Chapter Text
There were things that Catra could never tire of, and one of them was the ambience of the night of a show at a dive bar. The air was already sticky with the smell of beer and cigarette smoke that had wafted through the patio doors, that clung to patron's clothes just like the sweat that began to bead down their necks. The band is set up, equipment laid out on the slightly raised stage in the corner of the bar, but any other evidence that someone was playing today mysteriously absent.
She leans on the bar, trying to ignore the way her leather jacket seems to stick to the countertop, laying a ten out. When the bartender returns with her order, she leans in to pull an envelope out of her pocket.
"Hey, is the manager here?"
"On a Saturday night?" The bartender gives her a dead stare with an unamused expression. "No, she's not."
"Well, can you give this to her?" Catra replies with just as much of a bite back. "It's our demo reel. Trying to find places to play."
"Sure, whatever."
Catra has to repress the urge to practically snarl at her as she grabs two glasses and walks out to the patio with them, setting them down on the wire frame tables in front of her companion.
"Oh, thanks!" Scorpia replies, looking up for her phone and giving her a goofy grin.
Scorpia's hair is perfectly tousled from the brisk wind that floats through every few minutes, just enough of a breeze to send a shudder down their spines. It's peppered with a touch of salt air as it blows in from the beach, only a few miles to the west. Not many people are out on the patio for that reason, just a few people taking their smoke breaks before the actual show starts. Catra languidly follows suit, pulling out a cigarette from her inside jacket pocket and flicking her lighter to touch the flame to the end.
Scorpia makes a face. "I wish you wouldn't smoke those, they're—"
"Bad for my voice, yeah, I know," Catra cuts in, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "I cut down, didn't I?"
She doesn't really listen as Scorpia rattles on about all the reasons why smoking is bad for a vocalist and all the damage it will do on her lungs and her vocal cords. Scorpia is just like that, always nagging her about making sure she's taking care of herself, doing things like "eating" and "drinking enough water" and "remembering to pay the electricity bill."
Scorpia can be the voice of reason—Catra much prefers to be the bad influence instead.
Her beer is ice cold but sour as it washes down her throat, but she doesn't particularly mind either. The sweet scent of tobacco and rush of nicotine give her the feeling of calm she desperately needed to get through the rest of the night. As much as she loves the ambience of a shitty dive bar on a Saturday night, that's as a performer. She pretty much despises crowds and drunk people, and the safe distance of the stage between them is the only real reason she actually likes playing gigs.
The door to the patio briefly opens and shuts, and they can hear the dull roar of a crowd roaring and the baritone strums of bass notes float on the air for a moment. The two of them share a brief glance across the table, and they get up to venture inside.
Catra and Scorpia weave through a crowd of buzzed patrons, many of whom are decorated with their unspoken and discreet beacons of queerness: similar facial piercings that glint in the reflection of the stage lights, pronoun patches sewn with care beneath lapels and freshly trimmed undercuts with crisp designs inlaid. She can admit that these shows definitely draw a certain kind of crowd out—the alt scene was a comfortable nesting grounds for the queer community, especially in Los Angeles.
But if she didn't know any better, she would think she was at a lesbian bar.
Her gaydar is going off like crazy, being met with her own waves of idly buzzed attraction as her eyes skimmed across the crowd. There was a couple tucked into a corner, lips locked on one another and hands dangerously close to exposing a little too much skin to be considered decent as they roamed over each other's bodies. Throngs of patrons dancing close to one another, hips swaying in time with another as hands skimmed across clothed backsides and soft jawlines.
"They must have something in the water here," Scorpia mumbles, pale face stained with a hint of a flush even in the dimness.
Catra snorts in response. "Yeah—alcohol."
They're still making their way around the corner from where the stage is, the crowd swaying and pulsing to the low thrum of bass that echoes deep within her bones. It's the best kind of feeling, the way music can physically surge through her body when it's loud enough. It's one of the few times when Catra feels as though nothing can get to her.
