Chapter Text
Adora Eternia was the kind of person that most people who only superficially knew her would describe as "mellow." Or laid-back. Or non-confrontational, if all they had to go on was what they had seen through talk shows and behind-the-scenes interviews. Some people even snarked that she was the perfect kind of person to be the leader of a pop group: bland in an inoffensive way, but she could sing and play guitar and that, in their minds, was the bare minimum you needed to be a successful pop musician.
Of course, the people who actually knew Adora also knew that wasn't the case. Those were the people who recognized that she had come from nothing; orphaned almost from birth, her one and only lucky break had been her acceptance into Right Zone Academy of Arts at age five after one of the caregivers at the orphanage had realized that the little girl who was always singing and humming had perfect pitch. A valuable talent for a musician, and something that deserved to be cultivated, they said.
Ironically enough, other people sometimes took the opposite track and painted her as a fallen prodigy because of it: someone who had shown immense talent from an early age and then “squandered” it on pop music. Those people had no idea of the years that she had spent slaving over her art, learning instruments and theory and ways to harmonize and bring it all together until it felt like her head would crack under the pressure.
Adora had talent as a child, sure, but not as much as people tended to assume when they heard she grew up in a school for music. Talent could only carry you so far when it came to art. It had to be tempered with understanding: she had to know the underlying principles of what made things sound good and why, and then combine that knowledge with the vision in her head in a process that was usually less orderly and structured and more an artistic splatter fest. Inherently messy. That was what the creative process was, once you stripped away the bullshit people draped it in to make themselves feel better.
No matter how much the media tended to paint her as someone who coasted by on natural talent and the so-called "easiness" of her genre of choice, Adora Eternia had spent her entire life fighting tooth and nail to get where she was today.
And right now, Adora was pissed.
"Stupid clip-on tie wearing asshole wants to tell me how to make music," She snarled as she balled up another failed attempt at reworking BFS’s latest song and tossed it over her shoulder. It hit the wall and bounced off the trash can, which was practically vomiting similar pieces of paper by now. She continued to mutter under her breath in an exaggerated falsetto, "'Oh, these instrumentals are too complicated for your audience. Why don't you break it down to the four chords? That's traditional.' Fuck you! I didn't go to Juilliard just to have some jackass who bathes in cheap cologne tell me how to do my job!"
The pencil snapped in her hand. Adora stared at it blankly for a moment before tossing it aside and kicking away from her desk. The motion sent her desk chair toward the center of her room, and she let the momentum carry her as she leaned back and rubbed a hand over her eyes.
"This sucks,” She muttered, only now registering the empty ache in her belly and the telltale tightening of a cluster headache beginning to develop behind her right eye.
What was it Bow had said the last time Glimmer blew a gasket over her mother's executive decisions? "Love the music, hate the industry?"
Sounds about right.
Drawing her knees up to her chest, she spun the chair for a second. Not fast enough to trigger vertigo or make her dizzy, but enough to let her feel the sensation of movement beyond her closed eyes.
For just a moment, she remembered a quiet voice, clawed hands resting lightly on her shoulders and the sensation of someone leaning over the back of the chair to look down at her.
"That bad, huh? Tell you what, let me play you something I've been working on. Then we can look at your stuff together. You probably just need a second pair of eyes."
And gods, she needed that now. Glimmer and Bow were great friends and even better musicians, but they didn't understand the music the way Adora did. They didn't see how the theory and the little bits and pieces came together in her mind and synthesized themselves into something that was simultaneously logical and instinctively right. The two of them were musicians, like her, but to them music was a job: something they were good at and passionate about, yes, but still a job. They hadn't lived and breathed the art day in and day out their entire lives, utterly focused, until the music was as much a part of them as their hands or their voices.
They didn't understand what it meant to Adora. Not like Catra had.
She didn't just need a second pair of eyes. She needed her pair of eyes, and everything that came with it. Catra had never been a technician the way Adora was: she understood the base theory underneath the music—the math and the psychology and the principals—but she'd always been willing to throw that straight out the window and create something new and exciting out of the sound, something Adora would have never even considered.
But more importantly, Catra knew how Adora worked and she would patiently follow her logic and figure out what Adora was trying to say through her compositions in a way that no one else even tried. And while she made light suggestions whenever she helped Adora tweak her work, she never tried to force Adora out of her comfort zone of structure and theory. She didn't try to make Adora's style emulate her own, and as a result the little unorthodox touches she added to those places that had Adora frustrated and stumped actually served to highlight the overall structure of her work, not distract people away from it. And more often than not, those suggestions made the music shine brighter for that very reason.
