Playing Dress Up
Parts of this have been in my head for months, but the other night I couldn't sleep and this came to me instead, so. Thanks, muse?
Playing Dress Up
She remembered distinctly the first time she noticed the way he made her chest flutter. It was at Makoto's party, right before The Incident (that was what she called it in her mind, The Incident), when they were talking about something--she could not remember what, only remembered how very hard she was trying to avoid staring into those impossibly green eyes, and how very hard he was trying to get her to do just that.
If she had not been focusing so much on how he made her flustered, and he had not been enjoying so much how he made her flustered, then maybe they would have noticed The Incident brewing over their heads. She would have realized that a thunder storm was mounting outside, electricity building up in the dark clouds overhead. She would have remembered that Makoto had volunteered to host the party herself, and that despite the tray of sliced vegetables she had brought over, and the burnt cookies Usagi and Mina contributed, she likely spent the entire day preparing for it, while the electric energy inside her began to build up, charging her like an overworked battery.
Sasha would later look even more repentant, confessing that he, too, should have noticed the building clouds overhead, and the effect of all that rain, not yet fallen, on Jaden. Ami did recall that the blond, normally humorous and enjoyable company, had become almost aggressively loud. Curious, she thought, how different Jaden's relationship with water was from her own. Moving or still, solid or liquid or gas, it was all the same to her.
She did not see The Incident occur. The aftermath--a district-wide blackout and a party cut short by multiple electrical burns--more than spoke for itself. Makoto said simply that he'd startled her. Jaden said nothing--perhaps because he had received a shot of lightning to the face.
They would both be too busy to speak to each other again that night, lighting candles and treating wounds for Mamoru to heal, but she remembered the way his hand slid comfortingly over Jaden's back, long fingers tracing the length of his spine, and her own back tingled in wonder of how it would feel to have that hand stroke it in the same way.
***
Very few of even her closest friends were aware that the seemingly disinterested Mizuno Ami had had many crushes in her time, and when she crushed, she crushed hard. A shoe box in the back of her closet still held every CD, promo, newspaper clipping, and photo book that the Three Lights ever put out in their brief months on Earth, with a particularly heavy focus on Kou Taiki. The fact that Taiki ended up being female beneath that well-tailored suit really only gave her momentary pause--Star Maker did fill out those little black hotpants quite nicely.
The secret to a good crush was to know the object of your affection, know more than that his eyes were greener than emeralds and that just the sound of his voice made you lose the ability to form complete sentences. And Ami was really a researcher at heart.
It amazed her, when she typed his name into a search engine, how easily the information came. His name appeared on multiple social networking sites, all of them unlocked for the world at large to see. News articles mentioned his name in connection to one art show or another. A hair dresser's portfolio featured him with his copper hair done up with leaves as green as his eyes. She found him on a tattoo artist's blog, and the sight of the fiery phoenix soaring up his exposed ribs forced her to take a break with a glass of very cold ice water.
His face (a most beautiful face) was everywhere for the world to see. He did not hide who he was, and it struck her as refreshingly honest, as authentic, that he put everything he was on display without shame or inhibition. Without fear. She wanted to know how it felt to be so free.
***
They were both details-oriented people, and so they fixated equally on the little things. The different rings that he wore--the ones that changed with his mood and the ones that always stayed the same. The subtle shifts in temperature around him. The freckles on the back of his arm. The way that her nose crinkled when she laughed. The many different shades of a blush.
They did not "date." She would have fled if he'd asked. They walked. First he was walking her home from meetings. Then he was at her door, asking if she would walk him to the coffee shop. Then from the coffee shop to the park. Then they were sitting down to enjoy lunch (not going out for lunch, just two people who were walking and happened to get hungry) and when facing him directly, she could watch the bobbing of his lip ring when he talked, and the way that his tongue played with it when he was thinking.
They did not touch, yet, but he let his hand dangle next to hers when they walked, and she could feel the heat from it on the back of hers.
***
Rei was seething, and Ami did not know what to do with that. She only gathered bits of the story from a friend who was trying to remain diplomatic. "Tell your boyfriend not to set foot near my shrine again."
Ami knew that it was the directive that she should be paying attention to, but all she heard was "boyfriend."
***
He was smoking. Every medical fact associated with the health risks of tobacco rose to the forefront of her mind, but his fingers clung to the cigarette like it was the only thing he had to hold onto, and so she swallowed the lecture for a different day, a day when he was not coiled into a defensive ball on the park bench, breath hitching when the words tumbled out of him, confused and out of order and without explanation or context.
