Archive of Our Own

Nobody really wanted to go to prom. 

A popularity contest wrapped up sloppily with egregious—not to mention itchy—dresses you’d only really wear once and never again, spent sitting on the sidelines while all the couples you only half-know sheepishly begin their slow dance, miserable and wishing you were home? It’s a lie perpetuated by coming-of-age movies, exaggerated into a caricature of teenage fun. There are so many ways to cap off the last year of high school: large-scale pranks, big parties, overseas trips, anything would feel more extravagant than a high school dance that isn’t even exclusive to seniors. Anything would be better, point blank, in Illi’s mind.

Right?

Okay, maybe she did want it—or want something like it. Four years of abject hell meant there hadn’t ever been many opportunities to just… let it all go. She had her friends, sure, and the four of them were no strangers to publicly making fools of themselves—when she remembers the Roller Rink Incident of ‘02, she can’t help the laugh she breathes out—but it was one thing to replace the morning announcements with their shitty demo songs and another beast entirely to try and convince the three people who meant the world to her to be serious for a couple of hours and join in on the very same thing they had spent their whole lives raging against. Sure, it was bound to be an overwhelming mess that would leave her crying in the bathroom as she thinks of excuses to give her friends about why she’s leaving so early, but damn it, at least it was something. Something she could think about, years later when she’s a successful comic artist—since this is all just a big fantasy, she can pretend that’s even what she wants to do with her life—and someone asks her at a panel what her high school years were like. Something to laugh about with the people she loves, where they can look at the shitty pictures and videos they took and judge their shitty fashion taste. 

Something real, for once in her life.

Curling into herself just a bit more tightly on the couch she’s spent the past hour and a half rotting in, Illi dares to glance at her sketchbook discarded mindlessly on the spot next to her, pencil long lost to the cushions. The page stares back, a faux-mirror image of what she longed to be; long charcoal hair curtains her face, dyed red at the root to compliment the oil pastel makeup applied too messily for some but perfectly for her, with a long slip dress that would put Elvira to shame. An ideal form with an ideal body, trumping all her classmates who’d stare in awe as she walked through the doors and onto the dance floor. A grand game of what if is played in her mind: what if she could pretend to be someone she wasn’t? More than the man the world saw her as, more than the weird girl her friends saw herself as, even if she wore that label with pride—although naturally, she’d correct them to strange and unusual, unable to help herself with the reference. 

As she stares through the page and into her soul smudged black with graphite, she imagines something different entirely. A world where maybe, just maybe, she’s someone people look at and think, “Wow, she’s pretty,” instead of continuing the thought into an amplifier, the magical but on the tips of their tongues. A world where looks didn’t matter, but she was still thought of as someone cute, someone hot, someone who was anything more than an eclectic personality. Briefly, she ponders life before Illi, when the last thing she’d wanted was for a guy to call her pretty, because she knew better than most that when a guy says that to a boy whose puberty only seemed to make him softer and awkward, it can only mean bad things. The bitter, metallic taste she associates with that era makes a reappearance as she reminisces, only it warps; much stronger, much more overwhelming, shame seizes her and she cannot help how she throws the sketchbook across the basement and watches it lamely hit the yellowed wall and fall to the floor. 

If she had matches, maybe she could set fire to the sketch, bring a new beauty to it in its ashes and revel in the way she herself glows in the flames. Maybe she can only be pretty when destruction is involved. 

The late-night morbidity is nothing new; it’s the leftover thoughts of the day before, thoughts she had no time to entertain because she had better things to do, but now, when everyone else was gone and Mikey was holed up in their shared room playing something on his GBA, she had nothing better to do than humor herself. The first time she went to therapy—the only time, really, since her parents, as seemingly-okay with her and her Illi-isms as they are, only took her as a courtesy when her grades started slipping freshman year, with the principal citing behavioral issues that needed sorting out, and once they realized it wasn’t getting her anywhere for the amount they’d have to pay, they took her out—her therapist said something about a chemical imbalance, how dopamine and serotonin tend to plummet after good days, how it couldn’t quite be helped so much as managed in cases like hers. 

Cases like hers. When has there ever been a time where the problem wasn’t her?

Even now, her problem is herself, her inaction. So much to do, no will to do it—what she’d give to give a damn about doing anything with her life. A month and a half from graduation and she still barely knew what she was going to do with herself. A conversation from a week before rings in her mind: Wednesday morning, after another F on a test she swore up and down she studied for, when her mother didn’t scream at her so much as look at her with this indescribable expression on her face, some mix of disappointment, fear, and guilt, like the failings of her daughter were her fault entirely. 

The worst part is that it’s not her fault, not really. All things considered, her life could’ve been pretty damn good, if it weren’t for the common denominator of Illi McMillin. Sideways glances when she was forced to accompany her family for grocery shopping, wives muttering to husbands about how odd that McMillin boy was, how he could’ve been something if it weren’t for his disposition. How all hopes were on the actual boy of the family, because she’d thrown it all away in her selfish hope that coming out would somehow make things better. If it were the 1700s, she’d be the disgraced heir to the throne, some princess-turned-pauper with only a gangly group of misfits to sing songs with. And that was charming, sure, but she’d be an idiot if she didn’t notice how the group dynamic shifted, however minutely, the moment she told Frank that I think I might be a girl, but don’t be weird about it. She wasn’t one of the guys anymore—she was, at first, someone to walk on eggshells around, as she settled into her new, somewhat self-imposed role of their girl best friend, and then just someone who amplified the quartet’s oddities, made it worse for all of them at school and even when they’d go out, because she wasn’t just that eclectic loser anymore, she was a girl so obviously not born that way, the girl best friend cursed to hurt everyone she loves just by being herself. 

She picks at her nails, the Sharpie polish already washing off yet clinging stubbornly to the surrounding skin, and realizes with horror that shit, if she’s the one to suggest they all go to prom, that’d just reaffirm her place in the group, wouldn’t it? Because she isn’t girly, that’s the thing. She had a phase in sophomore year where she’d be elated at just the feeling of wearing a skirt, the freedom it represented as she twirled around in it, and there was, of course, that period when all she wore at sleepovers and practice were these god-awful camisoles and low-rise jeans she half-hated, half loved, even to this day. But it was just that—a phase when she’d just come out, where she tried and mostly failed to mimic the beautiful women she saw on TV, because the only image of people like her she saw were dead hookers on crime shows and shock-value tabloids that painted them like freaks. 

She had this poster of Paris Hilton on her and Mikey’s wall for the longest time; every night when she would lay in her bed, Paris would be there, watching her. Every morning when she’d wake up and fight the dread of having to get dressed—at least with uniforms, she didn’t have to think, not until someone pointed out the skirt—she would consult Lady Paris, a silent prayer to the Patron Saint of Plastic. She doesn’t even like Paris Hilton, but damn it, if that’s what it would take for her to be read as feminine for even a second, to be seen as who she was—even if that sense of self was buried in hot pink nail polish and kitten heels—then she’d do it, just for that ounce of validation. 

She’s grateful she outgrew that phase. The poster has long been discarded, Paris’ face decomposing faster than any plastic ever would in whatever landfill she wound up in, after Mikey looked at it one day and said, quote, “Dude, that thing is creepy as shit.” Illi couldn’t help but agree. The end of an era, the start of girlhood, this time done her way. Femininity a la McMillin. Out were the itchy blouses she desperately tried convincing herself were actually nice to wear. In were her shitty scarves and too many belts, the faded band tees over fishnet undershirts, the short skirts over ripped jeans hastily sewn back together with mismatched patches. She would always admire those girls who dressed up, who wore all of that glitter and glam, but it wasn’t her; she had tried so hard to fit that persona, but she wasn’t that kind of girl. Androgyny suited her, in many ways; it melded perfectly with the imperfect body she had, after all, and in many ways it was safer. Plus, she liked it. So what if it occasionally felt like she was shackled to the aesthetic she knew she adored? Everyone has those moments. It took forever for Frank to break out of that intensely Goth era he found himself in. He’s still Goth, yeah, but he doesn’t bend to the strict rules of the subculture as much as he used to—he’s realized that he can, in fact, wear color and still listen to The Cure. Why couldn’t she be like that? 

She’s talked herself into a paradox, she realizes. She’s a hypocrite of the worst variety: the self-loathing kind. She knows she would talk any of her friends out of an anxious spiral about something as dumb as clothes and gender roles; she’s done it before, like in those moments when Ray had one of his ever-present identity crises, or when Frank had a freakout over if his black eyeshadow would single him out as gay even more than he already was. She’s always the first on-call, if Ray isn’t deployed already. Because they know that she gets it. 

Why, then, was she getting all worked up over the concept of wanting to wear a pretty dress and be a stupid teenage girl at prom?

Illi gets up abruptly. She promptly sits back down to regain her balance. Then, she stands back up, just a bit more slowly and with much less of a dramatic flare. 

Illi McMillin will go to her senior prom if it’s the last thing she does. And she will bring her friends. And they will have a good time. 

“Can you believe it’s 40 bucks to go to some stupid dance?”

The courtyard is always packed this time of year; with threats of fierce snowstorms left in March, the springtime air feels fresh, warm but not unpleasantly so. If Illi were a poet, she could write so many sonnets just about this moment; forget summertime and screw the iambic pentameter, she wants to compare someone to a spring day. The four of them have sequestered themselves in a cramped corner where two walls of the building meet a brick-layed garden bed of shrubs which have yet to show their buds, flowers not yet in bloom. Spring is a time of waiting, of patience, but always with an undertone of eagerness and excitement. Illi is the same. She was the one to bring up the dance in the first place; they had all heard the buzz of their classmates, of course—at this school, it’s hard to go a moment without hearing their incessant droning—yet it remained an unexplored topic between them all, a rare thing after knowing each other for so long.

