Spring Means New Beginnings (Saito/ask)

CHARLOTTE HAD GONE PRE-MOLT the day that she’d moved her stuff over to the new house. She’d been talking with Papa Kang when she’d noticed that her vision was cloudy. A quick inspection in the bathroom mirror confirmed the obvious—her shell had gone dull. A molt was imminent.

The worst thing about this molt was that, while all of her belongings were at the new house, she still didn’t have a bed. But she had no laptop at the dorms. After debating with herself about what was worse—no comfort, or no distraction—the prawn decided that she would buckle-down and molt at the new house.

And while Charlotte lightheartedly referred to molting as “like PMS on steroids”, the truth was that the process fucking hurt. This was partially why she got so waspish the closer she got to the molt—the growing pains that ran like spasms through her body, the spike in hormones, the dwindling vision, and the fasting. God, the fasting was the worst. There was a very good reason that she didn’t leave the house, or really interact with anyone, pre-molt.

Charlotte sequestered herself to her bedroom minus one bed, and waited for the molt to happen.

It finally ensued the day before the new school year—on a sleepy Sunday afternoon when most of the house was quiet. Perhaps her roommates were out shopping for school supplies, or enjoying the last bit of freedom or sun before classes resumed. Charlotte was inside, feeling like she was drowning in her old exoskeleton as she attempted to wriggle free.

The process was slow, at first. Charlotte’s carapace split along the back, as usual—and once she’d freed her torso and head, the rest came off pretty smoothly. Charlotte kicked the discarded exoskeleton aside, then lay on the laminate floor, a little slimy and a little twitchy. She had a beach towel somewhere to wipe-down with, but she was too tired to go grab it. Her stomach yowled insistently, well-aware that she could probably break the two-day fast she’d been on. Charlie just remained on the laminate, breathing shakily.

She might’ve drifted off, but eventually the prawn opened her eyes and found the strength to roll into a sitting position and grab a folded towel off the top of her small stack of boxes. She wiped at her arms first, shuddering at the sensation of her towel on her shell. Still soft. Which meant she could still feel. Gross.

The prawn moved methodically—first arms, then chest and torso, then head, then legs—she needed to towel-off the viscous remnants of her old shell separating from the new. It was basically a natural lubricant, and it was hell to clean-off once dried. Charlotte made quick work of toweling herself dry, an altogether unpleasant experience, then flopped onto the floor. The towel was them wadded into a tight ball, and thrown towards the carapace.

Charlie lay there, panting like she’d just finished a marathon. The next item on the boxes was a pair of basketball shorts. She’d need to get dressed if she wanted to pad downstairs for her Chinese food, which had been ordered a few days prior and awaiting the end of her fast. Too much effort. She'd lay here a little longer to muster the energy.

She tried to reach them without getting up, to no avail. Ugh. First-world mutant problems. There were footsteps on the stairs. Oh, so someone was home? The prawn’s stomach clenched. That meant someone had heard her molting. All the slick peeling of old carapace from new, the frustrated grunts of trying to wriggle free. It was the ugly side of Charlie’s quirk, and now whoever-it-was had probably heard it. Hopefully it was Chimera. Chimera would get it.

The prawn pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, fighting the urge to cry. Molting wasn’t only physically taxing, but it was emotionally taxing too. And now Charlotte could feel herself panicking about who had witnessed it.

She was laying right by the door. And, having not seen any of her roommates face-to-face for a few days, curiosity was getting the better of her. So, the prawn steeled herself, turning her body slightly to reach the doorknob without sitting up, and she turned the knob of the door, popping it into the "unlocked" position. It swung free only a half-dozen centimeters or so, before coming to a stop against her shoulder. Charlotte shuddered at the unnatural feel of it.

God, she was ready to be hard-shelled again. So ready.

A familiar, white head of hair was bobbing up to this level.

Shit. Not Chimera.

This was awkward.

“H-hey… Saito,” Charlie greeted, still trying to catch her breath. The impending tearfulness didn’t help. Also, she’d shiver until her carapace had totally solidified once again. So even if the teary-ness wasn’t a thing, her voice would still quiver, “Uh…”

Play it cool, Charlie, play it cool, the prawn mentally cheered herself on. God, molt-hormones were a hell of a drug.

“Sorry to, eh, bother you, but… w-would you be w-willing to grab th-th-the Chinese takeout f-from the f-fridge, please?”

Attagirl, ask him to get the food. That’ll give you more time to get pants on and hide the old carapace.

“It’s in a plastic bag, on the bottom shelf.”

ooc notes: