t help the small chuckle that escapes his lips.

Momoka starts her turn and begins to leaf through her moderately sized hand, a devilish smirk beginning to bloom on her lips. Ichiro swears he sees Subaru’s pupils narrow. With a great flourish, the woman tosses three plus-fours onto the pile. Subaru splutters, head rapidly flitting between a very smug Momoka, and the cards between them. As she’d been the one to argue to allow such plays, she’s forced to grin and bear it, much to her chagrin. Ichiro wheezes as she draws twelve.

“That’s such bullshit!” she moans.

Momoka just laughs. “Them’s the breaks, kid,” she says in slightly stunted English. Ichiro’s head snaps towards his idol. “Woah, you can speak English?!”

The wisenheimer puffs out her chest, her sickening aura of smugness somehow increasing tenfold. “Yep! And a little Spanish, too. Impresionante, ¿no es así, pequeña niña?”

Subaru scoffs. “Don’t believe her, she only learned a few lines to make fun of me with.” She wheels around and glares at Momoka. “And it’d be niño, not niña, dumbass. Ichiro’s a dude.”

“Whatever,” she says, but it falls a bit flat, like the comment had stolen a little wind from her sails. As quickly as she had wavered, though, she billows back up, but not before Ichiro catches a subtle glance his way. He starts to space out as he replays the interaction in his head, but he’s interrupted by Subaru throwing a plus-four his way, alongside a gesture he’s become intimately familiar with.

“Oh, fuck off!”

It’s when the sun has just begun to paint the backstreets of Kawasaki that Ichiro arrives at Momoka’s door, and heaves it open. He keeps his steps feather-light as he moves through the house, avoiding the floorboards that he’s learned creak. Momoka’s cat passes under his feet, and rubs itself along his calf. He leans down, and gives it a good scritch behind the ears. The little beast stretches, and he follows it into the living room, where it hops up onto a Momoka-shaped bundle of blankets on the couch, right where they’d left her last night. Ichiro squats down beside her, and observes her sleeping face with a gentle fondness in his eyes. He flinches back, though, once the heady scent of booze still clinging to her reaches his nose. He sighs, and makes his way to the kitchen.

Ichiro knows Momoka has woken up when he hears a groan that sounds like she’d been stabbed from the couch. He rolls his eyes, and brings her a plate of scrambled eggs and a glass of water filled to the brim.

“Please drink some water,” he says once she’s stopped writhing and cradling her head.

Momoka is still getting her bearings, but obliges, and brings the glass to her lips, only spilling a little. She mumbles something that sounds like “thanks.”

“Don’t thank me until you’ve had a shower—I think you still have some oolong tea in your hair.”

Momoka squints at him, and he can literally see the gears in her brain turning as she forms a rebuttal. “And whose fault is that?” she settles on, as she rubs at her eyes. They widen considerably once she spots the plate of eggs. “Oh. Oh! Thanks, Ichiro.” She fumbles for the fork, then shovels a large helping into her gullet. Her expression melts into a blissful smile as she savors it.

“D-don’t mention it,” he says, feeling a light warmth in his cheeks he hopes she doesn’t notice.

Ichiro is playing around with compositions on his phone when Momoka walks back in from down the hall, her skin flushed slightly pink from the shower. She’s thrown on a light brown hoodie printed with English words he doesn’t recognize. Her hair is still a little damp.

They lock eyes, and a beat of silence passes before they both start to speak, accidentally talking over each other. Momoka chuckles, and gestures for Ichiro to go first. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry for last night, Momoka. I was a real headache, and I wanted to properly apologize to you.” He bows. “I left without saying so, even though you did. I’m sorry.”

“I did?”

Ichiro looks up at her and gives an exasperated sigh. “Yes, you did.” Remembering the feeling of her drunkenly mumbling it into his shoulder while she hugged him tight raises the hair on the back of his neck. A peculiar wave of melancholy follows. “I-I’m not surprised you don’t remember it, though.”

“Then I ought to say it properly then.” She lays a hand on his shoulder, and looks at him sincerely with her steely gray eyes. “I’m sorry that I shut you down yesterday—sorry for how I’ve been avoiding your concerns for a while now. I owe it to you to be more open, after everything.” She grimaces, and rubs at her neck. “And for throwing my drink at you, I guess…”

Ichiro snorts. “Well, we’re already even there.”

