Chapter Text
The first time Adora sees Catra again in five years, it went something like this:
There’s a singular spotlight gleaming down on her. She hovers her hands above the keys of her piano, a 1925 Steinway grand. It was the first instrument she ever played, sitting in the living room of her childhood home. It feels right to play it here back home, in the heart of New York City.
In front of thousands, Adora sits on the stage of a sold-out Madison Square Garden, but it shouldn’t be silent. It should be deafeningly loud, but all Adora could hear was white noise over the ringing in her ears.
She took out her headpiece before sitting down, wanting to hear the sound of her own playing on the speakers of the arena, rather than late feedback in her earphones. She’ll be doing a solo performance to open her band’s most popular hit. It was pop, full of syncopated rhythms and pulsing beats and saxophone notes as if it was a love letter to the ’80s.
She began by pressing her fingers on the black keys of the piano, aided by her left hand, which was splayed out on two keys on the lower octave. She played softly, almost caressing the piano, closing her eyes on the beautiful, wistful tune. It was a song she wrote on an old piano when she was in her closet-sized apartment in New York, alone with her roommate, with the vinyl player cracking every five seconds and laughter while pressing the wrong notes every measure.
It feels like the world slowed down for a second, for her, the rotation of the earth moving at an unhurried pace like there was no axis to revolve around on, endlessly floating in the universe. Like it was listening to her, like every note had enough meaning for it to exist, to ring out in the arena for the listening crowd.
For a moment, the spotlight wasn’t a lamp encased in a frame, but the sun beating down on her — hot, unrelenting, but forgiving, saying you were meant to be here, this is where you are supposed to be, as she is, isn’t she?
Her fingers dance around the keys, faint and familiar like an old friend, theory and rules etched so finely in the back of her mind, closing her eyes letting spontaneity take over. She starts moving faster, breaking pace and changing the soft tempo, aggressive but never pounding the keys, flying over the scales and taking the piece back to its home, slowing and slowing until she opens her eyes.
The world starts to move again and the spotlight lights down on her, in the world’s most famous arena with her best friends behind her, eyes searching the crowd for something, or maybe someone.
And in the crowd, she sees her.
The unmistakable eyes watching her, blue and yellow. The muse of her daydreams and the skeleton in her closet. She’s looking at Adora like she knows her, unlike the thousands of fans in her vicinity, but like she knows Adora, like how she likes her coffee in the morning but never in the afternoon, the feel of her skin when the rest of the world is sleeping and how she sounds under the covers and the lights are turned off, like she knows the weight in her bones and the neurons that pulse through her nerves and every single atom in them. She looks at Adora like she knows this song, the one she kept to herself for so long, hidden under her repertoire of music, waiting to be revealed like a dealer's hand.
She looks at Adora like she knows her, and it’s because she does.
Enraptured by her stare, Adora presses the second-to-the-last note, an F sharp, but hovers her index finger on the last note, a C sharp, and doesn’t press down. They stare at each other, and if the lighting is just right, like it’s only them and the night and the music in their shared apartment in Park Avenue, but it’s not and she’s alone sitting on the bench without her.
When Glimmer and Bow begin clapping, the whole audience follows suit in applause. The moment is over and Adora’s in over her head, and all she can see is Catra, who stayed still in her seat while people stood up and cheered.
Looking away, Adora smiles and says a thank you to the microphone. Her throat is dry and her voice is grating. She clears her throat and reaches on the top of the piano for a drink, draining the glass of ice water she placed on a whiskey coaster.
Bow begins to tap his drumsticks together, a simple countdown for the next song. Adora counts the tempo in her head, nodding her head along, nerves igniting her hands.
She ignores it.
She doesn’t look at that part of the arena until the concert is over.
. . .
“I see why you like them. They’re very good,” Scorpia says over the music, over Bow’s choppy techno beats, his steady low kick reverberating around the arena, over Adora’s bass synthesizer filling a steady hum in the background, complimenting Glimmer’s lead guitar.
“I don’t like them,” Catra says distractedly, “but they’re… good.” It’s loud, but she knows Scorpia heard her. She was always good at that.
There’s a loud ping between them, and Scorpia reaches to the right pocket of her jeans for her phone, lighting up her face in the darkened arena.
“Entrapta messaged me. She says she’s performing around 10, and this ends around 11. I think we can take the subway and get there in like, twenty minutes? I’m not sure. But if we do, we can still catch up at the end of her set. We’re going to be late, but that’s cool… right? Fashionably late, as the kids say,” Scorpia, you’re no older than twenty-three you dumb idiot, “Sounds good, wildcat?”