Rei didn't know, he said. She didn't know that Jaden wasn't just a plaything she could fuck around with, not this time. Maybe he even liked it back then, wanted the game, the tease, but Jadeite didn't have his trust broken at every turn like Jaden did.
And she didn't know that he'd seen the very worst of humanity, had been among the dredges at the bottom of the barrel, and he could still trust. He'd had everything taken from him, and he was still giving. Someone like that, they didn't deserve to have their heart broken, not ever again. Not by someone who considered herself his better.
She thought maybe she should feel jealous, because that was certainly how he was acting. She only saw how this (whatever this really was) was hurting him.
They were in public, and a hug, even holding his hand, would have been too much for her, yet. But she laid her hand, tentatively, on the back of his. The tension in his shoulders released, just a bit. It was the first time they touched.
***
She confessed that she did not really watch movies. She sort of coexisted with them, letting them play while she worked on something else. So he arrived on her doorstep with DVDs and a sketchbook, and they ignored movies on her couch together. She had thought that she might be too anxious to work on her assignments with him there, but every day that they spent together made her feel more at ease with his presence.
And so she did not balk when he sat close enough that elbows and knees bumped. Or when he leaned into her personal space to see the screen of her laptop. Or when he all-too-deliberately brushed the back of her hand when they both reached for the remote.
Their first kiss was not on the couch. It was at her front door as they said goodnight, and he leaned in slowly enough that she saw it coming, yet still her eyes were wide open for the entirety of it. His lips were soft, and hot. The hoop through his lower lip pressed into hers. It was brief, brief enough that the fluttering of a thousand butterflies erupted in her chest, but did not have the chance to rush up into her throat and close it up in a panic. They remained captive in her chest, making her heave little sharp breaths as she watched him stroll away from her apartment window.
***
He always gave her an escape route. He never cornered her. Never held her while he kissed her or put his hand on the back of her head. Always she could edge away.
So when he pushed her, just a little, trailing his fingers where they had not yet explored, deepening a kiss just a little more than before, dipping his face into the crook of her neck, always she was in control. Always she could stand her ground, butterflies be damned, or pull away.
Sometimes she wished that he would just pin her down and do what he wanted with her, that she could be completely passive instead of having to choose, and always, always fearing that her choice was the wrong one. But it was exhilarating, in its own way, that the only thing pinning her in place, keeping her from jumping up and hiding behind the door, were feather-light kisses on her throat. Every tiny, isolated touch between them greater in intensity than any sexual act she had yet imagined.
That was the game. The pushing and pulling, the trust that they both knew the rules, the maybe this time, the way that their senses narrowed into single pinpoints of contact, into intense gazes and the meeting of fire and ice. She thought (feared) that he would tire of it quickly, this agonizingly slow progression, but if anything he seemed to love the unpredictability of their delicate courtship.
And then there was the first time she pushed back. The first time her icy fingers met his heated skin and made him whimper. That... was another kind of pleasure entirely.
***
She found it difficult to believe that he found her interesting. Not when the internet was scattered with beautiful, colorful, completely out there photos of himself and people like him. People who glittered with dozens of piercings like his (and oh, how many times did that lip ring become the focal point of pleasure?), who colored their hair and bodies and, like him, were not afraid to be what they were.
He had often spoken of a club he wished to visit while he was in Japan, because he was madly in love with the DJ. A place where the patrons dressed as zombies and vampires (of the scary Nosferatu variety, not the I'm-secretly-team-sparkle kind). And so Ami did the unthinkable. Not only did she ask him out on a date (their first date). She asked him out to Tokyo Dark Castle.
***
She needed backup on this, and Minako knew more about clothing and makeup and all that girly stuff than Ami ever cared to. She had never attempted any sort of zombie chic in her appearance before, but what girl didn't own an insanely tiny black miniskirt and a pair of fishnet tights?
"I don't know about this." The girl in the mirror was unrecognizable to Ami. The little black skirt barely covered her bottom, and she had no clue how it ever contained Mina's somewhat more voluptuous rear.
Most of Mina's shirts would never fit her, given that the difference in their chests was almost three cup sizes, so Mina had told her to bring a simple tank top. Over this she wore a cropped faux-leather jacket that made her feel like she was dressing up as a biker girl for Halloween. Her eyes were heavily shadowed and mascara'd into some kind of raccoon mask.