Momoka laughs alongside him, and flops down on the couch next to him.

“I am still angry about Diamond Dust, though. It hurts, seeing what I loved turn into something I don’t recognize anymore.”

“I getcha.” She sighs. “I’m sorry I can’t feel the same way.”

“It’s okay.”

Rays of sunlight streak through the house’s windows, and highlight little motes of dust floating in the air. Momoka’s cat bathes serenely within one, laying on its back as it lets the sun warm its belly. If he listens closely, Ichiro thinks he can hear it purring.

“Hey, um, Ichiro,” Momoka starts, with a serious tone he very rarely hears. “I’ve been thinking, and… I want to tell you something about myself. I think you deserve to know.”

Ichiro’s breath catches in his throat as he studies her tense features. Her fingers are laced together tight, one thumb lightly stroking the top of the other. For once, he keeps his mouth shut, and waits for her to continue.

“I’m… I wasn’t—” She winces as she forces the confession from deep in her chest. “There are some people that… don’t feel comfortable with the gender they’re born with.” She grips the hem of her hoodie. “I’m one of them. I wasn’t born a girl.”

It takes a moment for the dots to connect in his head. Then, it clicks.

After a deafening silence, he replies. “Momoka,” he starts, his expression grave.

Momoka’s mouth hangs slightly open, fear welling in her eyes.

“If you wanted to be a girl… Why do you wear boy’s clothes?” he asks, completely straight.

Momoka just blinks at him as all the tension in the room evaporates. Then, she laughs.

“H-hey, I’m serious here! If I were a girl, I'd wear feminine stuff, obviously. Who wouldn't?”

“You—oh my God,” she gets out, before breaking back into giggles, doubling over and clutching her stomach. Eventually, she recovers, and wipes a few tears from her eyes. She looks lighter, like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “So, you’re fine with it?”

“Yeah?” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Momoka is Momoka. I’d like you no matter what.”

Momoka dons a big, toothy grin—the same one she has in the framed photo of her old band. She brings him into a tight embrace, and rests her forehead on his shoulder. Ichiro remains a little stiff, and awkwardly pats her back. “Thank you,” she breathes. “You don't know how much that means.”

After a while, she pulls away, and takes a deep, refreshing breath. “You ready to put on a kickass show today?” she says, hands on her hips.

Ichiro can’t help the smile that splits his lips. He raises his pinky. “Let’s knock ‘em dead!”

The following night, Ichiro tells himself that his restlessness is just post-show jitters. He stares up at the ceiling from the floor—at the chipped light hanging above him. His laptop sits open on the table beside him, its search history cleared. 

He grabs a pillow from his bed, presses it to his face, and screams.

Ichiro tracks a raindrop as it slides down the van’s window. Its path is slightly irregular, slowing and changing course seemingly at random. The little trail it cut through the condensation on the glass has already started to fog up again. He refocuses his vision, and takes in the blurry forms of buildings and streets below as they pass by them.

When he turns to face Momoka, he sees her hunched forward with a white-knuckle grip on the wheel. Her irises are the same stormy gray as the clouds on the horizon.

“What are you looking at?” she says through grit teeth.

He shrinks slightly in his seat, and wraps his arms around his sides. The van’s headlights reflect off the wet asphalt, forming a gentle halo.

“Momoka?” he asks, just above a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“You see yourself in me.”

A shaky sigh leaves her lips. “I do. And I’m sorry. I—” Her voice hitches. “You’re right. You’re your own person. I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry.”

A car passes by with a low drone and a streak of light.

“Momoka?”

“Yeah?”

The back of Ichiro’s throat tightens. “Do you think I’m like you?”

He hears Momoka inhale sharply. “God, Ichiro, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—if I—”

“Momoka,” he says, cutting her off. “I think—” He chokes a sob. “I think you’re right.”

They don’t notice when Momoka pulls over, but they do feel the warmth of her arms when she leans over and pulls them into a hug, holding them like they’re precious, and might shatter. 

They feel like they’re going to shatter. 

They think they may have already shattered. 

The rain picks up again, and beats down hard on the windshield. Momoka squeezes them tighter.

