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I blot out any doubt I feel by telling myself that this is what love means. If I love him, that means doing things to make him happy even if I sacrifice my own happiness.
I tell myself that this is what an adult would do. And I want to be an adult, right? Why wouldn't I be? This is just another part of him teaching me to be an adult without playing at being a man. Without being abnormal. I can still be a detective if I talk in a high voice and wear a skirt and let him "rescue" me, so why would I not want to do those things now? After all, I am obviously a girl and anybody who would say otherwise is blind. That's what he told me, and that's what I wanted to believe. Because he smiled so warmly when he thought he was helping me get on the right track that it made me melt inside and I couldn't even curse myself for such childish attraction. He told me he liked seeing me dress and talk like a girl, and even though the rational and irrational parts of me fought a war unprecedented in scale inside me over that, I sucked it up and surrendered to the irrational because didn't I want him to be happy? He wasn't gay, anecdotal evidence regarding him and Yosuke aside- Kanji had told me as much, and from the sound of it he was as let down by this fact as I was. But he was so brilliant to me, with that serious face breaking into a smile when he helped someone and that determination to solve the case he'd taken upon himself, that I couldn't bear to think of not being with him. I had to kill the rebellions in my mind and learn to accept that to the world I was a girl now, and as long as I was with him I would have to be.
I lie back on his futon and close my eyes when he kisses me. I don't want to see this image as how I got his love, this false version of me being the me he wants. No, that's not it, I love seeing him so happy and so full of desire that I got shy. Of course that's what this is, after all I'm blushing and isn't that the only reason why silly girl detectives blush?
"You're beautiful like this, Naoto."
This brings a feeling not unlike nausea forward. I tell myself that I am getting butterflies in my stomach over the prospect of losing my virginity to the boy I love. He sees this look and his eyebrows knit together in a way I can't bear to view.
"Please don't frown. I mean it, Naoto. I love you." He's worried. He doesn't me to be upset. I lamely mutter "I know you mean it," in a voice so meek that every part of me is disappointed, even the parts telling me that this situation is for the best. This assures him everything is alright- after all, his girlfriend loves him and knows he thinks she is beautiful, lying on his musty old futon in the wintry half-light of his room in a school uniform on loan from Rise Kujikawa. This must be the image his mind has painted since day one, some kind of dream come true. I try to think of how I had pictured this going and immediately regret it. After all, I tell myself, this is a dream come true for me too.
He kisses me again, sliding his tongue inside my mouth, which feels utterly bizarre. If there is a way in which this is supposed to be stimulating or pleasant he had not been trained in it- he is just repeating what he's seen on television and in comic books because he thinks it is right. When I dare to reciprocate, I just end up awkwardly clacking my teeth against his and making him pull back from me. Right. Forwardness like that is masculine. A normal boy like him isn't interested in the male- the masculine. I apologize, and make sure I say it in an ingratiatingly feminine tone.
"O-oh, excuse me, I just got carried away."
He gently chuckles, one of those things that I can't help but find endearing at all times. "It's okay. I was kind of hoping we could take things to the next level, after all."
Well. That was certainly one way to put it.
It's a relief when he removes the skirt from my waist, and I can't even lie to myself about this. I haven't worn one in years, let alone worn one voluntarily, and this first experience with the garment was unpleasant. The whole way to his house, I had to modify the way I walked in order to accommodate it- couldn't walk too freely, lest my undergarments were exposed. Of course, as I walked through Inaba with a stiff and mincing gait, I still felt exposed. Cold winter air against legs, the awful skirt shifting with the wind, and above that I felt exposed to the eyes of everyone I passed. Even though it was mercifully few, cold and hateful dread clawed into my stomach every time I passed another person. I prayed none of them recognized me, and if they did, that they would know I was doing this for someone I loved and not for their personal amusement. Now my legs are even more exposed than before, as well as an undergarment I really hope he does not recognize is meant for a man to wear. He doesn't appear to notice. He moves on to my shirt instead.