Their personal styles and approach to the craft couldn't have been more different, but in many ways they had built each other over twelve years of shared living, learning, and above all, music. Together, it had genuinely felt like they could do anything. The stars had been the limit, and all they had to do was reach out and grab hold.
Then the accident happened. And afterwards, Catra had seemingly dropped off the face of the earth.
Adora swallowed hard, remembering those three long, bitter years of searching only to be told again and again the same thing: there was no Catra Leandros registered as living in any city across Etheria. There was no Catra Leandros in the workforce. About the only good news they could tell her was that there wasn't a Catra Leandros buried six feet under in some lonely grave, though one particularly insensitive investigator had suggested that she could be a Jane Doe.
Adora had literally broken the arm of the cheap IKEA chair in his office just to keep from launching herself across the desk and strangling him with his own tie.
And at that point, she had... Not given up, but stopped hiring people to look for Catra when it was clear she wouldn't be found.
Her friends didn't understand that it was impossible for her to give up completely, not when she still found herself scanning every crowd for the swish of a dark tail, the glittering of mismatched eyes, a cocky "Hey Adora," on her lips. Ten years apart, and she still found herself stopping every orange and dark striped magicat she saw in the hope that maybe, just maybe...
Most of them were pretty understanding when Adora sheepishly explained that she thought they were an old friend of hers, but it still didn't help the knife that twisted in her gut with every dashed hope.
Ten long years, and at this point Adora was beginning to think that the only way she'd ever see her best friend/partner-in-crime/one-time-everything again would be through a literal act of fate.
Great. First the music won't come, now the bad memories. What's next, a rehash of Shadow Weaver and her bullshit?
Despite the caustic nature of her thoughts, Adora smiled a little, remembering the time Catra had explained to her and the rest of their little misfits about her new nickname for the school's main overseer. "I mean, it fits right? I swear every time she enters a room it gets darker, and that's when she's in a good mood. Not to mention her fashion sense, bleh."
That was why she couldn't let go. Despite all the pain of the past decade, all the wondering and second-guessing and hurt feelings and "why"s. In spite of all that, those memories still made Adora smile. They still made her day—and her life—a little brighter.
At least, that was the takeaway that a few good years of therapy had gotten her. "Hold on to the good memories, let yourself draw strength from them, but don't let trying to recapture them consume you, Adora. You don't need Catra to complete you, and if she does return to your life it would be unhealthy for both of you if you aren't able to reconcile the past with the realities of the present."
Ok, she admitted it: that had hurt. But one ongoing problem she had with Dr. Lucia Hope was their long-term quibble over one thing: although she probably wouldn't have said the same when she was a freshman in college and the pain was still sharp and ragged, Adora didn't need Catra. She was a perfectly functional twenty eight year old—and fairly stable considering the fact that her profession seemed to attract the emotionally unstable like flies to honey (though at least Adora was actually doing something about her issues.) At the end of the day, Adora could live her entire life never seeing Catra again and still consider herself a success.
The problem, which Dr. Hope didn't seem to fully understand, was that Adora didn't want to do that. She didn't seem to get the weight of the shared memories, the mutual understanding, the way they almost set the world on fire when they played together. The way that having Catra at her back had made growing up in the Fright Zone (and Adora still had to bite her tongue to keep herself from referring to it as such whenever it came up in interviews) so much brighter, no matter what the adults did to them. Instead, Dr. Hope worried that Adora's desire to see Catra again was a sign of neuroses, of a burgeoning obsession.
Adora didn't need Catra to be a whole person, but she still wanted to be by her side, and that was the truth that had been rubbing across her heart with sandpaper roughness for just a little over a decade.
It was the not knowing that truly ate away at her. Even if by some miracle she found Catra again and the other woman wanted nothing to do with her, that would still be some resolution. It would hurt like hell, but it would at least free up the space Catra's ghost had kept inside her for the past ten years.
The last time she saw her, Catra was smiling a small, sad smile at her from the hospital bed, wincing a little as she instinctively moved to wave Adora away with the shattered remnants of her dominant hand. "I promise I'll be fine, Adora. So go show those rich kids at Juilliard how the Fright Zone kids make noise. I'll catch up when I can."
At the time, Adora had known in her guts that something was desperately wrong, but she'd put it down to her own grief at the crumbling of their shared dreams. But Catra had told her to move forward, and she had. Going to Juilliard together, getting to learn from some of the greatest musicians the world had to offer, that had been their dream and Adora had been hell-bent and determined to make the most of it. For both of them.
Now, she wished she had told Catra to shut up and planted her ass at that bedside. Her life would probably be completely different, but she'd have Catra, and she'd be free of this painful want in her chest. No, the want that hypothetical Adora would have would be the same want that had driven the two of them their entire lives; want for music, want for a life based around it, wanting to show the world what they were made of and have a blast doing it.
