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In the grand scheme of things, Hori figured it could have been much worse. He still wasn’t sure what sin he had committed in his youth or some forgotten past life that had earned him Kashima Yuu as karmic retribution, but he was slowly coming to accept his fate in the way a demoralized babysitter slowly accepts the chaos expanding around them while weeping silently and clutching their cell phone. He was a lost cause and Kashima was a natural disaster and the world continued to turn regardless.
So being presented with the full components of a girl’s outfit didn’t really fall too badly into the realm of worst possible outcome (compared to Kashima taking his uniform and leaving a skirt behind, which might have been outright disastrous if not for being the drama club president and therefore entitled to give himself permission to wear a pair of costume pants home for the night.)
Nozaki and Sakura’s sympathy helped, too.
So once the incident blew over and Kashima seemed to realize that Hori didn’t actually have a deep secret desire to be a princess, he packed up Kashima’s offerings neatly into a gift bag and returned them to her as respectfully as possible.
“It’s rude to return a gift, so just consider this a reward for taking care of me when I was sick.” Hori handed over the bag without ceremony. Kashima was unreadable, the same wide-eyed, ineffable expression she always seemed to wear when he paid any amount of attention to her. “You can probably put these to better use than me, anyway.”
Kashima peered at the bag’s contents for a ponderous span of seconds in which Hori considered the merits of being swallowed up by the floor before anything ridiculous emerged from Kashima’s mouth, but he had less to worry about than expected. She promptly lit up like a neon sign and clapped him far too forcefully on the shoulder. “You’re right! I know exactly what to do with these. Thank you, senpai!”
Hori remained standing exactly as he was and watched her retreat down the hallway, spring in her step for the first classroom length and then abruptly detouring into a small knot of girls to turn on the charm, gift bag dangling from her fingers. Girlish squeals filtered their way into Hori’s ears by the time he quietly asked himself, “Is she going to wear them?” and continued staring in silence until the girls’ voices died away.
Then he shook his head a little, jerked his body back into life and turned to walk away. Of all possibilities that was the least likely, and he didn’t want to ponder what might be the most.
Organization was not a skill that came easily to Kashima, but the 12 or so square feet of his room managed to contain his various piles of existence in such a way that, most of the time, he knew where to find whatever he happened to be looking for. On this particular day, however, Kashima’s meticulous method of disorganization was failing, half of the clothes in his closet had fallen on top of him while he dug through it, and there was a sullen redhead in his bathroom whining “Kashimaaaaaaa,” through the half-open door.
He scrambled out from under the pile of clothes, picked off the stray sock clinging to his back and dove for the nearest dresser drawer next. “Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it.” That shoebox was in here, somewhere, containing the very last vestiges of femininity left in Kashima’s wardrobe (other than the school uniform skirt, but he was working on that and hoped to have it resolved by the end of the school year.)
“I don’t think this is my color,” Mikoshiba pondered, voice echoing on the bathroom walls.
“You’ve come to school every Monday for the past three weeks with pink fingernails.” Kashima pushed the bottom drawer closed and moved up to the second, digging through the folded sweaters there. “Trust me, it works for you.”
“The second week it was coral, not pink! There’s a difference.”
Kashima pressed his face into one of the sweaters to muffle the irreverent snort of laughter that came up in response to Mikoshiba’s rebuttal. “You’re not fooling anyone,” he muttered, pushing that drawer closed and standing up to try the next one.
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
“Nooooothing,” Kashima replied in a tone-deaf singsong, placating. His fingers bumped against cardboard and he hissed out a triumphant yes, tugging the narrow box free. “Found it!”
“Found what?”
“Accessories.” Kashima shoved the drawer closed with half of a shirt still hanging out of it. He approached the bathroom door more cautiously than he attacked the rest of the room, since it contained a very sensitive boy grappling with some very familiar issues. Kashima could be tactless, reckless, sometimes disastrous (as Hori-senpai would probably agree) but even he knew there were some things you didn’t barge in on.
Support by gifting some damn cute girls’ clothing, yes, but not barge in on.
He tapped one knuckle against the door to signal his presence. “Mind if I come in?”
There was a long, very telling pause, followed by a faint but positive, “Okay.”
Kashima pulled the door open fully to allow for more space in the tiny half-bath. Mikoshiba was sitting on the closed toilet, dressed simply in the sweater and skirt originally intended for Hori-senpai, but they suited him just as well. He was pouting magnificently, cheeks tinted pink, and valiantly attempting to tug the skirt down far enough to cover his knees. Kashima offered his biggest, brightest grin. “I see why Sakura calls you Mikorin.”
“Shut up!”
“Kidding, kidding. Here, I have something that will help.” Kashima flipped the lid open, transferring it to the bottom of the box with one hand and tugging at the contents with the other. Three rolled up pairs of thigh-highs were wedged in one corner; he cast a critical glance at Mikoshiba’s outfit and selected the white ones. “Put these on.”
