Archive of Our Own ^beta

Quickstepping down the stairs of the Sotenbori footpath, Haruka nearly falters in her resolve before remembering that she isn’t allowed to do things like that anymore. So she keeps her back straight and looks Yoko right in the eye, remembers standing hands spread with her feet planted firmly in the sand as she stared Hamazaki down, and it’s enough to get herself to put the dress back in her hands.

Yoko just raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t even look down. Seems to look past Haruka entirely, so she chances a glance behind her, but there isn’t anything else there. When enough time has passed that Haruka can’t help physically squirming, Yoko says: “What, bumpkin? Not good enough for you?”

Hands spread. Feet planted. Hamazaki and the knife. The kids behind her. And the man with the bulldozer, yes, just like that. Feet planted and hands spread. Haruka says, “Thank you for lending it to me.”

Yoko sniffs. “You aren’t supposed to return gifts.”

In a moment of weakness, Haruka stares at her shoes. The motion burns. No, she thinks. Remember: feet planted. Hands spread. But her arms are at her sides and the water below the bridge makes her think about how easy it would be for the river to swallow any evidence of her having been here at all. There’s people above and around them going about their daily lives. She can hear the sounds of their feet on the floor. Maybe they’ve seen her on television. But maybe they haven’t.

She forces her chin upwards. “It wasn’t for me. I thought you might want it back.”

“And why is that?”

“You know,” she murmurs.

“Speak from your diaphragm,” Yoko reminds her, “I know they teach you all about projecting at Dyna Chair because I’ve seen you do it.”

Haruka perks up. “Onstage?”

“On cable TV,” Yoko says, rolling her eyes, “Don’t look so surprised. I want to see the fruits of my labor blossom.”

“And?”

“You haven’t disappointed. Yet.”

“Thank you, Yoko. Really, thank you so much.”

Yoko sighs. “You’re still too sincere.”

Haruka shrugs, mouth pulled into a small smile. She feels her shoulders relax for the first time all night. All day, maybe—she’d spent most of the afternoon drilling a sequence in her song that she couldn’t quite get right; tongue twisting, legs shaking, the little black points in her vision breaking her concentration, and Christina hadn’t been mad, per se, but he hadn’t been happy. He’d gone easy on her, and that had felt worse. So it’s nice, getting faux chewed out by Yoko, who cares—cares immensely. Who never goes easy on her because of that. And it had taken Haruka a while to figure this out, because Yoko keeps the world at a distance and deals in coverups far more intricate than those done by foundation, a protective layer that Haruka likes to think she’s slowly getting through to. The implication that she might be Yoko’s last pet project looms in the distance; maybe if Haruka is good enough, she can put a stop to that. Because Yoko loves this. More than Haruka ever could. And caring isn’t exactly the kind of thing you can turn off. It reminds her of—well, of course it does.

“Ah, what the hell,” Yoko says, “It’s part of your regional charm.”

She gingerly places the dress back in Haruka’s arms. Passes it on like a mantle, a kind of ritual that Haruka adores but can’t parse. She watches Yoko’s fingers sink in and out of the fabric and realizes, suddenly, that those same fingers made this. Deft and graceful hands pulled tight around cords of string. Not spread and no sand. Haruka’s own fingers feel coarse and clumsy by comparison. In her hoodie and her boots and her greasy ponytail.

Absentmindedly, she says, “Thank you. But I really came here to return it.”

“Mm. Why?”

She chews on the inside of her cheek. There’s a spot in her mouth where she’s formed enough of a groove to poke her tongue in. It hurts when she sings. “It’s Uda’s. I don’t want to take it from him, now that you two have… you know, worked things out.”

“Oh, honey,” Yoko scoffs, “That thing is from when we were kids. It wouldn’t fit Uda’s tiniest finger anymore. Let alone his big head.”

“Still,” Haruka says, “It’s not mine.”

“C’mon, bumpkin. Surely you must have some other tricks up your sleeve.”

Haruka considers this. Decides her sleeves are decidedly empty. “I can’t make you take it back, can I?”

“And they say she can’t be taught.”

“I really think—”

Firmly: “Haruka. Keep it.”

She chews harder. “It’s a waste of a good outfit.”

“Why?” Yoko’s addicted to the phrase, apparently. “Better in the hands of someone who can wear it. I’m too talented for my work to collect dust in some old flame’s closet.”

“But I won’t wear it,” Haruka says, sharply, “I already wore it, and there’s no need to wear it again.”

“So give it to someone else,” Yoko shoots back, eyes climbing to the sky and back again. Exasperation seeps into her tone in a way that kindles a fire in Haruka’s stomach. Swallow it. Stay poised. The dance instructor’s hand on the small of her back, telling her to keep her spine straight as she moves. “Knowing Uda, he’ll frame it up on his wall as some big gesture. Which is cute. But not the intended purpose.”

“What was the intended purpose?”

“Beauty,” Yoko says. Like nothing’s simpler than that.

Haruka is starting to feel like she’s on the outside of everybody else’s inside joke. “It won’t stop being beautiful just because someone put it away.”

“But what a waste,” Yoko says, “Don’t you think?”

“I guess.”

“Look, bumpkin, the dress is yours, alright? You can do with it what you please, but it’s yours.”

“But—”

“You reminded me of why I made it, kiddo. It was stuck in my closet before this. And now it’s new again.”

Haruka swallows. “Thank you.”

“So it’s yours,” Yoko stresses, slowly, “It’s all yours. To do with whatever you’d like. You’ve earned it.”

“Thanks.” It sounds mouse-like. She hates her voice and how quiet it gets when she doesn’t pay attention. Haruka clears her throat and repeats it: “Thank you, Yoko. Thank you so much.”

Peering down at her. “You say that a lot.”

“It’s good to be grateful.”

“Sure,” Yoko says, “But don’t overdo it.”

Haruka’s unsure of what to make of that. There’s a note of bizarre concern weaved in that perturbs her. “I won’t.”

“Good. Now scamper off. You’re on to bigger and brighter.”

“Hopefully,” Haruka says, “You’ll watch?”

“I might even cheer you on,” Yoko grins, “So don’t disappoint, little miss Princess League.”

“I won’t,” Haruka swears, the fire acidic with resolve. She throws in one last “Thank you,” because she wants to see Yoko roll her eyes, and she’s surprised by the way Yoko seems almost vulnerable in response—like Haruka thanking her meant more than she let on. And that, well, that Haruka can understand.

She gives Yoko a little wave, walking backwards for a bit before turning around and quickening her pace, feeling all eyes in Sotenbori tracking her every move. She clutches the dress in her fists with such ferocity that she’s worried it might tear. She hides it against her chest. Can hear her lungs expand and constrict. Nobody else needs to know. Nobody else needs to know this exists except her.

—

Her life had been so small. That isn’t a bad thing. It was enough—it is enough—but it was small. The open expanse of saltwater and the way it’d get stuck in her hair for days at a time notwithstanding, her life was narrow and she dreamt of nothing beyond it. There were people she needed to take care of. She wasn’t a sister, not quite, she was something to the left of that, something only she could be. Marked to be, maybe. Like how the ink on his skin could never rub off.

But she left. It’s what ties them to each other still. Amidst the hesitation: leaving, anyway. Somewhere, Uncle Kaz wires money to the home they both turned their backs on. Investing in her future, at the expense of her present. Not much left of her past.

He’s never told her whether she looks like her mother. She doesn’t particularly care, but she’s exhausted most other options when it comes to finding direction. Sometimes she looks into his eyes and sees a blurred out trace of mourning so deep that she can’t believe their DNA differs at all. Blood means nothing, she knows that. Where would either of them be if it did? She doesn’t pay much attention to the concept of blood at all. But she can’t help wishing she’d been created in his mirror image, instead.

Or that they at least had the same fucking—the same last name. She squeezes her eyes shut. Breathes in and out. Or that they at least had the same last name.

Her family ties scattered like puzzle pieces at her feet. Her mother pretended to be her aunt. She calls her father her uncle. All orphans are not created equal; to them, forgiveness is a given. She isn’t stupid. She is loved, yes, but more importantly: she must love.

Her life was small. Her window quiet. Sotenbori, in turn, is riddled with insomnia, and she’s caught the bug. She can’t sleep. She can’t sleep at all these days. She’s tired, and she can’t sleep, and she doesn’t know why.

Christina will chew her out come morning. But right now, all she can think: Uda next.

—

This doesn’t go well, either.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Uda says, “But you’re kind of in need of outfits as it is.”

“It’s not like I’d wear it anyway.” She takes her time pronouncing each word, just like Yamaura taught her, so that she’s properly understood. Despite this, Uda seems at a loss.

“Why not?”

Haruka thinks everyone must’ve lost their minds. “It’s a dress for a boy.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Yoko said that one look at it would make it clear that it’s a dress for a boy.”

“Haruka—”

“The Princess League is televised,” she recites, calmly, just like she’d practiced in her mirror, “It’s high-profile and Osaka Talent is ruthless. I can’t wear a dress for a boy.”

Uda frowns. “It’s a dress for an idol before anything else.”

There’s a hint of. . . something in his tone, something Haruka can’t quite detangle. She wonders whether she’s crossed some kind of invisible line. The dress had been made for Uda, after all, and here she was: renouncing it, desperate to get rid of it. But it has nothing to do with the dress—no, the dress was perfect. Eyecatching and complimentary, a fanciful thing, the issue didn’t lay with the dress itself at all. So she adds, “It’s beautiful, really. I like it a lot.”

“So why don’t you keep it?”

“I can’t,” Haruka insists.