"Damnit, Catra," And now Adora, ten years later but still just as dumb and full of yearning, wiped away the tears that were threatening to fall. "We both got out, so why aren't you here?"
The look on Catra's face when the doctor dispassionately declared, "I'm sorry, Miss Leandros, but even with physical therapy you'll be extremely fortunate if you can regain enough mobility to even hold a pen. But you will never be able to play with your left hand again."
Adora sighed, fingers splaying on the arm of her chair as she forced herself to her feet. While she and Dr. Hope had plenty of disagreements, one thing they did agree on was that it did Adora no good to sit around picking at old wounds. Productivity was key: doing something would help her get out of her own head.
"Okay," She coached herself, the way she had ever since she was a kid (Catra always thought that was funny—stop thinking about her for fuck's sake!) putting her hands on her hips and casting a critical eye over her room, with its bed that hadn't been made in like a week and the trash can that was more and more beginning to resemble the unfortunate victim of a homicide. "Go hang with Bow and Glimmer for a while, vent a little, then get a shower and whip this place into shape. Get back into routine. These forced rewrites are throwing you off, and if you wanna do your best you're gonna need that stability."
Her stomach growled pitifully at that. "Okay, food and coffee first. Then the plan."
Nodding decisively, she exited the room and padded down the hallway toward the kitchen and living room that BFS had been sharing for the last six years, courtesy of Bright Moon Records and its vested interest in making sure their artists lived in a place that was both private enough to live and work in and had decent deterrents to both the paparazzi and the occasional obsessive fan. (It happened.) The fact that—unlike most other bands signed to BMR—they hadn't had to pay for said home security out of their record deal... Well, that probably had more to do with Glimmer's mom being the head of the company than good business sense, but Adora was willing to overlook the nepotism in this case if it meant she wasn't being pestered every time she left the building.
As she approached the other side of the apartment, she began to hear the two other members of BFS arguing back and forth about something.
"C'mon, Glimmer, it's just an interview. It's not like I'm threatening to strap you down and play all their albums at you."
"I just don't get why you like them! I mean, they named their first tour 'Fuck the Haters,' Bow. Talk about being vulgar just for the sake of it."
"Pretty sure they put an asterisk in the swear instead of the U."
"Pretty sure that doesn't matter when everyone knew what it meant anyway! So they're not just crass, but sarcastically so. I know hard rock isn't really my thing, but I could probably appreciate it more if bands like that didn't get up in your face with their aggression and flaunt their collective bad attitude."
"Weren't you the one getting up in Mrs. Angella's face the other day about the rewrites?"
"That's different. At least I have a good reason. But bands like No Plan B are just angry and vulgar for the pure sake of it."
"What are you two bickering about?" Adora asked as she entered the kitchen, glancing over to see her two best friends hanging out on the couch in front of their massive widescreen TV, which was thankfully muted. Like Adora, they were both dressed in pajamas, but unlike Adora Glimmer and Bow looked like they had actually changed out of said PJs in the day or two since Adora had locked herself in her room after the disastrous meeting with the record execs.
"She lives!" Bow cheered, while Glimmer waved and mouthed a "Hi, Adora," at her. "How's the composing going?"
"Terrible," Adora groused as she reached into the cabinet above the coffee machine to retrieve her favorite mug, which read 'Sword Lesbian'—a gag gift that she nonetheless remained stupidly fond of. "Stupid stuffed shirts want me to 'dumb it down for the audience.' Even had the audacity to suggest the Four Chords of Pop. Could they make it any more obvious how little they think of our fans?"
"Ugh, tell me about it," Glimmer groaned, running a hand over her face and gesturing at the new bags under her eyes. "They're forcing me to rework the lyrics to be more 'family friendly'. As if the kids who listened to us when we started out aren't teenagers or young adults by now. Whatever happened to maturing with your audience?"
"Oh great." Adora fought to keep from facepalming at the news, not in the least because starting the day off with boiling coffee to the face was nobody's idea of a good time. "Be sure to send me the reworked lyrics later so I can adjust the instrumentals. Again."
"You got it. Assuming I don’t try to hang myself first."
Coffee now in hand, Adora made her way to stand next to the couch, gesturing at the remote sitting between the two. Both Glimmer and Bow had a hand on it, so they must have been fighting over custody before Adora came in and distracted them. "So what's going on again?"
"Bow wants to watch an interview with the lead singer of some indie rock band that's making waves after their first headliner tour. I personally don't get the attraction, which I was just explaining to him before you came in."
