Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dernière Danse

The curtain rose (the fog came in).

The witch’s barrier bled into the landscape (below the stage, the conductor lifted his hands).

Her heart thumped erratically in her chest (her face was set in a determined scowl). It was cliché (naïve), really. The breathless anticipation of the silent audience found its counterpart in the restless thrumming of blood in her veins (the carnival noises of the familiars were met with explosions from her grenades). She tore her gaze away from them.

‘Again.’ Could she do it again?

Across the stage from her was Madoka (Walpurgis). The maniacal laughter was impossible to miss, but she focused on the witch’s odd gear base (her bright smile was impossible to miss, but what caught her attention was the pinkette’s flowing dress). A flowing ball gown to match her own elaborate suit (a manifestation to match her own transformation).

They met in the middle. They fought (they danced). She lost herself in Madoka’s warmth (in cold metal). Her head ached. The darkness strained her eyes (the spotlights were too bright). Walpurgis was bellowing (Madoka was talking) but she couldn’t, couldn’t understand what they were saying.

Graceful, dizzying circles, and Madoka’s dress billowed out as Homura raised her arm to spin her (fire billowed from Walpurgis as Homura leapt across buildings to destroy her). The blue-purple blur was all she could focus on—that sadistic grin and her own menacing snarl even though blood ran down her temple and her hands really were heavy (the blur of pink in her arms was all she could see—that delighted grin and her own breathless chuckle even though their hands were sweaty and she really was dizzy).

Walpurgis screeched (Madoka laughed) in response. She mustered a smile. The waltz picked up its pace and they hastened to keep up (the winds picked up and she had to keep up).

Her heart lurched painfully and though she smiled through it, she felt trapped. Madoka looked at her expectantly, beaming widely (Walpurgis hovered, waiting, and cackled at her). She had a role to play. She wanted to break away, to run, to escape and never have to face this again.

‘Let them deal with it,’ came the insidious thought.

The brisk pace of the music sought to consume her, arms straining as she loaded the dance with as much force as she could muster (dozens of AT-4s lugged over her shoulders, even more lifted by her magic, she was an army of one). She leapt from building to building, avoiding the rubble and debris as Walpurgis spun ever closer, heedless of the wasteland around them (she spun Madoka, they came together, they separated—one moment their breath mingled and then they were at arm’s length away).

After all, what would they have done in her place? She could stop anytime she wanted, no one could condemn her for it. Imagine—Madoka’s pretty dress in shreds and Walpurgis intact. She herself would be gone and free of inhibitions. This world did not deserve to live, anyway.

She dipped Madoka (she fired missiles at Walpurgis). Her arms labored against the pace of the dance (her eyes squinted against the rain). She could walk away (she could drop her).

But she cared too much. One-two-three, one-two-three, and somehow they had slowed to a stop. (Walpurgis headed towards the shelter.) The decision was not hers in the end. The stage lights made Madoka’s ball gown sparkle and shimmer, resplendent (the fog obscured Walpurgis). Familiars were in pandemonium (the audience was clapping, shouting, shouting ‘Encore! Encore!’). Sweat gave her face a shine, her heart beat fast, her head throbbed. Yet again? They asked too much of her.

“That was amazing!” Madoka leant in even closer to her when the song ended. They automatically bowed, but then Madoka glanced at her properly and noted Homura’s clenched jaw. “Do you want to stop?” she asked, concerned. Always concerned. One gloved hand reached out for Homura—when had she backed up?

She hesitated. Did she truly want to stop? But she could not continue.

Enthusiastic cheers drew her attention. She gaped at the audience. She didn’t know what to do. She had made a commitment—‘you cannot back out now!’

The conductor returned and she felt her heart clench painfully because she was running out of time, time, that blasted commodity, time. She always took too long to decide.

But she was Akemi Homura, and Akemi Homura was not a failure, not as long as she had any say about it.

Violins picked up again. Madoka looked ready to call it all short, tearing her gaze away from her.

She took a deep breath.

Her eyes shone with determination as she tugged on Madoka’s small hands. She smiled resolutely.

Slowly,

            almost serenely,

                        they danced. One last dance.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

“Homura-chan~!”

Homura’s head snapped up, the pounding in her head flaring briefly then receding as her lips twitched in a small smile. She quickly washed her sweaty hands.

A dull ache built up again in her forehead. She ignored it, rapping her knuckles lightly on her forehead before heading out of the kitchen to let her very best friend come in, unsurprised by the pinkette’s visit.

Madoka’s beaming grin greeted her. “Homura-chan, that apron looks really nice!” Madoka clapped her hands upon seeing the ex-time-traveler’s attire. Blushing faintly, Homura looked down at herself: she wore a cream-colored apron decorated with dark purple flowers and tied with an elegant black ribbon over a plain white tee and black jeans.

“It was a present from Tomoe-san,” she murmured as she let the pinkette come in (the blonde had also encouraged her to wear something other than black and white but she ignored that bit). Madoka left her bag and shoes in the hallway, next to Homura’s things, and replied, “I’m glad you two are getting along.”

Homura shrugged idly, saying, “It was more of a thank-you for bringing Sakura-san back.” She absently rubbed her forehead and motioned for the pinkette to follow her back into the kitchen. Spying the restaurant-style bento box lying half-filled on the table, Madoka eagerly interjected, “Ne, Homura-chan, can I help?” At Homura’s nod, Madoka washed her hands and happily began scooping up diced vegetables into a container. The taller girl took some apples and began washing them.

As she artfully arranged the vegetables, helping Homura in her bi-weekly ritual, Madoka continued the conversation. “Mami-san is really grateful that you found Kyouko-san before she did something silly. Yuma-chan and Nagisa-chan, too—they’re probably going to shower you with thanks on Monday,” she laughed, glancing at Homura. When Homura rolled her eyes but smiled faintly, Madoka added, “Homura-chan’s so popular now, saving everyone and having so many admirers! Soon you’ll have no time for me!” She pouted, though her eyes twinkled with mischief.

Homura immediately shook her head. “I will always have time for you, Madoka,” she stated gravely, her purple eyes gazing intently at Madoka, who practically radiated happiness.

Even after two years some things do not change, she mused. Others could be in her company and not be reprimanded or scorned by her. The minutes could pass by and be absently counted, yet not resented, not feared. She could wake up and not fear the imminent arrival of Walpurgisnacht. For all of the changes, however, she would never leave Madoka.

The mere thought was absurd.

One more Saturday morning spent getting ready to visit my grandmother with Madoka. I would not even be here if it were not for her.

Therefore, she settled into the normal routine Madoka provided.

Normal…

Huh. Routine she was used to, but normal? It was funny, really. Sometimes she had to remind herself where she was because the thought of normal was disconcerting to Homura, who had gone a painfully long time—a year, an eternity—without even considering anything beyond a painful month’s worth of days in one painful year.

Even now, “normal” did not exist for her (because she still teetered on that fine line between life and death on a daily basis—crippled).

Sometimes she thought it was a dream. On those days, she would not relax until she woke up the next day still in this timeline.

Yet, from an outsider’s view, everything is perfectly ordinary. Nothing grand, nothing that merits awe or gratitude.

Everything

is

just

perfectly

            normal…

She set down the knife, wary of cutting herself, and instead gathered the apples she had sliced into a container, and passed it all to Madoka to make into bunny apples. While the pinkette busied herself with her new task, Homura checked on the rice cooker. Contented humming filled in the empty spaces as Madoka carefully peeled apple slices into bunnies.

The kitchen was very warm. She absently wiped her forehead with her sleeve. I should have waited for the rice to cool a little longer, but it is fine. A little steam cannot hurt me.

Eyes half-closed, Homura focused on regulating her breathing to settle down. Slow, deliberate—but inaudible—breaths took all of her concentration as her hands automatically worked from muscle memory to make rice balls.

But her blood was throbbing in her temples again, and while pain flared in her head, her measured breathing lulled her even deeper into a dizzy haze. Very… warm in here, isn’t it? Too… warm. My hands are sticky. She shifted uncomfortably.

Vaguely, a faint terror stirred in the back of her mind, the back of her heart. Her eyes saw not the onigiri she was shaping, but rather blurry, distant worlds where Anthonys scurried around wreaking havoc and where stifling heat was the aftermath of massive explosions. Her heart raced.

Everything faded to grey, skewed for a moment, the world frozen, and Madoka’s humming warped impossibly into despairing moans and groans of pain, compounding exacerbating inexorable pain.

Nooo—

Distant shouts rang in her ears now, a cacophony of sound, of maddened laughter they ran and dodged desperate their chests constricted wheezing desperate broken recordsroaringwrecked but that wasn’t right because look—Madoka was stealing a bite of rice, having finished with the apples when she wasn’t paying attention.

Alive and normal.

Homura laughed softly, something fluttering painfully in her chest, and shook her head at Madoka’s inquiring glance.

I am fine and she is safe. Everything else is superfluous.

“Homura-chan? Are you okay?” Madoka disregarded Homura’s dismissive gesture and moved closer, scanning her face for any signs of distress. “Your face is red, and you’re sweating a lot,” she noted fretfully.

Ohhh—“I forgot to take the medications again,” she confessed, appearing slightly contrite. It irked her, of course, that she had to rely on medication even though her hospital years were in the past and she had magic at her disposal (well, not really, which is why she had to take medications in the first place. Stupid magic malfunctioning).

Her throat constricted, but Madoka’s eyes had widened and she began fussing. “So that’s why you kept rubbing your forehead… did you have any episodes? Are you feeling—”

“Madoka, Madoka,” Homura interrupted, placing her hands on the worried pinkette’s shoulders. Her lips twitched, trying to be reassuring (how does one reassure someone else?) and apparently succeeding, for Madoka fell silent and waited wide-eyed for her very best friend to explain. At least she had inadvertently drawn Homura out of her thoughts.

“Ah, yes, yes I did have a couple of episodes”—Madoka frowned at that—“though I am not unwell. I should be fine once I take the dose,” Homura explained.

Knowing Homura’s habit of downplaying anything related to herself, Madoka insistently tugged her towards a chair and firmly declared, “Okay, but sit here while I get a glass of water and your medications.”

Sighing in acquiescence, Homura sat down, letting Madoka take care of her.

Wait, how does she know where the medicine is? She frowned, wracking her mind for an explanation. When she remembered, she was not pleased. Grumbling to herself about Incubators and “no respect for privacy,” Homura crossed her arms and slumped further into the chair.

Only moments later, Madoka bounded back into the kitchen with two pill bottles in hand. Homura shifted her glare to the offending items.

Noticing, Madoka shook her head, saying, “You have to take your medicine, Homura-chan. Here, take these and—wait, let me get a glass for you—take one of each.” The mahou shoujo dutifully followed the instructions, though she muttered petulantly, “I am not a child, Madoka.”

The pinkette leveled her with an amused look. “You were pouting when I came back,” she pointed out.

Indignant, Homura huffed and stood again, flipping her hair behind her. Madoka giggled.

“I am glad you find me so amusing, Madoka,” Homura said dryly, “but we have to finish the bento for obaasan.”

“There’s only putting it all together and cleaning up,” Madoka replied as Homura gulped down water and a couple of pills.

She nodded, swallowing forcefully. “I will put these away—can you finish the rest for me?” she asked after washing down the medicine with more water.

“Of course, Homura-chan!” Madoka beamed, already flitting about. The ex-time-traveler watched her briefly, stoic mask instinctively in place again.

Upon noticing, Madoka took a bunny apple, popped it into her mouth, and winked at Homura. Homura-chan deserves to be happy. Her grin widened when Homura blushed and left, ostensibly to put away her medicine but probably to hide her own small smile. Seeing her so fragile is wrong. Well, what would I have done in Homura-chan's place? Of course Homura-chan has every right to be sad.

When Homura returned, Madoka was waiting in the hallway with the packed bento. Pausing, Homura stared at her smiling face for a few seconds.

Concerned, the pinkette asked, “Are you feeling sick again, Homura-chan?” Though “sick” wasn’t quite what she meant.

“I—yes, Madoka,” Homura reassured her, but she remained rooted to her spot a few feet away. Madoka’s brow crinkled, once again not fully believing her friend, and looked at Homura expectantly. She did not always let her very best friend get away with hiding things.

Realizing that Madoka was probably getting uncomfortable by now (she did not look uncomfortable but one could never trust Homura’s judgment on these things), Homura blurted out, “Madoka!” Her cheeks flushed but she hastily amended, “Thank you, Madoka.”

Madoka frowned adorably in confusion, but no explanation was forthcoming. She closed the distance between them and gently reached out for Homura’s shoulder, fingers just barely felt, but sending thrills through a suddenly hypersensitive Homura nonetheless.

“I know—” Homura tried to continue, but sometimes she spoke in fits and starts, her cheeks flushed red and lips pressed into a tight line.

She absently reached for a braid to fiddle with—oh, that is right. Everything keeps mixing up in my mind, so her hands fell uselessly to her sides. Madoka’s fingers remained just barely grazing Homura’s right shoulder (Madoka’s fingers so close I can feel their warmth). Her face reddened even further.

A painful pause, then Homura ground out, “Thank you for coming w-with me, Madoka, to visit my sobo. I-it’s difficult for me, you know, to….” She trailed off, scowling at her shoes. I cannot even hold a decent conversation with her. Self-hatred twisted in her heart.

(Sometimes, thoughts escaped their cage and taunted her—all her failures and insecurities became phobias and crippling beliefs.)

Warm, loving hands grasped her own; startled, she met Madoka’s pink gaze. “Don’t worry; I’ll never leave my Homura-chan!” Her infectious grin tugged a corresponding smile from Homura, though she tried to quell the hope that welled up in her heart at the words “my Homura-chan.”

Hers.

A dream she wanted to pursue (but again, crippling phobias and insecurity, not to mention her mental health).

“C’mon, Homura-chan, or we’ll be late for the train!” Madoka slipped from her grasp and skipped cheerfully away, bento and bags already in hand. But she turned back suddenly, asking, “You have your doses for the rest of today and tomorrow packed in here, right?”

The ex-time-traveler sighed. “Yes, I made sure last night. I did not forget.”

Madoka looked at her appraisingly, then replied, “Just making sure, Homura-chan. I’ll wait for you outside, okay?” Homura nodded.

I have to take care of myself better. She ducked into the kitchen to wash her hands one more time before following Madoka out.

Unable to muster up any interest for the book she had brought along, Homura found herself gazing mindlessly out the train windows. If they had been alone, she would have pulled out her soul gem to account energy, but there were a couple of other passengers a few seats back, so she left well enough alone.

Glancing at Madoka beside her, the pinkette did not seem to suffer the same boredom: she was completely absorbed in her doodles and blissfully unaware of her friend’s dilemma. Huffing internally, Homura returned her gaze to the scenery.

When she could not stand the ennui, Homura spoke up. “Madoka.”

The other girl turned to her, briefly looking startled before she beamed at her (Homura liked to think it was a special smile, just for her). “Yes, Homura-chan?”

“Do you want something to eat?” Please say yes.

Concerned pink eyes looked at her questioningly. “Um… no, I ate enough at breakfast.” Madoka suddenly laughed. “Are you bored, Homura-chan?” she teased.

A scowl was her answer. Madoka hummed pensively, still smiling. Homura watched her, her face softening as she watched Madoka’s eyes light up and the pinkette rummaged through her school bag. Some things truly never change, she reiterated fondly.

“Ah-ha!” Madoka exclaimed. She waved a slim notebook at Homura, who blinked and leant back. “I couldn’t remember where I left it,” Madoka admitted sheepishly, “but anyway, I found my math notebook. Maybe you could help me with Friday’s homework?” Her hopeful expression had Homura immediately agreeing.

“You should be a little more organized,” Homura chastised her as she pulled out a couple of pencils from her own bag. “Though, you have improved significantly. Miki-san should follow your example,” she added, frowning at the thought of the blue-haired rebel. She snorted. Miki Sayaka is more of a rebel than even Sakura Kyouko.

Beside her, Madoka sighed exasperatedly but did not comment. She scooted a little closer to Homura, smiling secretly to herself.

The taller girl looked through the math problems they had been assigned. “It looks like you have already finished?” she began, glancing at Madoka and internally freezing when she noticed their proximity.

“Yeah, it’s just that I got stuck on the last one and just couldn’t figure it out,” Madoka pointed to said problem, frowning as she remembered her frustration the night before.

Okay, breathe, Homura. She is asking for your help, so pull yourself together. She glanced back at the homework, though it took her a few moments to focus and understand what she was looking at.

“Ah. Conic sections, yes. I have not done these in a while,”—she immersed herself in the math, recalling what she knew as her eyes analyzed Madoka’s work—“Hm. You flipped a sigh by accident.” She handed the notebook with the mistake circled back to Madoka, who studied it intently.