“I thought this school was, like, loaded.”

“They’ve got to stay loaded somehow, man.”

Frank and Mikey were always like that. Sit through a single lecture in history class that happens to explore capitalism and suddenly they’re on their way to anarchy. Illi smiles, mostly to herself, resting her cheek against her hand. 

“Ills, don’t tell me you’re falling victim to the regime, too,” Frank says, voice lighthearted, joking, and Illi can’t tell if there’s any mockery in his tone or if he’s just embracing the joke.

“Believe me, I’m down for upending the social hierarchy as much as any of you,” she responds with a measured voice, trying her hardest to match Frank’s joking tone. “I’m just thinking.”

“That’s never good,” Mikey offers, because he can’t help himself. He earns a light kick to the shin from Illi, who’s been sitting beside him atop the planter.

“What about?” Ray asks, the only earnest remark that’s come from anyone in the group in the ten minutes they’ve been sitting out here. Bless him and his sweetness that’s lasted since middle school. She prays he never loses it.

“Just life, I guess. End of senior year and all—”

“For you, at least. Mikey and I still have another year to go.”

“---and, uh. Stuff of that nature.” She’s lost her train of thought. Just as she blesses Ray, she hexes Frank to 100 years of silence in her head. She loves him, she loves everyone in the group, but he has this way about him, where just one comment of his can shake her out of whatever thoughts she’s having. It’s been a damn good way to knock herself out of a spiral, but the biggest inconvenience almost every other time.

Where was she? Right. Maybe she shouldn’t do this. It isn’t a big deal—not at all, honestly—yet all at once it consumes her, anxiety coursing through her veins and making her legs feel numb, though that could always just be her shitty circulation and the anatomically-impossible position she’s sitting in. 

She clears her throat like she’s about to say something of the utmost importance; it’s probably only important to her, but the gesture feels powerful. “I’m thinking we should actually go to prom.”

Silence. It feels like the entire courtyard heard her, like it’s one of those moments where the conversation in a crowded room dies down right as you say something embarrassing and private, the whole of a population becoming voyeurs into your mind as nervous tension seeps into every following word. 

Then, just one voice.

“Okay.”

It’s Ray. Of course it’s Ray; always the first to ease the tension, always the first to soothe Illi’s mind if Frank’s no help since Mikey’s better at listening and distracting. She doesn’t know where she’d be without him. Dead?

“Okay?” she responds, incredulous.

“I mean, you know none of us really care about the whole spectacle of it, but I don’t know, it’s like the hallmark of high school life, basically. Which we also don’t really care about, since high school has probably been worse than Hell itself, but—yeah, I’m down.”

Illi blinks. Frank and Mikey still haven’t said a single word, which is starting to get a little nerve-wracking, but if you can get Ray Toro to agree to something, it’s obviously a sound idea. 

“Can we try and steal the DJ’s spot? Maybe we can get our new record onto the playlist.”

“Not for at least an hour. We’ve got to have a normal experience for once in our life, Frank. But,” and as Illi says this, she has this excitement-filled, vaguely manic grin on her face—ergo, just her normal smile—”once we get bored, go crazy.”

Frank returns the smile, albeit in a seemingly much more normal way. His eccentricities show in other ways. Scheming continues once the cat’s out of the bag, and as her friends talk on and on about how they’ll get enough money for all of them to go all out—she hears something about just forgoing paying and sneaking in, then a much more sound idea from Mikey about just trying to fundraise by performing a few of their songs at whatever venue will take them—she expects to feel this massive weight come off her chest. This is what she wanted, after all. And none of them were being weird about it. 

Why can’t she just act like a normal person and be happy her friends are indulging in something they otherwise wouldn’t care at all about?

Her brooding must be obvious—she’s never been good with subtlety, even as she’s mastered the skill of lying through her teeth—because as Frank and Mikey continue talking about logistics and, eventually, the stupidest suits they’ve ever seen, Ray slinks over to her, taking the spot Mikey was in a few minutes earlier. 

“I kind of didn’t think you’d want to go to prom, honestly,” he says, and Illi startles as the white noise that’s overtaken her mind comes to a sudden halt at the sound of his voice. She offers him a sheepish smile.

“Me neither, honestly,” she admits, straightening her posture a bit and resisting the urge to tuck a strand of hair back that’s fallen into her field of vision—there’s something about her today that just cannot stand the idea of seeming too feminine for her friends, echoes of the archetypical girl best friend who’s meant to be the ditzy, unimportant sidekick to the men in her life. “But it could be fun? Honestly, I’m just glad you guys didn’t laugh when I said it.”

“Why would we?” 

A brief silence. Without coordinating the effort, they both glance over at the two juniors who have somehow begun a conversation about the hypothetical government of the Sonic universe. Ray nods. “Right, yeah.”

“It’s just… I don’t know, something about the concept. Like, it’s this weird social norm that’s expected of every single high schooler, right? Where you dress up and pretend to be someone you’re not. It’s like the working class equivalent of some elegant masquerade.

“But at the same time, there’s something so magical about it. In theory, at least. I don’t even know if I’ll like it once we’re there, you know, because maybe it’ll be too loud or too boring and it’ll be at least $160 down the drain—”

“Ills, you’re doing that thing again.” She bites her lip. Damn it, Toro. Maybe she’ll hex him this time, for being able to read her like a damn book. Because she knows she’s doing it—she knows that every time she has an idea that could be read as stupid, she points out the flaws so she can workshop them in real time; her need for perfection makes her a control freak on the best days, and an absolutely horrible person to be around on the worst. Luckily, everyone calls her on her shit. Ray’s the most attuned to it, though—years of putting up with Illi’s bullshit, plus dealing with his own emotions has made him the best and only person who can really get it. She rolls her eyes with a smile that feels more like her own than the ones that came before, letting out a sharp breath.

“I think I just want to have a day where I feel pretty, you know?”

Ray stays silent, silently imploring her to continue. She thinks she catches something like reflection in his face, a quiet understanding.

“Because I’ve never really had that. A day like that, I mean. Hell, even a moment. It’s like I’ve been fighting fight after fight, battle after battle, and I haven’t even had a single moment to just chill the fuck out and, like, breathe.”

Right when Ray sucks in a breath like he’s about to start talking, the bell rings. When they pack up their things and head back inside, though, there’s this smile that Ray gives her.

She thinks about it for the rest of the day.

The text comes out of nowhere, a week after their plans began, on one sleepless school night that Illi should have been using to work on a project due the following day. In reality, most of the night had been spent aimlessly sketching portraits of people drenched in blood, occasionally glancing at her phone to see if Mikey needed anything; he was spending the night with someone, he wouldn’t say who, and despite his insistence that he would, in fact, be fine, and there was no need for her to hover, that bit of nervousness that comes with having your kid brother keep secrets and do things that remind you of the passage of time still lingered. He’s only a year younger than her, but that difference meant the world, once. Years of bringing it up to prove a point, win an argument, and him likewise using his youth against her when appealing to their parents in the middle of an argument, and now all that separated them were a few senior-exclusive classes at school.  

ray!! – i was thinking

She raises an eyebrow, dodging the hope that threatens to enter her tone when she painstakingly types a response.

illi – oh no

ray!! – oh shut up like ur not one to talk

ray!! – anyway

ray!! – what if u and me and the guys

ray!! – if they want to obviously

ray!! – go shopping or something

ray!! – like 4 prom  

Illi stares at the small screen blankly, its greenish-grey screen reflecting her slightly dazed expression driven by exhaustion and deep contemplation. There’s that metallic taste again—will it ever go away?---at the thought of actively looking for clothes in someone else’s company. Sure, she’d done a bit of trying-on when she first came out, thanks to Jamia’s extensive wardrobe of stuff which, at the time, Illi thought was perfect for this new her. Some of the garments still stood in her closet, others in a little pile slowly growing in size in the corner of her room, remnants of the past and likewise revelations that she wasn’t becoming someone new, she was just becoming herself. 

It should be exciting. Isn’t it every girl’s dream to go on huge shopping sprees, spend ludicrous amounts of money, and have a shared bonding experience with their friends? And for Ray to be the one to offer, the implication that it’s something he wants, too, is so painfully sweet; he’s probably asked Frank already, probably texted Mikey, too, but knew they’d both take a while to respond. The part of her that awakens late at night is tied as to whether or not to consider this fuel for her depression—was she really his last option?---or her anxiety—they’re all counting on her to agree, and she’ll be a killjoy if she says no. She instead chooses to listen to neither voice, instead settling on her more persistent train of thought that dissects every minute detail of her presentation and demeanor, its potential impact on others, and what she can control of it. Being alone with Ray, with any of them, she could easily slip back into that performative femininity, which isn’t her at all. Even worse is the idea that something about her could, in turn, bring Ray in particular down with her; if she says something wrong, criticizes some sort of shirt or dress, then who’s to say it isn’t something that Ray liked? What if she makes him uncomfortable, makes him afraid to express himself? So much was on the line, in her mind, even if logically she knew that none of that would happen, and if it did, it wouldn’t be friendship-ruining. It’s just her stupid mind. 

She’s not sure why her thoughts keep coming back to him, but there’s something about him that makes her utterly terrified to mess anything up.