Uda taps his nails on the table, rhythmic in a way that reminds Haruka of one of the combos she’d been working to perfect this morning. It should feel strange, being in the living room of an adult—even one who worked for her—but after the momentary surprise Uda had ushered her in and offered her water, open and kind and ready for anything. He has the demeanor of an idol, Haruka can see that now. Charming, amiable, just the right amount of self-effacing. Even buried under years of bureaucracy, the foundation of it remains intact. Haruka studies the straight line of his shoulders and tries to mimic it as best she can.

Eventually, Uda says, “You think it’s weird, don’t you? That I could have been just like you.”

Her stomach twists. “I don’t.”

“You do,” Uda says, “It’s alright, Haruka. I’m used to it. Just don’t lie.”

“No, it isn’t—I was surprised, sure, because—well, I just hadn’t—” Haruka’s so frustrated with herself that she could cry. “I wasn’t expecting it, is all.”

Another think she isn’t expecting is for Uda to laugh. It makes her feel worse, as she realizes exactly what she must look like: a dumb and naive little girl with her arms folded like a shield. She drops her hands. Stares at Uda head on. “You know, Haruka, it isn’t uncommon. Especially not here. Or in Kamurocho, for that matter. If you’re in the right places.”

“What are the right places?”

“A lot of them aren’t exactly for kids,” Uda says, business-like again, as though he’s letting Haruka in to some secrets of the trade, “But there’s a couple venues that would let you in if you show some form of ID. They’d mark you down so that you wouldn’t try and sneak a drink, but you’d be allowed inside. And with events like that, a lot of the money usually goes back to the community, too.”

Haruka’s lost again. “The community?”

“Sure,” Uda says, “Shelters, clinic appointments, and enough funds for the performers to make a decent wage. We’re meant to help each other, right?”

She’s reminded, suddenly, of Yoko standing under Iwao bridge every night in those stilettos, waiting for Haruka to stumble into action. Of the man at the salon who’d detangled her hair only to pull it back into a ponytail, because that had been what she’d wanted. Of Akari egging her on, and the girls on the street showing her new ways to move her body, and Yui seeing right through her. She had thought people could only do things on their own.

“It takes a village,” Uda adds.

It would have been nice. Having a village at Morning Glory.

“What do I do?” Haruka asks, and then shakes her head. “I mean, where can I go?”

Uda clicks his tongue thoughtfully. Grabs some wayward receipt from Cafe Álps and pulls a pen out. Quickly jots some stuff down and hands it to Haruka, who looks down at the scratchy lettering like it’s a different language.

He sends her on her way. Haruka’s too preoccupied with the weight of something so feather-light tucked into her pocket, that she doesn’t even notice she’s kept the dress until she’s back in her apartment and shoving it into a drawer.

—

Haruka’s halfway through mapping out her exit route, when there’s a voice in her ear saying “Sure you can’t stay a bit longer?” She flinches, and then laughs, bumping her arm against Akari’s. “C’mon, I know you’ve got more dancing in you.”

There’s a cluster of girls eager to be the next ones to go. Akari wags her eyebrows like she’s urging Haruka on, but Haruka shakes her head. “Sorry, I really need to get going.”

“It’s not even that late yet,” Akari says, grabbing Haruka by the arm and twirling her around, “Will you stay if I make Yui dance?”

“I don’t think I agreed to that,” Yui squeaks. From her perch on the wall, Haruka can see her cheeks flush under streetlights. It’s cool enough that her scoff is visible.

“You should go, Akari,” Haruka counters.

“I just went!”

“You could both go,” Yui offers, “Like, friendly competition.”

Alarm bells in Haruka’s head. Guilt flooding her nervous system. Christina choosing Haruka over Akari. She says, firmly, “I have to leave.”

Akari squeezes her arm, brow knit together like she’s trying to read Haruka’s mind. “It’s late. Let us walk you home, at least.”

Haruka relents. The three of them have grown close enough that she doesn’t feel strange being sandwiched between them, with the hum of the city acting as a metronome for their casual back and forth. She’s never had something like this. Not quite. She’d kept to herself too much in Okinawa to form any particularly close friendships—she’d been too busy, anyway, that’s how she’d reasoned it away. She didn’t really need anyone other than Uncle Kaz and the kids at the orphanage.

This is nice, though.

“See what I mean?” Akari knocks her elbow into Haruka’s arm. “Space cadet over here isn’t listening to a word we’re saying.”

“Yeah, you’ve been pretty out of it, Haruka,” Yui says.

Haruka bites the inside of her cheek. Embarrassed, she replies, “I’m sorry.” But she doesn’t quite know what else to say.

“So serious,” Yui sing-songs, “What’re you thinking about?”

“Nothing, really,” Haruka says, and she doesn’t miss the way Akari and Yui trade looks over her head. It makes her stomach churn. She’s doing something wrong and she doesn’t know how to stop it. And then they’re outside her apartment. It makes her head spin; she didn’t know they’d been walking for that long. “Honestly. I’m okay. I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Makes sense,” Akari says, “Princess League.”

“Don’t overdo it, though,” Yui says.

“Yeah,” Akari agrees, “Can’t have you burning yourself out before our big rematch.”

Haruka nods. She feels her brain shake alongside her, tiny bits of it dislodging and pouring out of her ears, her vision blurring with something that might resemble tears if she wasn’t willing them away. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, she wants to say. I don’t know at all.

“Goodnight,” she chooses, instead, and Yui gives her a kind smile before turning to go. Akari, however, lingers. Eyes intense and dark, she takes Haruka’s hand in hers.

“If something’s wrong,” she says, gentle, too gentle, it makes Haruka feel hot and heavy inside her skin, “You can always come to me.”

“Thank you,” Haruka says, and the words come out garbled, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Akari echoes. She seems dissatisfied. Haruka burns and burns and burns until Akari gets the message and lets go. She gives her a little wave, and then meets Yui down the sidewalk. The further they go, the more Haruka feels herself shrink, back pressed against the wall of the building so hard that it makes her feel caged. Watching their retreating forms, Haruka can’t take it anymore. She runs down the street—a car could hit her, she doesn’t stop—and yells: “We should go out tomorrow night.”

Akari and Yui turn around. Twin miffed expressions. Akari says, “Out where?”

“My—” How to describe Uda? “—Someone I know, he told me about this show happening tomorrow, down at this bar that’s a bit out of the way, but. But it’s tomorrow, and I want to go.”

“A bar?” Yui balks. “They won’t let us in.”

“It’ll be fine,” Haruka says, “Trust me.”

“I’m in,” Akari says, mouth split into a grin, “Is there dancing?”

Haruka’s sure there must be, all things considered. Just maybe not from them.

—

“Focus, Haruka,” Christina scolds, “This isn’t that much harder than your previous song. T-Set probably mastered this days ago.”

Haruka wants to say that the agency had had her perform So Much More for practically every single job she’s worked thus far, and that Loneliness Loop was only introduced to her a few days ago. But she holds her tongue. Because she knows she should be doing better, knows she would be doing better if her eyesight wasn’t going fuzzy every other minute, fuzzy with anticipation and fear and confusion and she can’t get herself to zero in on her task and block the world out. Not like how she normally does. No, the world is knocking on Haruka’s windowpane. And she can’t stop turning her nose to it.

“I’m sorry,” she remembers to say, after a prolonged silence, “I’ll try and do better. Should I take it from the top?”

“Don’t bother,” Christina says, “You’re no good in this state. Take the afternoon off, get some rest, and come back to me ready to get this right. We can’t afford much more downtime.”

“Thank you,” Haruka says, automatically, even though it doesn’t quite fit, “I’ll do my best.”

Christina’s face softens. “I’m only giving you a hard time because I know you’re better than this.”

Haruka knows, but she can’t stop the pearl of shame rolling around in her chest as she tugs her tights back on through the sweat. She hurries back to her apartment and showers thoroughly before laying on her back in bed and staring up at the popcorn ceiling, tracing drawings with her pointer finger until all she can see are shapes and shapes and shapes.

She is so, so tired.

Her phone beeps. Email from Akari.

hey, u wanna meet up beforehand?

Haruka texts back a quick No because she can’t bring herself to do it. Wishes she’d ghosted altogether, because she really can’t afford to spend tonight messing around.

ok. try not to be too hopeless with the wardrobe.

u should probably try and wear something that won’t stand out too much. hide ur identity, and all that.

although i think an idol in a bar would certainly bring dyna chair a lot of press.

Oh. Haruka hadn’t even thought about that. She twirls onto her stomach, burying her face in her arms. She can’t do this. She didn’t even tell Akari and Yui what kind of show it was. What if they aren’t cool with it? What if they think Haruka’s a weirdo, or, worse, naive? What if Uda was only humoring her, and Haruka’s silly for putting any stock into the idea at all?

She sits up. Looks in the mirror. He wasn’t wrong about her only having, like, three outfits. None of them are particularly flashy—which is probably good right now. She picks out a dark brown hoodie, over the head, and one of her older pairs of jeans. Not the best look for a party but it’s different enough from her regular outfit that she’s sure no one will twice. She’s pretty plain when she isn’t dolled up for her performances. In the back of the closet hangs the dress, more out there than anything else Haruka owns. She’d hung it up because it wasn’t fair to Yuko to let it wrinkle in her drawer. And it wasn’t fair to Yuko to keep it hidden away, either, but there wasn’t much Haruka could do about that. Pawning it off felt wrong, too.

Whatever. She’ll think about it later.

She tries wearing her hair down and decides it makes her look too much like that girl on the beach. She wraps it in a low bun and tucks it into the hat, instead, fanning out her bangs. Staring at her reflection, she’s surprised at how different she looks. Sort of like the type of person she does dance battles with, the kind she wishes she fit in with more. A form of play-acting she’d never considered. The kind she does at work. Okay. Yeah. That makes it easier. That makes it easy.