“Oh!” Madoka shook her head, smiling. “I don’t know how I overlooked that.” Her pencil scratched away as Madoka reworked the problem. Homura observed her work, making sure that the pinkette had no more issues.

Just minutes later, Madoka returned the pencil to Homura and put away her notebook. “Thanks, Homura-chan!” she said, turning back to her companion.

Homura shrugged, looking back out the train’s windows. “I took pre-calculus last year, Madoka,” she reminded her. The time loops at least helped in that respect, she begrudgingly acknowledged.

Madoka pouted as she went back to her sketch pad. Bored again, Homura let her eyes close and she was slowly lulled to sleep by the faint hum of the train (blasted medications had better be doing their work, she grumbled).

The pinkette did not notice Homura fall asleep, her entire focus being on her drawing of a happy little home. Almost done, just need to add in me and Homura-chan~

Tongue in cheek, she let her mind wander as she drew.

Happily ever after, with a nice little house somewhere, and we’ll wake up every day next to each other and fall asleep together and—and Homura-chan will work and I’ll be the perfect housewife for her…

When she finished, she eagerly straightened to show her best friend. She paused, lovingly noting that Homura was slumped in her seat, asleep. She carefully brushed a lock of Homura’s hair off her face.

“Sleep well, Homura-chan,” she whispered.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

When she woke up, pink dominated her line of sight and she bolted upright, banging her head against another head.

“Ah!” Madoka yelped, scrambling back to and rubbing her forehead.

“M-Madoka?” Homura clutched her head, staring befuddled at Madoka. Her heart rate, a part of her noted, was elevated even though she had just woken up. She took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled.

Across from her, Madoka also held her aching head, though her face was an odd mixture of concern and embarrassment. “G-gomen, Homura-chan. Are you okay?” she apologetically asked.

“It’s okay, I am fine, Madoka,” Homura automatically replied before shaking her head forcefully.

Instinctively scrutinizing the area as she calmed, she noted that the other occupants of their carriage had left while she was asleep, leaving her all alone with Madoka. She frowned. She had not meant to fall asleep, especially not with her contacts on, which she would have to remove immediately. “I will be back, Madoka. I am going to take out my contacts,” she said, resisting the urge to rub her uncomfortable eyes.

“Oh, do you need your glasses?” Madoka asked, already reaching for Homura’s bag.

“Yes. They are in the left side pocket. Your left, not mine.” Taking the case, Homura nodded to Madoka and quickly left.

She was not gone long, returning only a few minutes later with her glasses on.

Scanning their compartment again, Homura reaffirmed that they were indeed completely alone. She blushed but mustered the courage to sit directly next to Madoka, who glanced up and smiled at her before going back to coloring her drawing.

Cheeks still flushed by her small boldness, Homura abashedly turned to watch the scenery.

In the windows, the fields of green and yellow had given way to the outlying suburbs of Niigata—grey concrete buildings, the occasional painted house, trees swaying in the breeze. If she tilted her head a certain way, she could see her own reflection. But her reflection was not interesting, so she focused again on the outside world, realizing that they were close to arriving.

I could strike up a conversation with Madoka—but no, she is busy and probably wants to finish before we arrive at Niigata.

Her thoughts drifted.

Niigata. It’s not home, but obaasan lives there. The only family I have left.

Aside from distant relations, Homura had only one family member left—sickness of the heart ran in the Soma line while the Akemi family had a propensity for death, thus leaving only her maternal grandmother by the time Homura turned six.

She was perfectly fine while I was in the hospital the first time, but the moment I needed her she was suddenly on the brink of dying.

However, she knew she was not being fair. Despite the old woman’s resilience against her illness, it had struck with a vengeance just before Homura had been released from the hospital for the first time. Looking back, she knew that the loss of two more loved ones and the stress of having an orphaned granddaughter had likely triggered the heart attack that had hospitalized her grandmother.

Of course, Kaufmann Erika (born Soma, married to Kaufmann Axel), overly familiar with death, had had plans in place. She had reluctantly entrusted her little granddaughter to a reputable Catholic institution for the duration of her hospitalization, which had ended up spanning several years. The orphanage had dutifully taken Homura to visit Kaufmann weekly at the hospital, but the visits had tapered off when Homura’s own health began to decline once again.

When she could finally take care of me and herself I collapsed again and had to go back to the hospital. If only I had not been so negligent of my health…

She had not learned her lesson about taking care of herself, however. Two hospital internships had not made her realize how her own actions derailed her health; it had taken a third hospitalization and Kyubey, of all things, to open her eyes.

Homura glared at her reflection in the glass, one hand unconsciously curling as if to strangle an Incubator—or herself for being an idiot.

Guilt churned uncomfortably in her stomach, but visiting her grandmother every other Saturday for the past two years had actually worked as informal therapy. First to Tokyo, then to Kyoto, and finally to Niigata as of the last month (was she searching for something, just as Homura was?), Homura made sure to follow her grandmother’s progress and appreciate the only family she had left.

“Homura-chan?” The ex-time-traveler jolted out of her thoughts, though this time her knee-jerk reaction did not injure anyone.

Madoka had learned to pay attention to people’s expressions, a lesson from a wary mother to her optimistic daughter. Sometimes, she would let Homura return from whatever thoughts plagued her on her own, knowing that it was necessary, but she preferred to intervene when she could.

Homura silently waited for Madoka to continue, head tilted towards her. The pinkette simply leant against Homura, who started slightly but soon relaxed.

Perhaps, without knowing, Madoka was trying to make up for her role in Homura’s suffering—perhaps her subconscious collected lost memories of lost debts in lost timelines and reproached her. Something twinged in her, pulling at her heartstrings (not just around Homura, but also around her other mahou shoujo friends).

Guilt. An emotion all too familiar to her; it muddied everything else.

Do I love her? Yes, yes, of course she did (but what did a sixteen-year-old girl know of love, anyway?).

I’ll spend the rest of my life dedicated to making her happy because it’s not just guilt (because she was guilty of something, even if Homura refused to blame the cracks on her); it’s love and that has to count for something, right?

Right? True love and happily-ever-after like Sayaka-chan so fervently believed…?

Besides—if blame was to be laid, it would be on everyone and then they would never get anywhere (or was she simply worming out of it? Still, she’d make right by Homura somehow). She shook her head, because there was no point in beating a dead horse.

Humming slightly, Madoka drew away from Homura again, drawing her (meandering) attention. She smiled reassuringly. “So, I got another love letter in my locker yesterday,” she began, pulling out a slightly crumpled note from her pocket. Homura blinked and shifted slightly beside her, alert. “Hitomi-chan insists that it’s probably Nakazawa-kun… what do you think, Homura-chan?”

Homura mumbled, “W-why would she think of Nakazawa-san?” Her hands clutched each other tightly in her lap, her face twitching.

“Weeelll,” Madoka drew out the word, a different smile tugging at her lips as she solidified her resolution, “she says she saw him lingering around my locker the other day after school….”

Purple eyes suddenly peered at her, a familiar frown hiding whatever Homura truly felt. Madoka remained silent, looking expectantly at her.

Homura relented, “D-do you think…,” but her voice faded. Red stained her pale cheeks even though she tried to cover it with a scowl.

“Do I think what, Homura-chan?” Madoka waited expectantly, her expression lighting up eagerly like a child’s. Her friend, however, only turned her head away and scowled to herself.

Madoka pouted. Being subtle had never really been her forte and Homura-chan always hesitated, so Madoka gently cupped Homura’s jaw in her hand, turning Homura towards her.

“M-Madoka?”

Madoka smiled at her very best friend, tenderness practically radiating from her expressive face.

Homura, however, was very, very red as her eyes squeezed shut. Her heart sped up, beating wildly in her chest. Madoka murmured against her lips but she could not hear her over the roaring in her ears. She did not dare move.

Then—a tentative brush of lips. Madoka lent forward, one hand resting on Homura’s thigh and the other holding Homura’s chin in place.

“Homura-chan?” Madoka pulled away, letting the now wide-eyed Homura process the chaste kiss. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach and her face grew redder and redder the longer Homura stayed quiet, but Madoka refused to let her smile waver.

Actually, it looks like she’s going to faint on me—Madoka took Homura’s face in both her hands, hastily interjecting, “Breathe, Homura-chan!”

Red cheeks welcomed the slightly cooler hands, but embarrassment and heady thrill kept them burning and honestly she felt rather light-headed; she saw Madoka’s lips move but the words took a few seconds to process.

(I’m

            not

                        dreaming).

“M-Madoka,” Homura managed to stutter, but the giddy dizziness in her head had her reluctantly pressing two fingers to her temple instead of continuing her sentence. She wanted to grab Madoka’s face and kiss her senseless as her heart careened towards “happily ever after,” though she felt a warning twinge in her heart that reminded her of the need to remain calm.

She closed her eyes. Deliberate breaths filled the silence. When Homura’s eyes opened and the strain in her expression eased, Madoka likewise relaxed.

They stared at each other. Then, tentatively, Madoka lent forward again, but they both dissolved into helpless giggles when their noses bumped against each other, so they had to try again.

First, breathless anticipation had Homura closing her eyes again. Then, exhilaration shot through her, leading her to smile against Madoka’s lips. She laughed again, because this was Madoka she was kissing—Madoka, for whom she had sacrificed her very existence—Madoka, her own personal savior. Kami, it was such a dream come true—I am not dream—

Pain lanced through her chest, down her arms, up her jaw.

She broke away from the chaste kiss, gasping and instinctively clutching at her chest. Embarrassment surged from a small, irrational part of her mind, but she knew she had graver things to worry about. Namely, the precarious magic and medicine that kept her alive.

I have to…!

Homura turned forward, away from Madoka, shrugging off the concerned hand on her shoulder; she did not want to see Madoka’s expression when she used a grief seed.

Stupid, utterly stupid of me—skip one dose and the consequences!

The beginnings of desperation licked at her inner arms as one sweaty hand yanked off her ring to summon her soul gem. The next moment she was siphoning darkness away from her soul. Her eyes unconsciously closed in relief as her rigid shoulders sagged.

Madoka grimaced but cautiously placed her hand on Homura’s shoulder again when she de-transformed. Homura slumped against her without protest, letting Madoka wrap her arm around her to cradle her close.

Small shudders wracked Homura; Madoka discovered that her shoulder was growing damp.

“Oh, Homura-chan, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Madoka chanted against Homura’s head, her breath ruffling black hair. Homura shook her head but her balled fists clutched Madoka’s cardigan in a distressed manner.

Madoka shifted, wrapping her arms around Homura’s waist and pulling her onto her lap. Homura pulled away, reddened eyes wide. Her lips pressed into a thin line and she frowned, but Madoka tightened her embrace.

“It’s okay to cry, Homura-chan,” Madoka reiterated, rocking back and forth slightly.

Tears welled up in Homura’s eyes, as if Madoka’s words had opened the floodgate again, and the ex-time-traveler burrowed her face in the crook of Madoka’s shoulder. The pinkette nuzzled her head with her cheek and continued chanting softly, “You’ll be okay, Homura-chan. It’ll be okay.”

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

When their train pulled into Niigata Station, Homura disentangled herself from Madoka silently. Madoka hastily offered her tissues from her bag, to which Homura murmured a hoarse “thanks.”

“D-do you want to talk about it, Homura-chan?” Madoka’s eyes beseeched Homura, who hesitated but ultimately shook her head.

“Obaasan is waiting, Madoka,” she explained, “and we cannot have such a discussion out in the open, you know.”

Madoka nodded resignedly, hastily packing her sketchpad and colored pencils into her bag as Homura took the bento and her own bag.

Forehead crinkling, Madoka said, “Let me take the bento, Homura-chan.” Said magical girl frowned disapprovingly but conceded without fuss.

They exited the train silently.

A cab was waiting for them, sent by Homura’s grandmother, as usual; Homura simply nodded silently at the driver while Madoka cheerfully smiled and thanked him.

Madoka jerked slightly when she felt someone grab her hand, but Homura did not meet her gaze, preferring instead to stare out the window in an attempt to hide her embarrassment. The pinkette immediately perked up, holding Homura’s hand in both of her own and resisting the urge to squeal at Homura’s dorkiness. She did, however, indulge in a brighter-than-usual grin (their talk could wait now that she was sure that Homura was not drowning in despair).

We’re going to have to work on not collapsing whenever we kiss—because there will definitely be more kisses in the future~~

A while later, the taxi pulled up at Soma Erika’s current home. Homura absently paid him, knowing her grandmother would repay her in her allowance. Madoka followed, once again insisting on carrying the bento and claiming Homura’s hand as soon as she could.

Homura blushed, though it faded as she took several deep breaths to calm down while Madoka tugged her up the short walkway.

She let Madoka knock, since the bright white (heh—last time the door had been thin lines of brown with curls of greyed paint sticking out; she wondered when her grandmother had done it over) made her head ache.

They did not wait long.

The tea was bitter, but Homura did not reach for sugar like Madoka had. (Honey. She kept reminding herself to tell her grandmother to buy honey but there was never a good time to mention it.) She also ignored the biscuits and cookies arranged on a platter.

I can eat later. There is no urgency.

I really have to remember to ask obaasan to buy honey.

They drank their tea silently. Cups clinked every so often. Madoka alternated between staring into her drink and glancing to Homura beside her. The mahou shoujo drank her tea with her eyes half closed—she probably felt drained, Madoka mused, even if her magic levels and emotional barriers had been replenished. Should she intervene? Homura-chan had a bad habit of downplaying her own maladies.

She sighed fondly into her drink. Homura-chan and her grandmother glanced at her, but she shook her head; Homura-chan needed more reassurance in the form of a smile in order to be satisfied.

What am I going to do with you, Homura-chan? Warmth suffused her words, straight from where her very best friend resided in her heart. But just because you’re cute, she added, doesn’t mean you can land yourself in the hospital again. A frown tugged at her lips then. That had been painful.

“Homura.” Kaufmann Erika’s soft voice broke the silence suddenly. Both girls jerked towards her. Homura floundered briefly (her thoughts were stuck on honey) before replying, “Yes, obaasan?”

“Your teachers tell me you have done exceedingly well this past semester.” Homura nodded slowly, knowing without looking that Madoka was beaming proudly. Widow Kaufmann finished her tea and set the cup down with a final clink. Homura hurried to gulp down the rest of her bitter share and Madoka decided against eating another cookie, neither wanting to keep the elderly woman waiting.

As soon as the young girls were sitting with their hands clasped in their laps, Homura’s grandmother reached for her cane. Homura stood as well, hands hovering uncertainly—do I offer help? Should I wait for her to ask?

Madoka, meanwhile, took the cups and the tray back to the kitchen. They knew the routine, but Widow Kaufmann’s prolonged periods of silence often lulled them into a stillness from which the old woman’s abruptness startled them anew each time. Madoka personally thought Homura’s grandmother took secret pleasure in surprising them; Homura simply wished her grandmother (everyone, really) were easy to understand.

“I expect a package to come in the mail today,” Widow Kaufmann mentioned on her way to the door. Homura offered her arm to support her grandmother as she slipped her shoes on. Madoka reached for an overcoat, but she waved her away. “None of that. The two of you will be doing some weeding for me. Bring the bento, Homura.”

The brighter light outdoors had them all squinting slightly as Widow Kaufmann led them to a small side garden overrun with weeds.

“The space here does not allow for many plants to grow; there is no need to use up any more precious room on weeds that only suffocate and steal from the flowers. That is your task.” She gestured to a box with two pairs of gloves and shears, then settled herself into a patio chair with the bento.

Madoka, being used to helping in her father’s own garden, readily set to work on her knees. Homura, on the other hand, glanced skeptically at her thick pair of gloves and the weeds (the things I must do for obaasan -sigh-) before joining Madoka.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

“‘…someone to protect?’ his father asked. He did not understand, not then…”

Homura stared at the plant in her hands. Her grandmother kept talking, but her mind zeroed in on something in particular.

‘Do you have someone to protect?’

‘Protect the one thing you want to protect until the very end.’

‘I am not alone anymore!’

She tossed the weed aside with a small smile, for burgeoning bud of hope flourished just a little bit more at the unexpected reminder.

Widow Kaufmann stood then, shuffling closer to examine the girls’ progress.

Homura took that as a sign to stop and stretch her stiff legs. Madoka also stopped; she leant back, wiping sweat off her forehead with her sore hands but still smiling cheerfully. When she passed by Homura to return the gloves and shears, her hand brushed against Homura’s; their fingers tangled together all too fleetingly.

(Okay, maybe they were a little sappy.)

Upon finishing her inspection, Homura’s grandmother gestured them back into the little house.

“Ah, obaasan, may I go wash up?” Homura hesitantly asked, directing her question to a point next to her grandmother’s ear. The widow Kaufmann waved her off and did not stop Madoka when she followed Homura.

In the bathroom, Homura graciously let Madoka use the sink first, even though she itched to rid herself if the dirt.