But the thoughts, as thoughts are wont to do, linger. And they bring some new thoughts to mind, too—knowing that there’s an inherent intimacy to the act of clothes shopping, of trusting someone to tell you the truth about whether or not an outfit works, of even just seeing someone in clothes you aren’t used to. And it’s not like she and Ray are strangers to intimacy. They’ve all seen each other at their most vulnerable, through thick and thin. What’s one more layer to their friendship? One more experience they’ve shared? 

ray!! – illi i can tell ur probably about 2 explode in fear

ray!! – like a scared chihuahua

It takes her a moment to register that there’s been another text.

illi – srry lol i got distracted

They both know it’s more than that, but it’s late at night and neither of them want to dive into their deepest, darkest traumas. Not today, anyway. Maybe another day would come, where they’re alone some late night, and they’ve drifted into a stupor which only comes in the twilight, where nothing is off-limits and everything is said. Some kind of golden moment, just between the two of them. 

She shakes her head to dislodge that thought, quickly reminding herself that she has a task at hand and she will not make Ray any more concerned than he is, and shakily types up a response, her stupid multitap making her nerves that much more apparent and making the process far more tedious than it should be.

illi – i’m up 4 it!!

And then she throws her phone onto the floor. 

Illi steps out of her car with $45 in cash and a dream. 

They’d agreed to a thrift shop after realizing with increasing horror that with the money they were all saving up for prom tickets, they’d barely be able to find a shirt that fit in their budget at the mall. Hopes dashed and ready to call it quits, it really was a sort of miracle that they found the store wedged between a drug store and a dilapidated gym on the farther side of town, and the next day, it was as if they’d planned it all along. As Illi walks through the automatic door, Mikey not too far behind, she’s met with the comforting smell of old; vintage tees and rusty cans and all those weird trinkets that you can only really find at stores like these, the scent calms her down—Jesus, what’s gotten into her? Get a grip, McMillin!

She’s greeted by Frank’s wordless hello as he’s sifting through the T-shirts—not what they all came for, but she’ll take a look if she has any money to spare—and Ray, who’s standing awkwardly in the in-between space of the men’s and women’s section, trying his best to stay out of the way of any other shoppers as he idles. His smile is brighter than the too-shiny concrete floor, and as Mikey makes a beeline to the CDs—and as she realizes that she and Ray are probably the only two between the four of them actually dead-set on coming out of the store with things they’ll actually wear—she returns the smile with a wide grin. Hopefully she doesn’t look too out of place; she’s gone for a more pared-down outfit than what she typically opts for when they all go out somewhere, since she knew she’d need something that could quickly come off and three layers of belts with Mary Janes is probably the antithesis to efficiency as a concept, and her Converse squeak against the concrete tiles as she adjusts the hem of her shirt. Very One Tree Hill, she idly thinks, but the buttons of her top make for easy removal, and the long sleeves of her striped undershirt mean she won’t be stripping in a crowded store. 

She decides not to question why that’s the direction her brain took that thought. She keeps a tight grip on her tote bag as she walks towards Ray, and to her relief, he’s somehow managed to be overdressed with the bomber jacket over his T-shirt—not too much on its own, but considering the relative plainness of Frank and Mikey’s outfits, they could be considered well-dressed. Fancy, even. 

“I still don’t know why you didn’t want me to pick you up,” Illi says when she’s close enough for conversation.

“I still don’t know how you got your driver’s license. You’re a proper madwoman behind the wheel.”

Illi flashes her manic grin and sticks his tongue out at him. Ray returns the gesture. 

“I’ll let you steer this little escapade, then. Lead the way, Toro!”

It’s as if he’s just realized where he is with the way he startles, glancing around the store like there aren’t clothes on either side of him and then some. Illi knows the look—just as easily as Ray can read her, she can read every anxiety in the way he worries his lip when he’s overwhelmed and how he furrows his brow when he’s concentrating. This look, the one of glancing around, is one of indecision, and if it means Illi gets to return the favor for all the times he’s helped her out of crisis, she’ll gladly take the reins.

“Or,” she starts, hands on his shoulders as he steers him towards the racks labeled Dresses, “you can rip me and my fashion taste to shreds while I try to find a dress.”

He’s clearly grateful to not make the decision, and the small, warm smile he gives is proof of that, but the concept itself irks Illi a bit; he’s never been a control freak, not in the same way Illi is, but he’s typically pretty capable of navigating situations when they’re presented to him. To see him so uncharacteristically uncertain sort of breaks her heart a bit. It’s the driving force behind why she, even when presented with ample opportunity to break the physical contact they’ve built, she lets her hand linger by his wrist under the pretense of knowing she’d be dragging him from one row to another, then to the cramped dressing room, then back again, ad nauseum. 

She pretends not to notice how he leans into the ghost of a touch just a bit. Instead, she turns her attention to the dresses on display. It’s a strange assortment of wedding gowns, bridesmaid dresses, the odd party dress here and there, until finally, she sees a couple of dresses that don’t immediately depress her with the implications of their being here.

“And here we have option number one!” she says in her best game show host voice. Illi holds the dress up to her figure, taking a moment to ponder it as she faces the mirror. It’s not bad. Maybe a size too big, which she’s surprised about—normally it’s the other way around—but it’s this rich black, almost a bit satiny, and adorned with little rose details. The only potential issue, really, would be the length; she’d kill for some dramatic floor-length piece, with a train and feather boa, and she’s okay at sewing but far from skilled enough to tailor that into reality in a way that doesn’t look like a butchered mess. She says as much, mostly to herself, an incoherent babble about the silhouette of the piece as if she knew anything about fashion besides what she did and didn’t like. When she turns to look back at Ray, though, he’s just as distant as before.

“Earth to Toro? You okay there, man?”

She sees his tongue dart out to wet his lips, and there he goes again with those little things he does. All he offers in response is a weak, “Yeah, the dress looks really good,” and that’s it—Illi immediately drops the dress and drops to the floor where Ray’s been sitting. 

“Now I know something’s up. Talk to me, what’s going on?”

“‘S nothing you have to worry about, Ills. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll worry if I want to, I’ll have you know.” It’s meant to lighten the mood. Ray only gives a small acknowledgement. Illi’s frown deepens. 

“You help me out a lot. I mean, you’ve—you’ve sort of saved me from myself, actually. More times than you’ll ever know. Whenever I’ve been down, you’ve picked me up, in the metaphorical sense. And in a literal sense, that one time.”

Ray gives her a look laced with a bit more of that joy she’s used to from him, as if wondering where she’s going with this whole spiel.

“What I mean to say is that you’re one of my best friends. Probably the person who knows me the best, besides Mikey, and I’d like to think I know you better than most.”

“You do,” he says, a whisper, a thought made solid with no real intention to do so. Illi takes this as a cue to shuffle a bit closer to him, still leaving a decent gap between them, but closing it enough to show that she’s here, that she’s not going anywhere.

“So talk to me, Toro. I think it’s about time someone was there to help you out, for a change.”

Ray swallows thickly, like he’s swallowing back the world, like his face is a dam that stops all the oceans from overtaking the land once and for all, like it’s his sworn duty to keep that dam sealed no matter the cost to his life. 

And the floodgates open, not in a tsunami, but in a small, gentle stream.

“I don’t think I’m a guy.”

The stream slows, reduces to a faulty faucet’s trickle, until suddenly, there is no sound at all, save for a tree, alone in the forest, but it does make a sound, even in its penchant for destruction.

“Okay.”

Ray, who had previously been staring a hole into the ground, snaps his head up to look at Illi. All at once she’s thankful for the gap between them, because she can vividly imagine the pain of his head hitting hers. “Okay?”

“I mean, what else did you think I’d say?”

“I don’t know, like—” Ray stops, thinks, and lets out an exasperated sigh, stopped dead in his self-critical tracks. “Yeah, I, uh. I don’t know, actually.”

“Not like I’m gonna say, Oh, it’s just not natural, or something. You’re looking at the girl whose very existence made the school reconsider its uniform rules.”

“You say that like you actually changed the policy.”

“Maybe some day, who knows. Two against the entire faculty, what do you say?”

It’s a risky sentence, one made even riskier by the way her hand has fallen to the gap between them; Illi knows how sensitive Ray must feel in the throes of confessing what’s probably felt for so long like his deepest sin, like a dirty secret that makes you feel like having your diary read aloud would be less mortifying, less reputation-damning, than just the utterance of I’m not a man. It’s not like Ray has everything figured out right now, either. He was no stranger to questioning himself—am I allowed to be like this, do I dare to feel like this, Illi has heard just about everything on late-night calls with hushed voices, sleepovers when they’re the last people standing, she has heard it all, but never have the words been spoken so plainly, never has he admitted to the possibility—maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have the words for it. 

A selfish thought crosses Illi’s mind. What if she’s what broke him? Or maybe she’s projecting. 

But Ray just smiles, and there’s a near-invisible track of tears down his face, but the way Ray smiles, where the corners of his eyes lift in such a genuine way, it drowns out any darkness.

“Two against the world.”

“Holy shit, man, that’s—are you sure you aren’t just holding the exact dress Audrey Hepburn had in Breakfast at Tiffany’s?”

Needless to say, thrifting became much easier when Ray cried his heart out—not literally, because that would be better suited for a place that doesn’t smell like old people, as much as Illi loves the smell. Maybe another late-night call; as the nights crawled on, she found that melatonin was nothing compared to 2AM rants about how rigged the Oscars were this year. 

(“Dude, they’ve always been rigged. And hey, at least Spirited Away won best animated feature?”)

(“At least it used to be less obvious! I can’t live in ignorance anymore, Ills! Not when they’re letting Two Towers get swept to the side!”)

(“Hey, Chicago’s editing was a masterpiece.”)

(So on and so forth.)

