Chapter Text
"For the last time, no," O huffs out with a frustrated breath of air, fingers tightening around the worn leather of the steering wheel until their knuckles bloom white against tanned skin.
"You're crazy, O. It's only twenty minutes away." Clarke shifts herself around in the passenger seat, the worn leather creaking beneath her. She digs into the back pocket of her skinny black jeans—the ones with the artfully placed rips that Lexa always pretends to hate but actually loves—and fishes out her cell phone. The late morning sunlight catches on the small infinity symbol charm dangling from her case, sending prisms dancing across the dashboard. "I've been going there for years now and loved it. Denise is seriously like the ultimate hair whisperer. Even Lexa approves of her, and you know how picky she can be with that waterfall of brunette perfection she's so proud of. I'm sure Denise can squeeze you in if I just give her a call."
Clarke's already thumbing through her contacts, the blue glow of the screen reflecting in her determined eyes. "Way better option than driving two hours to some random barbershop in the middle of nowhere just 'cause a friend of a friend recommended it."
"No." The word is quiet but edged with steel.
"O..." Clarke's voice softens, taking on that nurturing tone she reserves for her hospital patients and her most stubborn friends.
O glances over at Clarke, cell phone ready in hand, and is suddenly hit with a gut-wrenching wave of conflicting emotions. Their knuckles ever so slightly whiten as they curl their fingers tighter around the steering wheel, the leather warm and familiar beneath their touch. Part of O wants nothing more than to just turn the car around, right then and there, and tell Clarke to forget about it. The Jeep's engine—always a bit too loud, always a bit too temperamental—would growl in agreement. But they know better. Doing that will only trigger Clarke to dive straight into one of her famous impromptu "I love you and will always support you" speeches, complete with those earnest blue eyes and the way she grips your hand just a little too tightly. And frankly, O can't handle sitting through it...
Especially not today.
It's not like O isn't beyond grateful for Clarke's unwavering love and support. Actually, it's the exact opposite. In all honesty, they wouldn't have made it even half as far in life, if it hadn't been for that girl sitting beside them in the passenger's seat of their Jeep Wrangler, humming softly to some pop song only she knows the words to.
The memory surfaces unbidden—the scuffed elementary school cafeteria table, the noise of a hundred children deafening to a painfully shy five-year-old O. The sound of a lunch tray being set down beside them, and then a sandwich—peanut butter and jelly with the crusts carefully removed—sliding across the table. "You don't have a lunch," the blonde eight-year-old had said simply. Not a question. An observation paired with a solution. Classic Clarke, even then.
Ever since that fateful day back in elementary school, some fifteen or so odd years ago, Clarke has been the one constant in O's life that they can continually count on no matter what the circumstance or situation. She's always just there. No strings attached or questions ever asked.
And life, unfortunately, has genuinely thrown them both more than their fair share of curveballs, each one harder and faster than the last. They've been by each other's side through the loss of parents—O's mother to cancer when they were twelve, Clarke's father to a workplace accident her senior year of high school—friends, and those that were supposed to love them unconditionally, never once doubting in each other's level of commitment or endless love for one another.
Clarke, in short, is so much more than just their best friend. She's their family... The only real family that O's got, aside from a half-brother who still sometimes slips and uses their dead name when he's had too much to drink.
And yet, if O's being completely honest with themselves, Clarke isn't the one that they desperately wish was by their side at this very moment in time. Yes, Clarke is so many, many things to them... but she isn't their "person."
The highway stretches ahead, a gray ribbon unfurling beneath a cloudless sky. O focuses on the yellow lines blurring past, trying to anchor themselves in the moment rather than spiraling into thoughts of why Raven isn't here. Why their person chose to stay home with a transparently fake illness rather than witness this transformation.
"You don't have to come, Clarke," O quietly responds, eyes returning to the open road. A semi truck rumbles past in the opposite direction, causing the Jeep to shudder slightly. "I can drop you off and—"
"O Blake Griffin, don't even think about finishing that sentence." Clarke's voice cuts through the air like a scalpel—precise and leaving no room for argument. The glare she fixes on O could rival the one she uses to keep unruly interns in line at the hospital. "You and I both know, I'd never in a million years let you do this alone. Even if it means accompanying you to the middle of Bumblefuck nowhere, where I'll probably get zero cell reception and have to make actual eye contact with strangers instead of scrolling through Instagram."
A small but noticeable smile creeps across O's face as Clarke's words fully sink in, warming them from the inside out like the first sip of coffee on a winter morning. "That's a first."
"What?" Clarke asks, already reaching for the AUX cord dangling from the dashboard, her bracelets jingling softly with the movement.
"You used my new name."