Madoka finished quickly. Homura had her hands under the running water before Madoka had even reached for the towel. Neither spoke, some minutes passing away in comfortable silence as Homura washed up and Madoka wiped away sweat with a damp towel.

Refreshed, Madoka turned to her very best friend—“Homura-chan, stop!”

She grabbed Homura’s hands, pulling them apart. Homura stared at their entwined hands; her skin was red, bordering on raw at her fingers.

“O-oh.” When had she…?

Her fingers twitched. Madoka shut off the faucet, making the sudden silence ring in Homura’s ears. Arms enveloped her once again, pulling her into Madoka’s warm embrace. Her throat tightened, because even years later she still slipped and did stupid things. Just as she thought she was moving on she had to mess up something.

But Madoka certainly did not care: she rocked her gently back and forth, nuzzling her, reassuring her. She regulated her breathing, taking in Madoka’s familiar strawberry scent, before pulling away.

“I… will be fine, Madoka,” she murmured. Someday. Eventually. Time healed all wounds, yes? So what if she slipped up sometimes—Madoka was enough incentive to keep going, even if her own thoughts turned against her.

She had someone to protect; she was not alone.

“Do you need another grief seed?” Madoka remained apprehensive.

Homura shook her head. She summoned her soul gem, showing its barely diminished brightness to Madoka.

Madoka sighed in relief. “Let me dry my hands and we can go back, Madoka,” Homura murmured. She gave her a small but genuine smile, the frown on her face softening as she took the towel Madoka held out.

Slipping past her, Homura patted Madoka’s shoulder soothingly. Without turning, she knew Madoka was smiling again.

I may fall, but I will get up again.

They found Homura’s grandmother in front of the shrine with her head bowed. Just as Homura hesitantly opened her mouth to announce their presence, Kaufmann Erika straightened and turned towards them. She waved their unspoken concern away and gestured for them to sit. Homura sat beside Madoka.

“A present,” was all her grandmother said before settling back into her chair. She sipped at her tea, hiding her smile when Madoka chimed eagerly, “Open it, Homura-chan!”

Homura thanked her grandmother politely (she would hug her but contact with anyone other than Madoka still made her uncomfortable) and curiously examined the small, rectangular package in her hands.

Careful hands meticulously removed the brown paper around the object. Homura soon had a stack of photos messily held together by a couple of rubber bands in her lap. Their edges were worn, cracked by time. Her breath hitched. There, in full color, was her mother.

Kaufmann Soma Miyako, named for her dark hair.

Wide eyes remained fixated on her mother’s face. Her mother.

Madoka began to lean in for a closer look, but caught Widow Kaufmann’s intent gaze. When she had Madoka’s attention, she jerked her head slightly in the direction of the kitchen. The pinkette hesitated, but Homura’s grandmother stood fully and motioned for Madoka to follow. Reluctantly, Madoka followed her, glancing back.

Homura was hunched over, so she could not tell what was going on in Homura’s mind, but the brief glimpse of wonderment she had seen eased her.

Curiosity could wait.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

“How is my granddaughter doing, truly?” Kaufmann Erika paused, setting aside various sliced vegetables before continuing, “I read the report the doctors at Mitakihara Regional sent, but what about her magic?”

Madoka flinched, fingers rubbing at the wood of the table. “Well… she hasn’t improved, but she hasn’t worsened, either. Kyubey says that’s the best we can hope for at this point, since tampering with Homura-chan’s magic further could damage her soul or mind…

“Still, she’s gotten better about taking care of herself. Like, she’ll tell Mami-chan and Kyouko-chan when she’s tired instead of hiding it, and she eats more now, has more of an appetite.” Madoka brightened, looking at Widow Kaufmann. “That’s the best part of all, I think. Even though Homura-chan’s not as healthy, even though she has bad days, she hasn’t given up—her depression isn’t holding her back anymore!”

“My granddaughter,” Widow Kaufmann declared as she seared eggplant and pumpkin, “is resilient, even if she struggles to be flexible.” She briskly set up another pan, gesturing for Madoka to bring over the sliced garlic and beef.

Pink eyes attentively watched Homura’s grandmother expertly handle both pans at once as Madoka absorbed the old woman’s words.

‘Even if she struggles to be flexible.’

“She’s come a long way,” Madoka mused aloud, “in the two years I’ve known her. There’s a noticeable difference between Homura-chan in middle school and Homura-chan now.”

She gazed towards the door, behind which Homura was probably immersed in the photos of her dearly-missed parents.

Oh, Homura-chan.

“She used to be so… so bleak about everything. As if she was on the brink of giving up. I didn’t know. She looked so cool, so put-together and amazing and she wanted to be my friend. That’s all I thought about. Then, everything moved so quickly and Mami-chan almost died, Sayaka-chan, too—everything was so new and it was so easy to just, just get caught up in yourself and give up…”

Sizzling started up again when Mrs Kaufmann added carrots and potatoes to the beef. Madoka hastily handed her a casserole to transfer the seared eggplant and pumpkin.

“Kami, we were so lost,” she continued, “even though we fervently denied it. We’re still dealing with the aftermath. There’s a lot of… jumbled-up feelings that weren’t taken care of properly then, so they interfere in the now. But time heals all wounds, doesn’t it? We’re not stuck in an endless cycle anymore. Sure, it’s an uphill battle, but we’ve got each other.

“We have hope.”

The widow Kaufmann sat down across Madoka, setting a timer to twenty minutes.

Neither spoke, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. For a while, the only sound was the simmering of the beef and the barely-audible tick tock of the clock, which eventually drew Madoka’s attention.

Her contemplative gaze shifted to worry. Nearly half an hour had passed since she had left Homura alone; she could not help but fret.

I mean, she needs time to take it all in and I shouldn’t smother her, but still.

Vague trepidations lingered in her mind. She tracked the clock’s traitorously slow progression, willing the second hand to go faster.

Ding! went the timer, prompting Homura’s grandmother to add onions; she reset the dial after stirring the beef and vegetable mixture. She then rummaged around a cupboard for a pack of curry blocks, pushing aside the spicier ones in favor of a milder flavor. Wouldn’t want to give Homura heartburn, after all.

“Kaufmann-san,” Madoka spoke up suddenly, tearing her eyes away from the clock. Widow Kaufmann turned to face her.

The blush on the pinkette’s face intrigued her, so she waved her hand, silently prompting Madoka to continue.

Her fingers pressed tightly against her skirt but she resisted the urge to fidget. After all, she was Kaname Junko’s daughter in every way possible; she would live up to her mother’s example.

“I intend to pursue a long-term relationship with Homura-chan,” Madoka pronounced clearly, meeting the elder’s gaze despite the red staining her cheeks. “I’m not asking for her hand in m-marriage,” she clarified hastily.

Even though I’m already thinking about it, she wryly thought. But there will be plenty of time for that, no matter what obstacles stand in our way!

Kaufmann Erika considered Madoka.

She had soft pink hair that fell in loose waves to her shoulders, wide reddish-pink eyes that shone, and an earnest yet guarded round face. Dressed in a stylish white cardigan and dark blue plaid skirt, Madoka was the epitome of girlish beauty. Her personality was complex—airhead, timid, determined—but her hopeful heart remained constant.

Madoka was, in short, a good compliment for Homura’s moodier nature.

“You have my blessing,” Widow Kaufmann finally replied, “so long as you agree to accept responsibility for all the consequences of your actions.

Delight and relief instantly relaxed Madoka’s demeanor. She nodded vigorously, promising, “I will!”

“Good.” She turned back to the stove, anticipating the notice of the timer. Neat little cubes of sweet curry were mixed into the beef base. “Twenty minutes until the meal is ready.”

Startled, the pinkette looked at the clock. “Oh!”

Nearly an hour had passed, making it six o’ clock in the evening. The day felt as if it had flown by quickly. They would stay the night and eat an early breakfast here before returning to Mitakihara by noon. Homura-chan would stop at her apartment for another change of clothes and her uniform before joining Madoka at the Kaname home. Mama had the day off, so they’d probably go out to the park.

I still have to finish that essay, though. She pouted at the thought of the homework waiting for her at home. At least I have most of it done… blah.

While Homura’s grandmother kept an eye on the food, Madoka went to the adjoining room to set the table. The dining room was reduced but had enough room to fit a four-person square table. A large window showcased a view of the garden, though it was little more than sowed soil. Would obaasan make a flower garden, like the window boxes she had had in her previous home, or would she plant vegetables instead?

Entering the kitchen again, Madoka waited impatiently for the curry to be ready so that she could call Homura in. Her fingers drummed relentlessly against her leg; she resisted the urge to kick her legs like a petulant child.

The moment Widow Kaufmann turned off the stove, Madoka jumped up, saying, “I’ll get Homura-chan!”

She was out the door before the other could reply.

Shaking her head, she told the empty air, “Remember when we were young, Axel?”

Emotions were not her forte.

Dealing with emotions even less so.

Holed up in a hospital, on the brink of dying and pumped full of drugs, her lack of social interaction had not mattered. All she had had were books and awkward conversations with well-meaning but distant medical personnel.

No one could have taken the place of her mother and father. Not the sisters at the orphanage, not her ill grandmother, not the nurses who took care of her when all she wanted was to die.

But she had forgotten. She, a fundamentally passive person, had forgone the past and tried to fight destiny.

It sounded poetic.

The reality was grislier than she allowed herself to remember.

As in the saying, “out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Homura had gone from one turbulent existence to another just as harrowing.

The result was a girl lacking in emotional competency. She managed by transforming into the “cool,” aloof persona that everyone in this timeline was familiar with, but that façade had not held up well after defeating Walpurgisnacht.

Madoka had helped her—was still helping her—become a functioning person. It helped that strong vestiges of the original Homura remained; her desire to fit in and be accepted had survived just enough to be a healthy goal instead of the obsessive self-loathing that it had been when she was at the hospital the second time.

That did not guarantee that she would handle emotions well at any given time.

So she sat there, clutching photographs of her late parents and steadfastly glaring at some vague point to her left.

I was not dreaming when they told me you were gone*.

Salt touched her lips. Oh, she was crying. A perfectly reasonable response, not to mention healthy, but she did not want to damage the precious photos so she hastily wiped her face with a handkerchief (a present from Madoka).

Grimacing, Homura twisted the handkerchief between the fingers of her left hand.

It felt like an eternity ago. Her parents were practically strangers—they had little presence in her mind.

That hurt. Forgetting okasan and otousan had happened naturally, quietly, unconsciously, but consciously realizing that she had forgotten them felt like a betrayal. Her world had not always consisted of only Madoka.

Clutched in her hand were tangible reminders of what were only fuzzy memories in her head.

She sighed, her scowl taking on a resentful tinge. They would not have to be mere fuzzy memories if they had just stayed alive.

Was that a theme? Everyone she wanted alive inevitably ended up doing the exact opposite.

I needed you.

They had to be wrong—how could you leave me when you had said you would come back? All I had were broken promises and emptiness where you used to be.

She sighed, running her fingers over her ring. They had left a yawning void in her heart, true, but had been a ragged void in her heart had long since softened into a dull ache. At least, that’s how it had been, before her soul had been shoved into a new container and threw her equilibrium off balance.

A few breathing exercises would help, then. She counted down from a hundred, pairing each inhale and exhale with a number in a steady beat.

Bored at sixty, Homura deemed herself relaxed enough to continue—that is, to actually look at the photos in her hands instead of pouncing on every distraction that presented itself.

One deep breath later, she looked at the top picture. Her mother smiled back at her. A small, contented smile. She was young, judging by the fullness of her face and long hair, her face not worn shallow and hair not limp with exhaustion. Her jaw clenched. She wore glasses—a frame similar to her old one.

Tousan had once told her that her mother had stopped wearing glasses because baby Homura had liked to grab and play with them. They had the same eyes, he had said fondly. Everyone used to say that—now she had proof.

The next was also of her mother, though not a headshot. Kaufmann Miyako was hunched over some papers—work? University studies? Her hair reached her waist, much like Homura’s did, though without the part created by braids.

Kami, she missed her mother so much.

Subsequent photos included her grandfather, and later still her father came in. Akemi Kenshin—Homura remembered him better. She remembered waking up in his arms after operations. He was more affectionate than most men—being a policeman and having his wife die had likely heightened his awareness of life’s brevity.

Homesickness heavily lodged in her throat, Homura lovingly fixed the stack of photos and replaced the rubber band.

She let her hands shake. She cleared her throat and wiped her face with her handkerchief.

I am picking up the pieces of my life, okasan, otousan. I am learning, living. Even if fate tries to take my life away, I won’t give up.

One last dance.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

“Homura-chan!” Madoka threw herself at a startled Homura, making them both topple.

“Hng,” Homura grunted, completely winded but also keenly aware of how Madoka was practically lying on top of her. Drawing breath almost sent her into sensory overload. “M-Madoka… y-you’re squishing me….”

Face red, Madoka scrambled off Homura and apologetically helped her up. “Gomen, Homura-chan. It’s been an hour—guess I got carried away,” she giggled nervously as she straightened Homura’s clothes.

Eyebrows shot up in response. “Really,” she murmured, letting Madoka fuss over her.

“Mhm. Dinner’s ready!” Madoka said. She stepped back, realizing how hungry she was now that she was not worrying.

Homura had other ideas in mind. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she said softly, shoulders slumping as she peered guiltily at Madoka from beneath her bangs.

“E-eh?” The pinkette’s thoughts immediately jumped to their kiss on the train, but she waited for Homura to clarify. She did not want to pressure her into anything—Homura’s health came first (a gnawing worry of hers).

But instead of answering directly, the ex-time-traveler affectionately reached for her with lithe hands, drawing her close. Tenderly, their lips met briefly and separated.

Madoka looked like she had stars in her eyes. Smirking slightly at the pinkette’s boundless bubbliness, Homura let her go and continued making her way to the kitchen. Just before entering, she glanced back purposefully and haughtily flipped her hair, chuckling quietly.

Pouting, Madoka hastily followed her through the kitchen and into the dining room.

Widow Kaufmann was waiting patiently at the table, one eyebrow cocked questioningly. Two other bowls were set out on either side of her.

Madoka and Homura hastily bowed. Upon straightening, Homura said in her normal low voice, “Gomen nasai, obaasan.” When she offered no explanation, Madoka opened her mouth account for their tardiness, but the widow simply waved the apology away and gestured for them to sit.

The old woman waited until Homura was eating before replying. “Yes, ‘gomen, obaasan—I decided to eat my girlfriend instead of the dinner you so graciously prepared.’ Humph! Children these days, so disrespectful,” she grumbled, ignoring Homura’s choked sputtering. She studiously turned away, though she winked at an equally embarrassed Madoka.

Mortified, Homura reached for a glass of water. Madoka hid her own red face behind the steaming curry and rice.

Homura gulped down half the glass as she glared at her grandmother, who merely chuckled in response.

Peaceful silence reigned once more.

Relaxing, Homura glanced at Madoka across from her; she wrinkled her nose when she realized that the pinkette had added pepper flakes to her curry. She had a surprising taste for spicy food, whereas Homura refrained from anything above very mild piquancy. A second glass of water rested beside her plate for just that reason.

“Did you enjoy your present?” her grandmother spoke suddenly.

Madoka looked up, interest clearly written on her face.

Wiping her mouth carefully with a napkin, Homura nodded, not quite knowing what to say.

It made me very emotional, but I did enjoy seeing my parents again.

“…I had forgotten what okasan looked like,” she admitted. I have never looked at the pictures you have up.

Her grandmother tapped her chopsticks against her bowl. “Almost thirteen years,” she replied. Madoka shifted in her seat, a rare frown on her face, barely pacified by the reassuring smile Homura sent her way.

“Time softens the blow,” she said. Widow Kaufmann nodded in agreement; Madoka watched them silently. “Would you… would you like to see them, Madoka?” she tentatively asked.

Surprised, Madoka agreed, “If you want, Homura-chan.” Homura had never mentioned her parents other than curtly telling her once that they had died when she was little; Kaufmann Erika was the only family Madoka knew Homura had. She respected Homura’s boundaries, though.

“Fleeting,” Homura murmured, “ephemeral lives….”

Madoka hummed.

“There’s a lot of pain,” she continued, “but we make it count… we move forward and we make it count. At least to ourselves.”

Because they may not change world but they could change themselves.

And that would have to be enough.

/\

Chapter Text

Room for Happiness

“‘Happily ever after’ fairytales? Really?” Kyouko scoffed.

Frowning, Mami pressed a forefinger to her lips as she ushered the redhead out. She glanced back before turning off the lights, smiling at Nagisa already tangled up in the blankets. She left the bedroom door open just a tad.

When she turned to address Kyouko, however, the other had already left for the kitchen. Mami sighed. Tomorrow she would have to send Nagisa and Yuma for groceries again.