“I’ve got you,” she says, voice wet and trembling slightly. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

“Ah, shit, hold on,” Momoka says, when a twitch of Ichiro’s eye smudges the liner as she applies it.

“Sorry…”

“Don’t sweat it.” She reaches for a q-tip. Her hand steadies itself on his cheek, and she gets to work fixing the mistake. “It took me a long time to get good at putting on liner, you’ll get used to it.”

Ichiro readjusts himself on the stool, and does his best to relax his eyelids. They still end up quivering a bit as Momoka draws the pencil over them, but from her satisfied hum it seems to have turned out okay.

“Alright, mascara’s next,” she says, as she digs through her makeup bag for it.

“What’s that one, again?”

“It’s for your eyelashes, though yours are really long and pretty already.”

“Jeez, how can you just say stuff like that?” He flushes furiously.

“‘Cause it’s true,” she replies without missing a beat. “Can you look up for me?”

The mascara, while not immediately unpleasant like the liner, does feel a bit strange going on. Momoka gingerly caresses his lashes with the brush, working from the base and smoothly drawing the brush up, coating the hair.

“Okay, try not to blink for a second, or you’ll get it under your eye.”

“Wha—hey! That would’ve been great to know before you put it on, y’know!” he yelps, channeling all of his concentration into stilling his eyelids.

“Sorry, sorry,” Momoka laughs. She hums, and paws through her bag. “Let’s see… ah, here!” She produces a small stick of lip balm, and uncaps it. “Last touch, I swear. Relax your lips?”

Ichiro obliges, trying very hard to look anywhere besides Momoka’s eyes while she applies the balm. With a soft smile, she steps away and admires her handiwork.

“Not too bad, if I do say so myself! You ready?”

He nods, and braces himself as Momoka spins him around towards the mirror.

There’s a girl in the mirror. She has big blue doe-eyes, accentuated with little wings and long, graceful eyelashes. Rosy hints of blush bring warmth to her nose and the apples of her cheeks. Her lips shine with a delicate sheen, tinted with a rich hue. She’s very pretty. He notices, distantly, that she matches his movements. When he blinks, her eyes flutter shut. When he brings his trembling hands up to cup his face, hers do the same. When he feels tears start to well, the corners of her eyes glint and spill over.

“Woah, are you okay? Do you—do you not like it?”

“No, I—” They sniffle, but it’s broken by a laugh they can’t help as they stare at their reflection. “I love it—I really, really love it, Momoka.”

They watch Momoka wipe at her eyes, and wrap the girl up in a hug.

“Anything good so far?”

A hum sounds from above them as Momoka continues to scroll through the list. They slightly shift their position in her lap, trying to get a better look at her face. Momoka’s fingers make soft taps against her phone screen as she sifts through a site of five-hundred girls’ names.

“Makoto,” she offers, evidently having reached the “M’s.”

“I don’t know if I like the gender neutral ones…”

“Noted. Miwa?”

“Too refined.”

“Momoka Jr?”

They snort, and lightly punch her arm. 

“Worth a shot.” She shrugs. “You thought of anything?”

With a sigh, they lean their head back, and test the feel of a few on their tongue. “Natsuki. Nanami.” They press the tip of their tongue to their palette, aimlessly throwing out fragments of names. “Na… Wa… Mi…” Then, as they're gazing up at Momoka, a spark goes off in the back of their mind. “Ni…Na… Nina.”

Momoka looks down at them and quirks an eyebrow. “Nina? Like, the Spanish name?”

They groan, exasperated. “I dunno. Maybe?”

“Well, why don’t we try it out? I don’t know if it’ll stick, but we can see.”

They press their lips into a thin line. “Okay,” they eventually reply, somewhat cautiously.

Momoka grins, and goes to ruffle Nina’s hair. “Sounds good, Nina.”

“C’mon, Nina, let me see!”

“No!” she whines, doing her best not to peek in the changing room’s mirror. “This is so embarrassing!”

“I betcha look super pretty,” Momoka teases.

“You are not helping!” she flusters. Nina rocks back and forth on her heels, eyes trained on Momoka’s Converse tapping away on the other side of the curtain. After pacing around a bit more, she steels herself, and throws it open with her eyes screwed shut.

“Woah,” she hears Momoka breathe. “Cute.”