"Yeah. Well, I've been dying for the right opportunity to try it out ever since you changed it. Gotta say it's got a nice ring to it. Especially the Griffin part." Clarke gives a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders as if to say it's no big deal, but her eyes are warm with unspoken affection as she tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. And yet, her matching smile says else wise.
"I was always meant to be a Griffin," O says softly, memories of childhood sleepovers and matching friendship bracelets flashing through their mind.
"Just like you were always meant to be O," Clarke counters with a warm and loving tone to her voice that makes O's chest ache with gratitude. "Now where the hell's your AUX cable? I'm so not doing this ride listening to nothing but Disney's greatest hits. I still haven't recovered from our road trip to Portland last year."
"What's wrong with Disney?" O's eyes widen in mock offense, one hand clutching dramatically at their chest.
But Clarke doesn't even humor O with a response. She reaches over, snatches up the nearby cable, plugs in her phone, and then queues up some music. The opening chords of an old Arkadia song—a band they'd both obsessed over in high school—fills the Jeep's interior. "Don't get me started."
Two hours and a few pit stops later, O finds themselves camped next to Clarke on a row of less than comfy metal chairs in a barbershop on the outskirts of a town called Angel Grove. The shop is smaller than they expected—just four stations with antique-looking mirrors and worn leather chairs that have seen better days. The walls are a deep teal, covered in framed photographs of satisfied customers sporting various hairstyles through the decades. The air smells of sandalwood, hair product, and the faint metallic tang of scissors.
O nervously flips their cell phone over and over again in their hands, the smooth metal case cool against their sweaty palms. The rhythmic motion is hypnotic, grounding. Flip, check screen (no new messages), flip again. The background image—Raven laughing, head thrown back, silhouetted against a sunset at Mount Weather last summer—flashes with each turn.
O had first heard about this place from their jiu-jitsu instructor Zack. It had come up randomly one day after an extra grueling grappling practice, where O had found themselves beyond struggling with their outwardly feminine appearance. The gym had been packed that day, the air thick with exertion and testosterone, the fluorescent lights harsh overhead. Each time they would swap partners, it was the same pronoun song and dance. Yes, O had long hair that clung damply to their neck during practice. And yes, thanks in part to not being able to wear their binder during practice, they had a clearly visible chest beneath their rashguard. But they weren't a girl. Nor a boy. They were just O. A concept that most of their neanderthal-like counterparts couldn't seem to wrap their heads around to save their lives.
After the twentieth or so time of correcting a classmate on the use of the female pronouns, O had been more than ready to throw in the towel, their gear bag already half-packed, when suddenly, Zack stepped in. His voice had cut across the mat like thunder, but his eyes had been kind.
"Listen up!" he'd called, clapping his hands with enough force to echo against the gym's high ceiling. "Next person who uses the wrong pronouns when referring to O has to spar against me... without the use of their hands." A collective groan had rippled through the class, several of the larger men shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Everyone had seen Zack at the regional championships last year. No one was eager to face him, especially with a handicap.
It was a small gesture but nonetheless meant the world to O.
Afterward, Zack had suggested that the two of them go grab a beer together at a nearby bar called Grounders. O had been more than hesitant at first to say yes. They simply just weren't the type of person who up and agreed to hang out with a perfect stranger... Especially, the seemingly hetero male variety. But there was something about Zack that made O feel at ease. A genuineness in his smile, a comfort in his easy acceptance. Something that they rarely seemed to be able to find in others.
And so one beer turned into half a dozen, the amber liquid glowing in the bar's dim lighting, and before O realized it, they were spilling their entire life story to the lovable goofball of a boy sitting across from them. They talked for hours on end about everything and anything. Childhood—Zack's in foster care, O's with a single mom and a much older half-brother. Friends. Losing parents from illness—Zack's foster mother to Alzheimer's, O's to cancer. Coming out, Zack as pansexual and O, first as bisexual and later genderqueer.
Then, when the conversation shifted to O's current struggles with who they are and more importantly, who they want to become, without missing a beat, Zack reached for a bar napkin and scribbled down a name and address, telling them that if they were really ready to make a change, that they needed to go meet a friend of his named Tommi. That, out of anyone, Tommi was the one who could best help O take that plunge. The napkin had been slightly damp from condensation, the blue ink bleeding at the edges, but O had folded it carefully and kept it in their wallet for weeks before finally working up the courage to call.
"Ouch." O winces in slight discomfort as Clarke gives them a hard elbow to the arm, the sudden jolt pulling them from their memories.
"Look," Clarke whispers while motioning towards the raven-haired girl sitting with her back towards them in a nearby barber chair, her silhouette framed by the afternoon light streaming through the shop's front window.
"What?" O rubs their arm, eyebrow raised in confusion.
"That girl." Clarke's voice drops even lower, forcing O to lean in to hear her.
"What about her?"