Then all the air is knocked out of her lungs and her heart drops into her stomach, pounding louder in her ears than any stereo system on the planet could hope to roar over. It's like every single nightmare and fantasy rolled into one that stands underneath the harsh spotlight, beams of brassy, warm oranges washing over the feminine figure of the woman that has broken her heart a million times over again.
"Oh, fuck."
Her voice comes out in a pathetic whimper. She hates herself for the way it cracks mid-syllable, and the way her heart violently wrenches in her chest.
She thought she was over this. She thought that this part of her life was all behind her, like a bad acid trip that was only halfway real. In a moment, it all comes crashing back to her and she feels like she's going to throw up.
"Michelle, Michelle, you are a monster from hell—"
Without meaning to, her eyes zero in on every single detail she can take in, roaming over Adora's figure with a hunger she had kept quiet for years. It consumes her in an instant as she watches soft, full lips stretch and pucker around lyrics that only distantly register in her mind. Long lashes and blue eyes that simmer beneath the surface, alternating between looking out into the crowd and stealing glances at her hand on the frets.
"Catra? What is it?" Scorpia tries asking, but her voice is so far away in this moment.
Catra is frozen in place, feet planted firmly on the ground despite the fact that all she wants to do is run, run, run. Her heart is practically convulsing inside of her chest, squeezing and twisting in painful contortions. Everything in her wants to believe it's not real, that literally anyone else was standing in front of her belting out a buzzy alto bridge—but there's no denying this.
This is Adora. This is her Adora.
"You know just how to be cruel when you shake your hips that way, I don't care what you say..."
Adora looks way too fucking good.
She can feel her cheeks burn from a flush of warmth as Adora's lips curl into a smug grin for a moment, before her face shifts into an explosive expression as she belts out the chorus with a special vigor. The sound of it all runs chills down Catra's whole body, her hair standing on end as she feels enraptured in the performance, unable to take her eyes away for a second.
"Michelle! Michelle!"
It actually pisses Catra off that after everything, Adora turned out to be hot as hell, along with a begrudgingly talented voice, because of course she did. She's good at everything. Her form-fitting white tank top lets Catra peek at the plain black sports bra and hint of cleavage beneath, but more importantly, it shows off her...impressive physique. She's not built into quite the tank that Scorpia is, but Adora could definitely lift her over her shoulder with no problem. She watches the muscles flex as she strums on her bass, distracted by the pops of veins and tendons as her fingers smoothly transition from chord to chord.
Fuck. She plays bass.
"You are a monster from hell!"
The music begins to trail, as if the song is beginning to fade out, and Catra realizes with a start that she can't deal with this anymore. What if Adora talks, what if she sounds the same?
(What if she falls in love all over again?)
She doesn't say anything, instead turning on her heel and booking it as fast as she can out of the door, grabbing the crook of Scorpia's arm in the process. Scorpia protests but easily allows herself to be led out—because Catra knows Scorpia would not move if she didn't want to—as their pace quickens to the car. Catra practically slams the door shut as she scrambles into the cab, forehead resting on the curve of the steering wheel in front of her and eyes clenched shut. She can feel Scorpia's hesitant but curious energy, stuck between hovering and stepping on eggshells.
Catra takes a few deep breaths to herself, trying to calm the racing pulse of her heart and the uncomfortable clenching of her guts. She grits her teeth when she pulls out her lighter and notices her hands shake, clumsily trying to flick it on. As soon as its lit, she turns on the car, rolls down all the windows and speeds out of the parking lot.
"So, I don't wanna be pushing your boundaries or anything," Scorpia starts out carefully, keeping a light-hearted tone but awkward tone. "But...Do you wanna tell me what the hell that was all about?"