She had hoped... what? That if she tried out Sasha's world, maybe she could learn to capture some of his freedom. That maybe a few extra applications of makeup would make her as comfortable in her skin as he was. But she did not see her own skin in the mirror, not really, and now she wished that she could retreat back into her sensibly-lengthed skirts and sweaters without seeming horribly out of place among the creatures of the night.
"You look hot, sweetie." Minako strapped her into a pair of heels, because Ami had no idea how to navigate the distance to her feet without flashing her blue cotton panties to all and sundry.
***
When Sasha arrived at Mina's door looking like a gothic Mr. Darcy in platform boots that were almost as high as her heels, she thought that the tiniest skirt in the world was worth this living romance novel hero. He did not seem sure where to put his eyes when he saw her, so he traced them everywhere, green emeralds burning over her legs and her throat and her smoky eyes and darkly painted lips. He swallowed. "You look... good."
She didn't know what to think about the hidden note of surprise in his voice.
***
They stood on the train, because nobody wanted to risk getting nice black clothes dirty by sitting down. That part was nice, holding the same pole, elbows just touching. He had also opted out of the zombie look, instead lightly shading around and under his eyes to give him a handsomely undead appearance. It was a little bit vampire-like, but less Bram Stoker or Stephanie Meyer, and more Anne Rice. Highly romantic.
But some rowdy young men poured into the car, and suddenly all she could think of were her exposed thighs, and was her skirt riding up to show off everything she possessed to the world, and why oh why was she wearing black fishnets?
When the train paused at the next station, she stumbled out the doors--would have run if the shoes permitted it. She sank onto a bench, filth be damned, and immediately wondered how girls could stand having their thighs come in contact with everything beneath them, cold metal included.
He laid his jacket over her lap as he sat down. "So. Did Mina steal that skirt off of a very tiny stripper?"
She wanted to smack him for making her laugh when she was trying not to cry, but smacking, like hugging, was in that zone of touching that other people did. "She's... she's Mina, you know?"
He leaned back against the bench, sprawling his legs out, and she was envious of how easily he wore his strange clothes. How natural he made them look. "My sisters used to have the best dress-up clothes. Big poofy princess dresses. Pretty little fairy wings. Skanky stripper shoes. Of course I felt left out if they were playing without me, so they had to let me in on it. I could throw an epic tantrum, and nobody wanted to endure that. We used to get all glammed up and put on little plays together. I always got to be the evil fairy." He gave her a smile, the one that made butterflies, and the feeling of them fluttering around eased the tightness in her chest.
"The point was, we were having fun. We were finding ways to express ourselves. Those dresses weren't about looking good or not looking good or pleasing somebody else or attracting attention. They were about being what we wanted, and showing that. And if it doesn't make you feel amazing, if you don't feel like an evil fairy who can make the ground tremble at your feet, then it's not right. And maybe it's a bit shallow." He waved a hand dismissively. "I'm pretty sure that I'm shallow. But it's something you surround yourself with. Something that literally, physically touches you on a constant basis. And you can control it. What it is, what it does, how it makes you feel. How it makes everyone who sees you feel, even. But only if you can own it. Only if it's you."
She wanted to say, I thought this was what you'd want. But that didn't fit, not really. That anxious excitement that grew at the thought of trying out his world, at pretending at being as confident as the people in his photos, had been her own.
She looked out at the flashy ads across from them, the glitzy pop stars with their hot pink lipgloss. "I just... I want to try it. Fashion never interested me, but I never tried. I don't know if it is me, I don't know if anything is me."
"So... that skirt that you wore to Makoto's party, that wasn't you?"
Ami blinked. "Which skirt?"
"Light blue. With little daisies on it and a white chiffon overlay."
She didn't think that she remembered even her own clothes with such clarity. "Oh, that? You... you liked that?"
"Are you kidding? It was adorable. I had to try really hard not to stare or you'd think I was being a creep."
"But it's so... simple."
"And perfect on you. Also, I don't think I've told you yet about my sexy librarian fetish."
It was awful, how he could make her giggle so easily like that, and right when she was trying her very best to mope. She buried her face in her hands, remembering too late that she would probably smear dark red lipstick all over them. "I feel ridiculous. I hate feeling ridiculous. I have nightmares about feeling ridiculous. I just wanted to try out whatever it is that makes you so... you."