Tentatively, she opens her eyes, but her gaze snaps down when she sees Momoka staring. The view of herself—a pretty red coat thrown over a button-up topped with a little black bow—is almost just as embarrassing. She fidgets with the hem of her skirt, certain she’s blushing bright red.

“Hey,” Momoka says. She cups Nina's cheek, and gently tilts her head up. Her heart thumps double-time in her chest. “You look really nice.”

Nina gulps. “R-really?”

“Really.” Momoka steps back, and places a hand on her hip. “I think you should get it.”

Nina turns back towards the mirror, checking the outfit one last time. She takes in her flowy, feminine silhouette. Just looking at the clothes on her makes her smile. She nods to herself, determined. “I think I will.”

Nina timidly observes the shadows shifting beyond the screen door to Momoka’s living room, and leans against the hallway. She can feel her pulse pounding in her temples.

“This better be good,” she hears Subaru grouse. Tomo huffs her assent.

“I wouldn’t call you guys here for nothing, y’know.”

Nina can clearly picture Subaru and Tomo’s eyes narrowing in unison. The image makes her chuckle, and calms her nerves slightly.

“A-anyway, I promise it’s really important, so just settle down, okay? There’s… someone I want you to meet.”

The silence beyond the door is deafening. Nina smooths her skirt, and takes a deep breath.

“You can come out, now.”

She inches open the door, and steps before the rest of her band, eyes glued to the floor. A few seconds pass as they stare at her, but it feels like an eternity.

“Ich—” Subaru starts, before Rupa elbows her gut.

“This,” Momoka says with a pointed look towards Subaru, “is Nina.”

Subaru just squints at her. Then, her eyes go wide as saucers, and her jaw falls open. She slowly turns her head to Momoka, who nods. “Agh!” she yelps, shooting up from her seat and bowing. “I’m so sorry, Nina!” she splutters. “Y-you look really pretty!”

“Thanks…”

Tomo gets up and goes to inspect Nina more closely, humming as she looks her over. The way she appraises her reminds Nina of a cat. “Your makeup is good,” she states matter-of-factly. “Did you do it yourself?”

Nina shakes her head. “No… it was mostly Momoka.”

“Hm. I’ll show you some of the products I use, then.” She crosses her arms. “I have a shadow that will work better with your eye color. I’ll teach you how to put it on.”

Nina blinks a few times, and smiles at Tomo’s slightly awkward show of approval. “Oh, o-okay.”

The air is knocked out of her when Rupa sneaks up behind her and scoops her into a bear-hug. “Thank you for sharing this with us, Nina,” she says. “It couldn’t have been easy. You’re very brave.”

Her comforting words pierce straight through Nina’s heart. She sniffles, and melts into her embrace as tears start to trail down her cheeks. Rupa holds her tighter, and Subaru joins them. They pull in Tomo and Momoka respectively, who squeak in surprise as they’re yanked into the group hug. It’s the warmest Nina has ever felt.

Nina has decided that she hates voice training. Unfortunately, as she’s the vocalist for the band she dropped everything for, she can’t just take an oath of silence. She starts the exercise from the beginning, wincing at the husky tones that sound from her throat.

Momoka regards her struggle with a sympathetic gaze. “Don’t get too discouraged—you’re just starting out. We’ll get it to where you want, I promise.”

It’s difficult to imagine Momoka ever having struggled with her voice, but she takes her word. Knowing it doesn’t make the process any less of a pain, though. “I know what I’m supposed to do,” she says. “But it’s so hard to find the right muscles…”

“It’s definitely tough at first. Here,” she says, gently taking Nina’s hand and placing it over her throat. “One of the most important parts is raising your voice box. Can you feel mine?”

Nina slowly nods, ears burning. Momoka begins an exercise, voice transitioning from low and gravelly to sharp and clear; sure enough, as she progresses, the organ under Nina’s fingers steadily climbs higher in the woman’s throat. She feels it subtly thump along with her pulse.

“Think you can do that?”

“I’ll try!”

When she attempts the exercise again, she channels her focus into the muscles around her voice box, raising it as she goes. She can hardly believe the—not quite perfect, but decidedly more feminine—sounds she makes near the end. A giddy excitement courses through her, and she jumps up, wrapping her arms around Momoka, who tumbles slightly back, giggling along with her.

“I did it! That was good, right?!”