Clarke gives O a slightly exaggerated eye roll and shakes her head, the small gold hoops in her ears catching the light. "You blind? She's freakin' hot. Like, should-be-illegal hot."
O briefly glances up at the girl, who's too busy texting away on her phone to even notice that they are talking about her, thumbs flying across the screen with practiced ease, and then back at Clarke with a general look of confusion. The raven-haired girl is beautiful—high cheekbones, perfect posture, an aura of confidence that seems to radiate from her even from behind—but O has more pressing concerns at the moment. "Clarke, you've got a fiancée..."
"Technically, Lexa's still just a girlfriend. Unless you know something—" Clarke narrows her eyes suspiciously, leaning even closer until her shoulder presses against O's.
"I know nothing," O blurts out, in a rushed exhale of breath that signifies one thing and one thing only... They're lying through their teeth. The small black velvet box hidden in the back of their sock drawer—entrusted to them by Lexa three weeks ago with strict instructions to keep it secret—feels like it's burning a hole in their memory.
"Riiiight." Clarke chuckles with an all-knowing smirk that says she's not buying it for a second. "Well, anyway. I can still think a girl's hot. Especially a girl who looks like that. I mean, did you see her jacket? Vintage leather. Lexa would approve."
O gives a half shrug of their shoulders and then goes back to compulsively rotating their phone, checking the screen for any new notifications with each and every flip. The glass is smudged with fingerprints, and there is a small crack in the corner from when they dropped it while rock climbing last month. Still no message from Raven.
"Still nothing?" Clarke's voice softens, the teasing tone gone completely.
"Nope." The 'p' pops sharply between O's lips, trying to mask the hurt with nonchalance.
"She'll come around, O. Promise. Raven's just being—"
"It's fine," O abruptly cuts Clarke off, not wanting to go any further on the topic. The barber shop suddenly feels too small, too warm, the buzz of clippers and murmur of conversation too loud in their ears. They shove their phone into the back pocket of their jeans, the denim worn soft from years of wear, and then let out a light sigh.
Clarke scoots herself closer to O, playfully resting her head on their shoulder, her blonde hair tickling O's neck. "Liar," she whispers, not unkindly.
"I'm fine, Clarke." O stares fixedly at a swirling pattern in the wooden floor, counting the whorls to keep from dwelling on Raven's absence.
"And I look forward to my Sunday morning couple runs with Lexa," Clarke responds, sarcasm dripping from each and every one of her words. "You know, those magical 5 am jogs where she doesn't even break a sweat and I look like I'm auditioning for a zombie movie."
"I'm okay." O closes their eyes and rests their head on top of Clarke's, taking momentarily comfort in just existing in their pseudo-sister's presence, encompassed by the ambient sounds of the shop around them—the rhythmic snip of scissors, the low hum of clippers, occasional bursts of laughter, and the faint melody of a rock station playing overhead.
"O, right?"
O's eyes pop back open at the sound of their name and instantly comes face to face with nothing short of a real, live Greek goddess of a woman. Her skin is a rich bronze, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun with electric blue tips peeking out. Silver hoops line the edge of one ear, and a small tattoo of scissors decorates her wrist. But what captivates O most is her smile—it seems to radiate beyond the boundaries of her face, virtually lighting up the space around her with a warmth that's almost tangible. It's infectious, and suddenly, O feels as if they can breathe again, the knot of anxiety in their chest loosening just slightly.
O raises their head and gives a slight nod in response, attempting to match the woman's smile. "Yeah."
"I'm Tommi. Let me finish up with Kim here, and I'll be with you in a moment," Tommi replies, giving a little bit of a flirtatious wink before turning back toward the raven-haired girl in the chair. Her movements are fluid, confident, like a dancer or martial artist, each gesture purposeful.
"I take it back. Tommi's hot," Clarke perks up, eyes glued to Tommi's athletic form as she returns to Kim's chair. "Like hotter than hot. Like surface-of-the-sun hot."
"One word. Lexa." O nudges Clarke with their elbow, grateful for the brief distraction from their anxiety.
"Two words. Just looking," Clarke responds in her ever-so-irksome, sing-song-style voice that has annoyed and endeared O in equal measure since childhood. "Geez. Lighten up. You're no fun, O."
"Yeah. I've been told that." O exhales as they feel their hand unconsciously move towards their back pocket, the phantom weight of the phone and its silent screen pulling at them like gravity. They stop, though, just short of reaching for it and instead opt to run their hand over their signature ponytail, the familiar weight of it suddenly feeling like a stranger's limb attached to their head. A single and sobering thought runs rampant through the confines of their head...
Maybe their "person" isn't really their "person" after all.