Bow rolled his eyes a little too fondly and gestured at his phone, where Adora could see the lines of an article scrawling across (though the fact that Bow didn't use dark mode meant she couldn't make anything out properly. "Well first thing's first, they did it the old fashioned way by touring around the country and gathering fans instead of signing on with a record company right out of the gate like we did. You don't see that happening much these days. Secondly, when the Horde approached them for a deal, they literally turned them down flat!"
"Well, that at least shows they have some good sense," Glimmer muttered, even as her lips curled up in a sly smile at the thought of BMR's only major competitor being told to get lost.
"Right? And the entire group has been pretty vocal in discussing a lot of the BS in the music industry that you yell about all the time, like forced artistic changes and gatekeeping talented musicians because they don't fit a particular mold," He flicked over to the familiar blue background of twitter, trying to tempt Glimmer into taking a look. No dice. "I've been following them on twitter and their website for a few days now, and a lot of the writing is actually really thoughtful and articulate."
"If only they could show some of that in their songs," Glimmer groused back, sticking out her tongue at him.
"Look, Glimmer, it's a morning talk show," Bow protested with vigorous jazz hands, the second-to-last line of defense against a grumpy Glimmer. "It's not like she's gonna be swearing up a storm on public TV. Plus, this lead singer is pretty aloof and has mostly kept out of the spotlight unless it was with the rest of the band. This is literally the first time she's ever done a solo interview and I wanna hear what she has to say."
"Then why not just record it and watch it later? Or on the net, since you seem to be cyberstalking them already?"
"I dunno, there's just something that feels right about watching it in the morning," Bow shrugged, leaning back against the couch and pulling his legs up to sit cross legged, completely ignoring the jab. "Plus this way I don't have to worry about news feeds spoiling anything. Pleeeeease Glimmer?"
Glimmer lasted about two seconds before caving beneath the force of Bow's puppy dog eyes (AKA the actual last line of defense against Glimmer-ly Grumpiness.) "Ugh, fine. But we're catching up on 90 Day Fiancé after this. I wanna see if that cute lizard-kin girl drops the douche with the frosted tips for the hot Taurian girl."
"You know, not everyone is as bi as us, Glimmer."
"Of course not. But that's why we're right and they're dumb. Do we have a deal?"
"Not sure why you phrased spending time with my favorite person like it's a punishment, but sure, deal."
Adora sipped at her coffee, watching with mild interest as the screen changed to a pretty woman with pink hair and a brilliant smile.
"Hey, isn't that Netossa's girlfriend?" Glimmer asked. Netossa was a musician signed with Bright Moon who—rather than being associated with any one particular band—was brought on when groups needed a particular instrument for a song but not often enough to need a full time member. She'd worked with BFS on a few different songs when they'd needed a keyboardist or a piano player. If Adora remembered correctly, her longtime girlfriend Spinnerella had also worked at BMR as a sound technician before moving on to something different. Guess this was that something.
"Yeah, she got into doing talk shows with musicians after she left the industry. Since she's such a sweetheart and can ask actual music questions, she eventually got her own show."
"Good for her! Remind me to send her a nice gift basket or something. She did some real fantastic work on our third album."
On screen, the obligatory opening claps died down and Spinnerella turned to the camera. "For those of you just tuning in, we have a treat for you today. Last week we interviewed all of the members of No Plan B, an indie hard rock band that has been making major waves recently after an extremely well-received tour. However, there is one member of the band that the fans have been wanting to hear more from, so for the first time in her career we here at RBLN managed to score a one-on-one interview. So please join me in welcoming the ever-enigmatic lead singer and guitarist for No Plan B... Catra Leandros!"
And suddenly, Adora's world narrowed to a single point with all the grace and gravitas of a flaming semi-truck crashing into a circus.
Because there, on the TV screen, was Catra. Catra, dressed in ripped jeans and a dark leather jacket like any self-respecting rock star (no combat boots though, the ever diminishing part of her brain not occupied with screaming noted, but then Catra never wore shoes if she could help it. Magicat perks.) Catra, with that same little smirk she always wore when it was time to perform, that "Yeah, I'm hot shit and I know it," look. Catra, reaching out with fingerless-gloved hands to return Spinnerella’s handshake with a red and black electric guitar slung over her back like she was gonna rip into a power solo right there on stage.
Catra, who had disappeared off the face of the earth and now crashed back into Adora's reality on her goddamn TV screen of all things.
Her Catra.
Was this what you meant earlier by an act of fate?
There was a distant shatter of porcelain as the cup slipped from Adora's hands and hit the floor, followed by a surprised pair of yelps and an, "Adora, you okay?"
But at that moment, there was only one thing on Adora's mind.
"WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK?!"