Catra takes a long drag of her cigarette, and it feels like the only thing that's keeping her tethered to this reality, this universe. Fuck, she shouldn't be driving, really, but she had to leave—she couldn't risk being seen by Adora, couldn't risk looking in her eyes for the first time in years. She needed something to do with her brain that wasn't just letting it run a million miles an hour. They pull into some empty Walmart parking lot, Catra trying to ignore the way her wheels squeal on the turn off of the street or the way Scorpia remains silent even with her jaw clenched in concern.
There is a moment of stillness after she turns the car off and the metal settles once more in the cool night air.
"That was Adora," Catra says, finally. The words taste even worse actually coming out of her mouth, as if the mere name Adora is poison on her tongue, burning and tingling. "I never thought I would see her again."
"Well, if she's an old friend, why did we leave? Let's go back so you can say hi—"
"No, Scorpia!" Catra growls out, angrily tossing her cigarette to the asphalt. "I didn't want to see her again."
A pause. "Oh. I'm sorry."
She can tell Scorpia wants to ask more, but isn't, instead anxiously biting at her tongue to prevent herself from asking more. Catra sighs internally—it was her turn to play nice. Scorpia had been doing a damn good job at not pushing her lately, waiting until she calmed down enough to share whatever it was that was spiraling around her head.
"We were childhood friends, I was maybe in love with her, and then she fucking left."
—she left me, and she left me there with her.
The words spill out of her mouth quickly and shamefully, Catra's cheeks burning in embarrassment. She pointedly refuses to look at Scorpia besides her, in fear of the pity that might leak through her friend's gaze, as she turns the car back on and they head home. The warm yellow of the streetlights floods and escapes the car as they drive block by block, low static of the radio humming on an empty station.
"Sorry for freaking out on you," Catra mumbles, feeling the thick weight of an unnamed emotion settle heavy in her chest. "I hate her more than anything in the world, and I just...wasn't ready to have to come face to face with that tonight."
Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it.
"Oh, Wildcat...I'm sorry."
That's the voice she hates. The pity. Her stomach churns unpleasantly, tightens to a pit of an olive right in the center of her chest and begins to burn a hole straight through her.
"It's fine," she replies quickly, running a hand through her hair, pulling out her ponytail along the way. She can feel the cool wind on the small sheen of sweat that had built up on her scalp. "I just need to get the fuck home. Get this off of my mind."
Catra's brain is still thinking far too quickly trying to sort it all out in her own head—what the fuck was Adora doing in Los Angeles? And how was she so unlucky enough that out of the hundreds of bars in Huntington tonight, they ended up in the same one?
Her mind races the entire drive home, before they pull into their driveway with a smooth screech of the breaks.
Their house is stupid big for two twenty-somethings with no credit or real money to their name. Luckily, Scorpia's parents were loaded and apparently could afford to outright buy a house for their daughter as a graduation present. Catra remembers how hard she had to try not to cry when Scorpia had asked her to move in – rent free – for no other reason than because they were friends. They liked one another. Scorpia had been her freshman year roommate in the dorms and the two of them had been stuck together ever since.
The emotions Catra has been trying to keep pushed down inside her are beginning to boil over now. She has never been very good at being able to control them, but she's done so much work to do better, to be better. At the very least, she should be able to keep quiet the choked growl of anger from escaping her throat as she goes through the motions to get in the house. If she can keep things together long enough to get to her room, at least she can keep some sense of pride.
Frustrated tears grow in her eyes as she tries to key in the security code over and over again, her eyes blurred and not pressing the right keys. She can feel her hands shake, indignant rage growing in her chest and her fingers continue to angrily shove at the soft keypads of their alarm system that don't press the right way and—
Scorpia's arms curls around her and squeeze her tight. Her instincts are to fight, to claw her way out of her friend's embrace, but she lets those urges sit inside her chest and fizzle out instead. Scorpia pulls Catra to her chest and quickly keys in the alarm code, taking in deep pulls of air that Catra almost hypnotically follow along with. The deep, insistent thudding of Scorpia's heartbeat even through her clothes is enough to anchor Catra temporarily, gently wiggling out of the taller woman's embrace before clambering up the stairs to her own room.