They didn’t dwell on the subject of gender much, no matter how much Illi wanted to know everything purely by way of the silent realization of finally, I’m not alone they both shared. Still, it warmed Illi’s heart just knowing that she was someone to be confided in, someone to be trusted; when you spend your whole life sort of disgracing your family and making social blunder after social blunder, you tend to forget that your impact can  sometimes be a good thing. Better yet, it wasn’t nearly as awkward as the abject hell of her own coming out—explaining semantics that she herself didn’t know for sure, figuring out in real time what she was and wasn’t comfortable with—and the only point of tension regarded the topic of whats; what do you want me to call you, does Ray still work or should I go with Toro until you’ve found something else, should I call you pretty instead of handsome—

Maybe not the last one. Not out loud, at least. And even with the inherent awkwardness to the question, Ray just stopped, thought for a minute, and replied, as if they’d known how to answer all along now that Pandora’s Box had been opened. 

So, they’re here now. They as in the two of them, and they as in Ray—Illi isn’t lost on the new rhymes she can write about them, maybe in a song or as a warmup since, the longer she thinks about it, the dumber it sounds to rhyme they with Ray, but god damn it she’ll find a way—returning to the task at hand. 

And what a task it was.

Illi sincerely has no idea how she hadn’t seen this store before. It wasn’t like she avoided this part of town. She just didn’t have much reason to be in the area—not when a little trip to the mall could mean impromptu interactions with all of her peers who seemed as if they’d all collectively decided that the mall was the best place to work at rather than something sensible like Barnes and Noble or that new record shop she’d been hoping to apply for. She realizes very quickly after exploring that train of thought that she was, indeed, avoiding this part of town. But now, no amount of classmate anxiety could topple her. Not when there were dresses upon dresses of masterpieces, so immaculate that it felt sinful to gaze upon them. Dresses that seemed straight out of some Golden Age musical, or a silent film, or anywhere but a weird town in New Jersey. The magic of the sighting wasn’t lost on Ray, either; as they scanned the racks with a newfound excitement, pointing out ugly details and fancy techniques just as Illi thought they would. Something about avant-garde or haute couture, as if either of them knew what those words meant. 

And then they found the Holy Grail. Jet black with just a bit of fringe ornamentation on the bottom, sleeveless and, yes, a bit too short for prom—but it was perfect. Throw on some opera gloves and a comically long cigarette and you’d be golden. It was a size too small for Illi, but there was something about the way Ray was looking at it, their fingers ghosting over the fabric, their mind undoubtedly contemplating if they even dare to try it on, as if the moment they put it on their life will never be the same. 

It never would be the same. They both knew that. The dress was just the outermost layer of it, of a life changed by shedding the guilt and lies.

“I don’t know if it’s my style,” they say, a confession not quite made manifest, a dipped toe testing the waters.

“You won’t know if you don’t try it,” Illi responds, and she hopes that the touch to their shoulder reads as comforting. “Hepburn’s more my thing, but I don’t mind sharing just this once.”

It’s all the reassurance they need. Ray goes to the sad excuse of a dressing room, Illi waiting at the accessory racks flanking either side of its entrance and wondering if it would be a cardinal sin to try and put a studded belt over the dress she’d been intrigued by earlier, if it would read like an expression of her selfhood or just another preemptive apology for daring to cross her own self-imposed mold of what girlhood is to her. 

Thankfully, she doesn’t have the time to explore that. Not when she’s beckoned over by Ray trying to catch her attention from the stall, and certainly not when she’s face to face with who is quite possibly the most gorgeous person Illi has ever seen. It’s definitely the prettiest that Ray Toro has ever looked—and it’s tough competition, because really, it’s Ray Toro. The person who inadvertently caused Frank to have a sexuality crisis, just because there was just something about them. There’s always been something about them that just makes the crappy uniforms they’re all forced into work somehow. Something that makes hoodies stylish, just by the fact that it’s them wearing one. 

But this. Something’s different about this one. The dress itself is an oddity in the way that it miraculously came without any of that artificial padding, so it could be worn seamlessly without enduring the abject horror of figuring out how to get whatever lame excuse of a chest you had to work with something very distinctly boob-shaped. And Ray themself is built gorgeously—it’s just an objective truth—to where everything is accentuated just right, where their shoulders aren’t broad, just defined, and the cinch of the waist gives off an illusion of hips. If anything, the only detractor is the length; Ray’s a decently tall guy, and the dress was clearly made to be a little under knee-length for the average person, so really, the dress only covers a little over half their thigh. Secretly, Illi considers this a triumph. 

The staring probably isn’t soothing Ray’s nerves at all, Illi realizes—although there really wasn’t any stopping it, not when the dressing room stall forces them into such close proximity and she has to rake down from their head to legs just to try and look at the whole dress—and she tries saying something, anything, to break whatever tension has appeared, tension that probably only exists in her own mind. 

“Wow,” she says, dumbly. She blinks, fixes her gaze and attention onto their face, and tries again. “I mean, wow. Black’s a good color on you.”

Red is also a good color on them, she realizes as they blush bashfully, and she can tell that it’s taking everything in them to not object to the compliment.

“You think so?” Their tone is hopeful. 

“Dude, I know so. Have you seen yourself?”

“I—actually, not yet.” They look down, gnawing at their cheek.

“Your reflection’s not going to come out the mirror and kill you,” she says with a light, joyless laugh, a weak attempt at lightening the mood, “and, I mean, if you don’t like it, it’ll give you a chance to figure out what about it’s the problem for you.”

A beat of silence, like they’re considering her words, receiving them like scripture.

“And what if I do like it?”

There’s palpable fear, that anxiety from before, and that just won’t do. “Ray.” Her voice is severe, a bit imposing, and it has to be—after all, she’s wrestling with all the fear and terror she felt, too, just for somebody else. She sits on the metal stool that takes up most of the stall yet still manages to be too small, and pats the spot next to her. Ray gets the memo, folding up a bit on themselves to take up as little space as possible.

“What did you do the first time I showed up to your house dressed like myself?” It’s a vague metric, but they both understand. “When I was scared shitless at the idea of wearing that off-shoulder shirt, because some stupid part of me still felt like it was too much, and I thought my Mary Janes were way louder than they were just because I was terrified.”

Ray stays silent, considering the words, drowning in them and contemplating whether they wanted to sink or swim in their strength.

“You were the first person to stand up for me, way back when I started experimenting with this stuff,” she continues. “Like when you socked that guy in the face because he called me a fag.” It’s not a pleasant memory. Still, she laughs a bit; the jock’s nose just spurting out blood, the little half-circle that formed around them, how disappointed they all seemed when it didn’t actually escalate into a fight, the way Ray’s knuckles seemed to cling to the scrapes they’d gained like battle scars. “And that was the first time I went, shit, someone’s actually looking out for me, you know?

“Obviously you weren’t the only one of us to give a shit, but you weren’t afraid. Not outwardly, not until you hid in the bathroom for the next period and bawled your eyes out.”

Ray huffs out a little laugh. Okay, she’s getting somewhere. She’s always been the poet of the group.

“When I told all of you about the transgender stuff, when I started wearing miniskirts and stockings and all that stuff, you embraced it with open arms—embraced me, no matter what, just because I was still me, because all that really changed was what I wanted people to call me.

“You made me feel like I could be whatever the fuck type of girl I am, and that it would be okay. You saw that off-shoulder shirt and asked how I cut the hem to get it that way. There’s a lot of shit in this world to be afraid of, Toro, but liking the way you look sure as hell isn’t one of them.”

There’s silence, and it couldn’t have lasted longer than a second or two, but it drones on in both of their minds. Then, near-imperceptably,

“I think I’m ready to look at myself,”

and Illi could cry right then and there. That’s my girl, she thinks pridefully, and even when Ray ultimately decides they want to find some longer options, maybe experiment with some color, the thought never leaves her mind. 

Ultimately, the shopping trip is a success—even if not everything they buy is necessarily suitable for prom, or wearable at all. Frank’s going home with a new CD booklet, since his old one’s nearly full and he wants to take a gander at actually organizing them by genre and artist rather than shoving them in with no rhyme or reason, while Mikey manages to somehow afford several new sunglasses—you never know when you’ll need to break out the shades, he says in response to the look of sheer confusion Illi shoots him; it doesn’t make matters any less confusing, as one may expect—on top of a fancy bowtie he’ll replace the one from his tux rental with. The main attractions, though, are the hastily-packed dresses Illi’s shoved into her tote bag; Ray, not willing to have a third vulnerable moment within the span of three hours, claims that they didn’t have any luck at the store, and that they’d make do with whatever they had at home, while Illi, joining in, claims she found this one dress that was just way too nice to pass up on, moping about how she was barely able to afford it with the measly $45 she’d brought for the duration of the short walk towards everyone’s cars. 

It wasn’t a lie, really—what Ray had decided on was stunning, and she’d copiously reassured them of that fact before, during, and after they tried it on. 

Only on the car ride home did Mikey say anything.

“What’d you settle on? You and Ray seemed pretty damn focused over there.”

Illi’s finger twitches where it’s resting on the steering wheel, not enough for most to notice. Mikey is not most. Spend half your life attached to your sister’s hip, and the rest of it still at a close distance, and you’re bound to pick up on the little things. This is one of them.

“Okay, now I know you’re hiding something.”

“Says who?” It’s a weak retort, hardly making sense for the conversation, and it’s really only fuel for the fire.

“Come on, you know you can tell me whatever. It’s not like I don’t know about how madly in love you are with Ray.”

“I’m not—” and she’s trying to keep her voice level, because she’s caught on to the fact that, apparently, nothing she’s doing is benefitting her, “I’m not in love with Ray!”