His fingers slid over her back, warm and feather-light, just like they had played over Jaden's that night, and she was right: it did feel good. "Well I want you. If I wanted another me, I'd stare into a mirror all day. And contrary to what anybody tells you, that is not how I spend my free time. Not all of it, anyway."
She giggled, leaning into his hand and the comfort that it offered. He pulled out his phone. "How about we make a detour before we get to the club? I've got a friend in town who might be able to help."
***
She called herself Aubergine (Abby, for the many Japanese acquaintances who struggled with her name) and her profession was evident all over her skin. Ami was not prone to staring, but she did not know where to look--every inch of the girl was inked. She gave Sasha a hug when she opened the door--she could do that.
She looked Ami up and down, but not maliciously. Her smile was warm and inviting. "Poor thing, you look like you want to hide yourself in that little scrap you call a skirt. He didn't make you wear that, did he?"
After clearing Sasha's name of any wrongdoing, Ami allowed herself to be led into Abby's bedroom, leaving her date behind.
Abby tossed something at her and told Ami to try it on while she chattered relentlessly. Moved here from the States, got lots of business from polite young yakuza who already had their own usual artists who they went to for their Japanese tattoos, but they always came to her, a real live western artist, with requests of anchors and pin-up girls and other painfully stereotypical American-looking tattoos. She helped zip Ami up as she told her about the circles she and Sasha traveled in, various tenuous connections involving art and music somehow causing them to meet.
"I'm really happy he's moving on from Sam, though. Don't get me wrong, I love them both. They should just never, ever be together."
The few bits of information that she had gathered from Sasha seemed to amount to as much. "Were they so bad together?"
"Two needy drama queens trying to make it together? They tried to eat each other alive, honey. Sasha really needed someone more stable." Abby looked her over. "Damn, girl. You should keep that thing. You look better in it than I ever did."
Ami eyed the knee-length skirt that flared out from her waist, bits of black tulle peeking out. The fabric was a simple sky blue with bright red cherries. Abby set about tying up the halter straps into a bow at the back of her neck. "Is this really okay?"
"You kidding? Rockabilly's huge in Tokyo's alternative scene. Don't know how many of those yakuza idiots come strutting in with their hair done up like Elvis. Speaking of hair, mind if I mess with yours a bit? That shade of blue is amazing, no way can we let that go to waste. The amount of Manic Panic I used to dump in my hair to get that color..."
Ami soon emerged from a cloud of hair spray with the back of her neat bob now teased and spiked in a gravity-defying way that she never thought possible. "You've got the most adorable back," Abby said behind her. "I know that sounds weird, but I stare at them all the time. That little jacket you came in with will look good with this, make you look fresh off the set of Grease, but damn, make sure to take it off sometimes, will you? Now--after you wash that makeup off, try these." She pushed a pair of semi-opaque overknee stockings into Ami's hands. "Nothing wrong with fishnets, but they're to be used with extreme caution."
When she emerged, nervously, into the living room, she tried not to smile too widely. It was just a dress, after all, and she didn't even know if it was what he wanted. But she looked down at herself, and the way the tulle played over her knees, and she couldn't help it. She felt... amazing.
Sasha took one look at her, and that butterfly-inducing smile broke like sunshine. "There's that evil fairy."
***
Zombies were really very pleasant people once you started talking to them. Ami knew she was rather tipsy when this thought occurred to her, but she was still the senshi of wisdom and could have solved a calculus problem in a heartbeat if somebody commanded her to. The floor was less cooperative in staying exactly where it belonged, but the strappy heels that Mina had leant her were actually not so bad to walk in, when she had an arm to cling to. In fact, that part made it rather nice. The holding on to him.
Sasha got to meet his DJ, and flirt shamelessly with him, and Ami didn't mind at all since she thought the guy was dressed like a very large florescent Muppet, and really, who could compete with that? If Taiki Kou were here, she would flirt equally shamelessly... in her head. Which was really almost the same thing.
It didn't mean that much, because when she peeled off her jacket on the sweltering dance floor, it was her exposed back that he slid his heated fingertips over. It was for her that his eyes lit up into sharp green flames that made the butterflies inside turn to goosebumps on her skin. It was on her ankles that his hands lingered when he slipped her shoes off at the bar, and they danced the last few songs with her in stocking feet, the shoes dangling from his hand.
Several times, he checked whether she was okay. Did she need to flee the premises yet? Always, he gave her an escape route.