“Sounds good,” Catra repeats, only managing to get a few words out ever since this somewhat one-sided conversation began. And ever since Adora had played that piece, a piece she wrote for her, in front of thousands of people, having the gall to look at her in the eye as she played it, she couldn’t comprehend another thought.
“…Adora?” Scorpia asks, gently coaxing Catra out of her reverie, her eyes hinting at a level of concern like she always does. Her mouth is tilted to a small smile, encouraging but never pushing. Catra doesn’t know what to feel about that.
“What did you say?” Catra breathes out, unconsciously gripping the armrest tighter. She notices it immediately, relaxing her grip and unknotting her forehead. She blames it on the empty water bottle. She’s dehydrated. That must be why.
“I said, did you want to see Adora? I see the picture on your bedside drawer. I figured you two must be friends.” I need to burn that picture frame. “Wait. Does that mean we get to meet the rest of the band? I’ve never met a celebrity before. Do you think they’ll hate that I’m wearing Levi jeans? Do they prefer—”
“Scorpia, who can hate jean brands? Who looks at a pair of jeans and say, ‘I hate that,’ and exist? Get yourself together.” Catra looks away, her voice dropping like a low note on the bass, “And no. We’re not friends. Me and Adora, I mean. Not anymore.”
“Oh. Okay.” Silence falls over them. When the crowd goes a decibel level higher, they look up and see Adora going down the stage to take a rose from a fan. Catra looks and looks and looks, as if she was trying to communicate something, but Adora doesn’t look up once. Not in her side of the crowd.
Catra notices she doesn’t look at their section of the arena anymore.
. . .
“Is anyone thinking of going out drinking tonight? Because I am,” Bow says as they enter the backstage. He’s exhausted and panting, winded up after a show as all performers do. His forehead is layered with a sheen of sweat, eyes crinkled in happiness as the crowd asking for a second encore echoes around the room.
“Sure. Where though?” Glimmer asks, taking the guitar off and handing it to a stagehand. She takes off her earpieces and hangs it on her neck, turning to face Bow.
“My friend Entrapta is performing at Stage 48 tonight. I’m pretty sure we can get VIP there unless you’re in the mood to drink at a quiet lounge or something?” Bow asks, his voice muffled by the shirt he’s using the wipe his sweat off. Adora crinkles her nose and mutters a gross, throwing her unused towel to at his face.
“Let’s ask Adora. Adora, what do you think?” Bow and Glimmer turn to Adora, who’s in the middle of changing her shirt.
She pauses, and then says, “I think I'm in the mood to get wasted. Let’s go to that dance club."
“Great! That’s settled then. But first, go take a shower. The both of you stink. Meet me in Adora’s dressing room after.” Glimmer pushes them to the direction of the showers, Adora laughing and Bow letting himself get pushed.
. . .
The trip to the club was short. The subway was full for such a late time, but Catra doesn’t question it. It’s New York and no one ever sleeps in New York. It’s what keeps the city alive.
The club, aptly titled Stage 48, was full of energy. It was like lightning waiting to thunder down and strike the surface, the mixture of tequila shots and disco flares and 808’s that could barely contain itself in the building. Catra didn’t want to enter the night to get wasted, but she entered the building intending to wake up tomorrow with no recollection of today.
“Woah. Slow down there, Catra. We should ask around if we can get to the second floor first. I think. I’m not sure. But it doesn’t hurt to ask, right?” Scorpia rambles, trailing after Catra as she heads straight to the bar.
“A dry vodka martini on the rocks, please,” Catra says as soon as she slips in the stool, eyes slowly adjusting to the purple neon lights around the bar. The stool is hard and uncomfortable, but the bartender is fast and her drink is placed in front of her in a few minutes.
She sips the drink and lets it sit on her mouth; closing her eyes and tasting the flavor. Crisp and cold, a hint of green on the clean palate of the vodka. If she closes her eyes, she’ll tether between a speakeasy in a grayscale society and a crowded nightclub with blinding neon lights and glittering disco balls. Her chain of thought breaks as—
“The bouncer gave us VIP passes for the second floor. V-I-P,” Scorpia spells out loud, laughing. “Can you believe it? I feel like a star. Not that I’m actually one, you know.”
“Yes, I do know that, Scorpia. I’m sure anyone who got through college can tell the difference between a person and a burning ball of gas,” Catra says, holding her glass by the neck, letting drops of evaporation trail on her fingers, dropping to the floor.
“Eh,” Scorpia mumbles, ignoring Catra’s jab. “Let's go upstairs. My calves are starting to burn from standing all night.”
. . .
“Cool. I’m just chilling here. Um, alone. Which is very cool,” Adora says, thinning her lips. She’s uncomfortable, but the woman in front of her doesn’t know that.
(Only one person in the world does. Adora tries not to think too hard about that.)
“Really? I can think of other cooler things,” the woman says, hooking her index finger around Adora’s loop belt. Her eyes drop to her lips, and she grins, “that you could be doing.”
“That’s great, but I think I’d rather sit here. I’m pretty tired.” Adora stretches her right arm out, leaning further on the olive green couch she’s been sitting on for the past thirty minutes. She’s on the second floor. She’s not hiding but the location is obscure enough that someone has to really look for her to be found.
“You’re too tense,” she murmurs. She’s pretty. Adora’s not blind enough to ignore that. She’s just not in the mood for a fling anytime soon. Or maybe ever. That doesn’t stop the woman, who is currently moving closer to her, feeling Adora’s strong shoulders. “I’ll make you relax. Fuck. You're—”
“—in my seat.” Adora and the woman look up at the interruption. Relief washes over her for the kind stranger… no. Not a stranger.
Catra.
She looks like she stepped out of a dream.
“Yeah! I was waiting for her.” Adora gently pries the woman’s hands off her shoulders and pushes her off her lap. She stands up, towering over the two of them. “We’d rather be alone now. Thanks.”
Thanks? What the hell, brain. Adora shakes her head. The alcohol must be in her system. Speaking of alcohol, she takes her glass of scotch and downs it until the melting ice is all but left at the bottom.
The woman shoots Catra a glare and she shoots one right back. It’s so familiar, flashes of memories in a cardboard box, hidden in the nooks of her brain, resurfacing like worn pictures, dog-eared and sepia-toned, clearly loved. Adora supposes, maybe it was. And now they’re alone together, as silence washes over them.
“Well, you always had them fawning over you.” Catra takes a sip of her drink, and Adora watches the motions. Her eyes then drift away, not quite meeting Catra’s eyes. They’re treading on something familiar, under a blanket of blue. The feeling eases in. The scotch tastes different. The couch is a darker shade of green. The temperature goes down a few degrees.
“I haven’t seen you in a while. How… are things?” Adora takes a beige, cotton jacket, folded neatly beside her, and puts it on. She bought it when she was wine drink, feeling reckless and armed with a credit card.
“It’s very good.” There’s something in Catra’s eye, like a joke she hasn’t been let on. She can’t tell what it is. It’s a telltale sign that things aren’t what they used to be. “Never thought you’d be the type to wear designer.”
Adora almost scoffs but thinks better of it. It’s hard not to sink back to the drowning feeling of bitterness. It’s old and laden, burdened by the weight of what was once said and unsaid. “Things change over the years. I’m sure you’re not the same person I knew.”
Catra looks at her. She’s looking for something, Adora can tell. She knows that stare. Maybe it was an hour ago or in another lifetime. She becomes unearthed by the stare, a shovel digging through the patches of soil and mud, exposing the bedrock underneath. Like roots creeping into her skin, squirming and wiggling until they reach her heart. Adora tenses. She suddenly doesn’t want to stay. She takes a step forward.
“Adora.” Catra reaches out and captures her wrist in her palm. It’s soft and calloused. It should be impossible, but it isn’t. Catra was always this messy juxtaposition of things. Maybe that’s what fascinated Adora in the first place, spellbound like a card trick in a magic shop with trap doors and enchantments.
Time slows. Adora blinks. She slides her arm out of Catra’s grip. “What?”
“Why did you play it?” Catra’s hand falls back to her side. It accentuates the distance between them, whether it’s over the years or in the present, silently saying this is the epilogue of your story, this is how far you’ve fallen apart.
“Which one?” Catra’s eyebrows furrow at her indifference. Adora’s not stupid. She knows what Catra is talking about. She’s not ready for this conversation. It’s too raw.
“The solo you did. Why did— it's not…” Catra trails out. Something unfolds inside the moment. It’s honest and sincere. Adora can almost hear the unsaid question. Why did you play it?
Adora stays silent, looking down at her shoes. It’s expensive, she muses. Black, lined with leather. Handmade in Italy. It’s from a limited collection she forgot the name of. She doesn’t remember why she bought it.
“Adora! There you are. I thought you already went home.” Bow’s voice breaks through the growing tension. It seems easier to breathe. Somehow she’s in space and deprived of oxygen, and now she’s free-falling into the atmosphere. It’s a relief.
“Uh, no. I was catching up with an old… friend.” She smiles, forcing the corners of her mouth to reach her eyes. She hopes that the club is dim enough to hide it if she failed. She does a thumbs up and points it to Catra, who nods at Bow.
He raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t get the hint. “Catching up, huh? Well, we were looking if you caught yourself in some kind of trouble, but it seems like you’re doing just fine.” He turns around but cranes his neck to look at her one more time. “You get home safely, okay? Text us if you need anything.” He winks and drags Glimmer downstairs by the elbow.
Adora looks at Catra, who crinkles her nose. “Those are the people you replaced me with? Man, and I thought your music was betrayal enough.”
Adora laughs. The ice breaks and the world rights itself. The club is a firestorm, and they’re both in the middle of it. “It’s pretty good music if it can sell out arenas.”
“And so can Trolls.” Catra smirks at her. Adora resists the temptation to look down, knowing that Catra can tell. It was always like that with them.
“What do you mean by that?” Adora asks. Catra steps closer to her personal space. She’s under her skin, touching her bones. She’s New York and everything that comes with it, familiar alleyways and electricity that thrums, keeping the city alive and burning. It awakens something in Adora.
“Nothing,” Catra says, “What, did you think I meant anything by it?”
Adora squints at her, trying to figure it out. Catra doesn’t break the stare, a challenge presented, unyielding.
Adora steps back. “Well, I’m up early tomorrow. I’ll be going now.” She takes a few, brisk steps. It’s a test. But this time, Catra doesn’t stop her. She could feel her eyes on her back. Adora doesn’t look back. It’s symbolic in a way, like having wings but never flying close to the sun, drifting and drifting endlessly. Where, Adora doesn’t know yet.
When Adora gets outside, it’s silent. She’s not used to it. Her hands grip the lapels of her jacket closer. This March was cold. Snow dusts the lamppost, dimming the sidewalks, and the sounds of the club are muted. She’s wavering between distant waves of nostalgia and alcohol fueling her brain. She stumbles into the road, signaling her driver.
He smiles at her. It’s warm and sincere, for some reason. “Back to the hotel, ma’am?”
Ma’am? When did she get used to that?
Adora realizes that she should probably answer instead of staring at the window like an intoxicated idiot. Muttering a low yes, the car begins to move. She dazedly watches the outside world as it begins to blur, streetlights and the quiet sounds of a radio talk show lulling her to sleep. She filters in and out. She’s tired.
Her head lolls and she sees a trench coat. That’s a good-looking trench coat, she thinks. Her mind registers that she owns that trench coat seconds later, and she mutters a small oh and picks it up. It feels like wool as she turns it around and looks at the tag. Burberry. A voice begins to speak in her mind, clear and loud, as if the owner of the voice was next to her.
Never thought you’d be the type to wear designer.
She almost balls up the coat in her hand and throw it out of the window, but thinks better of it. Instead, she folds it neatly and places it on her lap. Restless with a heavy feeling, she tries to close her eyes, but her mind keeps repeating the events at the club.
She falls asleep in the limousine.
. . .
“That’s so dumb! Why would she do that?”
In the early morning, Bow, Glimmer, and Adora were settled in a van. They were heading to The Music Building on 8th Avenue to record a last-minute song Adora had written, and their management wanted them to release it as their last single of the album.
It’s tiring, and they’re expected to finish the whole thing in three hours. After that, they’ll be heading to the Madison Square Garden again to do a short technical rehearsal, countless meet-and-greets, a Q&A portion, and then— it’s a lot. Adora’s brain isn’t too functional in the morning.
Bow was showing Glimmer something on his phone, the two of them laughing. Adora slouches in her seat. She closes her eyes for a moment and opens it to see Bow and Glimmer looking pointedly at her.
“Yeah?” Adora asks, feeling a tinge of self-consciousness. “Is there something on my face?”
“You’re being weird,” Glimmer says, leaning forward. She opens the flashlight in her phone and shines it on Adora, scrutinizing her face. Adora waves it away, laughing nervously.
“You’re right, Glimmer. I just can’t tell what or why,” Bow adds.
“Did something happen last night?” Glimmer asks, face contorting, “I thought Bow told you to text us if something went wrong!”
“I’m fine,” Adora says, emphasizing the fine, drawling it out, “It’s not—”
“Was it the girl you were catching up with last night? Who was she?” Bow asks, looking more curious.
“Does it even matter?” Adora rebuts, waving her hands up.
“She looks so familiar. I feel like I’ve seen her somewhere before,” Bow says.
Glimmer puts back her phone in her pocket, leaning back. She crosses her arms. “Did something happen last night?”
“Nothing happened,” Adora deadpans, and Glimmer nods. Adora sighs again. “I know you guys are worried, but I swear it’s nothing. Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, that’s all.”