She opens the door and finds Yui and Akari already there, the sunset framing their silhouettes like a memory. Both of them dressed fancier than her, of course, but she has her reasons for trying to blend in, reasons she’s sure they understand and that she doesn’t have to apologize for, but she still feels pretty weird about it. Yui is in a white button up, tucked into a long, mauve skirt. Her face glows more than usual—shoot, Haruka thinks, I forgot my makeup.

Oh, well, too late.

“There she is,” Akari says. She’s dressed in bell bottoms and a cropped yellow shirt, tied just above her waist. Her lips are pinker than normal. Haruka runs her tongue over the inside of her own, embarrassed by how chapped her mouth must be. “Woah. That’s incognito for sure.”

“Yeah,” Yui says, “You definitely won’t be recognized like that.”

Haruka’s insides hurt. Feet planted, hands spread. Feet planted, hands spread. Feet planted, hands spread.

“It kinda works for you,” Akari notes, “Not exactly the first thing I’d go with, but it’s cool.”

Night falls. The bus ride is uneventful. Haruka keeps her head ducked low and her foot tapping, until Akari grabs her hand again, and says, “Relax, Sawamura. We’re not committing some kind of crime.”

“I really shouldn’t be here,” Haruka murmurs, “I’ve been slacking too much.”

“The guilt from having fun will rejuvenate you,” Akari says, and Haruka shoves her, “She emotes! Finally.”

Haruka rolls her eyes. But she feels better.

That is until they actually get to the place. Their IDs authenticated, X’s get drawn above their knuckles. They settle into a corner booth, huddled close together, a certain electricity enveloping them.

“This is so cool,” Yui admits, “I’ve never been somewhere like this before.”

The lights dim. It seems they arrived in the middle of the show, a lull in the in-between, but now there’s a woman center stage, in a red sequined dress that hugs her body tight. Her hair is done up in a gaudy crown, and there’s. . . matching bespactcled pincers attached to her hands? A pop song blares through the tinny speakers, as the woman claws at the air and walks with flair down the makeshift aisle. When she gets closer, Haruka realizes it isn’t a woman at all, but a man. She’d been fooled by the fluidity of the movements, how comfortable the performer had seemed in the clothes.

“I didn’t realize it was this kind of show,” Yui says, awe-struck, “I’ve only ever really seen videos of this stuff.”

“She’s a crab,” Akari says, “Original. Most of the drag queens I’ve seen in Sotenbori don’t have as clear a gimmick as that.”

“Stop trying to sound cooler than you are,” Yui says, “Any and all drag queens you’ve seen have been at those post-recital pizza parties where you all regroup and do a talent show.”

“We all start somewhere,” Akari shoots back, “Right, Haruka?”

Haruka can’t hear anything but the music the drag queen is lip syncing to, perfect mouth tinged perfect red. She watches as patrons stick dollar bills in her exposed bra and wishes she’d brought something to tip with. It deserves recognition, the performance. Direct and immediate recognition. The dance is sharp and controlled, toying with practiced casualness as she fawns over the audience, resting her hip on tables as she basks in their adoration. When she comes by their booth, Haruka finds herself inching closer, heart beating fast when a wink and a kiss is thrown in her direction, pincer snapping like it was part of the song all along.

“She’s beautiful,” Haruka says, reverent.

Next to her, Akari laughs. “Someone’s in love.”

Haruka swallows. Yui answers for her: “Who wouldn’t be?”

“Yeah,” Akari concedes, “Who wouldn’t.”

After the performance, Yui leaves to grab them all some ginger ale at the bar. Haruka rolls a wad of napkin under her thumb, still stuck on the afterimage of the lock of curled hair that had escaped the updo. Framing the queen’s face like a portrait.

“I’m glad you brought us here,” Akari says, pulled close to Haruka so she can be heard over the rumble of the bar, “I’ve always wanted to go to a drag show, but none of the ones in Sotenbori ever let people under eighteen in.”

“A guy at Dyna Chair told me about it,” Haruka admits, “His name’s Uda. He used to be an idol and—well, I was pretty dumb about it, but he told me it was normal, and I wanted to see it for myself.”

Bemused, Akari says, “Aren’t you from Tokyo? There’s drag everywhere there.”

“Okinawa’s quieter than that,” Haruka says, defensive.

“You’re pretty sheltered,” Akari says. It’s well-natured enough, but Haruka doesn’t like hearing it.

“Stop trying to sound cooler than you are,” she counters, and Akari huffs out a laugh, putting her arms up awkwardly in mock surrender.

“I don’t want things to be weird between us,” she says, “I’m sorry I stopped talking to you after the stuff with Christina, I just—it gets a little disheartening. I thought drilling technique was the way to. . . I don’t know, not feel that way anymore?”

“He was wrong,” Haruka says, lowering her voice. Akari frowns. Maybe she can’t hear well. Haruka leans in closer, and adds, “He should’ve chosen you. You’re the most alive person I know.”

Akari stares at her. Sweeping her face like she’s looking for signs of something. Haruka isn’t sure what, but she steels herself and keeps her gaze level. After a moment, Akari says, “You’re always throwing me for a loop.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Akari answers, sounding self-counscious, and there Haruka goes, failing yet another test, “I’m just glad you got the idea to come here.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“And, hey, it really is a good disguise. The lights are so low that you can hardly tell its you.”

Haruka’s grateful for that, especially since she didn’t have much to work with in her closet, but she’s pretty sure they were blowing everything out of proportion. The crowd here didn’t seem to care much for intrusion. She’s so small in comparison. It’s impossible to imagine anybody caring for her sphere of existence very much at all.

And then, Akari says: “You know, you kind of look like a boy.”

Haruka blinks. Once, twice, three times. She coughs out a laugh. “What?”

Akari’s fingers catch on her beanie—pincers, pincers—tugging it down until Haruka’s hair is matted across her eyes. “I don’t know. You just kind of do.”

Haruka pulls away. She fixes the beanie, and parts her bangs. She folds her hands. She turns to face the stage just as Yui slides back into the booth, balancing the three cups. She grabs one. She says thank you.

The lights dim again. Sequins reflect the light like a disco ball. Under her breath but somehow louder than the bass, Akari says, “Haruka.”

Haruka doesn’t deem that with a response.

—

The journey back home is splintered.

Luckily, Akari keeps her hands to herself.

—

Haruka doesn’t sleep. Haruka messes up and messes up and messes up. Haruka goes to handshake events and feels her palms sweat. Haruka is followed by cameras and fans and men far older than she is who want to love her so hard she throws up. Haruka throws up. Haruka finds herself wondering how this became her life and if it was ever her dream in the first place, or if she’d just gone along with it, like she does with everything, because Haruka is empty, has been empty since she held a gun in her fingers crouched behind a bar with a name she can no longer remember. Has lived her life for other people. Has never wanted to die because it would be too inconvenient.

Haruka knows that she’s like him. In a way, she killed—Haruka doesn’t even want to think the man’s name, hates him like she’s never hated anyone before, and it makes her sick to think she knows nothing about this person. This black hole inside of Uncle Kaz that eat him and eats him and eats him. She never knew Nishikiyama. She will never know Uncle Kaz. Nobody will ever know her, because there isn’t anything to know.

Haruka reflect the light, too. Like the sequins, like a star. Deflects love until it melts the hearts of others. Whether she wants to or not.

Haruka knows that she’s like him. As close to being like him as she is allowed.

It isn’t enough.

—

And, okay. She can admit that she’s being dramatic. She does that sometimes, when her head spins so fast it unspools. She does enjoy it. She likes to sing and she likes to dance and she likes to win people over, maybe she likes that most of all. Those of little faith, she can change them. Can get through to anyone.

Just like him, just like him.

—

Akari calls and emails so much that Haruka’s phone dies overnight.

She doesn’t charge it.

—

“You were doing this perfectly an hour ago, Haruka,” Christina sighs, “A lunch break is meant to restore concentration, not break it.”

Well, Haruka didn’t eat. “Can we slow it down a bit? My rhythm’s off again.”

“Your rhythm’s fine,” he says, “You need to know how you look so you know what to replicate. You’re not watching yourself do the moves.”

Haruka scrunches her face together. “I’m not?”

“Not once,” Christina says.

“I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

He eyes her. “Are you going to step up to the mirror then?”

Haruka does. The shirt is slipping off her shoulder. There’s a sheen of sweat on her brow. She feels unbearably ugly. She shakes her arms out a bit, forces the synchronization between mind and body to knit together at the synapses again. She nods at Christina in the mirror.

“Good,” he says, satisfied, “From the top.”

Leg, arm, shoulder. Leg, arm, shoulder. Lead the turn with your hips, not your head. Hypertechnical, robotic, everything that Christina had rejected in Akari. Who could be more lifeless than Haruka, this puppet with stiff joints and a blank expression? She forces her mind into focus. Flips a switch. Haruka is a creature that dreams of wild abandon. She pictures the stage and the audience and the light so hot it sears. Like fighting. The self defense Uncle Kaz had taught her. Mitsuo once told her that she has a mean right hook. She mimics it, now, punches invisible air. Leg, arm, shoulder. Leg, arm, shoulder.

She gets the groove back. Christina and Yamaura drink in her every move.

It isn’t until she’s hit the final note that she catches the way her hair frames her cheekbone. The girlish curl of her wrist. How it echoes the drag queen, while looking so foreign on her it fills her with disgust. She drops her arms. Compliments fall on deaf ears. She excuses herself and she sits on the bench in the dressing room and stares into nothingness.

Everything is going too fast. Decades pass within a minute. She’s getting older every day, more time is slipping, what is she waiting for.

I don’t want to feel this anymore, she begs. Give me wings.

—

She practices in her tiny apartment. In the mirror she claws at the air and leans her hip on chairs, making faces and tilting her head, until she’s sure she’s got the movement from the show at the bar down to a T.