She never wanted to take it.
Playing Dress Up
She remembered distinctly the first time she noticed the way he made her chest flutter. It was at Makoto's party, right before The Incident (that was what she called it in her mind, The Incident), when they were talking about something--she could not remember what, only remembered how very hard she was trying to avoid staring into those impossibly green eyes, and how very hard he was trying to get her to do just that.
If she had not been focusing so much on how he made her flustered, and he had not been enjoying so much how he made her flustered, then maybe they would have noticed The Incident brewing over their heads. She would have realized that a thunder storm was mounting outside, electricity building up in the dark clouds overhead. She would have remembered that Makoto had volunteered to host the party herself, and that despite the tray of sliced vegetables she had brought over, and the burnt cookies Usagi and Mina contributed, she likely spent the entire day preparing for it, while the electric energy inside her began to build up, charging her like an overworked battery.
Sasha would later look even more repentant, confessing that he, too, should have noticed the building clouds overhead, and the effect of all that rain, not yet fallen, on Jaden. Ami did recall that the blond, normally humorous and enjoyable company, had become almost aggressively loud. Curious, she thought, how different Jaden's relationship with water was from her own. Moving or still, solid or liquid or gas, it was all the same to her.
She did not see The Incident occur. The aftermath--a district-wide blackout and a party cut short by multiple electrical burns--more than spoke for itself. Makoto said simply that he'd startled her. Jaden said nothing--perhaps because he had received a shot of lightning to the face.
They would both be too busy to speak to each other again that night, lighting candles and treating wounds for Mamoru to heal, but she remembered the way his hand slid comfortingly over Jaden's back, long fingers tracing the length of his spine, and her own back tingled in wonder of how it would feel to have that hand stroke it in the same way.
***
Very few of even her closest friends were aware that the seemingly disinterested Mizuno Ami had had many crushes in her time, and when she crushed, she crushed hard. A shoe box in the back of her closet still held every CD, promo, newspaper clipping, and photo book that the Three Lights ever put out in their brief months on Earth, with a particularly heavy focus on Kou Taiki. The fact that Taiki ended up being female beneath that well-tailored suit really only gave her momentary pause--Star Maker did fill out those little black hotpants quite nicely.
The secret to a good crush was to know the object of your affection, know more than that his eyes were greener than emeralds and that just the sound of his voice made you lose the ability to form complete sentences. And Ami was really a researcher at heart.
It amazed her, when she typed his name into a search engine, how easily the information came. His name appeared on multiple social networking sites, all of them unlocked for the world at large to see. News articles mentioned his name in connection to one art show or another. A hair dresser's portfolio featured him with his copper hair done up with leaves as green as his eyes. She found him on a tattoo artist's blog, and the sight of the fiery phoenix soaring up his exposed ribs forced her to take a break with a glass of very cold ice water.
His face (a most beautiful face) was everywhere for the world to see. He did not hide who he was, and it struck her as refreshingly honest, as authentic, that he put everything he was on display without shame or inhibition. Without fear. She wanted to know how it felt to be so free.
***
They were both details-oriented people, and so they fixated equally on the little things. The different rings that he wore--the ones that changed with his mood and the ones that always stayed the same. The subtle shifts in temperature around him. The freckles on the back of his arm. The way that her nose crinkled when she laughed. The many different shades of a blush.
They did not "date." She would have fled if he'd asked. They walked. First he was walking her home from meetings. Then he was at her door, asking if she would walk him to the coffee shop. Then from the coffee shop to the park. Then they were sitting down to enjoy lunch (not going out for lunch, just two people who were walking and happened to get hungry) and when facing him directly, she could watch the bobbing of his lip ring when he talked, and the way that his tongue played with it when he was thinking.
They did not touch, yet, but he let his hand dangle next to hers when they walked, and she could feel the heat from it on the back of hers.
***
Rei was seething, and Ami did not know what to do with that. She only gathered bits of the story from a friend who was trying to remain diplomatic. "Tell your boyfriend not to set foot near my shrine again."
Ami knew that it was the directive that she should be paying attention to, but all she heard was "boyfriend."
***
He was smoking. Every medical fact associated with the health risks of tobacco rose to the forefront of her mind, but his fingers clung to the cigarette like it was the only thing he had to hold onto, and so she swallowed the lecture for a different day, a day when he was not coiled into a defensive ball on the park bench, breath hitching when the words tumbled out of him, confused and out of order and without explanation or context.