“Tell that to the way you squeaked that out.”

“Can’t two people just be friends anymore in this day and age? I thought your government class, like, radicalized you or something. Not very anarchist of you to heed to gendered expectations, Michael.” 

Mikey rolls his eyes, feigning offense. Illi just grins.

“If it’s not a big deal, then you won’t have any trouble saying it,” he says, and thankfully his tone’s come down to something a bit more sincere, a subtextual reminder that he won’t actually press on the matter if she’d rather not talk about it. Still, Illi does not back down when presented with a challenge, and she’s quick enough on her feet to make sure Mikey doesn’t catch onto the fact that she’s skirting past the answer to his question. 

“Fine,” she says with mock sarcasm, “if you want to know that badly, it’s just a little fashion thing.”

“Very vague.”

Not quick enough, apparently.

“Oh, shut up, I answered the question.”

“Barely!”

Illi sighs, exasperated, until she finally settles on something of actual substance she can say in lieu of damning Ray into a situation neither of them want. Besides, it’s something Illi’s been wanting a bit of feedback on, even if the concept of admitting it has terrified her. Anything for Ray’s dignity, she supposes. “Okay, it’s just—artistic limitations. You know how I sew, right?”

“I’d be surprised if I didn’t, given how many times I’ve gotten stabbed with those damn needles you keep out.”

“I swear I put them away in the little tomato thing, I really don’t know how they get out!”

“Anyway. Your point.”

“Right. So, this dress I found. Remember when I showed you Sabrina when I was on my Audrey Hepburn kick?”

“I definitely remember both of us really wishing we liked it more than we did.”

“Do you remember that gown she wears in that one part? I basically found this, like, one-to-one replica of it. Not actually a replica, obviously, but pretty damn close. So I tried it on, and it’s like this Cinderella situation where it was, like, a perfect fit. And obviously I had to buy it.

“Only problem is that it just doesn’t look right without the little, like, poofy things on the sides. Because that’s what really elevates the original dress, you know? It’s sort of got this train thing going on,” and here she’s grateful that the train can also explain the excessive bulk of her tote bag, “but it’s not really the right shape. So now I’m just… I don’t know, lost? Because I’m nowhere near skilled enough to make it look right, and nowhere near rich enough to have it custom done—I don’t even know where you can even get that stuff done.” 

She takes a breath, and while she knows Mikey wouldn’t give a damn if the silhouette would be too much, it still feels sinful to admit.

“Plus, I don’t want it to look too… I don’t know. Feminine?”

“I mean, you are a girl.” It’s the bluntness of it that catches Illi off-guard, a bluntness that only Mikey McMillin can wield, one that cuts through any self-loathing and insecurity with abject truth.

“I know! But it’s weird for me! I’m a girl in a gender-weird, fuck-the-system way, not in a preppy and pink way. I’ve never needed dresses and skirts to affirm that for me! You saw how that ended last time!”

She can practically hear the grimace Mikey gives at the memory. After a moment, he finally says something.

“You’re still allowed to want it, though—I mean, it’s not like you’re being forced to be that gender-fuck girl all the time. Not by anyone but you, at least. You’re sort of just you, man, it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. I don’t think your entire life’s gotta be about sticking it to the man.”

The quiet chatter of some late-afternoon radio show masks the suffocating tension in the air at Mikey’s words. 

They pull into the driveway before Illi can offer any semblance of a response, and she takes that as a small act of kindness from the universe.

Mikey’s been very secretive these past few weeks. 

Illi’s barely seen him at all, and it’s starting to bother her—less because of his caginess and more because he’s been hogging the basement from the moment he gets home to the moment he’s forced to have some kind of food, and then he’s right back to work. She’s overheard too-loud conversations with a Frank-sounding disembodied voice almost every time she’s descended the staircase to let him know dinner’s almost ready, only to hear him frantically shush whoever he’s on the phone with. He’s plotting something, that’s for sure. But just what he could be plotting, Illi doesn’t have the faintest clue. 

She hopes it doesn’t have anything to do with the prom dress that mysteriously vanished from her side of the closet, but she trusts that Mikey wouldn’t have messed with it. Briefly, she wonders if she left it at Ray’s when she inconspicuously went to their house on her covert mission to safely deliver their dress, but Ray would have said something if she had. With less than a week to go until she’d don the gown, to say that Illi was anxious would be the understatement of the century—but, then again, only four years into said century, she was sure some kind of crisis would topple that position. 

“At this point, I am sincerely beginning to wonder if it could have spontaneously disappeared into thin air.”

Ray and Frank had both offered to help her look for it, seeing as they had been planning to stay the night anyway—a musician’s mind never sleeps, after all, and they really had to pick up the pace with practicing if they wanted to really blow the minds of everyone at their gig the next day, especially considering how sudden it came up and how Frank had entirely neglected to mention it until that morning before class—but so far, it remained a no-show. 

“It’s got to be somewhere,” Ray says, strangely knowingly. “Don’t give up hope.”

Illi raises an eyebrow, more-so at the tone than the content of their sentence, then just lets out a tired sigh. “I think that would have comforted me twelve hours and two days ago, but right now I’m kind of just at a loss.”

Ray wasn’t immune to the secrecy, either, it turned out. During their entire sweep of the shared room—one that, despite not resolving the issue of the missing dress, did prove fruitful in the fact that the room looked cleaner than it even did the day they moved in—they kept glancing at the door, startling at every slight noise, and generally being very, very un-Toro. That, coupled with how Frank was behaving the exact same way, and Mikey’s continued absence, meant that Illi was quite possibly at her wits’ end. 

“Okay, somebody’s going to tell me what the hell is going on here.” 

Stunned silence. Her voice was much sharper than she’d intended, much more bothered than she had wanted to let on, but it got the point across.

“Ills, seriously, nothing’s—”

“Don’t you play that card on me, Toro, I know you way too well for that to work.”

Ray lets out a weak chuckle, and it’s as much of an admission of guilt as a written statement. Frank takes notice, shooting them a glare of dude, you’ll get our cover blown, and Illi has a grin on her face like she’s finally got them cornered.

“A-ha! I knew something was going on!”

“Must we air out all our secrets?” Frank says with over-exaggerated eloquence.

“Yes, actually. Because it’s my house. And I’m older than you.”

“It’s Mikey’s house, too! And he’s fine with us keeping secrets—”

This time, it’s Ray who glares at him with a sort of choked expression of secondhand embarrassment.

“Oh, so Mikey’s part of this, too.” It’s a statement more than a question; they’ve been caught red-handed, and there’s no use trying to further deny the claim.

“Will you at least be satisfied if we say that yes, it’s a secret, but it’s not a bad one? And you’ll find out soon enough?” Ray asks almost pleadingly, and—fine, maybe that works on her, just a little bit. It’s charming enough. 

It still leaves her with more questions than answers, though, and those questions linger for the duration of the week.

“Is it some kind of stupid friend-group promposal? Because seriously, I know I’ve been looking forward to this, but not enough for public humiliation,” she says during chemistry with Frank.

“God, no, don’t worry,” Frank replies with a groan at the thought. “If we were going to do something like that, we’d all make ones for each other, separately, not just one for you specifically. Or just do it privately.”

“Sounds like you’ve been thinking about this one a lot,” Illi says teasingly, and Frank slams his head to his desk. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

“If you won’t tell me your big secret, at least deign me with the truth on this one. Come on, I won’t laugh, unless it’s one of those super popular girls—”

“Jamia.”

“Oh, sweet. I don’t know why you two stopped seeing each other.”

“Because, I barely know how to handle this shit! I’m out here freaking out in my chemistry class over the idea of asking some girl out to prom!”

“She’ll probably think it’s cute, shut up. And it definitely doesn’t help that you sort of run away from every good thing you fall into.”

“Stop psychoanalyzing me and let’s get back to these stupid polyatomic ions.”

“You know, just the other day you were ragging on me for not telling you about the dress I got,” she tells Mikey right before their gig. 

“Maybe it was an enlightening experience for me and I learned that I don’t have to tell you everything.” He says this like he’s proud of himself and like it’s a real and honest answer.

“At least tell me something about it, come on.”

“All I’m saying is that I think you’ll be pretty happy we didn’t say anything sooner.”

“That’s such a non-answer!”

“I learned from the best.” He smiles the most shit-eating grin Illi has ever seen. She just sticks her tongue out at him and takes a swig of water before walking onto the hot stage.

That’s the stupid, evil routine Illi has been stuck with for the past five days, and frankly, she is sick and tired of it. Things come to a head the evening before prom, finally; after days of evasive silence and half-truths as to his whereabouts, Ray’s in Illi’s room actually hanging out with her rather than sneaking off to the basement with Mikey and Frank. It’s not like they’re obligated to hang out, but is it a crime for a girl to want to actually spend time with her best friends? For her to miss her best friends after so much radio silence? Plus, she’s got a bunch of accessories she wants to try out to see if they’ll look stupid with the ghost of what she remembers her prom dress to look like, and Ray is nothing if not an impartial judge who speaks the truth. It’s supposed to be some kind of prom rehearsal, in a sense—trying shit on before the fated day so nobody’s scrambling to make their outfit work with less than an hour until they’re supposed to leave. 

Ray’s forgone their dress—yet another secret, but this time, Illi thinks she’s excited about it rather than annoyed—instead wearing a band tee so faded that the name is lost to time, plus some shorts. The weather’s been nice lately, a peaceful reprieve from the storms of the previous few weeks and the snow from just a month before, and they have all been taking generous advantage of it, seeing the start of spring as the chance to actually dress comfortably without layers upon layers of added warmth—everyone but Frank, at least, who mourns the loss of winter and his opportunity to put on way too many jackets thoroughly. Illi has personally reaped the benefit of wearing these distressed black overalls more often, and as she lays down on the basement couch—finally, it seemed Mikey’s reign of terror was over with—she’s glad she isn’t alone in that quiet joy. 