Bow and Glimmer look thoroughly unconvinced, but they drop the subject. Glimmer puts a hand on Adora’s shoulder, squeezing it. They smile at each other.
“I know just the thing to cheer you up! Bow and I will buy you that obscure chocolate bar you like in the vending machine backstage when we get to MSG,” Glimmer says, a sparkle in her eyes. “The most famous arena in the world. I still can’t believe this is our life.”
“Aw, Glimmer!” Bow exclaims, wrapping an arm around her. Glimmer leans to his touch, and Adora raises an eyebrow as she watches the interaction. She keeps her mouth shut.
This is where I’m supposed to be, Adora thinks. Right next to them.
She ignores the nagging feeling in the back of her mind.
. . .
They don’t meet again. Not immediately, at least.
Months later, Adora is backstage at the Versace’s Spring-Summer 2020 Fashion Show. She’s not a fan of fashion, but she’s here to support her friend, Perfuma, who designed some of the collection. She hadn’t had a chance to congratulate her because when she walked in, two models immediately recognized her and asked for a picture together.
“I love your blazer,” one of the models says, blonde and taller than her, feeling up her shoulders. “Is it custom-made?”
She’s not entirely sure. Two days ago, Angella Brightmoon, Glimmer’s mom and their manager, set an appointment for the band at the Versace Mansion to do fittings. Apparently, it was a formality when sitting in the front rows in these kinds of shows.
Scratching the back of her head, Adora says, “I think it was only tailored to fit my size.”
“Oh, really?” The other model asks, looking at her up and down. Adora stays silent and nods. Her energy is slowly draining, from the coffee machine in her hotel room not working to the constant press on the way to the venue and people asking for pictures in every direction she went. She thinks she went a little blind, actually.
“Adora!” At the mention of her name, she cranes her neck and looks behind, seeing Glimmer walking over to her. “We’ve been looking all over for you! It’s starting in an hour, and the models have to do their model things, so stop flirting around and come on!”
“But I wasn’t flirting,” Adora protests and lets herself be dragged back to the seats around the runway. The models give a wave before she leaves and one of the models place a paper in her hand, written on it was her number. She puts it in her pocket and leans back on the chair. She closes her eyes and relaxes, but not a minute passes when she feels a gentle tap on her shoulder.
“Hi, I’m a big fan of your music! I went to your show in Boston a few weeks ago, it was amazing. I love your album, I keep it on repeat every day!”
Adora smiles and forces it to reach her eyes. She’s exhausted, but it doesn’t matter though.
She lets it be.
. . .
The women walking down the runway are gorgeous. They were born for this and they want to prove it. It was in the casual, sleek confidence they hold and the mixture of glamour and sensuality that no one in the room could deny.
The theme reminds Adora of green tropical islands and orange-pink flowers that bloom in parks in London. She could see the touches of Perfuma throughout every dress and suit the women wore with the poise of a ballerina in a play; all strong shoulders and steps light as a feather.
Bow was filming it on his Instagram story; she could hear his commentary, aided by Glimmer. While she cares about looking decent, she didn’t know much about the accents and textures and sharp geometric lines in fashion. Pulling out her phone, she opens Twitter and scrolls through her feed. She’s about to go to Instagram when—
“Oh my god, Adora!”
“Yeah?” The pictures load and she double-taps a picture from their band account.
“Adora.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll watch your story.”
“No, it’s not about that,” Bow presses his palm to his face, groaning. “Adora.”
“Bow.”
“Adora!”
“What?” Adora says and looks up. Her eyes widen.
It feels like the world slightly tilts. Her mouth dries and her chest ignites like kerosene on a match, burning patches on her skin and her heart waits to be found. Her lungs seem like it forgot how to breathe, but it expands to three streets and the corner around her old apartment, a lease due in a month.
She knows what she sees, but it’s like she can’t comprehend it.
Catra.
A model.
She’s a model.
Wearing a sinfully form-fitting dress with a low, sharp cleavage which ends a few inches below her hips. The dress is made of black and green metal mesh, displaying intricate leaf patterns, and is accentuated by her slim waist and the way she held herself. She wore gold jewelry, earrings and bracelets and necklaces that were created only for her, elegant without needing to try. Adora may be biased, but Catra stood out from the models by the way she held her head high, wearing towering heels with straps that slither up her legs like vines.
Hips swaying, her eyes are haughty and playful, lips bordering to a smirk. She looks neutral and composed, but Adora knew her too well for that.
And if it’s her mind playing tricks on her, she doesn’t know. Adora swears that when Catra passed her by, she winked at her, knowing full well what she’s doing.
Head reeling, her brain could only comprehend one thought: maybe she could get into fashion.