She barely manages to shut the door behind her with a heavy thud of her own weight against it before she realizes the panic attack is hitting. Her back slides along the door as she curls up and wraps her arms around her legs, forehead pressing into her knees. Eyes clench shut as she tries to push away the mental images of Adora that burn into her vision.
She can only imagine how pathetic she must sound from the other side of the door, her choking gasps surely audible despite her attempts to the contrary. She knows Scorpia is quietly hovering in the hall, can hear her gentle tinkering in the bathroom meant to give Catra some sense of normalcy and privacy but also for her roommate's own piece of mind that she was nearby if needed.
Catra guesses it helps.
She doesn't know how long it takes for the black fuzziness to fade from the corners of her vision, or for her to finally get up and wipe off her now tear-streaked and smeared makeup off her face. But she tosses her clothes off across the room, gets under her comforter and curls into a ball in the quiet darkness of her room.
She can hear Scorpia's door finally shut quietly on the other end of the hall, and a soft buzz of her phone across the room—probably in her pants, she thinks. She doesn't care to check it. She doesn't have work tomorrow, and whatever it is can wait until she's not emotionally spiraling.
Her dreams are fitful and vivid. The worst she's had in a while.
She's in the old group home, their identical beds pushed up into opposing corner of the small room. There is only enough room between them to fit a well-loved and splintering dresser that is cluttered with the few things they own. A popsicle stick picture frame, inside a Polaroid of them as kids sticking their tongues out. Silly beaded bracelets they made that had their names on them, plastic and glittery and clunky. Matching water bottles with brightly colored stickers plastered over every bare inch of plastic.
Usually when she dreams of this place, she's a kid again. But when she turns around to see herself in the mirror, the same chip in the corner it always had, she's herself. Older, eyes rimmed by dark liner and with the signature scowl she perfected since her early teens.
"Catra?"
Her head whips around to the door frame, and Adora is standing there. Adora in her outfit from last night, and suddenly they're in the bar, shoes catching on the sticky floor and ears roaring with the speakers but it's empty save for the pair. She stands in the middle of the empty floor, Adora belting out lyrics again at the top of her lungs. Catra can't quite understand the words, like she's listening to them underwater, but she moves closer to the stage. Her limbs feel like she is swimming through jelly, the end of the stage growing farther and farther away despite every heavy step she takes forward.
Her vision shifts again. They're in their room, small forms curled up together on Catra's bed. Adora's is stripped bare across the room, all her things packed up neatly and sitting on the rubber mattress.
"I'm gonna miss you," Adora's childish voice whines. "But I'm gonna call and write you letters and you're never ever gonna forget me, ever!"
Stupid Adora.
"Promise?"
She could never forget that stupid little gap-toothed smile.
"I promise, Catra!" A pause. "You have to promise me too, okay?"
Catra smiles, the sadness in her chest uncurling for a moment to just exist in this moment, Adora's skin warm against hers. She can hear Adora's heart beat in her chest, their gangly preteen limbs tangled up together on the bed.
"I promise, Adora. I'll never forget you."
Catra wakes up with tears on her pillow and an ache in her chest. Her sheets are drenched in sweat, her back sticking uncomfortably to the fabric and she rolls over with a muffled groan, resisting the urge to scream into her pillow. She clenches her eyes shut as her mind plays back the all too real images from her dream.
Fuck .
There is no thrill more exhilarating than the stage.
It is something special to bare yourself down to your core and then expose it, leaving with it all in one place, a little lighter than when you got there. The adrenaline that runs through Adora's blood when she performs is like any other, that breathy shiver of nerves turns her spine into a livewire whenever they play a show.
"Everyone, thanks for hanging out with us tonight, this has been Friends of Mara!"