At least she had tonight free. Homura, Sayaka, and Yuma had the rotation for the next two days.

She joined Kyouko in the kitchen, but silently took stock of the cupboards instead of talking to the sullen redhead, who crunched moodily on a stick of celery.

Fish, some more dried seaweed, running a bit low on rice, too…. They still had some fresh and canned vegetables—those tended to run out more slowly than the pastries—but they definitely needed to replenish the herb supply. She jotted everything down.

“Don’t forget to put down paper towels,” Kyouko grumbled from across the table. Those crimson eyes had been watching her, she knew, but had turned away when Mami faced her.

She nodded anyway, adding the item to her list along with celery, for Kyouko had evidently finished the last of it.

What fruits should she buy this week? Nagisa would insist on strawberries to dunk liberally in cream cheese, but she needed more variety in her diet. Apples sounded good, though—she could make a nice apple pie, or try out that recipe Madoka had given her last week.

“Cut the crap, Mami. I know you’re still mad,” Kyouko broke the silence again.

The blonde tightened her grip on her notebook, but deigned to reply, “Then I am sure you know why I am still angry, Sakura-san.” She looked at her former kouhai, lips set in a thin line.

Kyouko glared at the wall, apparently still refusing to look at Mami, so she left the notebook on the counter and withdrew from the kitchen. She knew Kyouko would follow.

Once she reached her bedroom, a foot shot out, preventing her from shutting the door. Yellow glared at red, who grimaced but whispered hoarsely, “Please, Mami. Don’t be like this.”

Mami bit her lip, stepping back to let Kyouko enter. She closed the door softly behind the other girl (Nagisa would hopefully sleep peacefully until Yuma came back).

She faced Kyouko again. Will this be the last time?

She could feel her control slipping. What had taken so much work to build could be destroyed in but a single moment. One wrong move, one misplaced word, one argument too many… could bring it all down. They both knew it.

“Just… we know better, don’t we?” Kyouko resumed hesitantly, bouncing on the balls of her feet, reining in her impetuousness. Mami remained standing awkwardly by the door, eyes half-shut.

“This isn’t happily-ever-after, Mami,” she pressed, shoving her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “You can’t—you can’t expect us to always be happy an’ carefree like how you like to tell the runts.”

Mami looked at her fully, but with tears filling her eyes she could not see much beyond colorful impressions. “I would think”—her voice trembled and she hated it—“that you know well enough to come to me instead of—of running off!”

This time, Kyouko dropped her gaze, hunching her shoulders.

“Sa—Kyouko. This is not about my outlook on life, and you know that full well!” She placed her hands on her cheeks, closing her eyes and breathing deeply to keep the tears from falling.

I’m sorry. I’ve built a life around you, Kyouko—please, please don’t leave me again.

(In other timelines, she had gone insane. Here, she had a tenuous grip on stability. She was conscious of neither fact.)

“You’ve been hanging around Madoka too much,” the redhead muttered recalcitrantly, but she immediately backtracked. “You guys have the right idea, I know, I’m sorry,” she said, gnawing on the inside of her lower lip.

Hesitance did not suit Kyouko well.

She kicked at the floor now, bright red eyes troubled. “Just… it’s hard. I was upset ‘cause I’d almost gotten Nagisa killed, so I ran. I didn’t want to see you disappointed with me,” she confessed softly.

Mami lowered her hands. Kyouko had mellowed out since moving in with her, but she had simultaneously become a bundle of unease and pessimism. She feared she had put too much on Kyouko’s shoulders, who tried so hard.

Was living supposed to be this difficult?

“You don’t have to stay,” she murmured at last, wringing her hands, expression tight.

Frustration crossed her friend’s face as she began to pace. “No! That’s not what I meant—unless you want me to go…,” she trailed off, hurt deepening her frown.

When Mami did not reply, Kyouko insisted, desperation bleeding into her voice, “You don’t want me to go, right, Mami?” She abruptly stopped her pacing.

She met Kyouko’s gaze fleetingly. “I—I want you to stay, but not if it’s caging you,” she clarified, as terrified as Kyouko.

They stared at each other indefinitely.

“Fuck, Mami,” Kyouko said mournfully. “I’m only sixteen and you’re jus’ seventeen, but here we are, playin’ adults to two thirteen-year-olds. Pretendin’ like we know what we’re doin’ when we can jus’ barely keep ourselves t’gether.

“An’ I know I’ve said this before,”—she ran her hands through her hair—“that we’ve had this argument b’fore…. Why aren’t we satisfied?” she asked plaintively.

Mami sighed, shoulders finally drooping. “I don’t know, but every time we thought we wouldn’t make it—well, we’re here now, Kyouko. Let us… let us keep trying until it works, until we can live without constantly looking over our shoulders,” she begged her.

Kyouko scoffed, but she strode forward and picked up the shorter girl into an embrace. “You hang around Madoka too much,” she repeated fondly.

“It’s okay, you know,” Mami added suddenly. The desperation in her chest eased, letting her breathe more easily again. “Nagisa knows the risks, and she knows that her safety and life are in her own hands—we can’t always rely on someone else to save us.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” the veteran murmured against her once-kouhai’s shoulder.

Throat constricted, Kyouko nodded.

After all, blame already weighed heavily on each of them.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

Kyouko picked up the little notebook Mami had left behind.

Everything was neatly, meticulously written down. Mami had put tomorrow’s date at the top, followed by bullet points that would tell the runts what to buy and how much of it.

Flipping back, she found nearly all the pages filled with grocery and shopping lists, each one with a date in the header and careful specifications accompanying it. Mami would run out of pages soon.

She put the notebook down. God, the girl cared so much—too much.

Passing a hand over her tired face, she left a small envelope beneath the notebook before retiring to the living room. She knew she would not prefer Tomoe Mami—or their eclectic family—any other way.

Maybe one day I’ll have room for happiness, too.

“Stupid idiot,” she snarled, though not as loudly as she would have liked.

Glowering, she cracked her knuckles before jumping to her feet. The living room clock read just past one in the morning. Mami and the runts had gone to bed several hours earlier without a fuss.

Kyouko, on the other hand, remained wide awake despite feeling worn and torn. Well, the late hour was no bother, since, you know, she had no job to drag her out of bed anymore.

Not that she had told Mami yet; yesterday, she had pretended to go to work and had come home at the usual hour.

Couldn’t even keep a job for a year, could you?

Restless, she left her fold-out bed in favor of prowling around in the kitchen. She opened cupboards, took boxes out, put them back, and opened and closed the refrigerator, but she refrained from consuming anything.

Her hands rand through her hair, leaving some locks sticking out. Eventually, she gave in, gorging on the leftover cheesecake Nagisa had made.

Eh, kid eats too many sweets anyway.

She jerked and choked when the lights turned on.

“Kyouko-san!” She thumped at her chest, wheezing and not really paying attention to the fussing blonde, but gratefully took the proffered glass of water.

Clearing her throat one last time, Kyouko finally glared at Mami properly; her look softened to sheepishness upon realizing that she had been caught eating past regular hours. She added it to her list of that week’s transgressions.

“Erm… I couldn’t sleep ‘cause it kept calling to me, okay?” she instinctively spouted.

Mami smiled but shook her head as she took a seat across the redhead.

Kyouko sighed. Mami knew her ticks pretty well, so she would not be able to avoid a serious conversation now. Still, she toyed with the last forkful on her plate, reluctant to meet Mami’s eyes.

Unfortunately, the veteran excelled in patience (usually, anyway). They sat in silence—something they found themselves doing very often—until Kyouko gave in.

“I got fired two days ago.”

“Oh.” Mami blinked, genuinely startled, but she remained sympathetic. “Is that what has been bothering you?”

Kyouko shrugged. “I talked back to one of the supervisors, and the manager happened to overhear, so he fired me.” She shoveled the remainder of the cheesecake into her mouth. Her cheeks puffed out as she frowned at her empty plate.

Mami stood and flitted around the kitchen. The younger girl watched as the elder forewent the stove in favor of boiling water more quickly in the microwave. Heh, she had known it would come in handy.

A steaming cup of tea appeared in front of her. Yellow drills bobbed as Mami sat down again. “Just give a couple of stirs, and careful. It’s still hot,” she said.

Ignoring the advice, Kyouko gulped it down, shivering at the searing heat. Mami rolled her eyes, but she continued, “It’s not okay that you got fired, but… maybe it’s for the best.”

“Wait, what?” Kyouko stared in askance at her partner.

“Maybe it’s time for a break,” Mami suggested carefully, swirling her own tea around. “You’ve been stressed lately, what with Homura’s relapse and working extra hours. Take some time to… wind down.”

Bristling, her fellow magical girl demanded, “Are you suggestin’ that I can’t pull my own weight?”

Mami adamantly shook her head, a frown marring her face, golden eyes flashing. “If you would listen to me, Kyouko-san, you would know that I would not suggest such a thing! Your lack of employment—no, let us not beat around the bush. You’re afraid I’m going to find excuses to leave you, right?

“Well, I am not going to abandon you, and I would appreciate it if you would put a little more faith in me,” she retorted.

Body taut, instinctively on the verge of confrontation, Kyouko grit her teeth at her once-senpai’s words. Nonetheless, she stayed herself; she knew she should feel contrite.

She loved to goad Mami, didn’t she? The urge to destroy something beautiful…. Although it galled her, it lured her in, ensnared her in a web of vicious oblivion. That they knew each other well meant that they could wound each other viciously.

This could escalate. Or—

“That’s not what I meant,” Mami’s weary voice amended at last, though she remained stern.

Looking down at her tea, her own weary eyes looked back at Kyouko. She sighed. “Same,” she offered.

How immature—irrational—they sometimes were.

Mami shook her head, covering a yawn as she did so. Her shoulders slumped, the antagonism sapped out of her.

“Did I wake you up?” Kyouko asked loudly, banishing their conversation and tense silence as she finally noticed the bags under Mami’s eyes.

Mami blinked, hesitating briefly before replying, “I felt thirsty.” She glanced down at her untouched drink.

Eyes narrowing, Kyouko rapped her knuckles against the table. “Bullshit,” she declared. “Somethin’s botherin’ you, so spill.”

Her mouth twisted in a grimace, prompting Kyouko to get up and exit the kitchen. Disappointment flared in Mami’s heart, but she crushed it as she brought her tea to her lips. She could not quite hide her surprise and relief when Kyouko returned.

Smirking—but eyes knowingly apologetic—the younger girl shook the box in her hand. Pocky slipped out; Mami’s hand shot out to catch a couple falling sticks.

They smiled at each other briefly before Mami’s somber mood returned.

“There is—” she hesitated. Kyouko gestured towards the Pocky; Mami obligingly nibbled on one as she deliberated. “I think there’s something wrong with my soul gem,” she announced at last.

“You think so?” her fellow magical girl frowned, examining Mami once again.

Nothing out of the ordinary popped up, except for the blonde’s strange exhaustion. Mahou shoujo did not usually remain that tired, right?

Mami broke a Pocky stick into pieces compulsively, explaining, “Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me… there’s something, but I cannot pin what exactly.”

Dubious, Kyouko shook her head. “Just ‘something’?” Her usual skepticism tainted her voice.

“I don’t know, okay!” Mami shouted, hands slamming down on the table, making Kyouko jerk back. “It’s—it’s just—just something!”

“Hey, hey, keep it down,” Kyouko reprimanded her, but her own expression reflected something from Mami’s. Hints of panic lurked in that usually-serene face—they inexplicably made Kyouko recoil and cover her soul’s ring with her other hand.

(They both must really be stressed if they were reacting like this.)

Mami leant forward, oblivious, “Here, I will show you.” A trembling hand summoned her soul gem. Kyouko closed her eyes before forcing herself to shift closer.

Yellow light glowed warmly, but just a smudge of roiling darkness pooled at the bottom like oil.

“No matter how many grief seeds I use, it will not go away.”

They stared at her soul gem.

Uneasiness renewed, Kyouko fumbled for a grief seed in her jacket, hastily pressing it to Mami’s soul.

Not a bit of darkness floated into the grief seed. She summoned her own soul gem and did the same; the little swirls stuck a little but soon disappeared. Mami looked sickened.

“We’ll—” Kyouko licked her lips—“we’ll figure something out. Okay? Don’t freak out.” (Something told her to fear for her life.)

Mami pressed a hand to her temple, against the headache that bloomed there.

Did I wish to live only to die at the very hands of my wish? We should—

Something lurched in her chest.

No, no, no—one hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety-seven, ninety-six—

She took deep breaths. Homura-san would help her, or Madoka. She could not let herself be fooled by the encroaching emptiness.

Kyouko fiddled with the mug in her hands, saying, trying to reassure them both, “Next time we meet, we’re gonna have to bring it up… but for now there’s no use in worryin’.”

“Indeed,” Mami murmured. She collected Kyouko’s cup and dropped it off at the sink.

The redhead also stood, noting, “Guess it’s time I let ya sleep, eh?” She rolled her shoulders. “Gah—stupid couch mattress has no back support,” she joked, though her eyes watched Mami warily.

After flicking off the kitchen lights, Mami followed Kyouko to the living room. She motioned for her to wait. Puzzled, Kyouko watched the blonde take up one of her pillows (slowly, the fearful anxiousness that had gripped her began to ease).

“You know, Nagisa and Yuma already spend most of their time in Nagisa’s bedroom—why not take the other?” Mami asked as she fluffed up the pillows. She could do this. She had room for happiness; she felt lighter already.

Shuffling awkwardly, the redhead shook her head. “What if they get into a fight an’ Yuma wants to use her room, or something? Nah, they need their privacy; I’m good here. I don’t need more than a bed an’ free use of the kitchen, whereas they’re growin’ teens.”

“If you say so, Kyouko-nee-chan,” the blonde teased.

Beet-red, Kyouko scowled, grumbling, “Shut up.”

Mami stepped back, letting the other clamber onto the fold-out bed. She brushed her fingers against her soul’s ring. It had lingered in her mind lately, making her feel empty… leeching away at her composure.

Just as she made to leave, Kyouko spoke up. “Don’t forget, the runts are countin’ on ya… and me, too,” she appended begrudgingly. Might as well be truthful, eh?

Heart swelling, Mami smiled at the mop of unruly red hair peeking from under the blanket.

“Good night, Kyouko.”

“Yeah, yeah, g’night. Wait!” she sat up hastily.

Mami turned back, again, exasperated fondness in her expression. She cocked an eyebrow at the redhead’s serious demeanor.

“We’ve reached the mushiness quota for this month, okay? No more feelings an’ stuff until May—got it?” Kyouko demanded.

A laugh escaped Mami, her smile radiant.

“Okay, Kyouko-san, okay.”

/\

Chapter Text

White Robe

Mami sighed.

She did that a lot lately. Such a versatile expression.

Usually in fond exasperation, sometimes in relief, occasionally in helplessness—her sighs conveyed a wide range of emotions. Though, she didn't think she had ever sighed in anger.

Had she ever felt anger? Could she even feel it? Everything else, yes, such as those frightening fits of madness that left her shaken for days afterwards. But fury, wrath, rage… those remained foreign to her. The closest she had come was that brief hatred for Kyubey, but that had given way quickly.

Then again, that complex emotion that seized her in quiet lulls resembled anger—one directed solely at herself, but anger nonetheless.

To others, however, she bore no rage of any kind. Essentially, she had no right to anger, just as she had no right to complain. Now, she could only make the best of it in whatever way she could.

She picked up her neglected book, flipping back to the correct page and willing the words to register. She read the same sentence twice. Then, she focused properly; she reached the end of the stanza but drifted back to her thoughts in the white space between that last line and the first of the next character.

Really, she was too young to have to think about the long-term future, to have to shoulder the wellbeing of others. Things not even guaranteed to her, nor to those under her so-called protection—

Why bother with "playing house," with going to school, with other people? Perhaps Kyouko had had the right idea when she had left four—was it already four?—years ago.

That was the question.

Not the "to be or not to be" of this selfish Prince Hamlet, but instead, "Why?"

Why live? For duty to the greater good, for a noble-naïve sense of justice, for selfish fear of the unknown? Who—who in their right mind would wish for eternity when a moment contained too much to bear?What reasons did they have that enabled them to move forward without something to weigh them down?

Mami did not want to die. In that split second she had wished for life, and she would do so again if she could. But did she want to live or to live?

Her life, so full of color—literally—yet lacking so painfully in something nameless. She did not want to die, not yet, not ever so long as she still lacked reason to live. That in and of itself was a reason, but not reason enough.

Time moved inexorably forward, a theme reflected in so many despairing works and a lesson repeated every moment of one's life, sometimes adamantly present at the forefront, sometimes shoved behind plans upon plans.

She knew her time ran low; it made her cling desperately to what she had, to rail and revolt and search for that elusive answer anywhere, everywhere she could reach.