“Really good,” she assures her, pride etched into her features. “You’ll have it down in no time.”

Nina glares at the ticket in her hands, like she could erase it from existence through sheer will. Whenever she looks at it, her breath comes in short, labored rasps. Momoka’s cat meows, and its owner strums her guitar.

“Spare me the sound effects.”

“Sorry.”

Her shoulders drop. “It’s fine.” She hears Momoka set down her guitar.

“Hey, Nina…” Concern furrows her brows. “Are you really sure about going?”

“I have to,” she mutters. “I’m locked out of my apartment.”

Momoka scoffs. It isn’t the first time she’d heard what happened, but each time it’s brought up it elicits a similarly seething reaction. “Assholes! I still can’t believe they did that!”

Her outburst takes some of the pressure off Nina’s back; having someone so staunchly defend her feels incredibly comforting, especially when that someone is Momoka. Still, the problem remains.

“I’m going,” she declares. “This won’t end with just my apartment. They’ll keep going until they draw me out.”

Momoka starts to argue, but it dies in her throat. She presses her lips into a thin line, and sighs. “Fine—but!” She kneels in front of Nina, and places her hands on her shoulders. “Promise me you’ll come back, okay? You call me anytime and I’ll get you—no matter what.”

She smiles, and rests her head on Momoka’s shoulder. “I promise.”

Muggy summer air fills Nina’s lungs as she wanders the backstreets of Kumamoto. It conjures memories of nights spent playing with firework sparklers with her family in her backyard after school. The droning buzzing of cicadas sounds like an old friend. She cranes her neck up, and admires the dazzling night sky of the countryside. Despite everything, the ambience of her hometown makes her feel at peace.

Her blood runs cold, though, as she comes up to her house’s gate. She crouches down and peeks over it, checking for signs of movement within. After steeling herself, she steps towards the door, tightly gripping the straps of her backpack.

“Ichiro!”

She jumps, and turns to see the scowling face of her father. Her mom stands behind him, slack-jawed.

“Inside. Now.” He doesn’t leave room for rebuttal as he storms inside without sparing her a glance. Her mom follows behind with a hand clamped over her mouth, still in shock. Nina takes a shaky breath, and steps inside.

Suzune is already seated at the dinner table, and does a double-take as she sees her. Nina keeps her eyes down as she seats herself. Her father had sequestered himself behind the screen door in the next room over. The caustic smell of cigarette smoke feels all-encompassing.

“I-Ichiro,” her mother starts, voice wavering. “What happened to you?”

Nina digs her nails into her palms. “That’s not my name.”

“What?”

“I said,” she growls, “that’s not my name!”

“Enough!” her father barks. The room goes quiet. “So you left home to study for college, and started all this without saying a thing to us? What were you thinking? Have you considered how much this hurts your mother?”

“You always do this. When did Mom come into this? You told me to do what I wanted when I left home, didn’t you? And I told you the same.” She stares daggers into the table. “I’ll do as I please,” she says, the words dripping with venom.

“No. We agreed on you going to college, not whatever this is. Haven’t we humored your selfish requests enough? We dealt with it when you wanted to quit school, arranged everything for you when you wanted to go to Tokyo. What gives you the right to betray us like this?”

“Stop twisting the story.” She slams her fist on the table, and raises her voice to a raspy yell. “I quit school myself, I went to Tokyo myself, I chose this for myself!”

“You got a place to live thanks to your mother’s contacts. Who do you think signed as your guarantor? You’re still a minor. Do you understand what that means? You still require adult protection and supervision.”

She shoots up from her chair. “So I should just listen to what you say? Go back, pretend this never happened?”

“Ichiro…” her mother sighs. She winces.

“I knew it was pointless. You’ll never accept me. I wanted to get on the same page with you, y’know. Why do you think I came here? But this is what I get. You don’t care. You haven’t even asked me for my name.”

The door behind her slides open. “I’m going out tomorrow. By the time I get back you’ll have come to your senses if you know what’s good for you.” He walks away, muttering and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Her sister locks eyes with her, and gestures to her room before leaving. Nina goes to follow, but her mother tugs at her sleeve.

“Ichiro, I just want to understand—”

She pulls herself free, and trudges after her sister.

Suzune lies on her bed, resting her head on the heel of her palm. Nina slumps against the wall opposite of her.