I really think this is the part that will break me. I wrench my eyes shut as he lifts up the hem, compliantly moving my arms in order to help him pull it over my head when I must. Underneath, I am not afforded the dignity of the binder I've worn since the age of twelve, nor am I wearing that fearful and baffling garment known as a brazier. It was difficult enough to acquire the uniform- it would have been downright shameful to ask my friend for something like a bra. For a moment I think "grandpa would say that a gentleman does not ask a lady for her underwear", but stamp out the thought because I cannot be a gentleman. Not tonight. Not with him. I keep my eyes shut as he presumably looks at breasts flattened and bereft of the evidently desirable perky qualities of such organs by years concealed and pressed hard against my body by the binder I miss so dearly in this moment. They are disgusting (because they exist) because I neglected them so much, but he doesn't seem to mind. He puts a groping hand on one and chills run through me to my core. I don't think they are the sort that come with lust. Maybe he's smiling now, eyes half-lidded and covetous. I still don't open my eyes.
Instead, I start to think about the case. If I don't fixate on the feeling in my gut and the hair standing up on the back of my neck, if I think about adding up each piece of evidence and clue, about Namatame and Nanako in the hospital and about everything not adding up right, it's alright. We're both happy this way. My breath catches and I feel like I'm about to choke when he does something to my left nipple, and I have to cover that sensation with the correction fluid of wild speculation. What if one of the investigation team was the true killer? Far-fetched. Not enough evidence suggesting it could be any of us. Pointless train of thought, but it bleaches out the stains of physical sensation. He kisses from my chest up to my neck, my muscles tense up, and I widen the net. Maybe the killer was a student, though. One of his friends? Similarly unlikely, if not more so. When his lips touch mine in a kiss that I have to assume is meant to be tender, not make me break into a cold sweat, I fake mirroring his action by mouthing the name "Dojima" silently. The cops were the ones who knew about Yamano's presence at the Amagi Inn. Protecting her, supposedly, but probably frustrated with having to just fend off paparazzi and nosy locals. Frustrated about an outsider woman coming into town and taking them away from their routines. Or maybe bored from never seeing real crimes or mysteries. You got bored fast with delinquents and petty thefts in a little town like this.
He cuts me off mid-thought and whispers "I can't handle it anymore, Naoto. Let's..." I can feel his hand is on the waistband of my underwear and the implication takes no deductive thought to catch. I pause and my mouth presses in to form a thin, dry line, but after a second I nod. I can show him I really do love him this way. Prove that the Detective Prince can be a normal girl because her (his) body is a normal girl's and it was all because she (he) wanted to be a real detective, not because she (he) was something different inside. He pulls them down and I feel chill air invading where nothing should be. There is a pause. I squint through the murky blurring of eyes closed too long and the dim light of the room, and I see that he's removing his trousers. To my bare skin, the cold feels like the touch of ice- like the last time I was in the TV world, my boyfriend and Yukiko and Kanji and I running through a "Heaven" that looked like it was made by a child hearing of Christianity for the first time, caught in an ambush by shadows, hit by a rogue spell, unable to move. I hated the sensation of helplessness then. The others had fought on while I was paralyzed by cold, 'protecting' me out of teamwork or perhaps because they knew now I was supposed to be a weak and vulnerable girl who tried too hard to prove herself. Something about being a gentleman.
Unpleasant as those memories are, they provide me with a crucial distraction from him preparing to stick his penis inside of me. The obvious comparison would be to pinching oneself during an injection, to keep your mind off of the needle. I start to think about needles when he thrusts in, which hurts even more than I had expected. Needles. Thrust. Hormone injections. Thrust. I researched those. Thrust. I'm too young to qualify. Thrust. Hurdles to jump through. He gasps. Would get in legal trouble if done under current persona. Thrust. No reason to prescribe a young man hormones if he has a healthy body for his age. Thrust. Need to wait and then prove self. I groan involuntarily. Not a solution to problem with police department. Thrust.