"Okay. So what are we doing today?" Tommi asks as she finishes adjusting the cape around O's neck and pumps up the chair with practiced efficiency. The black fabric settles around O's shoulders like a protective shield, cool and smooth against their neck. The mirror before them shows a face O recognizes but doesn't quite know—eyes wide with anticipation, jaw tense with nerves, their mother's high cheekbones and their half-brother's stubborn chin.
"I... Um... I..." O trails off, suddenly at a complete and utter loss for words. The fluorescent lights overhead seem too bright, the eyes of everyone in the shop feeling like they're drilling into O's back. They've rehearsed this countless times before in their head—lying awake at night with Raven's steady breathing beside them, practicing in the shower, mumbling to their reflection while brushing their teeth—and yet, now here in the moment, it seems like an impossible task. Why is it so painfully hard just to go ahead and pull the trigger?
O's eyes dart over towards Clarke, who's lounging in the empty chair to their right, scrolling through her phone, and shoots her a desperate plea. Their heartbeat thunders in their ears, drowning out the music and chatter of the shop.
Clarke glances up, reads O's expression immediately, and snaps to attention. "O wants something that screams 'I'm here, and I'm genderqueer' with extra emphasis on the queer part," she announces with characteristic confidence, slipping her phone into her pocket.
"I'm gonna kill you," O mutters under their breath, shaking their head in disbelief at Clarke's response, though there's no real heat behind the words.
"What? It's true." Clarke shrugs, unrepentant, a mischievous glint in her blue eyes.
"Girlfriends?" Tommi asks as her eyes ping-pong between the two of them, her hands pausing in their work of combing through O's long hair.
"Us?!" Clarke immediately jerks forward, producing an extremely unattractive hybrid of a snort and a laugh that has haunted her since their middle school days. A flush creeps up her neck, blooming across her cheeks. "Oh God no! No. No way. We so aren't... Not that there's anything wrong with... It's just..."
"Clarke." O's voice holds equal parts warning and amusement.
"O's my little sis—Shit!" Clarke buries her face into her hands as the classic telltale signs of embarrassment set in. Her ears turn bright red, a trait that has made her a terrible poker player since college. "Fuck. I didn't mean to—"
"I know." O reaches out from under the cape, briefly squeezing Clarke's knee in reassurance.
"Is she always like this?" Tommi laughs, unable to mask her growing level of amusement at the two of them, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Unfortunately." O's lips quirk up in a half-smile.
"Am not." Clarke reaches over and slaps O in the arm, the gesture so familiar it feels like home. "Let me try this again. O's my amazingly wonderful, kick-ass, little sibling. And, before you ask, yes, we're adopted. But that's beside the point. We both have girlfriends—"
"She's not my girlfriend," O cuts in with a huff of annoyance, the memory of Raven's empty side of the bed that morning sending a fresh pang through their chest.
"Fine. Whatever. I've got a girlfriend, and you've got a person. A person named Raven, who's currently being a major ass cu—"
"Clarke!" O's voice rises sharply, the single word cracking like a whip in the suddenly quiet shop.
A sudden and uncomfortable silence falls between the three of them as no one seems to know exactly what to say or do next, the only sounds the distant buzz of clippers from another station and the soft rock playing overhead. O stares at their reflection, almost not recognizing the person looking back—someone caught between worlds, between identities, between the safety of the known and the terrifying freedom of becoming.
Then—
"I just need to look like me," O quietly states with a long exhale of breath. "If that makes any sense." Their voice is barely above a whisper, but the words feel like a shout, an admission, a declaration.
"Total sense." Tommi gives O a light squeeze of understanding on their shoulders, the pressure firm and grounding. Then she grabs hold of O's ponytail holder and, with a simple flick of the wrist, tugs it free. O's long, chocolate locks cascade down, blanketing the better part of their shoulders and back like a curtain closing on a stage. The weight of it is suddenly suffocating; years of growth, history, and expectations press down on them.
They suddenly can't seem to remember the last time they had it cut.
Maybe two years ago? Or three?
Definitely way before the beginning of this journey. Before they'd whispered "I think I'm not a girl" to Raven in the darkness of their bedroom. Before they'd chosen a new name. Before they'd started binding. Before Bellamy had stopped calling for months.
Tommi starts to work her fingers through O's hair, taking her time to examine how it falls as she flips it from one side to another. Each touch is professional but somehow reassuring, as if she understands exactly what this moment means. "I've got an idea, but it'll be a pretty big-ass change. You 100% positive you're ready for something like that? 'Cause if not, I can always cut it in stages. Maybe bring it up here to your shoulders first and then in a few weeks—"
"No. I'm ready now," O interrupts with a hint of a tremble in their voice. They give themselves one last good look in the mirror, cataloging every feature of this in-between version of themselves. They swallow back down the lump of fear in their throat and then, mustering up all of the confidence they can find within themselves, give a slight nod of confirmation back at Tommi. "Let's do this."