Mikoshiba made a dubious noise but started fumbling with the stockings regardless. Kashima continued digging through the box, mentally constructing the final coordinated outfit, hair and makeup included. “Where’s the necklace?”
“Still in the bag you gave me.”
“Where—AHH no, not like that. Start with the toes!”
Mikoshiba paused with a rather spooked expression, in the process of attempting to stick his entire leg in one of the stockings all at once. “What?”
“You hook your thumbs on the inside and scrunch them up. Like this.” Kashima took the other sock to demonstrate, bunching the delicate fabric from the cuff until his thumbs were tugging on either side of the toe seam. “Push your foot in and pull the stocking up as you go.”
There was a curling iron at the bottom of the box, and Kashima unrolled the cord and plugged it in to heat up while observing Mikoshiba’s attempts, making sure he didn’t snag or run the nylon before he’d even successfully got them on. It took some fidgeting and fussing and a lot of encouragement, but Kashima didn’t miss the little private fistpump of victory Mikoshiba gave himself at the end. He was invested in this, and Kashima found himself letting out a breath of relief.
“Next up,” Kashima announced without elaborating, holding up a clear cosmetic bag by the zipper. The contents were meager, a precious few essential makeup items, a small bottle of nail polish, and a vial of perfume.
Mikoshiba squinted at the bag, dubious. “Are you gonna put that on me?”
“No, I’m gonna do your hair. You’re gonna put that on yourself. Turn around.” Kashima grabbed the standing mirror from the sink counter and set it up on the toilet tank, pushing the bag into Mikoshiba’s reluctant grasp. “It’s not as hard as it looks.”
There was some grumbling, and a lot of frowning at the mirror, and a great deal of Kashima hissing “Hold still unless you want me to burn you,” but ultimately Mikoshiba stopped fidgeting and took solace in Kashima’s coaching. Foundation first. Be sure to get it all over. Eyeshadow next, don’t squint like that. Light color first, all over. Dark color in the crease, bright color on the lid. Blend it a little. There you go. Mascara next, give it a few pumps. You’re not gonna poke your eye out, just relax. Get the brush on your lashes, wiggle a little, and swipe. Careful not to bump your face. Good! Yes, very good Mikoshiba. Yes I know you’re excited, good job. Blush is next. Suck in your cheeks like a fish. Don’t use too much. Right along your cheekbones. Good! A little more on the left. Perfect, now the lipstick. Start at the top, try to keep it on your lips. Don’t worry about getting right up to the edge. Okay, now stretch out your lower lip. Make a face like this. Haha! Okay, no, seriously. Now rub them together a little, blot on the Kleenex. Ta-da! All done.
Given time and enough patience, Mikoshiba’s hair was transformed into a mass of soft red curls. Kashima arranged them with a deep part on the left, swept to one side and clipped in place with crossed barrettes. Mikoshiba was fussing with his fingernails by the time that process was finished and Kashima left him to it, laid out the jewelry pieces he’d picked on the counter—some gold bangles to match the necklace, fishhook earrings with dark red stones. Shoes were last, light brown leather with just a bit of frill, and low chunky heels so Mikoshiba didn’t have too much trouble learning to walk in them.
Kashima left the bathroom with a deep sigh, largely satisfied, at least until he noticed his own disheveled reflection in the full-length closet mirror. A careful comb and a clean, unwrinkled shirt later Kashima was adjusting his collar, considering a simple chain necklace, and Mikoshiba stepped out of the bathroom blowing on his fingernails, shoes dangling by the heels from one hand. “I tried them to make sure they fit but I can’t wear them in the house.”
Kashima stared. “Mikoshiba.”
“Are you sure the skirt isn’t too short?”
“Mikoshiba.”
“What?”
Kashima pointed to the mirror.
He didn’t consider himself a sensitive person, really—he could deliver lines effortlessly, draw everyone around him into his own personal shimmering bubble of warmth and princely attraction. He could make other people’s hearts throb and shiver and dissolve into tears, commanding the stage or just a circle of girls floating on the high of his attention. Compared to someone like Mikoshiba, though, getting caught up in his own emotions was uncommon.
But when Mikoshiba turned to see himself in the mirror and he stopped breathing, something deeply painful and profoundly empathetic stabbed through Kashima’s heart.
It stunned him enough that he didn’t immediately recognize that Mikoshiba’s hands were fisting around the shoes and the hem of his skirt, that his shoulders were tight and trembling, and it wasn’t until his voice croaked out “Ka—Kashima,” with that telltale high-pitched break at the end that he finally kicked into action.
“Oh my god, don’t cry! Don’t cry, you’ll ruin your mascara.” Kashima raced for a tissue lightning-fast, but Mikoshiba was still sniffling with one arm over his eyes by the time he laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Hey, Mikorin. It’s okay.”