“Are you going back?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re serious about this, huh?”

She nods. Suzune sits down next to her, and pats her lap. Nina shakes her head, and slides further down the wall. Her room looks just like she’d left it—gray and plain, populated only by her bed and a few empty bookshelves. It’s a stark contrast to her apartment in Kawasaki, and makes her realize just how dull life used to be.

“Y’know, back in high school I was miserable. Even more so than I let on. There was a time when…” Her breath catches. “When I even thought about killing myself.”

Suzune tentatively reaches a hand over, and softly caresses the back of Nina’s hand as she waits for her to continue.

“But now… I’m happy. Really, truly happy. I love who I’ve become now. I can say it with pride. This is the real me, with nothing held back.”

A tear falls on her cheek, and Suzune wipes at her eyes. “I always wanted a sister, y’know.” She smiles, and squeezes Nina’s hand tighter. “What’s her name?”

“Nina,” she says, as the corners of her eyes begin to prick with tears as well. “It’s Nina.”

“That’s a very pretty name, Nina. It suits you.”

“Thank you.” She sniffles.

“No, thank you for being alive. I love you, sis.”

At that, she collapses onto her sister, and sobs into her shoulder. Suzune just whispers soothing words, and runs her hand down Nina's back.

When Nina wakes up the next morning, her father has already left. A part of her is tempted to just sit and wallow in dread as she waits for him to come back. Instead, she spends the afternoon with Suzune, catching up and bonding over her new identity. She teaches Nina how to paint her nails, how to braid hair, and other such sisterly wisdom, doing her best to make up for lost time. Nina struggles to express just how much it means to her. She settles for breaking into tears of joy every half-hour or so.

It’s when the two of them are reminiscing over the records of their heights etched on a wall that Nina finally hears the front door slide open. The fuzzy nostalgia she’d been feeling develops a bitter aftertaste.

Her father stands calmly in the doorway, regarding her with an infuriatingly even expression. “Well? Made your choice?”

Nina releases a tense breath, and looks to Suzune. Her reassuring nod gives her the confidence to continue.

“I have.” She looks him dead in the eye, defiant. “This is who I am. This is what I’ve chosen for myself, and I’m never going back.”

“I see,” he says, removing his glasses and massaging his temple. It’s clear from his restrained reaction that he’s been expecting this. “If you want to leave this family, then so be it. But know that you aren’t welcome here anymore. Leave. Now.”

“What?! The hell, dad?! You can’t just kick her out!” Suzune yells, but Nina is already marching over to her room, blood roaring in her ears. She packs the few belongings she’d brought on her trip, and slips through the front door without another word.

“Nina!”

She freezes. The voice is her mother’s.

“Please, Nina, I just want to talk.”

She turns, and faces her. Her mother reaches out towards her, but lets her arm fall to her side. The setting sun beats down on the back of her neck.

“It’s—it’s hard for me to understand, and for that, I’m sorry. I’m still so confused. But,” she clasps her hands over her chest. “You look so happy. I just want my child to be happy, dear. And… if this is what brings you joy, then you have my support. Here,” she says, handing Nina the keys to her apartment. “Take care, please.”

All of Nina’s momentum crashes as she sees the solemn expression on her mother’s face. She goes to leave, but can’t help herself as she runs back in for a hug.

“Mom…” she cries.

She places a hand on the back of Nina’s head, and hugs her to her chest. “Your sister and I will talk some sense into your father, okay? Just know,” she kisses her head, ”that you will always be my child. My daughter. I love you.”

Nina bids her one last tearful goodbye, and runs off to the station.

Of all the things she expects to find under Kumamoto's slightly-worn and rusting station awning, Momoka is pretty far down the list. However, she's there all the same, waving her phone in the air, presumably as she searches for a signal. Her form is silhouetted against the warm golden rays of the evening.

“Momoka?!”

“Nina!” she exclaims, hurriedly stuffing her phone in her pocket and running over to her. “You’re okay, right? They didn’t hurt you, did they?” She closely inspects her, checking for even a single hair out of place.

Nina presses a hand to her forehead, utterly confused. “Wait, wait—I mean, I’m glad to see you, but—what are you doing here?”