Rei didn't know, he said. She didn't know that Jaden wasn't just a plaything she could fuck around with, not this time. Maybe he even liked it back then, wanted the game, the tease, but Jadeite didn't have his trust broken at every turn like Jaden did.
And she didn't know that he'd seen the very worst of humanity, had been among the dredges at the bottom of the barrel, and he could still trust. He'd had everything taken from him, and he was still giving. Someone like that, they didn't deserve to have their heart broken, not ever again. Not by someone who considered herself his better.
She thought maybe she should feel jealous, because that was certainly how he was acting. She only saw how this (whatever this really was) was hurting him.
They were in public, and a hug, even holding his hand, would have been too much for her, yet. But she laid her hand, tentatively, on the back of his. The tension in his shoulders released, just a bit. It was the first time they touched.
***
She confessed that she did not really watch movies. She sort of coexisted with them, letting them play while she worked on something else. So he arrived on her doorstep with DVDs and a sketchbook, and they ignored movies on her couch together. She had thought that she might be too anxious to work on her assignments with him there, but every day that they spent together made her feel more at ease with his presence.
And so she did not balk when he sat close enough that elbows and knees bumped. Or when he leaned into her personal space to see the screen of her laptop. Or when he all-too-deliberately brushed the back of her hand when they both reached for the remote.
Their first kiss was not on the couch. It was at her front door as they said goodnight, and he leaned in slowly enough that she saw it coming, yet still her eyes were wide open for the entirety of it. His lips were soft, and hot. The hoop through his lower lip pressed into hers. It was brief, brief enough that the fluttering of a thousand butterflies erupted in her chest, but did not have the chance to rush up into her throat and close it up in a panic. They remained captive in her chest, making her heave little sharp breaths as she watched him stroll away from her apartment window.
***
He always gave her an escape route. He never cornered her. Never held her while he kissed her or put his hand on the back of her head. Always she could edge away.
So when he pushed her, just a little, trailing his fingers where they had not yet explored, deepening a kiss just a little more than before, dipping his face into the crook of her neck, always she was in control. Always she could stand her ground, butterflies be damned, or pull away.
Sometimes she wished that he would just pin her down and do what he wanted with her, that she could be completely passive instead of having to choose, and always, always fearing that her choice was the wrong one. But it was exhilarating, in its own way, that the only thing pinning her in place, keeping her from jumping up and hiding behind the door, were feather-light kisses on her throat. Every tiny, isolated touch between them greater in intensity than any sexual act she had yet imagined.
That was the game. The pushing and pulling, the trust that they both knew the rules, the maybe this time, the way that their senses narrowed into single pinpoints of contact, into intense gazes and the meeting of fire and ice. She thought (feared) that he would tire of it quickly, this agonizingly slow progression, but if anything he seemed to love the unpredictability of their delicate courtship.
And then there was the first time she pushed back. The first time her icy fingers met his heated skin and made him whimper. That... was another kind of pleasure entirely.
***
She found it difficult to believe that he found her interesting. Not when the internet was scattered with beautiful, colorful, completely out there photos of himself and people like him. People who glittered with dozens of piercings like his (and oh, how many times did that lip ring become the focal point of pleasure?), who colored their hair and bodies and, like him, were not afraid to be what they were.
He had often spoken of a club he wished to visit while he was in Japan, because he was madly in love with the DJ. A place where the patrons dressed as zombies and vampires (of the scary Nosferatu variety, not the I'm-secretly-team-sparkle kind). And so Ami did the unthinkable. Not only did she ask him out on a date (their first date). She asked him out to Tokyo Dark Castle.
***
She needed backup on this, and Minako knew more about clothing and makeup and all that girly stuff than Ami ever cared to. She had never attempted any sort of zombie chic in her appearance before, but what girl didn't own an insanely tiny black miniskirt and a pair of fishnet tights?
"I don't know about this." The girl in the mirror was unrecognizable to Ami. The little black skirt barely covered her bottom, and she had no clue how it ever contained Mina's somewhat more voluptuous rear.
Most of Mina's shirts would never fit her, given that the difference in their chests was almost three cup sizes, so Mina had told her to bring a simple tank top. Over this she wore a cropped faux-leather jacket that made her feel like she was dressing up as a biker girl for Halloween. Her eyes were heavily shadowed and mascara'd into some kind of raccoon mask.