Spring is often a month of femininity, at least in connotation. Revival, new beginnings, rebirth—it all evokes feelings of motherhood, matriarchy, womanhood in all its forms. Nothing at all like the harsh masculinity of winter, the brazen heat of summer. Autumn, comparably, has always felt more androgynous, to her; the coats you don for the first time since the year before, the scarves that cover half your face, there is something so mysterious and unknown about the figures spotted in fall, layers masking truths unknown to even the one who wears them all. It makes sense, then, that prom is at that liminal point of the seasons, wedged between late-spring and early-summer. The merging of the masculine and feminine, soft shadows versus harsh lights. But Toro brings with them the grace of autumn even now; they’re trying on some shitty drug store makeup Illi had picked up, seeing if it looks good on them at all, and there’s that blurriness again—something new, something unseen, something kind of holy, if you think about it. In the icy blue of the browbone highlight, in the smudged smokiness of their eyeshadow, there is a liminality to their existence, too: a silent affirmation, a reminder to themself as much as to Illi; this is allowed, this is possible, and this is okay.

Illi never felt like makeup suited her. Not the same way it suited other girls, not the way it suited Ray, even in their inexperience. Sure, she could smudge up some eyeliner, fan it out to make people question if the bags beneath her eyes were the product of sleeplessness or fashion, but nothing ever sat right on her. Lipstick made her look clownish, stupid, like a boy playing pretend at his mother’s vanity. Blush was a whole other beast. She thinks about that stupid drawing she’d done maybe a month ago, the crimson of her lips, the shadows made darker with pigment, the slimming nature of makeup when done right. And that’s what it is, isn’t it? Makeup doesn’t hide so much as it reveals, and what else is there to reveal when you’ve been the ugly kid from day one? Only feminine when you were still a boy, just a creep now that you’re a girl? If makeup is the ultimate mirror into the soul, how dark and grim must hers be?

“Be honest, does literally any of this look half-decent on me?”

Ray’s voice snaps her out of her self-loathing stupor, and she blinks back to focus.

“Holy shit, Toro, I think you were made for this.”

And it isn’t an exaggeration at all. It’s just experimentation, really; they doubt they’ll even wear anything for the event itself, save for maybe a bit of eyeshadow if they’re feeling fancy. But it’s an act of intimacy nonetheless. Here is my soul, will you hold it close and keep it safe if I bare it to you?

Ray’s sheepish smile is worth a thousand words. “Want me to do yours? I mean, I’m no creative genius, but I think I get the gist of what vibe you’d want.”

It stuns her, frankly. It shouldn’t. This is who Ray has always been: kind, considerate, caring, just about every single synonym for good in the English language. But it feels like a Beauty and the Beast situation, only she won’t transform at the end with true love’s kiss. She’ll just be a beast in makeup. Still, she won’t turn town Ray Toro. 

(Especially if it means she’ll be in close proximity to them for an extended period of time.)

“Don’t get your hopes up. I know I’m not the prettiest canvas.” She sits up and scoots closer to where Ray is sitting with a handheld mirror and various powders.

“Shut up, you’re pretty and you know it.”

What?

“What?”

“Was this not common knowledge? Tilt your head up a bit, I’m going to start with the eye stuff.”

“You can’t just say that out of nowhere—”

“Sit still, you’ll mess with my linework.”

They’re acting like they know what they’re doing. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is, but Illi has just been called pretty like it’s an objective truth, and Ray’s cupping her face gracelessly to really fan out all the pigment, and she really can’t complain or do much of anything at the moment. She won’t even need blush at this rate. Her cheeks will do just fine. 

It takes about 20 minutes, and that’s just the eyes. When Ray holds up the mirror, Illi isn’t sure what she’s expecting, but it’s certainly not this—light greys by her tear duct and the ends of her eyes, then a bit of some white-ish pigment to make it look shimmery. The eyeliner is shaky, far from clean, but there’s a bit of a wing that flicks out at the ends and on her waterline. It’s very Siouxsie and the Banshees. And they’ve done this thing with the eyeshadow or whatever other product is in the pile where her eyebrows are super defined in this super Goth way—very Frank, if she says so herself, and for once it’s a good thing—and it ties it all together in the most perfect way. There’s so much care in it, so much attention to detail; every now and then, Ray’s thumb would smudge away some imperfection, or they’d back up a bit to check for symmetry, and there’s this thing they do when they’re deep in focus where they stick their tongue out, and it’s so much dedication that when Ray eventually finishes up with the lips she’s crying these silent tears and ruining half of their hard work.

“Shit, Ills, did I do something?” Their eyebrows lace together, makeup creasing with the movement. 

“No, dude, I’m fine, it’s just—I don’t even know why I’m crying, honestly.” A lie. She knows exactly why. She just doesn’t have the guts to admit it. 

Damn Ray for seeing right through her, and damn them even more for knowing better than to press the matter, just setting the mirror down and letting their presence calm her. She reaches for them, takes their hands in her own, and the two of them sit there for God knows how long, just… existing, breathing, being together in some way. 

“Thank you,” she whispers when the handhold somehow evolves into an awkward sort of embrace. 

And Ray doesn’t need to say anything for her to know this is all they wanted.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice booms, distinctly Mikey-sounding, and just like that, their moment of calm is halted as the two scramble apart.

“And Ray,” a Frankish voice provides.

“And Ray. Drumroll, please!”

They oblige the disembodied voices of their friends, gently drumrolling on their thighs.

“You’ve seen it in movies late at night with your sister, you’ve seen it in old magazines, you know it and you love it—”

Mikey has now made himself known as he descends the stairs, and there’s a shuffling sound like Frank is following, plus a weird sound like the ruffle of fabric, and—no fucking way.

“We present to you, Illi McMillin—”

Illi dramatically gestures to herself, offering a little, “Who, me?” in lieu of letting her excitement and curiosity manifest too outwardly.

“Your new and improved prom dress!”

And there it is. That piece of shit gown—okay, maybe that’s a bit mean—that caused her so much trouble, weeks and weeks of anguished searching, in the hands of her kid brother and one of her best friends, and it looks… 

Better than she’d expect from two people she expected to not know the first thing about sewing. Way better, actually, because god damn it, they’d managed to add those little bunches of fabric on either side of the waist, and there’s a faux-fur trim that’s obviously made from a cheap boa and some pillow frill, and they’ve even got the opera gloves and managed to make the off-yellow of the original dress’s details look more like the gold of the colorized promo pictures, and fuck, she loves her friends. 

She’s definitely crying again as she exclaims, “Oh my fucking god, guys, holy shit.”

Mikey and Frank beam at her. When she looks over at Ray, they have the exact same smile.

“So this whole time while I was looking for it, you guys—”

“We probably should’ve asked before scaring you halfway to the grave, but… yeah, this is what we’ve been doing,” Frank says with uncharacteristic nervousness, but she detects an equal amount of giddiness to his tone.

“This is seriously like a mirror image of her dress,” she says when she stands up to get a closer look, feeling the tulle they’d added to the ends and the padding they’d removed from the bust. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“We wanted to, man. This past month, you’ve kind of been the happiest we’ve seen you in a while. Also the most anxious we’ve seen you maybe ever, but you’ve been so excited for this. Figured if we could make it even better, then why not try?” It’s one of the sweetest things Mikey’s ever said. She squeezes him and Frank in a hug, Frank hurriedly beckoning Ray closer so they can take the dress, muttering something about how he’d worked his ass off to get the boning right—holy shit, they’d corseted it?---and he’d kill them all himself if anything happened to his prized creation. In the end, they both have a thin layer of makeup smudged on their clothes, but nobody seems to care. 

“Get over here, Ray, I need to know what role you played in all of this, too.”

They carefully lay the dress onto the couch as far from any makeup as possible, joining the hug briefly before they all separate.

“Toro was the distraction,” Frank says. “We knew you’d be itching to go down to the basement at some point, so we made sure to have a strategically placed Ray at all times.”

“So the makeup and stuff, that time we all spent hours in my room, it was all to get you guys a few more hours of work?”

“Sort of, yeah,” Ray says quietly, “but we do all actually like spending time with you, so. A welcome distraction, I guess. And I did mean everything I said, by the way.”

Frank and Mikey look at each other, confused. Illi just smiles.

“Good, because I was going to kick your ass if you were calling me pretty for nothing.”

The confusion grows. Then, turning her attention back to the dress with uncharacteristic timidness, Illi dares to ask, “Could I maybe try it on? So we know it fits and stuff.”

“It’s your dress, dude, go wild. Just be careful with all the shit on your face. I’ve spent the past month toiling away at this, I am not learning how to dry clean on top of that.” 

And with that, it begins. Illi shuffles off to the bathroom, and when she locks the door behind her, she just freezes. Stares blankly into the mirror, trying desperately to find just one thing to scrutinize about her face, but seriously, it feels like a crime to even dare to say one bad thing now that Ray’s spent all this time on it. She looks down at the dress and tries to find one flaw in it, one potential issue that’ll make it so she can’t wear it and she’ll suffer forever, but even as she undoes the zipper and fastens the extra fluff to her sides—such a little detail, but it made things so much easier—she just… can’t. She can’t find anything to say. And it’s not like her insecurities have gone away in an instant; even as she feels the best about herself than she has in so long, she still pinches the little swell that escapes the sleeveless bust with a frown, but it feels so much more manageable now. 