She does it over and over again. Puts every single ounce of herself in it. And every time, every time, it still looks wrong.

—

“Haruka,” Akari says, banging on the door, “I know you’re there. Just let me in.”

Faced with no response, Akari is relentless. So, eventually, Haruka screeches “No.”

The knocking ceases.

Haruka thinks she’s been set free, until Akari growls, “Grow the fuck up.”

Ironically childish stomping follows. And then she’s really alone. Haruka grabs a pillow and throws it at her door, but the aim is off and it bounces off her mirror. She stares at her body curled on the bed and feels a surge of nausea so acute that she drops to her knees at the toilet in prayer, and falls asleep there, instead.

—

Enough’s enough. She takes matters into her own hands.

“How did Uda do it?” She demands. Yoko eyes her, cigarette smoke obscuring her face for a moment. And then it clears, and it’s just her again. Demystified.

“We were both textbook amateurs,” Yoko says, “But I can teach you the dance if you want.”

“I want,” Haruka says, firmly, “I want it.”

Yoko shrugs, her lips twist into a smile. She shoots off a email, and—like clockwork—Uda trips over to them, even his clumsiness coming off as a charming routine. He can’t stop himself from grinning at Yoko, bouncing over to her like a magnet. How they managed to steer clear of each other for so long, Haruka doesn’t know.

She brought them back together. She did that. So she can do this. She can.

They spend a night revisiting the past and forging the future. Haruka legs go of professionalism and finds the headspace of a dance battle, fun and light but pure domination, intent to stun, the sound of Yoko throwing criticism at her helping much more than all of Dyna Chair combined.

Adrenaline awake in her blood, Haruka follows Uda’s lead, feels rather than sees his rustiness cleaning itself out until they’re moving in tandem, with Yoko clapping in time with the numbers she’s counting out, because they have no backing tracks, no music at all, but Haruka can hear it, yes, loud and clear, loud and clear.

“Good, bumpkin,” Yoko says, approvingly, “We’ll make an idol of you yet.”

Haruka is happier than she was before, but she knows what she’ll see when she looks at herself. She can tell that that hasn’t really changed, because how could it have?

Yoko’s too perceptive. She asks, “What’s wrong?” and Haruka grits her teeth. And then she breathes in, breathes out, and lets the pain go.

“I can’t move like him,” she says. As simple as beauty. “Nothing I do makes it work.”

Yoko tilts her head down at her. It falls to her side, like she’s inspecting Haruka from every possible angle. “I see.”

She doesn’t risk the chance of an interrogation. She says, “Thank you for teaching me the dance. It helped me a lot.”

“Haruka,” Yoko starts, but Haruka doesn’t want to hear it, so she turns to go.

And then she stops and turns again. As clearly and evenly as she can muster, she asks, “How did Uda look? When he performed?”

Yoko gives her a soft, secret smile. “Beautiful.”

This gives Haruka the parameters for the divide. She’s never been particularly beautiful, after all.

—

She finds her mind drifting to her mother more than ever before, and she knows it’s because of Park. The space that had been hollowed finally flooded whole. Haruka is only losing her mind because she did not know how people would view her when she left home. Did not know how isolating it would be to come alive. Park helps her, ever in Haruka’s corner. The least Haruka can do is memorize the motions of Park doing her makeup. It’s color by numbers, really. She can imitate it.

When she was younger, Uncle Kaz would be the one to pull her hair back into a ponytail. Strong hands, surprisingly nimble, she thinks of it every time she wraps her fingers around some trusty hair tie. Sweetness in the movement. He’d always press a kiss to the back of her head, every time without fail. Always a little embarrassed. But it was a rare moment of unabashed affection. He holds himself back so much. Like the love is threatening to spill from his ears and his eyes and the buds of his nails. An avalanche held back. Dulled by fear. She did not know he was capable of fear until she’d caught him pacing the hallway to her room, in the nights before Morning Glory, sticking his head inside like he was convinced she’d disappear if he stopped searching for her. He is always searching for something, in her, in everything. A place to put it down, maybe. All the love in the entire world.

Park gives her a place to put it down. Somebody to fix her. She had not know she was broken until somebody had come to fix her. The makeup looks bad on her, but she wears it anyway.

“Thank you,” she says, and means it. She is so, so grateful.

—

She knocks at Akari’s door. Feels bad when it swings open and her friend, her best friend, looks scared to see her there. She surges forward and hugs her. And then she says, “I don’t.”

Akari looks confused. “I thought you were never going to speak to me again.”

“We keep doing that.”

Akari laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, we do.”

“I’ll apologize to Yui, as well.”

“You don’t have to.” She reconsiders. “Actually, you absolutely do. She was worried—we were both worried. But it’s fine, let’s get ramen tomorrow, yeah?”

“Okay,” Haruka clears her throat, “I’d like that. And, um, there’s another show this weekend.

Akari grins. “We have to go.”

“Thank you.”

“Enough,” she says, rolling her eyes, “Okay, we’re golden now. Dinner and dancing tomorrow, and then logistics for our great escape.”

“Yeah,” Haruka agrees, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Akari says, and then, when Haruka’s nearly hopped off the stairs, she adds: “You don’t what?”

Haruka pauses. Stares at the dirt and how it’s flaked onto her white sneakers. There’s a hole in her tights, right at the knees, from when she’d slipped outside the agency and right onto the gravel.

“Look like a boy,” she says.

“Oh,” Akari says, and Haruka can practically hear her frown, “I mean, I was joking.”

Hands on her face. A force field building around her. Too hot, too hot everywhere. Haruka had wanted to scratch her own throat out.

She smiles to herself. “I know you were. It was pretty funny.”

—

Haruka sends both Akari and Yui an email titled I don’t know what to wear with the body of the message being I don’t know what to wear and she must sound frantic because both of them hurry to her side in no time at all. They find her sitting cross-legged in front of her mirror, lathering foundation on her face.

“You want some help with that?” Yui’s voice is mild enough that it indicates to Haruka that she's doing something wrong.

“I’m gonna raid your closet, okay?”

“Okay,” Haruka squeaks.

“Oh, geez,” Yui says, “That’s a lot of foundation.”

“Park didn’t do this part, and none of the things I looked up made any sense, and—”

Yui puts an arm on Haruka’s shoulder, tugging her away from the edge of the mirror. “Your skin’s pretty clear, so you don’t have to go overboard on that stuff. Here, let me.”

Yui steers her towards the sink and holds Haruka’s head under the faucet, cool water softening the gunk on her face, and the towel finishing the rest of it off. Some makeup wipes to purify her further. “What now?”

Yui squints at her. Taking stock. “Honestly, I don’t think you need it.”

“You’re a natural beauty,” Akari throws over her shoulder, “Your clothes suck, though.”

Haruka sticks her tongue out at her.

“So maybe just some eyeshadow and gloss, some blush, maybe?” Yui hums to herself, guiding Haruka back into a seated position. “Do you have any brushes, or. . .”

Haruka shakes her head.

“Okay,” Yui says, “It’ll be a little smudgey, but I can work with my fingers.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I never—no one taught me.”

“Me either,” Yui confesses, “My dad helped me learn to braid my hair, but an eyeliner pencil was beyond his capabilities, apparently. My mom left when I was a kid, so. This was mostly a passion project.”

“I didn’t know that,” Haruka says quietly.

“I don’t talk about it much,” Yui says, “But part of why I wanted to get into makeup was so I could look more grown up. Now, though, I think I just like how different you can make yourself seem.”

“How different are you making me?”

“Oh, not much,” Yui assures her, “It’s pretty basic stuff. Just meant to enhance. Can you pucker your lips?”

Haruka does. Yui’s hand snakes to cup her cheek, angling her ever so slightly so as to get a more comfortable position. The lipstick is sticky, slathered on her mouth like candy. Yui presses her thumb into some shimmery thing in a square compartment, and motions for Haruka to close her eyes. Feather-light touch. Her hand grazing Haruka’s jaw. She is trying her hardest to stay absolutely still.

“That’s good,” Yui murmurs, “Just like that. Okay. Take a look.”

Haruka turns to the mirror and—she’s done this before. When Park did her makeup, quick and easy, trying to show off, almost. Learned behavior, a torch being passed on. Haruka cannot imagine waking up every day and doing this. It’s the same to her as people who rise with the sun and go for morning runs, she can’t wrap her head around it.

Haruka turns to the mirror and it’s still her inside it. The curves of her face softened, a shine to her skin that looks gorgeous on other girls and lopsided on her. Icky. The yolk of her friend’s fingers blistering the stupid poisoned canvas of her face. She looks a little to the left of what she’s supposed to. She looks wrong. She looks wrong. Like she looks wrong dancing a drag idol’s dance.

“Haruka,” Yui says, carefully, “Are you okay?”

None of it works. Nothing of her is aligned to reality. Her eyes burn. She can feel it again, suddenly—the salty Okinawa air drying out her eyeballs until she has no choice but to cry. With her feet planted and her hands spread. Stopping nothing. Protecting no one. Is this was she was meant to do? Meant to be? Fail at being a protector? Fail at being an idol? Fail at being a daughter? Become a mother, someday, and fail at that too?

“I’m fine,” she says, almost inaudible, “Do I look pretty?”

“Yeah,” Yui says, “Always. It’s kind of annoying.” She adds: “That was a joke. To be clear.”

“Hah.”

“How’s this,” Akari says, and—

“That isn’t mine,” Haruka says, automatically, gooseflesh on the back of her neck as Akari spread Uda’s dress out onto the bedsheets.

“Oh, this is perfect.” Akari smiles down at it approvingly. “Come here.”

Haruka can’t feel herself move, but she must, because she’s somehow in front of Akari, the dress pressed against her body and over her clothes as Akari inspects this strange shape that Haruka has become.