In the end… if not for herself, then for them. As good a reason as any.

And so she lived to see another day.

/\

Chapter Text

Von

Falling sakura petals marked spring.

In the morning, tired yellow eyes belied the radiant smile on her face and the perfect, meticulous coils of hair the color of life. Red, with her perpetual smirk, kept her gaze away from yellow. Lines etched into a soft face; the other, all sharp angles but with rounded cheeks stuffed with breakfast.

Darkened purple, almost black under their eyes.

Green bounded in, a broad smile resting easily on her lips. Her voice filled in the thick gaps as she spoke—sometimes a high-pitched blur of sound, and sometimes deliberate, slow syllables when she wanted to focus or emphasize. The words that enlivened forest green eyes baffled her.

She idly wished she could see the color of their voices (green would probably remember the right term), but she felt it keenly enough already.

All that had been and was and would be—it refused to sleep; it kept eating, kept eating—

But maybe if she ate enough she would no longer think of bodies-without-color crunching under teeth that were not hers.

Life kept moving forwards. They finished breakfast and left.

Four walked together. Then, the brook replaced green, and though its voice felt monotonous it complemented the spring green of leaves and innocent blue skies above it. Soon enough summer would come and both greens would match. Until then, she peeked often at the verdant color that calmly followed her own energetic skip.

Sometimes a bland grey passed by, ducking around a crimson glare. Otherwise, he remained a passing dull blur. A few other colors came and went. None had the vibrant hue she sought. None left sufficient impressions.

Parting ways rarely bothered her, but on spring days the coil of fear woke and wormed its way back into the forefront of her thoughts and she clung to yellow’s hand because no one else could possibly stand in for her. But instead of finding her fear mirrored, golden eyes shone with determination.

Red-like-vitality clapped her shoulder, jostling her out of the breathless constriction in her throat. The white fang that unconsciously poked out gave her a different reassurance. It let her wrap her arms around butter-soft yellow.

“Have fun in school!”

If only it would leave her alone.

Class bored nearly everyone, but she tried to pay attention because a sad voice and purple eyes had once told her that sometimes a distraction was the only way to drown out the voices that insistently came back.

So she wrote down algebraic premises, studied German grammar, and absorbed history as best she could.

Wo ist die käse?

German was her least favorite subject these days. Perhaps she should take Italian next year, instead of German—if she still lived a year from now.

At lunch, she met up with green-like-summer-joy and persuaded her to abandon their meals in favor of spinning until they could not see or think straight, their taut arms the only thing holding them up. Only after she felt light-headed with laughter and dizziness did she allow them to scarf down their lunch in the few minutes left.

Eventually the final bell rang. By the time it did, the realization that purple had been right had her laughing again. They reunited with yellow and red at their school. This time, she skipped merrily and kept her spinning to calmer levels. Nothing could compare to the bubble in her chest that effortlessly carried her away.

In the afternoon, blue, pink-like-burgeoning-hope, and tense purple joined them.

Crowded about the round glass table, many voices overlapped, and the great worm settled even more under their warm reassurance.

Homework, with a stern voice and dark-purple eyes lecturing her about conjugations and pronouns while light blue-not-quite-like-the-sky observed over her shoulder.

German. Wo ist die käse?

Where is the cheese?

Of course its shallow slumber ended all too soon. When hope sparked, it came forward, into the light it did not deserve.

Desserts lined up along the table, they taunted her—none of them were what she sought—scenes out of those bizarre nightmares that made her feel as if she did not fit into her own body. As if she could pass her hand over face and become someone else.

Wo ist die käse?

What she saw agitated her, stirred a relentless hunger in her, enraged her—‘Charlotte… mogu mogu,’ it whispered sinisterly. Her sanity besieged.

Wo ist die käse?

‘Pyotr! Wo ist die käse!’

The air outside retained a note of winter’s icy touch. Ominous purple clouds lit up in panicked pink, sickly yellow-orange, twisted blue—her final nightmare.

Before the sun set, the clouds had been a blanket drawn in crayon. Grey, darker below and hints of white above: all soothing tones despite the lack of other colors. If she could just reach, she imagined the clouds would tickle her fingers like the wool felt that yellow and pink used in their crafts.

Yellow… yellow like cheese.

Wo ist die käse?

In the late evening, she slipped back into the living room. Arms wrapped around her almost immediately; the urge to bite down on soft flesh, to hear the crunching of bones—it frightened her, but she clung to the fabric of yellow’s uniform nonetheless.

Charlotte… die käse… gelb—die gelben käse?

Gelb. Yellow.

“Nagisa,” she murmured.

“Say my name again.” Not Charlotte. Nagisa, I’m Momoe Nagisa, and you’re Tomoe Mami. We’re not—not predator and prey—

“Nagisa. Momoe Nagisa-chan. Nagisa. Nagisa-chan,” she chanted in the middle of the empty room. They swayed left and right; she burrowed into the warmth.

“I’ll be waiting when you come home,” yellow-not-like-cheese promised. “Don’t be ashamed to ask for help.”

For she could still reach out and seek help. Time had not run out—yet.

Today, as yesterday, the patrol fell to her, purple, and blue. Their colors would shimmer with magic, and she would note how much darkness the others harbored. If she harbored it, then surely they would, too.

Carefully, as if she held a china doll, she let go of yellow. Really, that shade of color—even the yellowest cheeses failed to compare to the hue in front of her. She clung to the thought.

A chorus of farewells from the kitchen and then she was outside.

Blue’s smile often had a peculiar strain to it; tonight, she did not smile, yet somehow it looked more genuine than anything else as her gaze swept restlessly up and down darkened streets. Purple remained fixed on the waning moon that shone behind clouds.

Under its light, everything seemed so still. The world felt so frail—a moment and the cold horizon would shatter. If she blinked, she would disappear forever.

Duty called nonetheless.

Violet-red clashed with cerulean. They bickered while they hunted.

Eventually they themselves would become witches. She felt she was already halfway there.

‘The hunters and the hunted—bah, we’re all the same. Monsters!’ crimson had snarled when she had thought herself alone one equally still night. She had deemed it in—in-con-se-quen-tial in the face of so much optimism from pink and yellow and even purple, but then….

Die käse… die käse, wo ist die käse, käse, an endless mantra that accompanied death’s march. It felt like… what had green said? A mask of cortege deftly crafted to hide the ugliness.

“Up ahead,” blue whispered needlessly. They gravitated to the darkness as living beings gravitated to light. She felt the hunger yearn for release, felt it split her chest wide open, and her hands itched.

Darkened alleys seemed to house most of the witches; other times, they had followed trails to the park, to abandoned buildings, and once even to a library. Each a story lost.

Tonight, hints of a trail turned out to be a tiny witch, easily dispatched by one alone. Blue offered it to purple, who asked to see her soul gem. They asked her to arbitrate. Each gem harbored little swirls, but she recalled gentle words, so she pulled out her own.

Just the mere sight of it reminded her of bones crun—purple pressed metallic grey to dirtied white. Her lips pressed tightly together when blue asked, “Nagisa?”

“Yes. Momoe Nagisa,” an empathetic voice reaffirmed. She stared back into deep violet eyes, melancholic blue having replaced the earlier tinge of malevolent red.

Oftentimes she wondered if she should demand answers.

Regrets, however, did not fix anything.

Blue summoned a pulse of magic, flicking her fingers to create a little shower of sparks that tickled her face. After a beat, purple joined, too. Together, sky blue and mauve danced like miniature beacons of hope. They converged; it brought a smile to her face.

From then on, the silence felt just a bit a-me-li-o-ra-ted (she had to remember to ask green to double check her pronunciation with these words and to ask for their kanji). They continued, gems alert for any sign.

Hours passed.

Some familiars and only the one witch made up their tally by the time they returned to the apartment at the designated time.

Color hid behind night’s cloak, but at least the world had not broken. Hm—green would like that.

In the night, pink-like-sakura-petals waited anxiously outside the door. She greeted them happily, hugging each one of them, though her wine-red gaze flickered between blue and purple worriedly.

The three made to leave, having dropped off Nagisa, but she tugged at pink’s sleeve.

“Blue and purple fit them a lot better than cerulean and violet-red,” she whispered before she slipped into her home. Maybe they would understand, maybe they would not.

Sunshine yellow greeted her warmly, and red lazily lifted a hand in greeting from her sprawled position on the couch. Green, she knew, had already gone to bed; she herself felt sleepiness begin to overtake her despite it barely being midnight.

They spoke briefly, she recorded the hunt on their map, then a hug, a good night, and she went to her shared bedroom.

Green slept lightly, so she had to tread lightly. Already half-asleep, she stumbled into her nightclothes without turning on the light and then into bed as quietly as she could.

She would have to… remember to ask… ask…

And to tell her….

Her eyes drifted shut. She slept.

Sakura petals came in different colors.

In the morning, the alarm blaring jolted her into wakefulness. Her eyes stared up at the familiar cream-colored ceiling of their bedroom as they begged insidiously. Her hands clenched grey blankets in sweaty fists; her heart careened wildly to nowhere. Suddenly, she was staring into expressive, bright eyes instead.

They stayed thus for a few moments, and then Nagisa bounded away again.

“Yuma-chan! Time to get up, before Kyouko-chan eats all the pancakes!” she urged from across the room. Yuma blinked as she slowly sat up, still disoriented. Her jaw loosened just a bit.

Oblivious, Nagisa held up two shirts, silently asking for an opinion.

“Um,” Yuma cleared her throat, “the fuchsia one…?” Her heart slowed.

“Fuchsia… it is a fuchsia-like morning, I guess,” her roommate/friend/sister mused (two years and several thesauruses, yet she still did not have the right term for Nagisa). The white-haired girl stared at the shirt for another moment; it must have passed some test, for she nodded decisively.

Yuma swung her legs out of bed, bare feet burrowing slightly into the carpet, and absently watched Nagisa meticulously brush her long hair.

Despite her seated position, she began to doze after a few minutes.

Luckily, the alarm rang again, since Nagisa had pressed snooze instead of shutting it off. Had ten minutes passed already? Astounding, though Nagisa still wore her light yellow nightgown, not having yet changed into the—

“Wait, nee-chan, aren’t you going to wear your uniform?” Good, she had not forgotten all her words.

A moment’s silence, her yellow and orange eyes wide in surprise, before she pouted. “I keep forgetting that we have to wear that. It’s so plain.” She turned back to her wardrobe, dejectedly swapping her shirt for the cream-colored uniform and its black plaid skirt.

Judging that she had lazed around long enough, Yuma left the warmth of her bed and rummaged around for her own uniform, refraining from pointing out that they had been going to middle school for half a year now.

She had to agree though, their uniform felt so plain compared those of other schools. It could do with some more frills.

Her limbs jerked mutinously, but she managed to put on her leggings without accidentally tearing them.

Nagisa left for the restroom, but returned briefly to ask, “Want me to save you some pancakes?” The other girl nodded. “Okay!” She left again, haphazardly slamming the door behind her.

Later, when Yuma ambled into the kitchen, she felt the last vestiges of her terror slip away.

In its place, everything else returned.

Mami and Nagisa sat at the table as Kyouko simultaneously made pancakes and ate ones she had already prepared. No one spoke, so she piped up between bites, “I found this word yesterday—meliorism, which is the belief that human effort can make the world better.”

A pause, then Nagisa’s rapt expression became serious, prompting Yuma to shrug and say, “It… caught my eye when I was looking for something else….” She felt her cheeks redden under the weight of the curious, strained gazes of Mami and Kyouko, but she looked only at Nagisa’s dichromatic eyes.

Don’t say anything more, they admonished her. You have terrible timing.

Kyouko, who rarely commented, ruffled her hair and joked, “You’ve become a nerd, runt.”

Yuma glanced at her then, struck by the undercurrent of tenderness in the perpetually-gruff voice. Kyouko, however, had already turned away. Mami watched them with a small smile playing on her lips, murmuring, “Breakfast is getting cold.”

Green pig-tails bobbed in assent as Yuma shoved a mouthful of pancakes into her mouth. Chewing and swallowing quickly, she continued talking as soon as she could. The routine accompaniment to breakfast came as second nature.

Afterwards, they walked to school together.

When they neared the brook, her chatter petered out. The soothing rushing of water over smooth pebbles was enough to fill in the silence, and besides, she had to conserve her breath in order to keep up with Nagisa’s energetic skip.

Perhaps later she would recreate the scene and make it right.

They did not immediately separate once they reached Mitakihara High School, for Nagisa clung to Mami’s hand, a startlingly pained expression on her face.

She turned away, letting them have their moment, just as she had done since spring semester began. With each day that passed it seemed to be harder to reassure Nagisa.

“Have a good day at school!” Mami eventually said, prompting Yuma to face them again.

Nagisa had stepped away from Mami and Kyouko, a smile replacing her earlier expression of abject terror. They waved to each other one last time before departing. Yuma watched the older two walk away, then hurriedly followed Nagisa.

“I wonder when we’ll get our report cards… definitely during home period, but in the morning or the afternoon?” she wondered aloud once she caught up with the white-haired girl.

“…Report cards?” Nagisa froze mid-skip, making her stumble clumsily.

Yuma glanced at her, noting the worried note in her voice. “I’m sure you did okay in German, nee-chan. You studied a lot with Homura-san,” she reassured her.

Nagisa shrugged. “I guess…. Anyway, I’ll see you at lunch!” she said cheerfully, stopping at her classroom door just as the second bell rang.

She spared a moment to reply, “Our usual spot!” before hurrying down another corridor and to the left to her own homeroom. She slid into her seat with just enough time to catch her breath and take out her materials.

Classes progressed as usual. By the time math rolled around, her focus had begun to wane.

She gazed down at her paper, not seeing equations and hastily-jotted down solutions, but instead remembering that she had woken up in cold sweat that morning.

Nightmares rarely plagued her; when they did, they usually only consisted of relatively banal things like spiders.

Vague memories, however, had compromised last night’s terror. The first time she had seen a witch, the last time she had seen her parents—three years ago, around the beginning of spring, in a month that had passed in a hectic, frantic blur.

So much has changed, Yuma mused as the bell rang for lunch.

“Do you ever think of the future, nee-chan?”

Confused yellow-orange eyes prompted her to elaborate, “We all think about the past—more than we should, really—but how about the time ahead of us? The farthest we ever talk about is next week’s patrol schedule and menu.”

“Um… well,” Nagisa fumbled for an answer, shrugging helplessly. “I dunno—I mean, there’s kinda no… point in it, since we’re supposed to die, you know.”

Unsatisfied, Yuma pressed, “That doesn’t stop us from living life to its fullest. Come on, don’t you dream of what you want to be when you grow up? Like Madoka-san: she wants to be a doctor, or a lawyer. I want to be a writer.” She looked expectantly at her white-haired companion.

A querulous look crossed Nagisa’s face, but she stuffed her cheeks with rice, so Yuma let the conversation end, for now.

I just don’t see why you refuse to look forward instead of back.

In the afternoon, she trudged back to class no more enlightened than when she had left.

Physical education lent itself to working out her frustrations in a reasonably healthy manner, and it didn’t even take time away from her schedule since it was a class. So while everyone else went through the exercise routine robotically, she put intense effort and focus into her every movement.

Just, the sheer wonder of having a body, a vessel that was more than a vessel; this wonderful creation that took millions of processes and billions of cells to maintain, and to let it go to waste? To resign oneself to imminent death—

She stopped to catch her breath, then continued with the next lap.

However… maybe their current domesticity had lulled her into false security, or maybe it kept them sane….

Eventually the school day came to an end. She met up with Nagisa at the gates, and together they walked to Mitakihara High School. The other girl’s fear was almost palpable, bleeding from the little twitches of her fingers and the slightly-faster-than-normal pace.

If she had the words, she would have articulated her thoughts long ago. If she could only make up her mind.

Or perhaps not; while she could only offer half-formed, indistinct impressions of the bigger picture, she knew that magical girls had no right to think of the future, not when the present was so tenuous. Yet, magical girls were not the only ones who fought against time, and—

“Why the long face, Yuma-chan?” Mami asked her once Nagisa had had her fill of reassurance and they set off towards home.

Yuma bit her lip.

She flinched at the obvious concern in Mami’s tired face—had it only been that morning that a smile, so easy, and insouciant laughter, and a soft breeze and sunlight and sakura petals and—had that moment truly existed?

She replied as casually as she could, “It’s just been a long day.” My head is too cluttered, muddled.

Mami brushed the younger girl’s shoulder with tentative fingertips; Yuma closed her eyes briefly. Sometimes she forgot her own resolutions.

You think too much. Before, she had spared little thought to anything, yet now she teetered on the other extreme.

“Nee-chan’s just grumpy ‘cause she got a B in her algebra class,” Nagisa cut in from Mami’s other side. She paused to stick her tongue out at Yuma’s instinctive pout, and then continued, “but she totally aced English!”