Momoka pauses, then looks away. A blush creeps up her face. “I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I know I should’ve just waited for you to come back, but I just got so worried. I had to come, to check and see if you were okay.”

Nina feels her heart melt. “Don’t apologize, dummy.” She buries her face in Momoka’s shoulder, and grips the back of her shirt. “I’m really happy you’re here.”

Momoka goes a little stiff in her embrace, but eventually relaxes into it, and lays a hand on her head. “Hey, you okay? What happened?”

“My dad kicked me out.” She laughs bitterly. “I did get my keys back, though.” 

After a while with no response, she looks up. A cool fury crackles in Momoka’s stormy eyes, her teeth grit and nose flared—it’s the maddest Nina has ever seen her.

“I’ll kill him,” she says, looking fully prepared to give a grown man the sternest talking-to of his entire life.

“Momoka!” she cries, holding her tighter. “Please, just—stay with me. I need you here.”

Momoka’s glower softens when she looks down at her. “Fine,” she huffs. “But this isn’t over. I won’t let him treat you like that.” She steps away, and rests her hands on her hips. “Enough of that, though. You need some rest. Ready to go home?”

Nina nods, and follows Momoka to her van.

The drive back is mostly wordless, but every so often Nina will snake her hand over to Momoka’s, and lace their fingers together. Each time, she squeezes Nina’s in return, and grazes over the back of her hand with her thumb.

“Hey,” Momoka starts, after finally pulling up in front of Nina’s apartment. “I’ve been thinking…”

“You have?”

Momoka snorts, and lightly shoves her. “Hey, I’m spilling my heart out to you here!”

Nina laughs, and motions for her to continue.

“I’m just—thankful for you, I guess. Glad that you’re okay. While you were gone… I kept thinking back to when we first met. I was totally ready to give up then, to go home. And—” Her voice hitches, and she tightens her grip on the steering wheel. “I get scared thinking about what would've happened—what they would’ve done to me—if you hadn’t stopped me.” She shakes her head and clears her throat. “What I’m trying to say here—is just—you’re really important to me, Nina. Having you in my life has made me so happy. Thank you.” She finishes with a labored sigh, and rests her forehead on the wheel. What Nina can see of her ears behind her hair is bright red.

“Momoka…” she whispers, as she leans over and embraces her.

They spend a good while longer in the van before she leaves.

It’s not long after her eighteenth birthday that Nina is walking out of a drugstore with Momoka, two prescription pill bottles nestled in a bag she’s holding dear to her chest. She practically skips home, feeling lighter than she ever thought possible.

During dinner, she keeps stealing glances at the bag as it sits on the kitchen counter, feeling a buzzing excitement that spreads from her core all the way to the tips of her fingers.

Momoka snorts once she notices her pitiful longing. “It’ll still be there after you eat, y’know.”

‘Ugh, I know, but—still!” She pouts. “It’s right there!”

Momoka chuckles. “I was the same way. Still, eat up.” She points at Nina’s chest. “You’ve got a lot of growing to do, after all.”

Nina nearly chokes on her food as she slaps away her finger. “God, you—ugh!” she splutters. Momoka brings a hand up over her mouth as she snickers, the angelic, husky tone filling the space between them. When she brings it back down, Nina finds herself lingering on her lips. She flushes, and stares at her bowl.

After the longest meal of her life, she dashes over to the kitchen counter, and delicately retrieves the next chapter of her life, fingers trembling slightly as she picks up the bottles. When she returns to the table with her prize, she finds Momoka has set out two pill bottles of her own.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” she answers immediately.

Momoka smiles. “This,” she says, opening a bottle and shaking a pill into her palm, “is your spiro. You take it just like any other pill.” She pops it in her mouth, and washes it down with a swig of water. Nina does the same. “And this, ” she says, as she produces a small blue pill from the bottle and shows it to Nina, “is your estradiol. You dissolve her under your tongue. Here.” She does just that, giving her a good look as she demonstrates, and Nina definitely doesn’t stare at her tongue.

Following her example, Nina slots the estradiol under her tongue. To her surprise, it tastes slightly sweet as it dissolves.

“Well? How are you feeling?”

“Good,” she answers, and for the first time in a long time, it’s true. “I feel really good.”

A little over a year in Tokyo, and her life was just beginning. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once. She can hardly wait.