Once the show is over, they settle down at the bar for a few drinks and a plate of food before they pack up their gear for the night. It is a strange kind of tired she always feels during their post-show drinks—the adrenaline is still running through her blood, nerves alight, but her muscles are slowly starting to cool down and slow. Mind running wild with her body slowly staggering to a stop, and she allows herself a moment of quiet relief as she gulps down a glass of water as they wait for their order.
Huntara, the owner, has been really good to them. She gave them a chance to play at her bar even when they just had two shitty handheld amps and no original songs. They were a weekly feature now, part of the charm that came with the beachside location and being a hangout for locals and tourists alike. They were great for business, too – they were almost always packed to the gills these days. They get a free meal after each show, a few free drinks here and there and the pay was decent.
The bar is just starting to change crowds, from the patrons who came to watch them play to the late-night partiers who were just starting on their long evening of drinking.
"Hey, here's your pay for the week. Huntara isn't here but she said the invoice is inside along with your share of tips from last week."
The bartender comes out of the back office to hand them a small envelope, placing it directly in Adora's hands. Mermista isn't particular about many things, and her customer service could use a little (a lot) of work, but she's careful with money if nothing else. Adora thanks her and tucks it into the inner pocket in her jacket, absentmindedly patting the outside of it once it's secured. Mermista leaves again, tucking around the corner to continue making drinks.
Blue eyes drift along the bar, tired and dry from the bright lights, but her mind buzzing with adrenaline still. A hastily clipped business card calls out to her, the deep maroon of the card contrasting against the dull orange packing envelope it's clipped to. She knows she shouldn't be nosy, but...
She plucks the card carefully without disturbing the package, if anything for something to look at while she waits for her drink. But as her eyes glide over the words, she has to blink away the bleariness for a moment before rereading just to make sure her mind wasn't playing tricks on her.
CRIMSON WASTES
Los Angeles, CA
@crimsonwastes
SPOTIFY | TWITTER | INSTAGRAM | TIKTOK
For booking, please contact Catra Grayskull at (xxx)xxx-xxx
Adora carefully turns the card over and over in her hands, heart thudding like a jackhammer in her chest. All of her appetite has bled away, replaced by an uncomfortable and overwhelming nausea that lurches over and over in the pit of her stomach.
No. It can't be. There's no way...
"Mermista!" she calls, waving their friend over. The card shakes in her hands as she presents it to the other woman. "Who gave this to you?"
Mermista shrugs, setting their typical post-show shots in front of the trio. "Some hottie left it at the bar for me to give to Huntara."
Both Glimmer and Bow give her strange looks as she frowns, staring at the card even more. She plays with the edges along her calloused fingertips, feeling the crisp corners catch on her rougher skin. She takes a picture of it quickly with her phone and puts it back behind the bar for Mermista, before giving her friends what she hopes is a convincing smile. They all pick up their shot glasses and clink together, cheering "For Mara!" before all three swallow their liquor with ease.
Adora still can't help the little shiver and disgusted frown she gives as the aftertaste burns on the back of her tongue.
"You look like you are thinking way too hard," Glimmer remarks, staring up into Adora's eyes with a burning curiosity. "Stop it. Relax, bask in the post-show euphoria!"
Adora lets out a laugh and concedes. But even so, her mind can't stop rolling over the name on that card. It eats away at her from the inside out, and she finds that she can't even keep her mind on dinner. She picks helplessly at her food, having eaten maybe half of it before dejectedly asking for a carry out box.
"You never have leftovers," Bow states, raising an eyebrow. He places his palm on her forehead, frowning. "Do you have a fever? Did we work you too hard?"
Glimmer snorts. "She does a great job of that all by herself."
"I'm fine," she interjects, rolling her eyes as she scrapes the other half of her burger into the styrofoam box. She doesn't bother trying to keep the fries, her two friends already ravaging those leftovers from either side of her. "I must have eaten something weird earlier. My stomach's just not sitting well."
She doesn't think that either of them bought that excuse, but they make no indications otherwise and continue to demolish the rapidly shrinking pile of fries and she breathes an inner sigh of relief.