“It’s not mine,” she repeats, “It’s a dress for a boy.”

“We’re going to a drag show,” Akari points out.

“It’s not drag if I’m doing it,” Haruka counters, and Akari rolls her eyes.

“You’re out of touch, kiddo. Plenty of girls do all kinds of drag.”

“I can’t,” Haruka stresses, “That’s how this started, and I—I want it to stop.”

“Want what to stop?”

“I don’t know,” Haruka says, and she hates how shrill her voice gets.

“Akari,” Yui cuts in, “Maybe we should—”

“No,” Akari says firmly, “Would you rather one of your other dresses?”

“No,” Haruka says, meek. Akari gives her a pointed look. She holds the dress out to her. Haruka feels her feet sink. She takes it.

“I’m gonna grab us some food,” Yui decides, “Let me know when you guys are ready to go.”

The door closes. Akari’s resolve holds true. Haruka’s is breaking—Haruka’s resolve has never truly broken, she’s never let it, it’s all she has. It’s what she’s learned. Years watching strong shoulders and stoic eyes, of wanting to wear that determination the same as he does, but Uncle Kaz will forgive anything. Anyone. Haruka does not have it in her to do that.

She trips towards a corner. Back to Akari, she starts to undress. When she drops her shirt to the floor, she tugs the dress over hear head. Looks down and tries to regulate her heartbeat. “Can you help me?”

Akari says nothing as she slowly zips the zipper up Haruka’s back. She can feel Akari’s breath on her shoulder, almost on her neck, and she thinks you don’t have to be this close to me right now, but she doesn’t say it. Dress zipped, Akari steps around her to drink the final product in.

She squirms. “I look stupid.”

Emphatically, Akari says: “Haruka, you look beautiful.”

It hurts.

—

She still wears the hoodie, mostly because the outfit is flashier and the chances of getting spotted on the bus are much higher. She smooths down the lace on the lower half of the dress over and over again.

“The gloves are a bit much,” she mutters.

“It’s supposed to be a bit much,” Akari reminds her, “You’ll fit right in.”

Haruka’s head is still spinning. She lays it down on Akari’s shoulder and closes her eyes. It takes a second for Akari’s muscles—strong, from years of dancing—to relax, her own cheek resting on Haruka’s hair, still pulled back tight. She’d foregone the crown, this time. That really would’ve been too much.

—

There’s a performance already well underway when they get here. Lip-syncing dramatically to a song Haruka sort of recognizes, from the radio or karaoke or something else entirely. The tables are pushed even further back, giving the performers more room to cast a spell across the audience.

It works, but the side effect of that is their inability to snag a seat, leaving them pressed against the wall amidst the crowd of bodies. It’s suffocating. In a good way. Like Haruka can lose herself in other people. It’s hot, so she tugs the hoodie off, tying it around her waist and feeling far too exposed, despite it being less revealing than some of her idol getup.

There’s a lull in between songs, and that’s when Haruka hears a familiar voice and spots a familiar beehive hairdo. Not quite thinking it through, she half-yells “Yoko!” and the Yoko in question turns around, demure as ever, her eyes landing on Haruka in surprise. It gives way to approval. Haruka pushes past some people and grabs onto Yoko’s hand when she’s offered it.

“So much for not wearing the dress,” Yoko says, which makes Haruka feel embarrassed—but fair is fair.

“This is incredible,” she says, “These dancers, they’re. . .”

She doesn’t have the words to describe it. Luckily, Yoko cuts in: “I really should’ve taken you to a drag show as part of your training. But I didn’t want to spook you, bumpkin.”

Haruka scowls. And then she fixes her expression. “I’m not spooked.” Yoko raises an eyebrow. Begrudgingly, Haruka adds, “Anymore. I’m glad I’m here.”

“You look the part. Who did your makeup?”

Haruka points Yui out in the crowd.

“It’s amateur, but a strong start. Tell her people to call my people.”

“I’m her people. And your people. Kind of.”

“Bold,” Yoko says, “But somewhat true.”

“What are you doing here”

Yoko gives her a funny look. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

The lights dim again. The disco ball reflects pink spheres across the world’s face, and Haruka fantasizes about the glow seeping into her skin and staying there. She’s so lost in thought she hardly notices the beginning of the new performance until Yoko nudges her and, oh, Haruka thinks, that’s Uda.

That’s Uda. That’s Uda. Mesmerized, Haruka tries to pinpoint the transformation, how it happened right under her nose. Uda’s movements are liquid smooth, in a mermaid dress and a dark wig, the picture of polished professionalism—it’s a far cry from the flashy outfit Haruka wears now, but Uda had been a kid then, after all. Kids grow into something else.

“Our friend over here’s barely settled on a new drag name,” Yoko says, the fondness in her voice betraying her, “It’s too clean. Once an idol, forever an idol. Oh, well, she’s always been hopeless. We’ll brainstorm.”

Haruka feels dizzy. Uda sways across the room, lifting the dress to show off a shaved leg, clad in pumps taller than should be legally possible—at some point, it’s a safety hazard—foot perched on a table and eye level with what must be the luckiest man on earth. She snatches it back on a line about looking but never touching, working the room like a pro. When she parades over to their side, she turns and slots her body against Yoko’s, dropping down as if to pick something up off the floor, and sliding back up, slow. Haruka stares, slack jawed, at all the places where their bodies meet, and feels a lump in her throat at the sight. Desire so thick it clouds her vision.

Still pressed against each other, Uda holds a hand out, waving her wrist in demand, until Yoko rolls her eyes and relents, reaching forward to stuff spare bills into the spaghetti strap of the dress. She leans forward to whisper something in Uda’s ear, and Uda turns and winks at Yoko before returning to her dance, and that’s when she sees Haruka, who must look unbearably dumb right now, but she can hardly move.

Uda’s eyes widen slightly, and then she smiles, shiny teeth bared, and nods at her in—recognition. Haruka feels, suddenly, transparent and excited and afraid. She wrestles with the pocket of her hoodie and holds out the few yen she has, head bowed with respect. Uda hesitates, but takes it. Haruka’s sure it’ll be returned to her, eventually, even if she doesn’t want it back, even if she needs this transaction to communicate a feeling that is threatening to saw her in half.

Uda works the rest of the room unapologetically, until she’s gone, like a comet, the traces she left behind electrifying. Haruka stops holding her breath.

“What’s the secret,” she breathes.

“There’s a couple,” Yoko says, “Maybe we’ll make something out of you yet.”

“Please,” Haruka begs, “Please. Please, I—please.”

“Breathe, Haruka,” she says, voice softening, “We’ll figure it out.”

Haruka nods and nods and nods until Yoko places a gentle hand on her neck. “I’m going to go check on the show-off. Don’t hurt yourself.”

And then she’s gone, too, slipping backstage, with access to a haven Haruka can taste but never eat. Uda seems to have been the finishing act—a returning act, maybe, now that she thinks about it—but the bar stays packed, the crowd emerging from the shadows and onto the dace floor. Bodies on bodies on bodies. It gives Haruka space to breathe and space to long. Yui and Akari catch up to her.

“Wasn’t that the guy who sets up your gigs?” Excitement colors Yui’s tone. “That’s so freaking cool.”

“Now that’s movement,” Akari says, “She took the stage like she owned it. That’s what I—what I try to do, at least. Maybe one day.”

Haruka wants to say that she can do it, that if anyone can do it it’s her, but her tongue is as tangled as her mind, she’s out of commission, she doesn’t even have the good sense to be half humiliated when she gets dragged to the dance floor, the three of them woven together. By choice or by chance or by both, equal parts intentional and utterly random, but there is some inner compass that led Haruka here. There has to be.

Yui is only half-dancing, her energy petering out, but Akari gains more momentum, and Haruka forces herself into clarity to she can keep up, the tension between them reaching a fever pitch. They start to dance, dance for real, and Haruka can’t believe that this is it, that this is their place to rematch. She’s going to win. Look at what she’s wearing—she’s going to win.

Because, really, it’s fighting. It’s in her blood. Injected into her DNA, it doesn’t matter that it wasn’t there originally, Haruka can choose to have it in her system. Sweat smearing her makeup, she reigns victorious. Akari tries to glare at her but clearly can’t stomach it.

“I’ll let you win next time,” Haruka says, cocky in a way she’s never allowed herself to be. She’s expecting Akari to hit back with something to humble her, but Akari is looking at her like Haruka is a diamond. She lunges forward and pulls Haruka into a hug, so close it’s painful, and they fall into each other, a two-headed animal, like how all people were before Zeus broke them apart at the collarbone.

“You’re a vision,” Akari says in her ear, and Haruka’s knees nearly buckle. And then they’re pulled apart by the crowd, and Yui—looking equal parts smug and irritated—rejoins them, all of them holding hands and swaying side to side like idiots. Haruka feels so safe, so happy, so free, so remade, kicking her legs out in a quiet imitation of Uda’s performance—maybe she’ll inherit that dress, too, someday, when she’s taller and when she’s earned it.

“Holy shit,” Akari says, “Don’t look now, but you won’t believe who’s behind you.”

Haruka breaks the rule and swivels backwards and—

“Isn’t that your competition?” Yui asks.

“Yes,” Haruka says, stunned, “Yes, it is.”

T-Set’s always been ridiculously in sync, it’s one of the appeals of the group and what sets them apart from Haruka’s measly solo act, but this is something else. Mai and Azusa seem to see nobody but each other. The latter’s hands latched around the former’s neck, forehead to forehead, the corners of their mouth practically touching.

“Oh my God,” Haruka says.

“I told you,” Akari says, and Yui shoves her, “I did!”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Haruka, uncomfortable looking at this for much longer, swivels right back around. “Told her what?”

“That they’re totally lesbians,” Akari says, proudly, “I’m never wrong.”