“What about your grades, Nagisa-chan?” Mami asked, but Nagisa blithely skipped ahead with a happy shout, hands outstretched for nothing in particular. Her skirt billowed out as she twirled.

Huffing indulgently, Mami turned to Yuma again, but she had quickened her pace, exclaiming, “Nagisa-nee-chan! You’re going to fall into the brook if you keep doing that!”

“I’m not dizzy!” the white-haired girl shouted back despite her slight stumbling. She paused, just long enough for Yuma to get near, and then she bolted again, expertly maneuvering around the other girl’s attempts to catch her.

Her arms snapped out to launch herself from a tree trunk, vivacious grin firmly in place and Mami’s own laughter reaching them from where she watched some distance away.

Exasperated hands, however, held her back as Yuma finally managed to hold onto the wily Nagisa.

“Aww, c’mon,” Nagisa insisted, pressing her forehead against Yuma’s. “This is a distraction, dummy,” she admonished in a low tone when Mami retreated to take a call.

Yuma frowned, retorting, “I don’t—wah!” They fell onto the grass courtesy of Nagisa, who snickered at Yuma’s plight.

She lay prone for a moment, wheezing for breath. When she could finally breathe properly, she conceded, “Okay, maybe now’s not quite the right time… but we can’t avoid the elephant in the room forever.”

Nagisa did not respond, her attention caught by Mami’s approach.

“Kyouko-san says that if we don’t come home soon she’s going to eat the dinner she made,” she informed them with a smile as she simultaneously took a picture of the two, which would no doubt join the others in the latest photo album.

“Then what are we waiting for!” Nagisa exclaimed, scrambling up and tugging Yuma along with her.

She gave in, for even in her bleaker moods she could not resist childish, carefree fun.

Feeling the cool wind ruffling her hair and against her cheeks, the green-haired girl had to laugh at the absolute impossibility of her life. Nagisa laughed as well, but probably for different reasons.

Zealously, we defend our sanity in whatever way we can.

Breathless, they supported each other when they stumbled to a halt in front of their apartment, giggling when they regained control.

I can’t help but think that we’re living lies.

The rest of the day passed both slowly and quickly, in the strained manner that had characterized the last month. How she hated it, and yet….

Oftentimes she found herself enraptured with some facet of life or another, and other times she felt that the world was utterly, horribly wrong. She could never make up her mind, not for herself and much less for others.

Perhaps she rationalized everything too much.

Dinner consisted of some sweetened pork, noodles, and even more rice in a subdued affair, since the other magical girls had not come over. Madoka and Sayaka, after all, had proper families to go home to, and Homura preferred the pinkette’s company over anyone else’s.

“Some days,” she confided, “are harder than others. That’s not what bothers me, though. It’s when one has a series of bad days that one begins to wear down. It whittles away at our composure, eroding hope like acid on metal, and we wonder if we will make it out alive.”

Knives and forks clinked against plates, but she knew they listened. Moreover, they understood.

Even if they did not want to acknowledge it.

“Quotidian routines—going to school, working, buying groceries and having ‘family’ meals every day—I can’t decide if this is good or if this is a pathetic farce.”

I’m twelve and this is all I can think about.

Questions, questions, so many questions but no answers and I can’t ever make up my mind.

“What would you have us do?” Mami asked at last. Nagisa reached for a third helping, while Kyouko toyed with her own second helping.

“I think we’re very bad at living,” was all Yuma could say.

In the evening, she pulled out her homework and let words flow from her favorite pen.

Afterwards, she mulled over a bit of poetry, just because it made more sense than her own thoughts. Her book of haikus had some annotations in the margins, though the summation of thought in each piece needed little clarification.

Peeking at Nagisa’s own homework, she marveled at the careful strokes that somehow conveyed complex thoughts in a way she herself could not.

Two hours before bedtime, she took a quick shower.

When her eyelids grew heavy, she already had her books packed away, along with Nagisa’s. She brushed her teeth while Mami told Nagisa a story, contemplating the sticky note her sister had hidden beneath the toothpaste.

“Mami-nee-san’s soul gem hasn’t been cleaning well lately,” careful strokes told her.

Their whispers in the dark, however, only revolved around words—they held Nagisa as enthralled as they did Yuma. Or maybe Nagisa just liked the vivacity that suffused Yuma’s voice.

Either way, she slept easily.

 The sakura trees bloomed for only a week.

She stared at the newest entries in the album, humming to herself; outside, the sky wept.

Her hair and Nagisa’s tangled together as they lay on the grass. That had been only a few days ago, yet Mami had already printed out the photo from that stilted afternoon.

“To better remember the happy moments—sometimes it’s hard to believe it really happened, isn’t it?”

What had begun as a way to fill up the album Madoka had given to Kyouko as a present on her birthday the year previous had subsequently become a tradition in their eclectic family.

Although they were very much alike in their childish antics and demeanor, and though they were often paired together because of the closeness of age, she knew that ultimately she and Nagisa viewed the world in ways as similar and dissimilar as summer and winter.

“Your hair is so pretty, Yuma-nee-chan,” Nagisa mumbled from her sprawled position on the floor. Nagisa liked to comment on the shade of her eyes and hair. Who needed synesthesia when one’s entire world already revolved around blurs of color?

“Funny,” she replied. “I was just thinking about that.”

In another photo, paint smeared her face, her hair, her clothes, and Kyouko’s appearance fared no better.

Yuma sighed, shelving the album. “What d’you think, Nagisa?”

“I think you think too much. It’s not like we’re gonna solve the age-old magical girl slash witch problem just like that. Look, we’re doing… maybe not our best, but we’re trying,” she replied matter-of-factly.

Green pigtails swished as Yuma shook her head.

“…I think I like you better when you’re a nice forest green, not green-like-broken-emeralds.”

Yuma scrunched up her face. “How do you even know what broken emeralds look like?” Never mind the oddness of the comparison, and if she felt offended, well, it did not matter.

Her companion threw her hands up, looking rather comical since she still lay flat on her back on the floor.

“Can’t you just stop trying to make us perfect? We’re magical girls trying to be human for a little longer before we… disappear. Of course we make mistakes, of course we do things all the wrong way sometimes,” Nagisa reiterated, her dichromatic gaze focused on some vague point on the ceiling.

“I just—I want everything to be nice and clear cut and normal and genuine!” Yuma stomped her foot, frustration leaking out. “It feels like all we do is pretend,” she grumbled.

At that, Nagisa glowered and sat up. “Are you calling us liars?” she demanded, resisting the urge to puff up her cheeks. She did not, after all, have her trumpet out to blast some sense into green-like-silliness. Even if she did, it probably would not be a good idea to do so.

“No!” Yuma snapped back. “That’s not what I meant. Why can’t everything just be straightforward?” she asked futilely, voice dwindling. She sunk down beside the white-haired girl, maneuvering around until she lay parallel to Nagisa.

“You wouldn’t like what goes on in our heads,” came the belated but disturbingly bitter reply. “You’re like Madoka-san: naïve, blind, and worst of all, unsure of what you want.”

Blind? Unsure? Perhaps so; the non-accusation held a grain of truth.

Still, she was a magical girl, unlike Madoka. Both strived to edify, to humanize everything around them, but fundamentally their understanding of the problem differed—did it not?

“I mean,” Nagisa hastily continued, losing the hard edge in her voice, “I’m not saying that, that... your… suffering is any… less. It’s just, our issues are kinda different. Homura-san’s time stuff affected us more than it did you.”

They both pondered that, the almost fantastical fact that Homura had meddled with fate and time.

“Right—it’s not a competition of who’s suffering more,” Yuma replied at last. Except, it honestly sometimes felt like it.

“Ugh,” she groaned, throwing her arm over her eyes. “I can’t make sense of my own thoughts anymore.”

Nagisa laughed, a tad sardonic in Yuma’s opinion.

The alarm on Nagisa’s phone rang, jolting the girls out of their reverie.

“Well, c’mon,” Yuma sighed, getting up and lending a hand to the younger girl. “Mami-nee-san said she’d meet us at Homura-san’s house. Let’s get Kyouko-nee-chan; she probably forgot—or will pretend, at any rate,” she giggled at the last part. It was no secret that Kyouko disliked their weekly meetings.

Nagisa hummed in reply, swinging their clasped hands between them as she led the way to Yuma’s practically-abandoned bedroom, where Kyouko sometimes took naps when the living room was occupied.

Her greeting turned into, “Nee-chan, what are you doing?”

Startled, Kyouko crumpled her hand into a fist. Behind Nagisa, Yuma curiously leaned forward to peer over her shoulder.

“Kyouko-nee-chan?” she, too, asked.

Unfurling her fingers, the redhead shrugged as she showed them the bent cigarette in her palm. Her other hand slipped into her hoodie’s pocket and pulled out an entire packet. “Some fella bumped into me earlier an’ dropped it,” she explained.

“…Oh,” Yuma replied. “Um, anyway, we’re supposed to meet Mami-nee-san and the others at Homura-san’s house in half an hour,” she reminded her older-sister-figure.

“Blerg,” Kyouko grunted, shoving the cigarettes back into her pocket.

Yuma glanced away, tugging Nagisa along with her and saying “It stopped raining a while ago. Let’s go before it starts up again.” Curious eyes questioned the tightened grip on her hand but willingly followed, eager at the prospect of puddle-jumping (of course).

When they opened the front door, however, a thrash of rain had Yuma frowning deeply.

“Maybe we should take the bus,” Nagisa suggested.

“Might as well,” Kyouko agreed.

They hurried to the nearest bus stop, only half a block down from the cluster of apartments, but Yuma lengthened her strides and outpaced her older sister despite the latter’s longer legs, and Nagisa had to forgo several playful detours in order to keep up.

Their breath did not even make fog in the air, for the rain slashed through everything. Other people hurried as well, going to and fro. Bundled up in coats and scarves and hats and boots, everyone fled the cold—rain that was certainly not a little April shower.

From the bus to Homura’s house, they stayed silent.

Squelch went their shoes when they finally arrived. Homura ushered them inside, and they reveled in the warmth of the heater and the dry environment.

“I love rainy days!” Madoka declared with her usual cheer while handing out mugs of hot chocolate to the incoming girls as they settled in. “It’s so beautiful and refreshing, and at night it’s even prettier because it reflects the color of the lamplights, as if it were raining light—ahh, I don’t know if I’m describing it well.” She tilted her head bashfully.

Sayaka, setting down a tray of cinnamon sticks and marshmallows, grinned openly at her best friend, while Homura smiled faintly. Yuma, too, listened to the pinkette. She had never heard a description quite like Madoka’s.

“As if it were raining light.”

Back then, rain had meant misery. Now, it simply constituted an inconvenience, easily brushed aside.

Funny how perspective could cast things so differently.

Perspective… and time, which supposedly dulled all wounds.

She absently brushed her fingers across the fringe of her hair, nodding along to Nagisa’s responding chatter.

A sharp knock on the door pulled her out of her daze. She closed her eyes, frowning in concentration, and felt a burst of self-satisfaction when she recognized the traces of magic as Mami’s.

Madoka, since Homura lay wrapped up in blankets on the couch, greeted Mami at the door. Shortly afterwards, the blonde padded in, a towel draped over her shoulders as her hair, now in loose waves, dried. Sayaka promptly offered her mentor a cup of hot chocolate.

Once everyone settled back into their respective seats—Nagisa and Yuma took a couch, Mami an armchair, Kyouko and Sayaka sat cross-legged on the floor, Madoka on the other couch with Homura’s head in her lap—they got down to business.

“First,” Mami spoke up, “I would like to know how you are doing, Homura-san?”

“Next week,” Homura grumbled, voice thick, “I’ll be able to take patrols again.” Madoka pressed her lips tightly together, but she did not interfere.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Yuma piped up, watching the two.

Sayaka cut in sharply, “You sure that’s wise? You keep getting ill and then getting better—and then getting sick again! Maybe you should lay off witch hunting altogether for a while until we’re certain you won’t drop dead in the middle of something. I mean, just look at you right now!”

Nagisa nodded in agreement, looking concernedly at her sometimes-tutor.

“It doesn’t seem as if you will be well enough, Homura-san. What do you think, Kyouko?” Mami asked, eyebrows furrowing.

Kyouko shrugged. “So long’s she’s not a liability to anyone she can do what she wants, I say.”

“It’s only a cold,” Homura insisted.

“A cold caused by immunodeficiency, Homura-chan,” Madoka pointed out for fairness’ sake, “because of your switching medications, which was necessary because you had to cut back on magic.”

“You can’t say that for certain,” Homura mumbled. A gentle hand smoothed her sweat-soaked bangs, and a responding sigh marked Homura’s capitulation. Purple eyes, already hooded with exhaustion, slipped shut.

Green eyes watched them intently, drinking in the loving gaze of one and the contentment of the other. “Don’t worry, Homura-san,” Yuma said, “we’ll continue to bring in grief seeds when you need them.”

At that, Nagisa chimed in, “But there’ve been fewer witches lately! I kept mark this week.”

“Strange—” Homura coughed—“for this time of year.”

Disapproving, Sayaka glowered at Homura for her lack of tact, though the ex-time-traveler could not see much past the curtain of pink hair as Madoka bent down to murmur something. Homura huffed, but Yuma could see a genuine apology on her face.

Kernels of happiness, horded against long, harsh winters, were difficult to come by. More often than not, they had to be created by oneself.

Quietly, Nagisa leaned in close and admonished Yuma, “You’re staring at them again.” She leant away again, and Yuma tore her eyes away. However, she was not the only one—Sayaka and Mami both watched the couple; only Kyouko seemed disinterested.

“Where does that leave us for hunting?” Yuma asked because the silence had stretched on for too long.

Pink intervened. “Actually… I think Mami-san has something on her mind?” Madoka prompted gently.

Nagisa bristled and Kyouko looked up sharply from her Pocky, though Sayaka and Homura looked resigned at the pinkette’s line of thought. Madoka would not be Madoka if she did not care so deeply.

“I… believe there is something… wrong with my soul gem,” Mami disclosed—Yuma found herself arrested on the fiercely determined look on her older sister’s face that belied her hesitant words.

Homura replied easily, somehow already knowing, “It happens. Magical girls are not designed for longevity.” Her eyes slipped closed for a moment, and she continued with a graver tone, “From what I have observed, soul gems begin to resist purification; the longer a contract has existed, the less receptive one is to recovery.” She paused, clearing her throat.

“Can we fix it?” Nagisa demanded, looking as if her life depended on the reply.

“A ‘windfall,’ so to speak, of good fortune may or may not jolt the soul gem into recovering its previous capacity. That or one could forge forward through sheer determination.

“…Honestly, I would resign myself to the inevitable,” Homura advised them, solemn and completely earnest.

Resign myself.

Yuma tugged on Nagisa’s limp hand, coaxing her to lean into her embrace. She did not dare look at Mami and Kyouko’s ashen faces, nor the devastation on Madoka’s and the impotent fury in Sayaka’s. She had seen those emotions it all too often in her stray thoughts, in memories, in the past.

Drumming her fingers against the armrest with her free arm, she hummed a little tune under her breath.

“That… do not give up hope,” Homura softly entreated them, peering at them with tired eyes and a rueful smile. Madoka continued to pet her hair as she watched the others with that infinitely sad yet hopeful expression.

“‘Don’t give up hope’?” Sayaka scoffed, but muttered almost immediately afterwards, “sorry. It’s just—difficult, y’know.”

What an understatement, Yuma needlessly observed, and she offered no meager morsels comfort. Her blank mind could not muster up any words to offer to the group.

Kyouko, on the other hand, flicked a piece of Pocky to the bluenette, who caught it reflexively. Smirking, she flung another to an unsuspecting Mami; she smirked at the blonde’s reproving look, hand still outstretched with the snack held delicately between two fingers.

Levity did not need words.

Levity was not impossible.

Life did not need words to justify itself. It simply… existed.

In the morning, the gloomy grey skies greeted them, but the freshness of the rain soothed the turmoil in their hearts just a bit.

Yuma asked, “Have you decided on what to do after graduation, Mami-nee-san?”

Mami smiled at her, shrugging.

“I think, so long as I have you all, the future needn’t be so frightening a prospect.”

A sakura tree's beauty went beyond its brief flowering, and even as they crushed fallen petals beneath their feet, the leaves above them reminded them that something could be greater than the sum of its parts.

/\

Chapter Text

Glassy Sky

She kept every single work Madoka gave her; they adorned the wall by her bed, some done in color and some in straight black ink, some in meticulous detail and others done in a handful of simple strokes.

In this new world she had more art than she had ever seen before.

‘Art of life instead of art of death,’ she wanted to tell Madoka—but the words caught in her mouth as she agonized over every syllable, and would it do justice to the mosaics she had seen, the records of life that repeated tragedies unto eternity?