“I’m telling you, she definitely likes you!”

Nina scoffs, and blows bubbles in her tea. “She’s just being nice. She doesn’t see me like that.”

Subaru groans, and drags her hands down her face. “You two are such dumbasses, I swear. Have you seen the way she looks at you?! It’s driving me nuts watching her practically drooling over you at every practice!”

“Wha—she does not! ” she denies, incredulous.

“Oh, Nina, your voice is sooooo pretty!” Subaru trills, in an awful, sing-songy impression of Momoka. “Why don’t you come over later for practice again?” Her eyelashes flutter and she puckers her lips, adding in some profane kissing sound effects for good measure, as well.

“S-shut up!” she yells. Her volume turns a few heads in the restaurant. She mutters her apologies, and settles back down, her cheeks dusted pink.

“But you do go to her place almost every day, right?”

“W-well, yeah but—we’re not doing any of t-that, obviously…”

Subaru strokes her chin sagely. “Ah, just getting right down to business, I see.”

Nina slaps her hands over her ears. “Oh my God!”

The next day, Nina sits on Momoka’s couch with her knees tucked close to her chest, Subaru’s teasing voice echoing around her head each time she spares a glance at Momoka. The guitarist lies next to her, resting her feet on the coffee table as she nurses a can of cheap beer. Nina swallows a lump in her throat.

“Hey, Momoka,” she starts without thinking, and the rational part of her brain screams at her to stop before it’s too late. However, the nascent thought is already leaving her lips. “Have you ever had a girlfriend before?”

Momoka practically does a spit take, and instantly goes bright red. “Wh-what?” she splutters.

Nina’s not faring much better, but decides to go for broke, and commits. “Like, have you ever dated someone?” she says, averting her gaze and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“J-just a few girls back in high school.” She flicks at the tab on her can. “Nothing that lasted, though.” She awkwardly clears her throat. “W-why do you ask?”

“J-just curious.” To her horror, she finds she isn’t able to keep her big, stupid mouth shut. “Do you have a type, then?” Her soul leaves her body with a pathetic whimper as she processes what she just said. She’s going to gut Subaru like a fish when she sees her next.

Momoka turns to her, and Nina tracks the heavy rise and fall of her chest. “I-I like cute girls, I guess. And pretty voices. Helps if she’s brave, and a little bit of a brat, too.” She flushes a deep crimson. “Hey, Nina?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

Nina answers by leaning forward and brushing her lips against Momoka’s—it comes as natural as breathing. Her lips are rough and slightly cracked, with an underlying plushness. Nina can’t get enough. She goes to straddle her hips, and begins to kiss her more fervently, eager to devour her. Momoka opens her mouth in turn, and moans into Nina. In lieu of any distinct taste, all Nina can sense is a wet, passionate heat that leaves her lightheaded. It’s intoxicating. She laces her fingers under Momoka’s choker, and takes her wrist in her other hand, pressing their bodies flush. For what feels like an eternity, her entire world is Momoka’s soft body and desperate whimpers. When they finally separate, it’s with a gasp, both left burning and heaving for air.

“Is that…” Momoka breathes, “a yes…?”

“Yeah.” She collapses on top of her. “Yeah, I think so. Let’s try again, though… just to make sure.”

Momoka shudders under her as Nina presses her lips to her neck.

The day after, they stroll into band practice with held hands and big, stupid grins. Subaru goes to greet them, but when she spots their intertwined fingers, she freezes. Then, with a groan, she shuffles over to Rupa, alongside Tomo. Each girl begrudgingly forks over three 1000 yen notes to the woman, who promptly stuffs them in her wallet with a satisfied hum. 

Nina walks next to Momoka through the dimly-lit, moderately dusty backstage of their current venue. As they go, they occasionally bump shoulders and brush pinkies. Momoka pauses, and motions for the others to go on.

When she turns back to Nina, it’s with such a loving gaze that she feels like she might melt. Momoka raises her hand to her face, and brushes her thumb over her cheek.

“You ready?”

Nina pushes down the wave of anxiety surging in her chest, and leans into her girlfriend’s palm. She giggles. Her girlfriend. Even thinking the words makes her happy.

“Yeah, I am.”

“There’s my girl,” Momoka says, and pecks her lips. “Let’s show ‘em who you are.”