Mizho stares at herself in the mirror that morning, halfway through her makeup. It had just been a throw away comment from his douji-- her douji.
"Why are you bothering with that?"
Her hand hovers over the eyeliner pen.
She had shrugged it off. Muscle memory, habit, routine. It was like her--his?--old habit of counting rations two, three times in the morning. Of making sure his uniform was set a certain way.
She picks up the eyeliner. This was her new routine. She'd had it before getting his memories back. Hers? Stop. Too annoying to think about that. Just focus. Get this damn wing right.
Besides, its not like she could just up and stop wearing makeup, it would be a dead giveaway that something changed.
Paresse had snorted, asked her why that mattered. Who cared if she changed?
Fuck. Wipe it off. Redo it.
She didn't want to think about that. Besides, it felt good to walk around like this. Far more free to just. Do what he wanted, not whatever he had to do just to survive in the mountain... would he have done this? If he hadn't been conscripted? If he'd been home... what would his morning routine had been? Just as vain as this?
Goddammit. Fuck it, it'll just have to do...
...nope, nope, too crooked.
She sighs and leans back, closing her eye. She takes a breath and then stares at herself in the mirror again. This weak, small body he's in now.
...he was supposed to be dead. But instead he ends up back again, in this weak, vain, young, female body...
She leans forward to wipe the wing off again and tries it one last time. She'll quit if this doesnt work. Stop thinking about the body and just get the damn wing done.
...
There.
She huffs at herself. Who cares if she changes? Apparently she does. Is this what he would have done without the military? Maybe. But it's what she does now. She'd already told Paresse just to call her 'she' and that's that. Whatever she was before, this is who she is now, dammit.
She finishes her eye makeup and adjusts her eyepatch... then smirks at the mirror.
Perfect.