“I guess not,” Yui says.

“You neve told me that.”

“I didn’t wanna psych you out. But you totally kicked their asses the other day, so it’s fine.”

“It wouldn’t have psyched me out,” Haruka says, knowing full well that it absolutely would’ve psyched her out.

“Are you gonna go talk to them?” Yui asks.

Haruka balks. “Not a chance.”

“Unsurprising,” Akari says, “Whatever, let’s just keep dancing.”

Haruka acquiesces, but she can’t get it off her mind. Yoko in the crowd, Uda on the makeshift stage, and now T-Set dancing with no room between them. Akari clocking it and Yui throwing her bets into the ring, and why is Haruka so far behind? Why did she stay at the starting line? Why did no one ever talk to her about it, this whole universe she’s been locked out of. She remembers, out of nowhere—but maybe not out of nowhere—that Uncle Kaz has lived a staunchly solitary life, restricting himself to the orphanage and to the call of the Tojo clan. Stray mentions of having loved Haruka’s mother in a way that implies he’ll never be in love again, and Haruka realizes with a thundering rage that she doesn’t believe him, and never has.

Because he mentions Yumi. Here and there. Never in depth, no, not the man with as many secrets as there are scars on his body, but her existence is acknowledged, at least. And that isn’t true for—she knows, she’s always known, a picture in a box under his bed and a safe in his head that nobody will ever have access to, for risk of spilling, the man who raised her distorted by his insistence on restricting himself. The hearts of others placed above his own, tampering his own needs, his own wants, this is the altar Haruka was raised in, but she wants more.

Uncle Kaz does it because he’s afraid. Of breaking. And now Haruka is, too. Twin fissures, coverups in similar places. But there’s tricks in their silhouettes. He never wore it well, and—in mimicking him—she finds that she can’t either.

Haruka cannot breathe. Her vision is swimming. She says, “I need air,” and makes a beeline for the door, throwing herself against the wall in the back alley, hot tears running down her face. What is she. What is she. What is. Who? Who is it? She can’t stand her, the girl on the beach, or the one in the mirror, the girl who’d said yes to this whole charade, teeth cracked from gnawing on that cheap spray painted silver spoon, grateful, so grateful, always so fucking grateful, lucky to have a home she’s been the defacto father of since she was twelve. Picture that. The ten billion yen girl playing the man of the house.

She owes Nishikiyama for the burning of the money. And nothing, nothing else.

“Haruka,” Akari says, wild-eyed concern on her pretty, pretty features, cornering Haruka like she’s a feral animal, and how she wishes that was true.

“I’m so small,” she says, lost.

Akari’s thumbs wiping her tears away. Akari’s hands are always on her when they shouldn’t be. Zipping up her dress like she’d wanted to do something else entirely.

“You should’ve seen you out there,” Akari says, reverently, “You don’t know what you’re capable of.”

Haruka feels her throat closing and her heart falling away from her, further and further with each passing moment. “I don’t know what you’re seeing.”

“It’s hard, I know, believe me. Praise is nice, but the criticism—”

“No,” Haruka says, desperately, “I don’t know who it is you’re looking at.”

“You.” Akari sounds helpless. Haruka wants to apologize, but she can’t, because she’s running out of air, and she needs somebody to understand.

“I’m not—myself—”

“You have been acting a bit strange—”

“I’m not this.”

Akari bites her lip. “I don’t get it.”

Haruka shuts her eyes tight. “It doesn’t make sense.”

They fall into silence. It’s hopeless. Haruka is hopeless.

Akari’s palms are still framing her face. She’s muttering things under her breath, and Haruka only catches the tail end of it. Realizes it’s an apology. Can see the cage she has built around herself. Can see how the key turned in the lock when she’d watched Uda dance, how it had turned but not quite opened, and Haruka wants to bash her head against the bar in the hope that that will force her forward.

More than anything, she doesn’t want Akari to feel bad. She tries to tell her that it’s okay, that it’s Haruka who is wrong, but the phlegm in her throat doesn’t let her. Something, she thinks, just do something. Feet planted. Hands spread.

So when Akari goes to leave her alone, Haruka grabs the back of her neck and kisses her, so hard their teeth clack together and they pull apart, scared of shattering. Skin of her index pressed against her front tooth, Akari uses her spare hand to snake an arm around Haruka’s shoulder. Haruka—tentatively, awkwardly—wraps her arms around Akari’s waist. She’s shorter, so she has to look up.

Because she can’t quell their competition, Haruka says: “Scared?”

“You wish,” Akari laughs, “But it’s your move, Sawamura.”

“I already went.”

“It’s never the girl’s job to initiate,” Akari says, loftily, even though Haruka knows she doesn’t believe that, because Akari has never not initiated something. But she gets on her tiptoes and kisses her again, anyway, and it’s only when she feels heady with desire that her brain catches up to her. Never the girl’s job.

Ugh.

“You beat me to it,” Haruka says.

“Only cause you let me.”

“You won.”

“You didn’t wanna get there yourself,” Akari says, kissing the corner of her mouth, and Haruka’s eyes flutter shut. Their noses are mashed together at a odd angle, and the strain on her useless shoulders reminds her that she should be the one reaching upwards, but she doesn’t want to. She wants to let her imagination stray. She bites at Akari’s bottom lip until there’s the faint taste of iron, and then she jumps back, alarmed. Akari presses her knuckles against her own mouth, and barks out a laugh at the flecks of red. Haruka’s about to apologize when Akari grabs at her hip too hard, knocking the sweater off Haruka’s waist. They watch as it falls unceremoniously to the ground. And it hits Haruka how strange it is that she’d worn it.

Akari seems to agree. “Man, the hoodie was a ridiculous touch,” she says, “You just weren’t meant for this, were you?”

Haruka’s heart stops. Yes, she thinks. That’s something.

—

FROM: Azusa Osawa

TO: Haruka Sawamura

I won’t tell if you won’t.

FROM: Haruka Sawamura

TO: Azusa Osawa

Deal.

—

Voice hazy with sleep and nose tucked into the space between Haruka’s chin and earlobe, Akari says, “Are you gonna do anything about it?”

Haruka briefly entertains what it would be like to run away from everything she knows. In a way, that’s what she’s been doing for half a year. But, no, really run this time. Take the nearest taxi or boat or the next flight out to some little town who won’t know or care about who she was before. Change her name and start anew. It feels so close that Haruka can roll it around on the tip of her tongue.

I’m scared of what I’d do, Haruka thinks. Nobody would like it.

—

She’s spared from having to answer Akari’s question when she sees Park’s mangled corpse smeared across the concrete. In the blink of an eye, the fantasy is gone.

—

“You’re ignoring us again,” Yui says over the phone, sounding sad in a way that makes Haruka’s guts twist.

“I’m not,” she replies, feeling defensive, “The final act of the Princess League is in a couple days. I don’t have time to mess around.”

“Haruka, are you sure you wanna keep going?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think you’ve had enough time to grieve.”

“I’ll grieve later,” Haruka says, hard, “I have to do this for her.”

Yui lets the silence stretch between them like taffy. “Akari’s making herself sick.”

Haruka’s throat closes up. She can barely choke out a “What?”

“Not actually,” Yui amends, “Or—yes, actually, but more like—she’s so freaked out she’s like a zombie. Did. . .”

Haruka wonders whether it’s possible to gnaw your molars down to a smooth bump in one go. “Did what?”

“. . . Nothing.”

“No. What?”

“Did something. . . Did something happen? Between you two? At the show, or.”

Haruka says nothing. Yui continues, “It’s just you guys sort of disappeared on me.”

“I’m sorry,” Haruka says, “But we came back eventually, we would’ve never—what kind of friends would we be if we ditched you?”

“The kind that stops answering the phone."

Touché.

“Look, just,” Yui sighs, “Just come to school soon, at least. You’re falling behind.”

Always. Yui hangs up and Haruka keeps the phone pressed against her ear like she might come back. Like it might connect her to some greater being, some genie, some lighthouse.

She could call Morning Glory, but the kids are all asleep. Uncle Kaz’s old number is a dead line. She is all alone, again. Crouched behind a bar, gun in hand. Her heart, illuminated for a singular set of hours, blurry again.

—

She’s granted a brief moment of respite when Akiyama shows up. She’s always liked him—he doesn’t treat her like some helpless little girl who needs to be kept safe from the brutality of the world. As if it doesn’t settle around her like an old familiar friend every other month.

And, sure, Akiyama would probably prefer for her to stick to Dyna Chair, but he’d guessed the obvious; Haruka was never going to let him investigate without her, and he hadn’t put up too much of a fight once he’d realized this. She’s her father’s daughter, after all. If there’s one thing they have in common is a stubborn streak that swings a wrecking ball over any and all opposition.

And Akiyama is pretty good at dodging. She’s mesmerized watching him fight random men on the street—mesmerized the way she’d once been with Uncle Kaz, before it became a reminder that he would never truly be able to leave this life, and, sure, it never stopped being cool. But the charm faded. That isn’t happening with Akiyama.

And it’s so different from Uncle Kaz, too. Akiyama is dancing. He only uses his feet, the toe of his shoes slicing through the air in a way that reminds her of what she practices in the studio daily, a flurry of kicks that Haruka can recognize and even place within her own body. She can do that. Clumsily and coming across as much less cool, what else is new, but her imitation of the fights feel less cheap than her imitation of the dance. Behind the crowds that gather when some street trash picks a bone with them, Haruka kicks at the air, propelling her body forward as she watches Akiyama do the same.

She doesn’t realize she’s trying to get away with it until Akiyama hits her with a “You like fighting, huh?” and Haruka feels like she’s been caught red-handed.

“I mean—I—yes?” She stammers, fiddling with the zipper of her hoodie. “Uncle Kaz taught me some self defense and, um, it was fun.”

“It’s pretty fun,” Akiyama grins, “Wish these guys would leave me alone, but they can’t get enough of me.”

“You’re flashy,” Haruka says.

“I’m stylish.”

“Sure.”

“Go get us some sushi sets,” Akiyama orders, digging inside his suit jacket for a spare wad of cash, “Salmon preferred.”

Haruka rolls her eyes. She counts out the bills. “Cheapskate.”

“I don’t keep it on me,” Akiyama says, a shrug so relaxed she knows it’s practiced—it looks cool anyway, which is obnoxious, but sometimes the effortless effort is part of it. “Hana chews me out every time.”

She’s skeptical. “Really?”

“No,” Akiyama says, grin widening, “I’m actually pretty responsible, Haruka.”

That’s good enough for her. She heads into the nearest M Store. Her eyes stray over to the ATM; she takes a second to send part of her paycheck to Morning Glory. Make sure everyone gets something nice for the holidays. The glossy magazine covers call to her, the fluorescent lights reflecting the soft curves of model bodies and it reminds her of her teeth cutting into Akari’s pretty mouth. Haruka thinks there might be something violent in her, like how Uncle Kaz thinks there’s something violent in him.

There isn’t, though. She remembers not having hit double digits yet, all alone in a city that could swallow her whole, and seeing a man who couldn’t smile but knowing, just knowing, that he was gentleness before anything else.

In the harsh light, the girls still look beautiful. Haruka wants them and wants to be them. The boys with their strong jaws and broad shoulders. She shoves the magazines down under some other, safer issues. Then she walks backwards into a shelf, accidentally knocking over something or other, she doesn’t know what. Haphazard apologies accompany her order, and she’s so embarrassed that she looks nobody in the eye as she clutches the food close. It’s like this that she finds herself searching across the street for Akiyama, who has a cigarette hanging low from his lip, and a man leaning over him. So close she’s worried his nose might get singed.

The man has an arm curled around Akiyama’s bicep. She slinks a little closer, trying to go unnoticed, and hears a breathy, “Haven’t seen you around the clubs lately.”

“I manage my own, you know,” Akiyama says, breezily.

“Running a tight ship?”

“Go into debt and come see me.”

“You’ll make it worth my while?”

“You always make it sounds like I’m paying you,” Akiyama complains,”Is that your get out of jail free card, or?”

“You think I need one?”

“You think I don’t?”

“You’re a horrible flirt.”

“I like to test people’s patience.”

The man laughs, reaching out to pluck the cigarette from Akiyama’s mouth and closing his own lips around it. It’s a gesture so sensual and intimate that Haruka clenches her fist. Akiyama curls his palm against the head of it, flicking a lighter on. They don’t break eye contact, locked into a stalemate until Akiyama’s smile turns a tad too genuine to keep up appearances.

“I’ll stop by later this week,” he says, “But only to pick you up after hours. I’m not that much of a sleaze.”

“What are you up to now?”

Akiyama’s voice drops low. Haruka can’t make out what he says, but there’s an antsy tap of his toes that show he’s aware of their time limit.

“Keep it,” he says, loud again, stray thumb sweeping down the man’s chin for a second, before he takes a step back.

The man smiles. His shirt’s unbuttoned, Haruka notices. As he saunters away in the opposite direction, Akiyama’s gaze catches on her. A brief glimpse of surprise, instantly smoothed into a calm neutral. “Nosy, are we?”

“I got our sushi,” she replies, mechanically, and watches as Akiyama deliberates on a response. Eventually, he opts for an easy nod, and they walk in silence across Sotenbori, landing at a bench in some park. Haruka eats a couple bites. But her appetite is mostly gone.

Stop being weird. Stop being weird. Stop. Being. Weird.

Akiyama says, “He’s a good friend.”

Haruka, tactless, blurts out: “Are you gay?”

Akiyama nearly chokes on a roll. “Wow.”

“Sorry—”

“You’ve got your dad’s social skills, alright.” He considers. “No.”

“No?”

He shrugs. “Yes.”

“Which is it?”

“I could’ve been saying yes to the no,” he points out, and Haruka groans.

“Be straight with me.” And then she winces. “I mean—”

“Are you?” Akiyama asks.

Haruka’s mind comes to a screeching halt. “Am I what?”

“Gay,” Akiyama offers.

“No!”

“No?”

“Yes?”

“Which is it?” Akiyama trills. Haruka shrinks into herself. His face softens. “Okay. Hey. Hey, look at me. Listen. It doesn’t matter. You could say I don’t discriminate.”

“Noble,” Haruka mutters.

Akiyama eyes her. “You ask all nearby adults about their sexual orientation?”

“There was a guy flirting with you right in front of me,” Haruka says, impatiently, “I was curious.”

“So it’s never come up, then?”

Haruka looks at him. “What do you mean?”

Akiyama makes a vague hand gesture. “You know.”

Haruka knows, but it still makes her feel on edge. “Has it ever. . . Come up with you? And. . .?”

Akiyama snorts. “Definitely not. But I’ve wondered. He’s a very attractive man.”

Haruka wrinkles her nose. “Gross.”

“He ever had a girlfriend?”

“. . . No.”

Akiyama makes a well motion with his shoulders. He looks pretty self-satisfied. How she wants to trap his confidence, his sureness, extract it and nurture it, feed it to herself as a nutrient until she grows antennae. Spin a spider web so her body is sticky string all the way down. Enough plausible deniability that she can’t be blamed when even surgical precision can’t tear it out.

Carefully, she asks: “Has he ever shown. . . An interest?”

Akiyama mulls it over. “That’s none of my business.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Alright,” he says, “Yes. Just definitely not in me.”

“He won’t let himself have shit,” Haruka spits, and the sentence stuns her so much she jumps back and hits her head on the back of the bench. “Woah. I don’t, I don’t say things like that.”

“You’re allowed to change,” Akiyama says, “And ‘have shit.’”

“It’s not,” she shakes her head, “It isn’t like that.”

“Haruka—”

“No, really,” she insists, “It’s weirder. It’s so much weirder.”

Akiyama nods. “I’m listening.”

Haruka finds the wound on the inside of her cheek and licks at it. Feels the phantom pain but can’t bring herself to recreate the real one. “I mean—I do? And my friend, we—but it felt different, it wasn’t—I don’t know.” She lowers her voice. “I kissed her.”

“That’ll do it, usually.”

“No,” Haruka says, feeling disheartened, “I feel fine about that. Mostly? Mostly. It hurt, but—what hurt more was how it kept going.”

Akiyama’s stare turns steely. “Did something happen?”

Haruka’s confused, and then she puts her hand up, saying, “No! No, no, no. It wasn’t like that.”

He relaxes. “Good. Go on.”

“I just kept—feeling like this. It didn’t go away. The ‘to the left’ feeling. Everything stayed tilted to the left.”

“Hm.”

“I’m cursed.”

Akiyama rolls his eyes. “No, you’re not.”

“I’m cursed! I’m cursed, and I can’t sleep, and I’m alone—”

“Haruka, hey—”

“He left me! And my mom left me, and now Park left me, so all I know is leaving—Okinawa and my friend and, and I wanna leave the Princess League—”

“Okay—”

“Don’t take that seriously,” Haruka warns, “I’m not quitting.”

“. . . Yeah, I know.”

“But it doesn’t matter where I leave,” she says, near hysterics, “I have to take this—this—this thing with me.”

“The feeling,” Akiyama reasons, and Haruka screws her eyes shut, because—

“No,” she hisses, “This! This thing! This—”

Haruka starts clawing at her arms, nails reaching beneath the sleeves of her hoodie and sinking into her neck, like she’s grown ten thousands hands, some disgusting octopus creature, and that would be better, it would feel better and realer and—and Akiyama is grabbing at her wrists, and she’s squirming against him until her body goes limp, heaving sobs into his tacky, tacky jacket.

“All of you dress so ugly,” Haruka says, through her crying, “They won’t let me dress ugly.”

Akiyama laughs softly. He presses his palms against her shoulder and pushes her back a bit. She rubs at her face and her nose. Trying to get a hold of herself.

“I don’t know how to go back,” she says, more steadily, “To who I was before this started being an issue.”

“Eh,” Akiyama says, “You can’t, really.”

“I have a dream now,” Haruka says, feeling the crazy whirring start up again, “She gave me her dream.”

“Shoddy excuse, kid.”

“You sucks at this!” Haruka screeches. “This is terrible!”

“I can’t do anything,” Akiyama says, calmly, “Except listen.”

“Shoddy excuse,” she mutters.

“What do you want, Haruka?”

“I just—”

“What do you want?”

“To perform at the concert.”

“No. What? Come on—”

“I do!”

“I know that. What else?”

“To be back at Morning Glory with Uncle Kaz.”

“Sure,” he says, “What else?”

“To have real friends. I do have real friends,” she amends, “To keep real friends.”

“So keep ‘em. What else?”

“Nothing.”

“What else?”

“I don’t need—”

“Not what I asked. What else?”

“To break the mirror.”

“. . . Okay. What else?”

“To win.”

“What else?”

“To do drag,” Haruka spits out against her will.

Akiyama’s eyebrows climb to his hairline. “Ah.”

She wants lightning to strike her right here. Right now.

Akiyama says, “Have you tried, just, doing drag?”

She glares at him. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, it takes practice and skill. But why not?”

“I’m a girl.”

“Does that matter?”

He isn’t getting it. “I want someone to come up to me like that guy did to you.”

Alarmed, Akiyama says, “You’re too young for—”

“I want to fight men on the street.”

Akiyama is quiet. Haruka continues, “I want to move like you. I want to move like Uncle Kaz. I want a stupid back tattoo.”

He makes a displeased noise. “They’re a bit gauche.”

“Do you get it?” Haruka begs.

Akiyama furrows his brow. Looks down at the ground, and then back up at her. Brown eyes like a magnifying glass. Studying the remains of her regurgitated soul.

He says, “Yes, Haruka. I get it.”

—

There’s too much happening around Haruka for her to zero in on it all, really. She has a competition to win and a pipe dream to fulfill. She has a war to fight—she goes head to head with the yakuza, stands her ground, gets kidnapped anyway, has to be saved, rinse and repeat and rinse and repeat. Whatever. She’s back on steady ground. They can’t trip her right now. She can’t even find it in herself to be scared anymore.

She makes it up to Akari by dancing against her again, refusing to relinquish a victory but entranced by the newfound lightness in her body. How much she gives to Haruka while performing, even though Haruka has never deserved it.

Offstage, she grabs Akari’s hand and squeezes tight. When the room empties out she gets on her tiptoes and pecks her on the lips, in front of Yui for transparency’s sake.

“Fine,” Akari says, “We’re even.”

“Not yet,” Yui cuts in, “You have to work the runway before we let you off the hook.”

Haruka stares at her blankly. Yui continues, “You clearly want to! So just do it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Haruka says, “I’m not old enough.”

“We can pull some strings.”

“I wouldn’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re the only thing getting in your own way, Haruka,” Yui snaps, “And I’m tired of being on the receiving end of that. We both are.”

Haruka looks to Akari, who shrugs, drawing little patterns on the floor with the foot of her sneaker. “It is getting a little old.”

Goosebumps on her arms. The terror and thrill of being found out. Had she shouted it when she told Akiyama? Had he spread her stupid secrets?

Her shoulders slump down. “Fine.”

Yui’s eyes bug out. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” Haruka says, and—honestly—serenity washes over her. Real, true peace. It’s worth a try. It’s worth one try. “But I’ll look stupid in that dress.”

“Don’t do it in the dress,” Akari says, “You’ll psych yourself out.”

“Performing in dresses is what I do for a living.”

“Exactly,” she says, “So do something different. Okay, don’t give me that look. I’ll help you.”

Something different. She folds her arms. “Okay. After the Princess League is over.”

Yui smiles. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

—

Akari’s lip gloss tastes like cough medicine, and Haruka pulls back one too many times to wipe the gumminess off her mouth, so Akari sighs and uses her sleeve to properly rub it off. “How’s that?”

“It makes my lips burn,” Haruka explains, “And it’s distracting.”

“We could always go back to doing homework.”

Haruka closes the math textbook and slides it away from their spot on the floor.

Akari laughs. “You’re cute. So can I dress you up now?”

“The event’s not for a couple weeks,” Haruka says, mouth twisting.

“That’s exactly why we should get a head start. Here,” Akari gets on her knees, fumbling for a pair of black slacks, “I stole these from my brother. Put ‘em on.”

“I don’t know,” Haruka says, quietly, “I really do wanna be like the queens in their dresses.”

“I know that,” Akari says, and it feels too revealing, “But I think this might be a better start.”

Haruka folds her arms. “Why?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t.”

Akari breathes out through her nose. “Just put the fucking pants on, Sawamura.”

Haruka scowls, but obliges, Akari turns her head away as she slides off her skirt and sticks her legs in. The fabric pools around her ankles and threatens to fall off her hips. “It’s too big.”

“Not by much,” Akari says, “We can tailor it.”

Haruka tops it off with the brown hoodie. “It’s not particularly festive.”

“Well, it’ll be a nice shirt, instead, we’re just trying to capture the vibe right now.”

Haruka doesn’t know what “the vibe” is supposed to be, but she lets Akari stick her hair under a baseball cap. Her bangs are long enough to tickle her eyelids. She very bravely doesn’t shove them away.

“Stand up straight,” Akari says, gently turning Haruka to face the mirror, “That’s something, yeah?”

It’s not unlike what she’d first worn to the club. Akari had just put it together better. With the cap pulled low over her eyes and her hair bunched in a way that gives the illusion of it actually being chopped short, Haruka feels—different. Which is stupid, because it’s just her. It’s always just her. Akari’s thumb pats at her upper lip, light enough that Haruka doesn’t initially notice the shadowy makeup it’s leaving behind. Her stomach jumps and she clamps a hand over it, shaking her head profusely.

“It’s a costume, Haruka,” Akari eases, placing her palm over Haruka’s knuckles, “Just let it happen.”

Carefully, Haruka lowers her hand. It’s barely visible, but knowing it’s there feels so exposed that it makes her want to look away. Akari helps her out with that, using her index finger to turn Haruka’s chin to face her. “Aw, look at your little peach fuzz. You’ve got a long way to go.”

Haruka blinks rapidly. “Akari?”

But Akari’s walking her backwards towards the bed until Haruka is sitting down. She props her knee next to Haruka’s legs, looking down as she touches the corners of Haruka’s mouth. It’s the only place where their skin meets. “How long have you been tryna grow it, sweetheart?”

“Uh.”

“Oh my God,” Akari whispers, “Just play along.”

Haruka swallows. “A few months.”

“Cute,” she teases, “Don’t worry, it’ll get fuller in no time.”

“I’m a late bloomer, I guess.”

“No shame in that.”

“Do you, um. Like. It?”

“Yeah, baby,” Akari soothes, flopping her arms over Haruka’s shoulders, “In your stupid hoodie and those pants, I like seeing you for what you are.”

“Ye—yeah?”

“It’s a miracle you fooled them long enough to win your little Princess League,” she says, pressing their foreheads together, “You make an unconvincing girl.”

Haruka’s mouth is dry. “Really?”

“You should just give up altogether,” Akari says, “Anyone with eyes can tell you’re faking it.”

“I’m—I’m. I—”

“You’re lucky I like guys, too,” she says.

Haruka feels like she’s going to pass out. She breathes. Feet planted. Hands spread. “What makes you think I’m interested?”

“Oh, please,” Akari says, near Haruka’s earlobe, “Pretty boys like you can’t resist girls like me.”

Haruka’s eyes flutter closed. “You’re laying it on pretty thick, you know.”

“Men are dumb,” Akari says, “And you’re no exception.”

Her brain turns to mush. She lets it.

Above her, Akari continues to build her a pre-history. If she tries hard enough, Haruka can see that character, that boy—he’s a little taller, a little more steady. Fuzzy chin raised high and only sometimes hiding behind a bat. Strong, too. That boy pulls Akari in by the waist, kissing her hard to communicate that he’s here now, possessing Haruka’s body, and Akari can relax the hustle some.

“You’d look good in a dress, too, man,” Akari says, one final sendoff, always, always moving too fast, “Pretty transgressive stuff.”

—

Dreamline hits her like a ton of bricks. She’d thought it would be over after she won the Princess League, but, really, she should’ve known. Her life has a tendency to skew Hydra; however many heads she cuts off, more grow in its place. But a supergroup isn’t so bad. Especially now that her and T-Set are something approaching friends.

So, sure. She’ll play along. For Park. For Uncle Kaz. For the orphanage. It feels novel again.

She’s getting really good at this, she thinks.

—

If she had a tattoo, it might be a Namazu. Catfish with a habit of leaving earthquakes in its wake. A strange, unexpected weapon. Nobody considers that an animal as inoffensive as a catfish could leave that kind of wreckage. The Namazu is enshrined, restrained, kept from the public. Protected from the world. But when people lower their guards just far enough, that’s when it strikes. The earth ripples. Danger and terror.

Backstage, she sees Uncle Kaz fighting on the screen. A mirror image of their first encounter. Something fated in the graying pixels. And she knows, suddenly, what she has to do. She knows how low everyone’s guards have finally gotten.

—

As much as the running was beautiful, Haruka knows she took it too far. She can make amends. She has one final goal, and that’s fulfilling Park’s dream. As soon as she finishes that, her contract is up.

She’s tired of suffocation. She misses the sea air. She wasn’t made for breaking free, and she isn’t ready for it. It’s fine. There’ll be other times. And she’s tired. And she’s lonely. And she isn’t lying—that’s the most important part, she isn’t lying when she says that she’s sick of hiding the truth about her family. Haruka’s heart is simple. She wants to be with the people she loves above all else. Maybe if she goes this far, Uncle Kaz will see that all the times he’s tried to do the same weren’t in vain, that they can both take that final step together. She sends a silent prayer of apology to Yoko. Hopes against hope that there will be another pupil.

When she quits onstage, she knows people are only surprised because they could never see her for what she truly is.

—

It doesn’t work out quite like she wishes. But when does anything?

She keeps in touch with Akari and Yui, sends the occasional email to Yoko, even though the shame is eating at her organs. Whittling her down, little by little. She wants to apologize to them, to everyone, for being so desperate, for torpedoing their lives, only to give up in a way that would hold her the most accountable. No takebacks. No ransom. She doesn’t think she can look Akiyama in the eyes ever again, not when he knows. She locks herself in a coffin surrounded only by people who don’t.

She was worried Uncle Kaz would see through her—for all the jabs about his lack of people skills, he’s deceptively perceptive. They’ve kept each other afloat by ignoring the obvious, and she was terrified he might notice the shift, this clear change that Haruka can’t help vomiting up but. But.

Well, he’s in jail now. Haruka supposes only one of them could commit.

—

Laying in her bed, back in Okinawa, sleep does not return to Haruka. It will soon enough; it’s a pattern she’s used to, nothing like the twisting alleyways of the big city with a litany of secrets hidden under its tongue. There’s a couple hidden under Haruka’s, too. She’ll keep them there. A new chunk of flesh torn from the inside.

Late at night, she thinks of that boy. Folds him in two, four, six, eight. Tucks him safely under her pillow.

Maybe one day. But then, again, maybe not. It was a pretty shitty drag persona.