“I’m really pretty.” It was a broken sob, followed by a delicate sniffle worthy of a shoujo heroine.
“Did you think you wouldn’t be?”
“I guess?” Mikoshiba lowered his arm, finally, accepted the tissue and attempted to blot the tears away from his eyes without destroying the careful makeup job he was so proud of. Then blew his nose ungracefully. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I expected.” He sniffed again, then gave a watery laugh at the mirror. “Look at us.”
“Hmm.” Kashima tapped his own chin thoughtfully, then struck a pose and pulled up his most charming smile. “You’re so fortunate to have such a handsome man at your side, princess.”
Mikoshiba’s expression shifted instantly from drippy to dour. “Please don’t.”
Kashima laughed and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder, probably too rough since Mikoshiba made a noise in protest and continued dabbing at his face with the tissue. Kashima tugged on a pair of socks, fastened the silver chain around his neck, pondered his button-down and slacks from a distance, giving his friend time to pull himself together.
“I don’t think I’m like you, Kashima,” Mikoshiba murmured eventually, voice low and serious, and it took a few seconds for his meaning to strike Kashima like Hori’s right hook.
Kashima of all people had no problem with making a spectacle of himself, but he thrived on approval and worried more than he’d ever admit to about losing it. He was hoping, given enough time and exposure, that his friends would accept his presentation as normal, take the eventual swap from uniform skirt to uniform pants without question or notice; that sooner or later the proposal “Hey, how about just using male pronouns for me, huh?” would go over effortlessly with a shrug and maybe a “Might as well, it makes perfect sense,” and then everything would continue on as before. Only better.
“Like… me?”
Mikoshiba’s capacity for self-expression under pressure was minimal, and the struggle was evident in the sideways glance he tossed before buckling under with a fierce blush. “You’re not fooling anyone either, you know.” He idly fussed with his earrings through Kashima’s stunned silence, then slumped in a huff. “I mean. What I mean is, this…” he gestured broadly to himself and the mirror, “this is nice. Thank you.”
There were so many emotions piling up, filling Kashima’s chest and twisting up into his throat, that eventually he had to wave both arms frantically in the air in front of himself in a furious effort to dispel them. “Heeeeeey, come on now, I’m the one who should be thanking you. Right? I’ll take you out for ice cream. As much as you want. Let’s go!”
Mikoshiba looked down at himself and spread his hands to the side, shoes still dangling from his fingers, meeting Kashima’s eager expression dubiously. “Like this?”
“Sure.”
“Ah.” He looked around the room awkwardly for a moment, like he was missing something and couldn’t recall what. “Um. Can I practice walking on your back patio, first?”
About twenty minutes of walking back and forth on the veranda, a little theater coaching to get Mikoshiba to pitch his voice a bit higher, and they were out in the world. Judging by the perpetual redness of his friend’s face, Kashima figured going to the ice cream parlor by the nearest train station and back would probably be his limit. He only had to remind Mikoshiba once to sit properly in a skirt, and some of Kashima’s admirers appeared in the shop halfway through their sundaes. They were totally inattentive to anything other than their prince, though, and the only one of the group who paid Mikoshiba any mind wholeheartedlycomplimented his outfit without recognizing him for a moment.
He lit up like a fireworks display. Kashima memorized the girl’s name and face and silently promised to take her on the best date of her life.
Later, after rolling out the spare futon, after Mikoshiba had washed the makeup off his face and the curl out of his hair, after losing to nearly every video game Kashima proposed and falling asleep with his face in the pillow and controller still in his hand, Kashima stepped over his friend in the dim, messy bedroom and picked up the paper gift bag with Hori’s outfit refolded neatly inside. In the bathroom he stuffed it with the remaining contents from the shoebox—the stockings, makeup, curling iron, various other bits and baubles left over from the days he thought he’d eventually grow into them.
He turned out the lights, leaving the bag by the door near Mikoshiba’s duffle, chuckling to himself as he climbed into his own bed.
“You can probably put these to better use than me, anyway.”
It wasn’t as though Mikoshiba Mikoto had never before in his life stood in his bedroom with his phone clasped in both hands, steeling himself to make a disastrous attempt at calling a girl. This time was slightly different, though, and at the very least, seeing Sakura’s name flash across the screen gave him some reassurance.
He could do this. It was a matter of pride.
Sakura answered with her usual bounce and he stuttered over a greeting before rushing ahead. Pausing and thinking would lead to embarrassment and he’d promptly hang up and try to pretend this never happened. “Sakura, are you working with Nozaki tonight?”
“Nope, we finished early. What’s going on?”
“I have a very… very important favor I need to ask. You’re the only one who can help me with this.”
“That sounds serious. What do you need?”
Mikoshiba took a deep breath. His cheeks flared red. “Sakura, please—please explain winged eyeliner to me!”
There was a long, sterile pause.
“I think that’s too advanced for you, Mikorin.”
“Sakuraaaaaaa…”