She had hoped... what? That if she tried out Sasha's world, maybe she could learn to capture some of his freedom. That maybe a few extra applications of makeup would make her as comfortable in her skin as he was. But she did not see her own skin in the mirror, not really, and now she wished that she could retreat back into her sensibly-lengthed skirts and sweaters without seeming horribly out of place among the creatures of the night.
"You look hot, sweetie." Minako strapped her into a pair of heels, because Ami had no idea how to navigate the distance to her feet without flashing her blue cotton panties to all and sundry.
***
When Sasha arrived at Mina's door looking like a gothic Mr. Darcy in platform boots that were almost as high as her heels, she thought that the tiniest skirt in the world was worth this living romance novel hero. He did not seem sure where to put his eyes when he saw her, so he traced them everywhere, green emeralds burning over her legs and her throat and her smoky eyes and darkly painted lips. He swallowed. "You look... good."
She didn't know what to think about the hidden note of surprise in his voice.
***
They stood on the train, because nobody wanted to risk getting nice black clothes dirty by sitting down. That part was nice, holding the same pole, elbows just touching. He had also opted out of the zombie look, instead lightly shading around and under his eyes to give him a handsomely undead appearance. It was a little bit vampire-like, but less Bram Stoker or Stephanie Meyer, and more Anne Rice. Highly romantic.
But some rowdy young men poured into the car, and suddenly all she could think of were her exposed thighs, and was her skirt riding up to show off everything she possessed to the world, and why oh why was she wearing black fishnets?
When the train paused at the next station, she stumbled out the doors--would have run if the shoes permitted it. She sank onto a bench, filth be damned, and immediately wondered how girls could stand having their thighs come in contact with everything beneath them, cold metal included.
He laid his jacket over her lap as he sat down. "So. Did Mina steal that skirt off of a very tiny stripper?"
She wanted to smack him for making her laugh when she was trying not to cry, but smacking, like hugging, was in that zone of touching that other people did. "She's... she's Mina, you know?"
He leaned back against the bench, sprawling his legs out, and she was envious of how easily he wore his strange clothes. How natural he made them look. "My sisters used to have the best dress-up clothes. Big poofy princess dresses. Pretty little fairy wings. Skanky stripper shoes. Of course I felt left out if they were playing without me, so they had to let me in on it. I could throw an epic tantrum, and nobody wanted to endure that. We used to get all glammed up and put on little plays together. I always got to be the evil fairy." He gave her a smile, the one that made butterflies, and the feeling of them fluttering around eased the tightness in her chest.
"The point was, we were having fun. We were finding ways to express ourselves. Those dresses weren't about looking good or not looking good or pleasing somebody else or attracting attention. They were about being what we wanted, and showing that. And if it doesn't make you feel amazing, if you don't feel like an evil fairy who can make the ground tremble at your feet, then it's not right. And maybe it's a bit shallow." He waved a hand dismissively. "I'm pretty sure that I'm shallow. But it's something you surround yourself with. Something that literally, physically touches you on a constant basis. And you can control it. What it is, what it does, how it makes you feel. How it makes everyone who sees you feel, even. But only if you can own it. Only if it's you."
She wanted to say, I thought this was what you'd want. But that didn't fit, not really. That anxious excitement that grew at the thought of trying out his world, at pretending at being as confident as the people in his photos, had been her own.
She looked out at the flashy ads across from them, the glitzy pop stars with their hot pink lipgloss. "I just... I want to try it. Fashion never interested me, but I never tried. I don't know if it is me, I don't know if anything is me."
"So... that skirt that you wore to Makoto's party, that wasn't you?"
Ami blinked. "Which skirt?"
"Light blue. With little daisies on it and a white chiffon overlay."
She didn't think that she remembered even her own clothes with such clarity. "Oh, that? You... you liked that?"
"Are you kidding? It was adorable. I had to try really hard not to stare or you'd think I was being a creep."
"But it's so... simple."
"And perfect on you. Also, I don't think I've told you yet about my sexy librarian fetish."
It was awful, how he could make her giggle so easily like that, and right when she was trying her very best to mope. She buried her face in her hands, remembering too late that she would probably smear dark red lipstick all over them. "I feel ridiculous. I hate feeling ridiculous. I have nightmares about feeling ridiculous. I just wanted to try out whatever it is that makes you so... you."