It’s not a costume. She’s not putting on a mask, there’s no persona to hide behind. It’s just Illi McMillin, the prettiest girl in St. Thomas. 

And there’s not a single ounce of pretense in her mind.

The clock reads 5:57, and damn it, Illi really did think she’d have more time to figure out her hair than she ended up with. Doors opened at 6:30, but with the inherent buzz that comes naturally to an event like prom night, the chances of actually making it in grew slimmer and slimmer with each additional minute you took to arrive. Illi hastily throws on her Mary Janes over the pale white stockings she’s chosen, touches up her makeup—done far less skillfully on her own than with Ray’s help, but she owes it to them for giving her that original concept to work off of—and knocks hurriedly on the bathroom door.

“Seriously, dude, what could you possibly be doing to your hair that requires more than 15 minutes?”

“Getting the fringe work is very time-sensitive! I’ve messed up, like, five times!”

She rolls her eyes. “At least let me help, or just let me in so we can get to the school with even half a chance of making it in.”

The door unlocks, and Mikey would look calmer in a warzone. He’s frantically trying to sort out this weird cowlick he has that’s making half the hair of his bangs stick up, and no amount of gel is taming that wild beast. Illi procures a hairclip out of nowhere, hands it to him, and watches her brother in real time realize that this was the most nonserious issue in the world with the simplest solution ever. He leaves the bathroom with a dejected, embarrassed face. Woe is him, truly. 

The curlers Illi’s put in her hair said to leave them in for an hour, but she’d had to make do with a little over 45, so they’re not the prettiest curls a girl could have, but they’re at least vaguely defined in little ringlets. Briefly, she ponders doing a little finger wave like Hepburn had in the movie, but she shakes her head, curls bouncing with it, grimacing at the thought of having that much gel to hold it in place. She’ll stick to her awful-smelling hairspray, thank you. She gives herself one final lookover, and she doesn’t hate what she sees—a rare thing, truly, but she cherishes the euphoria, clings to it like she’ll never feel it again, because for all she knows, she never may. Her lashes are curled upwards a bit with some mascara, her lips are jet black, and the eyeliner she’s put on is still a bit sloppy, but effective nonetheless. 

She looks good. She actually looks good. And, more groundbreakingly, she feels good, too. 

When she exits the bathroom and meets Mikey, her hopes are dashed just a bit as the one thing she dreaded most came true: her parents wanting to take a photo. 

“It’s the last big thing you’ll do for senior year, Illi, don’t you want to treasure it?”

“We’re going to be late, Mom, come on—”

“It’ll only take a minute. Michael, stand a bit closer to your sister.”

It does not, in fact, only take a minute. It takes ten. Illi’s mother, for all her thousands of photos and videos, is not a good photographer. She’s exhausted more SD cards than Illi can count, and yet her technique is still less than ideal—it’s nonexistent, in fact. Her thumb is somehow in the way of half the shots, even though the camera is massive and really has no way to have any obstructions unless you’re really, really trying, but once the ordeal is over—rushed into an ending, more like, with Illi and Mikey slowly scooting closer and closer to the front door—it’s a mad-dash to St. Thomas. Just as she’d suspected, half the parking spots were taken by people whose parents didn’t hate them and wanted them to be painfully late, but she spots one towards the back of the lot, driving like a madwoman to beat out anyone else who’d had their eyes on it. By the end of it, Mikey is clinging desperately to the front seat, and Illi’s hair is a bit of a mess from the sudden, jolting stop she’d made after parking. They stop for a minute to collect themselves, but it’s brief—they’re back to the sprint the moment they have half a breath. 

It is at this moment that the McMillin siblings realize that their rush done in such a hurry that it would rival The Amazing Race was all in vain; there were not, in fact, students camping out, desperate to get into the building, nor was there a wild stampede crushing every admin in the building. All that really stood there, really, was a steady line of students sparkly enough to catch the setting sun and blind Illi, tickets in hand, quickly attended to and ushered into the building.

“Oh my god,” Illi says, mostly to herself, “we didn’t have to do half the shit we just did, did we?”

“I tried to tell you we’d be fine.” That he did. “Look, I think I see Frank and Ray.”

Turning her attention to the people in question, it was Frank who caught her eye first, dressed in a rented tux probably half a size too big and makeup even more dramatic than what some of the girls she saw were wearing, arm interlocked with Jamia as they chattered about whatever it was those two chattered about. It was a sweet picture, really, the two of them already having a good time before ever stepping foot into the event itself. They’d even planned their outfits to match each other, she’s pretty sure—the teal detailing on Frank’s tux matched the teal of Jamia’s dress, subtle but cuter than it should have been. She’d never hear the end of it, just like last time; once Frank had something or someone he liked, he had a habit of never shutting up about it. Last week it was DC Comics. This week it was Jamia Nestor. 

“Aw, look at them, they make me sick already,” Illi says fondly, an overexaggerated dreamy sigh escaping her lips. 

“You think they’ll still be going steady after tonight?” Mikey asks as they head to the back of the line. “You know how it was last time.”

“I’m not letting Frank lose that girl. She’s good for him.” Mikey hums in approval, and they enter a comfortable silence as Illi eavesdrops on whatever random conversations about boys or spiked beverages she catches from the people in front of her. “I wasn’t able to see Ray, where were they?”

“A bit closer to the front, I’m pretty sure, but I don’t even know if it was them. I mean, that dress sort of changes everything. Completely different guy right there, just by changing that one little thing.”

Illi nods slowly, getting lost in her imagination. Ray had been particularly secretive about whatever they’d been concocting for prom night; all she knew, really, was that there would be accessories, they’d be trying something with their hair, and they really hoped it didn’t look stupid. Illi doubted Ray could look stupid in anything. 

“Earth to Illi? You’re holding up the line, we’re almost in.” Right. She snaps out of whatever she was thinking about, grateful for the interruption since her thoughts were getting dangerously close to romantic. It was weird. She and Ray hadn’t ever been much of anything. Obviously, she found them attractive, but so did everyone. And they were seriously the kindest, most caring person she’d ever met, sincerity dripping off every word of reassurance they offered. And she wouldn’t deny the electricity she felt whenever they were in close quarters, dating way back to freshman year when they’d get a moment alone. 

But at the same time, it was more than that—it wasn’t just romance, and it couldn’t ever just be romance, and she knew that if she even dared to entertain the thought of romance, things would fall apart. Illi did not mesh well with the very concept of dating, or love besides friendship, and even then her friendships always teetered between the best thing in her life and the most terrifying ordeal she’s ever put herself through. And if that’s how she got with something less than romantic, something that wasn’t as intimate as romance was supposed to be, if she clammed up at the thought of being vulnerable even with her friends, what kind of girlfriend could she ever be? A pretty shitty one. She’d mess up, inevitably, and no matter how many times her partner would reassure her that it’s fine, really, we can move on from this, she wouldn’t let herself believe it. It would be one more thing to hold over their head, whether she wanted to or not, because she’s nothing if not a perfectionist and if she can find just one thing to scrutinize, one flaw to justify the concept that she’s not worthy of love or attraction or whatever the fuck she thinks at the time, she’ll run away. 

She’s no better than Frank, really. But unlike Frank, she doesn’t think she has anyone to hold her back from destruction. Or, worse yet, the one person she knows could keep her sane and calm is the one person she’d do anything not to hurt. A wildfire against a tsunami: fierceness that fizzles out with a soothing touch. Ray is her tsunami. Even if they settle her down, it’s not enough to heal the woods she’s burnt by simply being.

By the time she and Mikey get their tickets verified and officially step into the building, she’s too overwhelmed by the sounds and smells to really linger on those thoughts any longer. For once, she’s grateful for sensory overload: at least this distress is predictable. 

“Would it kill these people to put deodorant on for once in their lives?”

Speak of the devil. Illi’s scared to look Ray in the eye, knowing too well that she’ll like what she sees and having a sinking feeling that she’ll say something stupid as a result. But she can’t help herself, not really—not when this is her best friend more than her guilt made manifest—so she turns around quickly, and no matter what she thought she was expecting, it couldn’t ever match the reality. It’s not the most dramatic dress, nor the most elegant in the world; black and made of a material close to satin, she thinks, cinched at the waist where ruffles trail down and to the back of the dress, the pleating making it look more girlish than feminine, it really shouldn’t work as well as it does, but damn it, it works. The jacket doesn’t help. It’s this shiny black leather jacket, maybe a bit cropped—or maybe Ray’s just tall— that stops a bit before their wrists, exposing some fingerless gloves, and shit, are they wearing a fishnet top under that? It’s this mess of aesthetics, one part grunge, one part prep, black converse with sheer leggings, a juxtaposition of the hard leather and the smooth satin, the feminine meeting the masculine, and it should not work but Illi wants to kiss them until they’re both seeing stars and it is a miracle that she has the self restraint to say anything other than, “Holy shit, Toro.”

Ray puts a hand in the pocket of their jacket, smiling, and Illi thinks she sees a bit of a stain on their front teeth where they accidentally opened their mouth while applying whatever lip gloss or lipstick they have on, the most subtle shift in hue from their natural color but ultimately unifying in the grungeness of their apparel. Charming is the word, she thinks, for how they look. Painfully, irresistibly charming. 

“Do you even know how good you look right now?” she adds, still a bit awestruck.

“I’ve got a couple ideas,” they say, like they anticipated that response, and coyness is not a common look for Ray Toro but their feminine wiles are getting the best of Illi. “The looks on people’s faces have been priceless. I think they all think I’m a girl.” There’s excitement in their voice when they say that, despite their best efforts to subdue it, make it seem more like a joke than a dream. “And then they see my face and go, holy shit, that’s Ray Toro, what the hell is he doing? So then it’s all worth it.”