After they pack up their gear, she crawls into the back and squishes herself against the gear that is practically piled to the ceiling of her SUV. It's usually Glimmer who sits back here, since her legs are shorter than hers or Bow's. But she had faked an excuse about not feeling well already, so it was easy to get Glimmer to switch seats so she could curl up in the back without having to interact with the outside world for a moment. She lets out a tired exhale and presses her clammy forehead to the cold window as they pull out of the parking lot.
Grayskull. She hasn't heard that name in a long time.
It used to be hers, until Angella and Micah adopted her. They hadn't forced her to change her last name to theirs, but they offered and she had no particular attachment to her old name. Grayskull was a remnant of a family that she never really knew to begin with—and she knew even at that age that having the same last name as the rest of her adopted family would make things easier in the long run.
Catra Grayskull.
The name rolls soundlessly over her tongue over and over again, getting used to the way it feels in her mouth. It's actually what she used to do when she was a kid, and she imagined whisking the two of them away to their happily ever after. She remembers the first time Catra ever called herself "Grayskull," during a game of playing house and they were obviously married. Adora can't help the smile that pricks up at the corners of her mouth at that memory.
She shuffles her phone out of her jacket pocket and opens up the photo of the business card, quickly switching over to Instagram to search for the username printed on the card. Immediately, the profile pops up and she has to blink away the tears that instantly prick her eyes.
It's her.
She taps the first little square that has the clearest image of Catra in the thumbnail, and blows it up. She's posing for some kind of promo, holding a sleek red guitar and practically leering down at the camera. But her full face is turned towards the camera, and Adora can see dual tones of an amber and ice gaze that has always lingered in her memory. Her hands shake as she scrolls through picture after picture, soaking in every detail she can.
One of the earliest pictures on the account has Catra's personal account tagged. It's private, of course. But the profile picture confirms it's her—and even if it doesn't, the brief bio does: "out of order. come back when i decide to like you."
Automatically, she taps the follow request button, before instantly realizing the error of her ways.
She can't just follow request her childhood best friend who she was maybe sort of in love with still a little out of nowhere, after having no contact for the last ten years, right? Maybe there was a reason Adora's letters always got sent back, maybe Catra wanted nothing to do with her! Maybe she was just pushing her way back into the life of someone who didn't want her!
But fuck, this was Catra. Even if Catra hated her, she at least had to know.
She spends the entire ride home back to Pasadena typing and deleting the same message over and over again. Her fingers are clumsy and her mind is filled with thick static, and no matter how many times she tries, she can't convey what she wants. She's on the verge of just considering not sending a message after all, her anxiety thrumming in her veins and chest uncomfortably tight.
"...dora? Adora!"
"What?" she snarls in response, whipping her head up.
Oh. They're sitting in the driveway, both of her friends already unbuckled with their doors open, obviously waiting for Adora to get out too. Her cheeks and ears heat up in embarrassment.
"We're home," Glimmer replies with a glare of her own. "Now I'm going to need you to dial that bitchiness back a few notches."
"Sorry," Adora mumbles pathetically. She looks back down to her screen for a moment as she unbuckles her seatbelt, finger hovering over the screen for a moment in anxious indecision. But she taps the Send button before she can think any harder about it and clambers out of the crowded backseat, stretching her legs with an exaggerated groan.
"If you're not feeling good, you can just lay down," Bow offers as they amble out of the car, opening the back hatch to start pulling cases out. "Really, we can handle it for a night."
"Speak for yourself," Glimmer grumbles under her breath.
"I'm fine," Adora insists, easily plucking an amp case from Glimmer's struggling arms. "I can help."
"If you say so..."
There is a moment where things seem relatively normal again, as if her entire world has not been turned upside down in the last hour. The familiar, routine haul of their gear from the car to the garage is enough to get her blood pumping again, to distract her for a moment.
Then it sinks in.
Oh my god, did I seriously just press send?