Her fingers stretched over the square Polaroid, letting its edges dig into her flesh.

Looking back—clinging to a person long dead, long gone—did her no favors. Time had already left. This life went on, and it was her duty to look forward.

She clicked the shutter and then studied the picture that seemed to bloom onto the film. Sometimes she wondered what lay beyond, but more often she had no new thoughts, only scratched litanies that would be part of her as long as she survived.

Only the same old tricks, over and over again because deviance led only to more pain. But—sometimes it worked. Sometimes…

Just as the same paper had both soft and sharp lines, so too could she. She just had to… remember.

“I’m back, Homura-chan~!” Madoka announced, the door bursting open.

Flinching, Homura only just kept the camera from tumbling. “Madoka. Welcome back,” she replied, setting it on the bedside table before tugging her strewn blankets back around herself. She cast a wry look at Madoka, who shook her head as she approached.

“Sorry, Homura-chan.” She placed the palms of her hands against Homura’s cheeks; a moment later Madoka pulled away to offer her a glass of water. “You took your medication, right, Homura-chan?”

Homura took a few sips. “Yes. I was in the garden a while, working on our literature assignment. No temperature or escapades,” she reassured her.

“I’m glad. Oh, remind me to give you today’s notes later! And speaking of notes—” Madoka took the glass—“someone left me a letter in my locker again, and half a box of chocolates. I guess you wouldn’t know who it was, hmm, Homura-chan?”

Smiling faintly, Homura murmured, “Miki and Sakura-san were eager to help… though I only meant to give you a letter, not chocolates…?”

Madoka sighed, laughing, “Well, maybe it was Kyouko-san’s way of saying thanks for letting her look at my notes—except she couldn’t resist taking a share for herself!” She alternated between intertwining her fingers with Homura’s and aligning their hands, turning them this way and that.

“Did Miki-san have a fit? I shall have to thank Sakura-san,” Homura remarked.

“Homura-chan!” Madoka laughed again, eyes crinkling at Homura’s half-smug, half-abashed expression.

Schooling her face into an aloof look, Homura defended, “Miki called me ‘uncool’ when I told Nagisa-san that she should spend less time diddling around the arcade. German is difficult enough without skipping practice.”

Madoka snorted, but before Homura could do more than pout, she interjected, “Is that why you’re taking selfies?” She held up the photo. “…You’ve been looking better lately,” she mused.

Homura cleared her throat. “It’s not that…. Thank you,” she added. Then, half to herself and half to Madoka, she murmured, “Polaroids—photography, yet in a smaller, more accessible manner than tripods and expensive lenses—casual, amateur level—a simple hobby if one does not overthink subjects, or a tedious one of finding the perfect lighting, the perfect position—over and over again. Over and over again.”

She fell silent, eyes trained on the flimsy photo in her right hand.

Until we slip into a rut, and then remembering does nothing.

How many days have passed like this?

“Ne, Homura-chan, how about piano? You have the hands for it, I think,” Madoka pointed out, once again pressing a smaller hand to Homura’s thinner, longer one.

Greyish bags had started to appear under her vibrant eyes over the last month. Answering with a question of her own, Homura asked, “Are you worried?”

Pink hair blocked her expression. “That’s not the point, Homura-chan.”

“…Isn’t it?” she countered softly. She chased after Madoka’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

“Of course I am, Homura-chan. Aren’t you?” Madoka gave in at last, nuzzling into Homura’s side.

“Yes,” she murmured. “But isn’t that a futile emotion?” Her gaze sought out some of the higher drawings, definitely out of her reach. They followed her—rather, they followed Tomoe-san throughout the timelines as naïve depictions of magical girls.

“Sometimes, but that doesn’t mean it’s not important, Homura-chan. All emotions are important,” Madoka replied into Homura’s shoulder.

Do you recall—no, of course you do not. It exists only in my mind now, and even that could be illusory.

She replied after a pause, “Even hatred?”

Madoka hummed and deflected, “What do you think, Homura-chan?” She kept their hands intertwined and tilted her head back against Homura.

“…Hatred is useful.” She glanced at a clock. Another hum was her only answer, so she prodded further, “Whether or not emotions are of importance depends on their utility.”

“Do you really think that?”

Homura sighed, resting heavily against the pillows. “I suppose this is why you and Junko-san insist on finding me a hobby. All I have are morose thoughts to keep me company so long as I remain… in this fragile state of… health. And books, though that does not help much, seeing as they mostly consist of the dark and morbid, which defeats the purpose—of course, I could always read different genres, but that really is of no interest to… me… ahem.”

Giggling, Madoka shifted to squish their cheeks together, and Homura gave into her own giggles.

Their laughter, however, petered out in the face of Homura’s breathlessness and Madoka’s scrambling to check the other girl’s temperature.

“I should’ve done that as soon as I came in,” Madoka berated herself as she placed a thermometer in Homura’s mouth.

A familiar groove appeared on Homura’s forehead, to which Madoka frowned in return. “It’s for your health, Homura-chan. Whatever Kyubey’s given you doesn’t negate the physical strain on your body, so it’s up to us to take care of it,” she half-pleaded, brushing her fingers through the fringe of Homura’s hair.

Nodding, mouth pulled into a drooping line around the thermometer, Homura reached up with her own hand to trace at the circles beneath Madoka’s eyes.

Madoka murmured, “It’s just weird, having to suffer through a drawn-out battle—when you fight witches, everything can hinge on a moment. Here, it’s… endurance. You endure, you hope, and maybe it’ll be enough.”

Homura pulled the thermometer out and replied in earnest, “I have endured. I have had this dream so many times, but I will be strong for you, Madoka. Strong unto the end.”

“Oh, Homura-chan. It’s okay. It’s okay, Homura-chan, because we will be strong for you, this time.” Madoka’s gaze burned adamantly into Homura’s; despite the wear and tear of their lives, those pink eyes clung to hope and naturally urged others forward.

At that, Homura had to chuckle.

“Homura-chan?” Madoka tilted her head, pouting now that she had lost Homura’s train of thought.

Smiling, Homura said, “You follow in your mother’s footsteps in your own way, Madoka.”

Madoka blushed, shaking her head, “Mama is a force, Homura-chan; nothing is too big for her. I’m more like Papa, I guess….”

“Or,” Homura cut in with a nod toward the thermometer, “you are your own person.”

“Eep! I spazzed out, I’m so sorry, Homura-chan!” Madoka checked the reading, and then the pull of her lips smoothed into a small smile. “Well, at least you’re off the hook—but you still have to take it easy, okay?”

A scowl answered her, but Homura nodded nonetheless. She leant back into the bed, letting Madoka fuss with the blankets even though they would have dinner with the rest of the Kaname family just under the hour.

Knowing that the world moved on and moving on oneself were two different things, after all.

They melted towards each other: Madoka all tender smile and shining eyes, Homura only a relaxing of tense lines and a twitch of lips.

When Homura began to pout, Madoka dived into bed with her, burrowing into the blankets she had just arranged. She gave a token protest, “If we fall asleep—”

“Don’t worry, Madoka. We have thirty-seven minutes, thirty-six in eleven seconds.”

“Mhm,” Madoka nodded and snuggled her hands further around Homura’s waist.

She shifted, however, huffing almost silently, enough so that the koala wrapped around her took notice.

“Homura-chan?” Madoka queried, tilting her head to better see Homura, who blushed.

“It seems almost… indecent,” Homura mumbled, turning her own head so that her hair curtained her expression. “…Given our new… circumstances, I mean.”

Despite how dense Madoka tended to be whenever something breached her naïve walls, she reddened immediately at Homura’s words. Her grip tightened then loosened, but instead of pulling away, Madoka squeaked, “D-did it really take you a month to realize that?”

Homura lay still as a stone, so Madoka added, “Breathe, Homura-chan! I just meant… well, um, we’re together, but it’s still n-new, you know?”

“Y-yes…?”

Since Homura quite literally trembled in her arms, Madoka guessed that she and her girl friend were not on the same page, which made her want to hide her face in her hands for at least an eternity.

Taking a deep breath, Homura declared, “We are together.” She breathed deeply for a while, nudging Madoka’s hair with feather-light touches, before continuing. “That means we are… are girlfriends, and that gives any bedroom activity a, ah, distinct connotation, but—a connotation that simply is not true with us, because we are a very ch-chaste couple even if your mother and father do not mind that we share a bed sometimes and feed each other and s-snuggle up a-and—”

Kissed right on the lips, Homura’s reassurance-turned-babbling was cut off; it turned out that “very chaste” might not remain so for long.

A knock, unfortunately, put a stop to that.

Junko stepped in, and the smirk of victory she sported upon seeing the girls’ red faces and averted gazes only made both of them deny everything more fervently.

“W-we were just, um, r-relaxing before dinner, Mama,” Madoka told the bedsheets.

Homura fared little better, inching away from Madoka and hunching her shoulders.

Finally, Junko relented, saying with a wave of her hand, “Oh, don’t worry about me, girls. You’re young and in love—who am I to deny you the pleasures of growing up? Mind you, if Takkun stumbles into anything inordinate, you two will be the ones explaining!”

“I am relatively certain you are joking, Junko-san,” Homura quietly refuted, glancing at the older woman and then settling beside Madoka once again.

Madoka grumbled, crossing her arms and pouting at her mother, “I doubt that, Homura-chan.”

That only made Junko laugh; when she caught her breath she said, “C’mon, girls. Dinner is nearly ready and it looks like Papa tried out that cake recipe Mami-chan gave him, so the sooner we eat the sooner we can have dessert!”

Grinning now, Madoka scrambled out of bed, tugging Homura along. “We’ll be ready in a minute, Mama!” She chanted under her breath, “Cake, cake, cake….” The grin on her face seemed a touch too wide—manic, Homura thought.

“Your sweet tooth is awful, Madoka,” Homura grumbled as they passed Junko, who chuckled again.

“Mhm, which means you’ll be hard pressed to keep your figure when you marry, Homura-chan,” the elder Kaname teased with a little wave and wink at Homura’s fallen jaw.

When Madoka surfaced from her one-track thoughts in the bathroom, she found Homura gaping like a fish and wringing her hands. “Uh, Homura-chan?”

Homura jerked, straightening, her eyes widening in a flash of panic and her hands ducking behind her back.

“…Did something happen in the two minutes I was dreaming about cake?” Madoka edged towards the trembling girl, palms upward and fingers splayed, but Homura shook her head, so Madoka halted some paces away.

For a few moments, Homura’s deep breathes filled the space between them. She had one hand placed on her sternum, her knuckles straining against her skin.

Madoka lowered her hands; Homura’s shoulders slumped.

Clearing her throat, Madoka said, “Do you want… to wash your hands first, Homura-chan?”

“S-sure,” Homura replied. She shuffled forward while Madoka sat on the edge of the bathtub.

She worked the soap into a thorough lather and scrubbed at her cuticles, beneath her nails, and hard against her palms. Only when Madoka ghosted over her inner arm did Homura begin to rinse off the soap.

“As long as I am alive it will be a part of me,” she began, only to pause and stare down at her sopping hands.

“Homura-chan?” Madoka prompted after a few moments.

“Oh, yes…. The cold, the broken pieces will always be a part of me,” Homura murmured, “and they will always make me forget my promises. Not even Kyubey can erase a past so deeply ingrained in my psyche—not without damaging me further, tch.” She toweled her hands dry.

Madoka shook her head, breath catching in her throat. She washed her hands and attempted to wash away her tense brow and wavering mouth, but she only succeeded in plastering her bangs to her forehead.

Homura stretched out her hands, then dropped them back to her side, yet as Madoka trembled over the sink, Homura stumbled forward until she could wrap her arms around her girlfriend.

“H-Homura-chan!” Madoka squeaked.

“My girlfriend,” she mumbled into the crook of Madoka’s neck, drawing a breathy gasp.

“Isn’t… this what got us in this… sticky situation, in the first place, Homura-chan?” Despite the pointed question, Madoka leant back into Homura’s embrace.

They nuzzled each other in silence, until at last Homura picked up her train of thought.

She drew a deep breath, and then: “What I mean to say is, I know you are my girlfriend—and I have always been yours. Even through all this… and as impossible as it is to completely rid ourselves of witch’s curses, which I truly believe is the source of our continued misfortune despite our combined efforts to move forward with our—” Homura cut herself off, squeezing Madoka tighter instead.

“And, Homura-chan?” the girl in her arms prompted in a soft voice.

“And… I will keep trying for you and myself, Madoka,” Homura declared. “Until the end, or until I can love you without imploding,” she added with her cheek pressed against Madoka’s hair.

In response, Madoka chuckled. She rested her hands along Homura’s forearms and observed, “Our really deep moments always seem to happen in bathrooms, ne, Homura-chan?”

Homura nodded, Madoka feeling the movement rather than seeing it. “Which means we should leave before your mother ambushes us during dinner, like obaasan did,” Homura mumbled. She handed Madoka the towel.

I keep forgetting and remembering—when will this cycle end? Well, I suppose it does not matter.

“Let’s go eat, Homura-chan,” Madoka reminded Homura, one hand on her elbow and the other sliding the door open. “Everything will be fine.”

“Because we still have hope,” Homura replied.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

“I really think you’ve out-done yourself, Tomo! This is one divine cake!” Junko declared as she helped herself to thirds of angel food cake. “It’s going to drive more than one of us into a food coma,” she appended, smirking towards Madoka, who remained oblivious to everything aside from the cake.

Takkun piped up, “Cake! Cake!” One of his chubby fists banged on the high chair’s table while the other smeared crumbs and whipped cream across his plate. Homura leant over, stopping the toddler from also smearing his hair with cake, though his clothes had long since been a casualty of his fun.

Tomohisa chuckled, replying, “Flattery won’t get you out of bathing Takkun tonight, dear, but I’m glad everyone liked it.”

Junko gave a long-suffering sigh, yet her eyes twinkled and she said, “Ah, the joys of motherhood. And speaking of motherhood! Homura-chan, I expect grandchildren someday, after you make an honest girl of my daughter~”

“M-Mama!” Madoka surfaced from her happy cake-bubble to cast a horrified look at her mischievous mother.

Homura, despite her blush, mumbled, “That’s still far into the future, Junko-san.” She glanced at Madoka but her gaze darted back to Takkun and his mess.

“Far, far into the future; I should hope there’s no funny business going on before you’re both at least forty years old,” Tomohisa interjected sternly, though he winked at Homura.

“Papa,” Madoka whined, pouting.

“The teasing’s all in good fun, girls,” Junko said, pointing a cake-laden fork first at Madoka, then at Homura. “As I said earlier: we trust you both and support you in whatever you decide to do.”

Nodding, Tomohisa added, “We should get around to talking about the future seriously, however. You’ll begin your senior year next spring, after all.”

Madoka clasped Homura’s hand beneath the table, saying, “Of course, Papa.”

“Enough talk about the future! There will be time for that later,” Junko determined. She clasped her husband’s shoulder and said, “I’ll take Takkun to bathe right now, before he has the chance to get cake all over the house.” She left, carrying a squealing Tatsuya with her.

Homura and Madoka stood to gather the plates, and Homura thanked Tomohisa for the dinner.

“We’re family, Homura-chan,” he replied with a smile so like his children’s.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

A blue glow from her desk told Madoka that Homura had yet to sleep.

“Did I wake you, Madoka?” Homura whispered, already turning towards her.

“Mm… it’s okay, Homura-chan… but why are you still up?” She curled in on herself further, burrowed under blankets in fetal position. “Come back into bed,” she whined.

Homura’s silhouette shrugged, and a faint tapping started up.

Tossing off her blankets, Madoka sat up and stretched; her fingers reached for the ceiling until she sank back down, limp. Then, Madoka began kicking her feet, occasionally knocking them into each other in the dark.

Only the dimming and then extinguishing of the computer’s light gave any inkling to the time that passed.

“Can you tell me what to do!” Homura blurted, the slap of her hands on her knees making Madoka jerk back.

“H-Homura—”

“This—with Tomoe-san—there’s no going back—” she whispered. “It’s not sustainable; between myself and Tomoe-san our communal supply of grief seeds will disappear within—a month, at best… at best,” Homura trailed off.

Her own hands trembling, Madoka realized, “There’s no turning back anymore.”

At that, Homura slumped forward until only the tip of her forehead rested on the desk and her arms hung limp over her knees.

“Oh, Homura-chan,” Madoka murmured, kneeling beside Homura. She twisted the fabric of her pajama bottoms and bit at her lip, but the bedroom’s darkness hid the movements of the other girl.

Voice muffled by her position, Homura replied, “It… is—was a crutch. Ultimately, the ability to turn back time became my safety net, even if each successive iteration wore me down to nothing but a stub of myself; as long as I still had the opportunity to take it back, that weariness mattered not.