“It’d be worth it no matter what,” Illi says, “and it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve been so eye-catching.”

“It sort of is? At least that I’ve noticed,” Ray responds, and there is no way they are this clueless as to the effect they have on quite possibly everyone ever. But it puts Illi in an impossible situation where she’s damned if she admits that everyone finds them hot, since that automatically implicates her, and she’s damned if she says nothing, because that’s just digging her own grave in the implications. She turns to Mikey, a silent plea of save me, what have I done, but he’s disappeared, and when she catches him in the corner of her vision, he gives her a smile that says you’re on your own, have fun. 

“Can’t believe they’ve ditched us,” Illi says, changing the subject as she pretends to survey the area. It’s not the most elegantly-decorated, but it captures the haphazard theme the school decided on of old royalty. White and gold streamers decorate the ugly brick pillars, and closer to the gym, there’s a few circular tables spaced out to provide an empty space in the center for the even more haphazard snacks and drinks. Faintly, she hears whatever shitty mixtape the DJ’s cooked up, the bass shaking the floor ever so slightly. More and more people are making their way to the gym, thankfully leaving only the most socially awkward in the commons area; she’s among her fellows, she realizes with a sigh of relief, and the pressure in her chest eases just a bit. “What the hell is Mikey even up to, you think?”

“Tearing up the dance floor, I bet.”

“Mikey McMillin, tearing up the dance floor?” 

“Hey, you never know! Maybe he’s got this cool alter-ego that likes parties and doesn’t sneak his GameBoy into social events. You’ve seen the shades he brought. He’s like a whole new man.”

Illi laughs, conceding to their point, and it’s easy conversation from there as they idle. They share their mutual concerns and excitement over Frank seeing Jamia again, make fun of how cheap the decorations look for such an expensive, snooty private school, try to guess on a scale of one to ten how edible any of those unpackaged snacks are, so on—it’s normal. They’re normal. At some point in the conversation, they’ve migrated closer to the gym, and the bass is so startling when they start playing a song by Usher that Illi briefly wonders if a small-scale earthquake happened. They take that as their cue to sit down, even if just for a minute, and keep talking. 

For a moment, Illi wonders if they’ve been set up. None of their friends are here. Frank had already let them know that he’d definitely stop by, he wanted to spend most of the night with Jamia, whereas Mikey had just fucked off to god knows where, leaving Illi with Ray, the person that everyone and their mother knew she had some kind of complicated feeling towards. At prom. That night where mistakes are made and friendships either blossom into something new or wither away like a flower born too early in the spring. 

Maybe that’s why she, during a loaded lull in their conversation, dares to grab a drink of the dubious punch concoction in the middle of the room, downs it in a single go, and takes Ray by the hand to lead them to the dance floor, offering a simple explanation of, “We are going dancing and there is nothing you can do about it.”

There’s something emboldening about a dance floor, no matter how informal. The heat of so many bodies, the droning buzz of cheap speakers, the lights pulsating in a hypnotic rhythm, every minute aspect of a dance floor is meticulously crafted to ensure sensory overload, bad decisions, and even worse dancing. Illi thinks she’s spotted someone doing the worm closer to the pit that’s formed closest to the DJ, and decides that she will ignore that, upon a double take, it is, in fact, her brother. She and Ray settle into a comfortable spot in the corner of the gym, dodging abandoned bags and mysterious spills in their efforts. Together, they watch the crowd of dancers make fools out of themselves, how one person tries and fails to crowdsurf, the uniformity of the crowd when Y.M.C.A. plays—the two of them do stand up for that one, performing the song for each other and only each other with a sort of passion and rigor only matched by middle-aged men at a karaoke bar—and, finally, the transition from a loud party song to the extended intro of what’s undoubtedly some slow dance. 

The gentle cymbals back Ray’s voice as they speak. “I’ve never taken you to be much of a dancer, McMillin,” they say lightly, “and now I’m sort of wondering why you dragged me over here. Seeing as neither of us have dared to venture towards the middle.”

“I mean, it's not like either of us would like it in the middle of… all of that,” she replies with a small laugh, gesturing aimlessly at the crowd in question. “But I saw the way you kept glancing over at the door, like you wanted to go in but were too scared to ask. So I, as a very chivalrous gentlewoman,” and there she does a fancy bow, which Ray giggles at, “took it upon myself to give you what you want. Especially since it’s starting to seem like you’re my date for the night.”

Abort. Mission. What have you done? What are you doing, McMillin? Why did you say that? Someone flip the switch to mayday mode, someone give her a quick and painless death. Anything to escape the embarrassment of what she’s just said. “I don’t know why I said that, but it’s also not like dates can’t be platonic, between two guys-who-aren’t-guys, just hanging out, so really it’s no big deal—”

And then Ray Toro is kissing her. For maybe half a second, but it’s the best point-five seconds of her life. It’s barely a brush of the lips, really, and when they break the contact, Illi realizes that her hands somehow made it to their hips, toying with the fabric and patting it down just because, and the world seems to stop for just a moment, just for them.

“I don’t think the average person would go out of her way to over-explain a single word,” Ray says, a bit breathless despite the admittedly very sad excuse of a kiss, “and you, Illi McMillin, are far from average. Is it weird that I’m kind of grateful Frank and Mikey aren’t here?”

Illi nods, then shakes her head. “Not weird at all, um. The feeling is mutual?” It’s far more of a question than an answer—more hope than fact, something easy to back away from if it turns out she’s misconstrued this whole situation. The drums kick in, significantly less bass-boosted than anything before, and call her sentimental but she’s feeling bold, whatever sour yet distinctly non-alcoholic addition to the punch working its magic, because she takes Ray’s hand and says, a weak prayer, a plea so raw that the humor she tries lacing it with is lost, “May I have this dance?” 

Ray takes her gloved hand with a small curtsy, unable to help themself. “You may, my dear lady.”

They’re still so far from the crowd, a small blip in the mass of the school congregated towards the center but dispersing into pairs as one by one, students realize the tone of the song and decide in real time if they should dare to make their feelings known. Somewhere in that crowd, Illi has no doubt that Mikey’s probably found some person to dance with, mostly as a joke and partly so he doesn’t feel left out. She knows Frank and Jamia are there, too, giggling about some inside joke they’ve already invented, but she doesn’t care about any of them right now. 

All she’s thinking about is the pretty girl in front of her, and the pretty girl she feels like she is.

It’s an awkward mess, at first; a silent bickering over who puts whose hands where, who holds the shoulders and who holds the waist. Illi’s extent of dance knowledge comes from War and Peace, that elegant ballroom scene between Andrei and Natasha, how Pierre stood to the side, happy to have introduced them and all at once realizing the gravity of his choice; they would be happy. They would be so happy, but it would be a life without him in it, and he didn’t know whose loss he was grieving more: Natasha, and his budding feelings towards her, or Andrei, the comrade he’d had for years, who once told him to never marry, yet who would himself go on to profess his undying love to Natasha and lose himself all over again in the process.

Illi has always felt a kinship to Pierre; she has felt like a Bezukhova her whole life, torn with guilt over what the right thing to do is, what the purpose of her life is, if she can even dare to entertain the thought of a happily ever after. She may have never become a Mason, but she toiled with religion just as well: what God would ever condemn her to a life like this? She has given up everything to pursue an idea of goodness and righteousness, of political activism, and she still reckons with the beast of self-doubt that whispers in her ear all her failings, how this dress connotes a false status, how if she holds Ray by the shoulders it will be an act of submission, but if she holds them by the waist she’s only promoting ideas of masculine dominance. And unlike Pierre, Illi will never find her solace—Natasha will always be out of reach, not because she’s committed herself to someone else, but because of her own denial of what she deserves. 

Ray takes the choice from her, placing their hands on her shoulders, resigning themself to a follower position before Illi has any chance to voice her insecurity, and she realizes in that moment that this is everything they need right now—a steady arm keeping a firm grip around their waist, a gentle smile on their partner’s face, an easygoing rhythm as they rest their head on her shoulder. This is where they need to be: loved, held, cherished as they are. And Illi will provide.

“Very platonic slow dancing we’ve got going on,” Illi says jokingly, more of a hum vaguely aimed at Ray than any real conversation.

Ray hums their assent, then adds, “Totally platonic, obviously.”

“What does this mean for us? You know I’m bad at this stuff.”

Ray’s hold on her tightens, grounding her before she has the chance to lift off into her anxiety. “Then we can both be bad at it. I don’t think anyone’s good at it their first try.”

“I’m probably going to try and sabotage things at least once.”

“I won’t let that stop me.”

“I’ll probably be a wreck half the time.”

“Then I’ll just hold your hand if you want me to.”

“I won’t always be good at comforting you.”

“Then I can show you how.”

It’s a fragile thing, love. Messy and hard to maintain, easy to break without meaning to. But Ray looks at Illi like she’s the most beautiful, ethereal thing in the world, like she’s someone who’s worthy of the maintenance, like they’ll glue her back together each time that she falls, and as Illi looks at them back, she feels that same feeling, that same dopey grin on her face. She is not going to let this fail, whatever fragile thing they have. Just as Ray has held her together so  many times before, she will hold them close each night, for as many nights as she’s permitted, and she will make them feel loved in a way that’s not brand new, only slightly changed, and she will show them just how wonderful they are, just as they showed her. 

When they kiss again, this time more sure of themselves, Illi feels prettier than she has in a very long time.