His fingers slid over her back, warm and feather-light, just like they had played over Jaden's that night, and she was right: it did feel good. "Well I want you. If I wanted another me, I'd stare into a mirror all day. And contrary to what anybody tells you, that is not how I spend my free time. Not all of it, anyway."
She giggled, leaning into his hand and the comfort that it offered. He pulled out his phone. "How about we make a detour before we get to the club? I've got a friend in town who might be able to help."
***
She called herself Aubergine (Abby, for the many Japanese acquaintances who struggled with her name) and her profession was evident all over her skin. Ami was not prone to staring, but she did not know where to look--every inch of the girl was inked. She gave Sasha a hug when she opened the door--she could do that.
She looked Ami up and down, but not maliciously. Her smile was warm and inviting. "Poor thing, you look like you want to hide yourself in that little scrap you call a skirt. He didn't make you wear that, did he?"
After clearing Sasha's name of any wrongdoing, Ami allowed herself to be led into Abby's bedroom, leaving her date behind.
Abby tossed something at her and told Ami to try it on while she chattered relentlessly. Moved here from the States, got lots of business from polite young yakuza who already had their own usual artists who they went to for their Japanese tattoos, but they always came to her, a real live western artist, with requests of anchors and pin-up girls and other painfully stereotypical American-looking tattoos. She helped zip Ami up as she told her about the circles she and Sasha traveled in, various tenuous connections involving art and music somehow causing them to meet.
"I'm really happy he's moving on from Sam, though. Don't get me wrong, I love them both. They should just never, ever be together."
The few bits of information that she had gathered from Sasha seemed to amount to as much. "Were they so bad together?"
"Two needy drama queens trying to make it together? They tried to eat each other alive, honey. Sasha really needed someone more stable." Abby looked her over. "Damn, girl. You should keep that thing. You look better in it than I ever did."
Ami eyed the knee-length skirt that flared out from her waist, bits of black tulle peeking out. The fabric was a simple sky blue with bright red cherries. Abby set about tying up the halter straps into a bow at the back of her neck. "Is this really okay?"
"You kidding? Rockabilly's huge in Tokyo's alternative scene. Don't know how many of those yakuza idiots come strutting in with their hair done up like Elvis. Speaking of hair, mind if I mess with yours a bit? That shade of blue is amazing, no way can we let that go to waste. The amount of Manic Panic I used to dump in my hair to get that color..."
Ami soon emerged from a cloud of hair spray with the back of her neat bob now teased and spiked in a gravity-defying way that she never thought possible. "You've got the most adorable back," Abby said behind her. "I know that sounds weird, but I stare at them all the time. That little jacket you came in with will look good with this, make you look fresh off the set of Grease, but damn, make sure to take it off sometimes, will you? Now--after you wash that makeup off, try these." She pushed a pair of semi-opaque overknee stockings into Ami's hands. "Nothing wrong with fishnets, but they're to be used with extreme caution."
When she emerged, nervously, into the living room, she tried not to smile too widely. It was just a dress, after all, and she didn't even know if it was what he wanted. But she looked down at herself, and the way the tulle played over her knees, and she couldn't help it. She felt... amazing.
Sasha took one look at her, and that butterfly-inducing smile broke like sunshine. "There's that evil fairy."
***
Zombies were really very pleasant people once you started talking to them. Ami knew she was rather tipsy when this thought occurred to her, but she was still the senshi of wisdom and could have solved a calculus problem in a heartbeat if somebody commanded her to. The floor was less cooperative in staying exactly where it belonged, but the strappy heels that Mina had leant her were actually not so bad to walk in, when she had an arm to cling to. In fact, that part made it rather nice. The holding on to him.
Sasha got to meet his DJ, and flirt shamelessly with him, and Ami didn't mind at all since she thought the guy was dressed like a very large florescent Muppet, and really, who could compete with that? If Taiki Kou were here, she would flirt equally shamelessly... in her head. Which was really almost the same thing.
It didn't mean that much, because when she peeled off her jacket on the sweltering dance floor, it was her exposed back that he slid his heated fingertips over. It was for her that his eyes lit up into sharp green flames that made the butterflies inside turn to goosebumps on her skin. It was on her ankles that his hands lingered when he slipped her shoes off at the bar, and they danced the last few songs with her in stocking feet, the shoes dangling from his hand.
Several times, he checked whether she was okay. Did she need to flee the premises yet? Always, he gave her an escape route.
She never wanted to take it.