His rate increases and I feel nausea. Trying to convince myself that I am a normal girl who is his girlfriend and this is normal and I'll enjoy it soon and he loves me and this cements our love so it's alright because I love him fails to work. I think of needles again. Deadly injections. They have the death penalty in some countries, and use those. If they caught the murderer from this town over there, maybe they'd kill them with that. They stick it in you and you die. I can hear him panting with exertion. The place between my legs that never felt like it was mine hurts. But Dojima, he couldn't be the killer. He'd never have let Namatame near his daughter if he'd orchestrated that. I've spent enough time in this house to s- anyway. Maybe it was another cop. A frustrated lackey looking for a cheap thrill. A predator abusing his power. A grudge? Heat plays over my body unevenly, radiating from him and the illness growing in my stomach, swims under my skin like a trout, like one of the ones he catches in the river and shows off to his friends (See guys, I can fish with the best of them!) Aizawa keeps too busy, stuck at his desk job. Wishes he could see action, I'm sure, but he's got a solid alibi, and he's never even talked to Yamano. Shirai was one of the cops at the inn, but he's a family man. Too happy with his place in life. Just got promoted. Aoi feels bad when he shoots targets at the range- he couldn't hurt a person, let alone two. His nails dig into my thighs and he moans. I think I have stayed quiet the whole time, and I shiver involuntarily. Adachi? It's no secret he vomited when he saw the first body, Dojima won't stop laughing about it. He's helped us the whole time. He has less guile than a bag of soybeans. Accusing him would be like accusing Yosuke. Pathetic. He murmurs "I'm almost there, Naoto-" and though my eyes are already shut I close them harder.
Why couldn't I be the one penetrating him? Why can't I have that? No, I know why. XX chromosomes. Beautiful baby girl, congratulations to the new parents, let's get her dresses and dolls and never let her ask if she wanted to be a girl until we're dead. Even when I could talk the talk and walk the walk I never got to hold the big guns. They stopped me before I could fix it. He's so charming, so why can't he just want a boyfriend? Why can't I be the boyfriend?
He suddenly pulls out, and I realize it must be because he's at least cautious enough to not want to put me at risk for-
-no, I can't, that would be the ultimate insult, the final blow to my pride-
-and he comes. It's awful and wet and warm, like hours-old coffee that's started to congeal spilled down my front, but at least it's not inside. He gets off me and lies down beside me, breathing heavily.
"Was it good, Naoto? I've wanted us to share this for so long, you know, so..."
My lips move but I can't hear myself say anything. When I open my eyes, he looks happy. Tired. Satisfied. Nothing wrong. I want to share in his happiness. I cannot.
I sit up. He might say something again, but I can't seem to hear it, either. I put on a cast-off shirt from the floor, long enough to hide my disgust and shame and body that still doesn't belong to Naoto Shirogane, and I leave the room for the restroom, head tight and swirling with unhappy contents and stomach churning in nausea.
I try to turn on the shower, but my hands are cold and numb now, and it takes three tries to get hot water going. Too hot. Reminds me of semen. Turn it down to cold. Cold is the appropriate distraction. It's two minutes and sixteen seconds before I have to stoop to my knees. A minute forty before I start dry heaving. Nine seconds before that turns to genuine vomit. I lose track of the time as I allow the water to clean away the traces of my fear and disgust.
I return home in borrowed clothes, school uniform bundled up and held against my chest to hide the shape of my body without the binder to mask it. Nobody looks me in the eye. It's cold and my mouth is dry and foul-tasting, stomach feeling like someone excavated the contents and left an empty dig site. Were it only higher up that those archaeologists had taken away the soil of my form, I might have felt better about the affair.
At home, I dress like myself again. Every piece of evidence, from research and personal experience, tells me I shouldn't do this in bed or risk harming my lungs, but I cannot handle to be alone with my body the way it was earlier. All I can do is sleep and dream of solutions. To what, I wish I could say.