“And now… now Tomoe-san will stay dead. Do you think… she knows I did not mean to… hurt her?”

“Even Sayaka-chan knows, Homura-chan,” Madoka murmured; she placed her hand over her chest, as if that would contain the balloon on the brink of popping.

Before Homura could retort, however, Madoka nuzzled her head against the side of Homura’s thigh, which prompted Homura to twist her head to look at her girlfriend.

“…That tickles, Madoka,” she said at length.

Madoka retorted, “I don’t hear you laughing, though.”

“Does that mean that you are pouting?”

“No!” Madoka swatted at Homura’s leg.

Sitting upright properly, Homura said, “Shh, we would not want the rest of the house to wake up.”

That made Madoka squint at the clock, and she groaned quietly at the hour. “Two thirty-two… c’mon, Homura-chan. Ideas and optimism don’t really exist at this hour,” she grumbled, standing and tugging Homura towards the bed.

“But what of…?” Homura protested as she followed.

Snuggled up as a koala around her girlfriend, Madoka took a few deep breaths of Homura’s flowery scent and then murmured, “It’s a crazy idea, but what if you… weaned yourself off grief seeds?”

Warmth had made Homura sleepy, but her voice sounded clear and strong when she snapped, “Completely infeasible.”

“Let me finish, Homura-chan,” Madoka admonished. Homura remained stiff, but Madoka felt her grudging nod against her own head. “I don’t mean that you’d stop using grief seeds completely—that’s obviously not going to work—but just… condition yourselves to working around less.

“Maybe it isn’t worth the risk for you, Homura-chan, but I’m sure that Mami would be willing to try if you gave her hope,” she explained into Homura’s collarbone.

Homura took long, deep breaths; Madoka let herself be lifted by them.

“And you’ll tell me, whenever I doubt, that it’s not wrong to hope?” Homura asked.

“Every time, until you believe—no matter how many times it takes, Homura-chan,” Madoka promised.

Relaxing at last, Homura allowed her body to soften and pulled Madoka into an even tighter embrace.

“Good night, Madoka.”

“Good night, Homura-chan.”

/\

Chapter Text

Ghost Town

07:00

07:01

07:02

07:03

I guess I don’t feel like going to school today.

She turned away from the clock.

I’ll text Hitomi… tell them not to wait for me.

Her hand dragged beneath the covers until she bumped into her cell. Squinting against its bright light, she sent out the message.

‘Don’t wait for me.’

It went without saying that she would be absent.

Now what? I guess I have a whole day to myself… but there’s nothing to do.

She could sleep longer, maybe, or she could wander around the city. Or she could... nothing came to mind.

There was always homework to do, but that was a last resort. She would sooner waste away in bed than do homework.

Her cell beeped.

‘I hope you feel better, Sayaka-san.’

Eh… it’s not necessarily that I feel bad, only that I don’t feel like seeing anyone’s face today.

Oh.

I guess that explains it. I don’t want to see their stupid, happy faces while I’m still struggling to make sense of everything that’s happened. I don’t want to be reminded of how far behind I am.

Moping in bed sounded less appealing by the second.

Guess that means I’ll wander around the city.

She rolled off her bed and shuffled to her closet.

“It doesn’t make sense to wear the school uniform when I’m ditching, huh?” she asked her alarm clock. “Eh, I’ll wear whatever.” True to her word, she grabbed the first shirt and pants she saw.

Her fingers stumbled over the buttons, but she had nowhere else to be, so she let them fumble for as long as it took.

Yeah—I really don’t feel like going to school.

Breakfast… sounds overrated. Alright, then. I’ll drop by the bathroom and I’ll be all set to go.

She dragged her feet out of her bedroom.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

Somehow, she ended up at the Sakura church.

No one frequented this part of town because of the scandal, Kyouko had told her, so no one stopped her from walking straight up the path into the church.

Maybe I’ll find the answers I want here.

Then again—the last time I was here I didn’t hear anything I wanted to.

She sighed, kicking at rocks.

“It’s like… I can’t find it in me to believe in happily-ever-after. Isn’t that funny, though? Me, whose magical girl form is a knight in shining armor. This should be the perfect ending—I fought the dragon, saved the kingdom, and became a hero.

“But it wasn’t like that, really. I was a liability—I was wrong. I was so goddamn wrong and I couldn’t—I still can’t accept that.”

Of course, the splinters in her fingers told her nothing. When she approached a shaft of light to pull them out, her shoes crunched over glass and stone; everything around her spoke of another’s failed quest and torn ideals.

“Wouldn’t you know? The only thing left to Kyouko’s name is this shitty, abandoned church that reminds her of everything she wants to forget. Tell me, then! My friends have been disaffected and yet they still move forward. Why can’t I move forward?”

Not that I want them to suffer just because I’m suffering.

Isn’t that selfish of me?

As she walked around the church, she ran her fingers over the pews, against the wall, and over stained glass windows.

“The saints locked up the gates. I’m not particularly religious, I guess, but I like the stories.”

Stories of heroes, of saviors, of knights—of justice!

“Even magical girl anime worked for me, because there’s always a clear evil to fight.”

Kyouko’s father had stood at this very pulpit, extoling virtue and righteousness. That was all he had wanted: a world without hypocrites to muck everything up. When he went against the norm, those self-same hypocrites turned their backs on him.

He lived long enough to see himself turn into the villain.

But was I ever the hero? I mean, obviously I wasn’t a villain… I was the naïve child who never acknowledged the weariness on the knights’ faces when they returned.

“Whenever I tried to help I just ended up making things worse. I walked into the flames—and I got burned!”

Vivid against her fingers, blood ran down in rivets. When she willed it, rings of magic healed her skin and it was as if nothing at all had happened.

Look at that. I can erase all evidence of physical wounds, but the one thing I actually want to erase won’t ever go away. It likes to fester in my mind like something rotten and disgusting. Guess it makes sense, in a way: all a zombie like me has to look forward to is a grief seed full of regrets.

“And then I’ll be killed, of course.”

Yawning, she trudged back to the last row of pews.

“I don’t even know why I’m so upset.”

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

Her phone chimed. She jerked up, eyes darting around. “That’s right….” She glanced at the time, noting that class had let out a few minutes ago.

‘Are you presently occupied, Sayaka-san?’

“Do I want to reply?” Sayaka asked the church. “Do I feel sane enough to talk to Hitomi?”

‘I’m at the Sakura Church in Kazamino.’

‘May I join you?’

She brushed sleep from her eyes and squinted at the screen again.

Join me? Why would you want to do something like that?

‘Don’t you have cram school in an hour?’

‘Class was canceled. If you do not want company, Sayaka-san, please feel free to say so.’

“Hitomi wants to hang out with me on her only free day. Isn’t that crazy? Crazier than even me. But… who am I to say no? I guess I don’t feel like being alone anymore,” she told the pulpit.

‘No. You can come if you want. It’s kind of far, though.’

‘It does not inconvenience me. I will join you as soon as possible.’

‘Kay.’

Rolling her head and shoulders to work out the kinks, Sayaka wondered what she would do for the next half hour.

“I slept like four hours and a half. Guess I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight, eh?”

She stared upwards; her limbs still felt too heavy.

From the ceiling hung cobwebs. Shards of glass and wood littered the floor. Dust gathered over everything.

Well, it makes sense that everything is crumbling down. What doesn’t make sense is that the government would just let it continue to exist—wouldn’t it be a danger to the community? Not to mention that Kyouko’s always chasing punks away.

“Even though she’s bound to hate this place, Kyouko still tries to keep it from disappearing completely,” Sayaka noted.

“Hm, actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the rest of it. She won’t mind if I wander around the rest of the church grounds, right?” she asked the stained glass behind the pulpit.

I won’t go into any buildings; I’ll just explore the exterior.

Out back, however, the church looked even worse than the main hall.

To the left was a tiny cemetery, overrun with weeds and gnarled trees; to the right were the remnants of a burned down home.

Everything looked grey and dead.

“…It really isn’t like it is in manga, huh? What a terrible world,” she mumbled.

And I had the arrogance to think I could save everyone.

She trudged back into the church and slumped against a pew.

“Sayaka-san, are you here?” came Hitomi’s voice a few minutes later.

She turned, calling out, “Watch your step. There’s glass on the floor.” Her gaze caught Kyousuke’s.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Hitomi said, bowing.

“We brought snacks,” Kyousuke added, also bowing. “I don’t mean to impose, Sayaka-san. I just wanted to see if you were alright.”

Sayaka shrugged, saying, “It doesn’t really matter.”

My heart’s a ghost town. I guess I’m too wrapped up in myself to care about it. And isn’t it about time that I got over it? It’s not like them getting together was the end of the world—the real end of the world had nothing to do with them.

Hitomi looked around the interior, and Sayaka grimaced at realizing that she had brought Hitomi Shizuki to a dilapidated church that could fall down at any moment.

“The Sakura Cathedral… could it be related to Sakura-san?” Kyousuke asked, brushing debris off one of the back pews.

“Don’t mention it to her,” Sayaka snapped, following Hitomi down the aisle.

Quirking her lips, Hitomi murmured, “Sakura-san would never deign to speak with Kyousuke-san.” She glanced sidelong at Sayaka, who only shrugged.

“I guess,” she dismissed.

Hitomi frowned, stopping in front of the stained glass behind the pulpit.

Kyousuke piped up from the back, “Does anyone want curry bread? Sayaka-san? Hitomi-san mentioned that you’ve developed a liking for it.” Plastic rustled as he pulled out other items from a bag.

“No thanks,” Sayaka said.

“Then, how about melon bread? Or sweet bean bread? We got lots of bread, for some reason.” He came forward, various packages of bread nestled in his arms.

Sayaka stared at him and asked, “Why did you guys get so much?” She snagged the curry bread, since it balanced precariously at the top.

Hitomi replied over her shoulder, “It’s always nice to have choices.”

“Yeah?” Sayaka snorted, tearing open the wrapper.

“Yeah,” Kyousuke agreed, “so we brought different drinks, too. Coffee, milk tea, and three different types of juice, I think.”

Sayaka sighed. “Whatever is fine with me,” she grumbled.

Kyousuke nodded. “How about you, Hitomi-san?”

“Oh, coffee will do, thank you,” Hitomi said. She walked back to them and they settled down by the stage, with Kyousuke fetching the grocery bag.

“Kaname-san gave us your assignments,” Kyousuke said, pulling out a few papers held together by a paperclip from his backpack.

Pulling a face, Sayaka accepted them. “Thanks. My parents will probably ground me for skipping class, so I guess I’ll have plenty of time to catch up. Figures.”

Hitomi leaned forward. “Is there a reason for your absence, Sayaka-san?”

“No,” Sayaka scratched the back of her head, “I just didn’t feel like going, I guess.”

“Is that it, Sayaka-san? ‘I guess’?” Hitomi challenged, jutting out her chin. “No more Hollywood showdowns, no more righteousness to propel you forward, so you fall down? There’s nothing exciting for you to do, thus you have every right to waste away, hm?”

Bristling, Sayaka hunched her shoulders away from Hitomi’s blazing eyes.

“Hitomi-san, I don’t think—”

“No!” Hitomi snapped. “You don’t give a damn if you go down, do you, Sayaka?” She brushed away Kyousuke’s hand.

Sayaka slammed her fist into the floor; splinters dug into her palm.

“Just tell me why! Tell me why you insist on moping every single day, why you push everyone away, why you refuse to even try to be happy!” Hitomi leaned forward, scowling just as fiercely as Sayaka.

Sayaka mumbled, “I died last night in my dreams.” She buried her face in her hands.

“You are indecisive, you know, Sayaka?” Hitomi groused. “You have many flaws—and somehow, that makes me feel so much better.” Her tone softened as she sagged back against the seat. Her hand trailed up Sayaka’s arm.

Kyousuke murmured, “Um, Sayaka-san… you know, it is normal—to have problems, I mean. Emotions, too: things that make your heart beat faster. It makes you human.”

“Human!” Sayaka choked out. She grabbed Hitomi’s hand in her own, splintered one. “As if.”

“Do you think,” Hitomi asked, “that I wanted to understand? I could not, no matter how long I thought about it, comprehend why you would react so awfully to a love triangle, of all things! Your adoration and loyalty seemed absurd to me. Sayaka, who could be so free if she let herself, preferred to pine away in the darkness.

“Regardless of everything else, you upheld and usurped your ideals simultaneously. That was how you wrested happiness from fate. Until the world dismissed your ideals altogether.”

Sayaka laughed, “Hitomi. Hitomi, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Doesn’t she, Sayaka-san?” Kyousuke defended. He placed his own hand above the girls’.

Yanking away, Sayaka snarled, “Stay out of this!”

He shook his head. “Maybe I don’t understand a lot of things, but that’s fine. All I need to know is that I hurt you, Sayaka-san, and that you are hurting yourself,” he explained.

Still, Sayaka turned away from them.

“Knights in fairy tales are ridiculous,” Hitomi declared. “Dismantle their illusions and you dismantle their very beings.”

“Alright, I get it! I’m a fucking idiot for thinking I could be the hero of the land!” Sayaka leapt up to her feet, slapping her hands on the closest pew repeatedly.

Hitomi tugged her back, admonishing, “That’s not acceptance, Sayaka.”

Sayaka slumped against her and murmured, “I called out your name, Hitomi. I wanted to save you, but I also wanted you to die. I called out your name but got no answer, so I pretended I hadn’t seen you there.”

Chuckling, Hitomi said, “We’re difficult to love, Sayaka. I do not begrudge your decisions.” In a lower tone, she added, “I would have done the same.” She rested her head against Sayaka’s shoulder.

They stayed silent.

Eventually, Kyousuke ventured to ask, “What has you so upset, Sayaka-san?”

Sayaka looked him over Hitomi’s head. She shrugged.

“If it’s about us…,” Kyousuke coughed, “then I would like you to know that I am sorry. I hurt your feelings without even knowing… that was wrong of me, to take you for granted and to presume to know you. Sayaka-san deserves better than that.”

Again, Sayaka shrugged, but she answered, “Forgiving you is easy, Kyousuke. It’s forgiving me that gives me trouble.

“Sometimes… I feel like my heart is a ghost town. It’s easier, though, than feeling too much.”

Hitomi shook her head. “Emotions, Sayaka, are what make us human. You are human, no matter what happens, so resign yourself to them and make your life worth living!”

“Geez, not everyone’s like you,” Sayaka grumbled.

“But it’s sound advice, Sayaka-san,” Kyousuke said.

Rolling her eyes, Sayaka replied, “Whatever.”

“Sayaka!” Hitomi scolded her.

Sayaka raised her hands. “Okay, okay.”

“You give your life worth,” Hitomi reiterated, “no one else can. Ultimately it rests on your shoulders whether you let the world swallow you whole or whether you move forward as best as you possibly can.” Kyousuke nodded in agreement.

Taking a deep breath, Sayaka contemplated her words.

It’s up to me to move forward.

I can move forward—

Like the others have.

“I can move forward,” she realized aloud.

“Excellent,” Hitomi said, smug. She brushed the tips of her fingers against Sayaka’s forehead, just barely tickling her hair.

She sat back and gestured towards Sayaka’s bleeding hand, remarking, “You should bandage that.”

Sayaka glanced at Kyousuke. “Uh, yeah, I will. It’ll heal up quick, though; it can wait until I get home. No worries.”

“Are you sure?” Kyousuke pressed.

“How about you get some first aid from a convenience store, Kyousuke-san,” Hitomi suggested.

Kyousuke looked at Sayaka, who shrugged.

“Well, then, I’ll be back really quick,” Kyousuke said.

“Thanks, Kyousuke,” Sayaka said.

Hitomi nodded at him.

After he left, she turned back to Sayaka.

“What?” Sayaka asked, noting Hitomi’s renewed frown.

“I don’t know if it’s because you’re a magical girl,” Hitomi began, “but you really overreact to a lot of things.”

Sayaka shrugged helplessly. “Beats me,” she said.

“Promise me you will think with your head more. If you’re making any decision, ask ‘What would Hitomi do?’ and even if you don’t do exactly what I would, at least weigh your course of action against mine,” Hitomi demanded.

Bringing Hitomi’s hand to her cheek, Sayaka smiled. “You’re mighty egocentric if you think your decisions are always right,” she teased.

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” Sayaka obliged.

Smiling again, Hitomi said, “Good. Now, tell me more about your magical girl life, before Kyousuke-san comes back.”

Sayaka grinned. “I’m glad you’re by my side, Hitomi. Kyousuke, too.”

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

Later, in her bedroom, Sayaka stared at her bandaged hand.

What would Hitomi do?

Sighing, she refrained from healing it.

This is going to be very hard.

But I have them to help me, so it’ll be okay, eventually.

Heh, I guess Madoka wasn’t wrong about needing a little hope in our lives.

/\

Chapter Text

Girls Like Girls

“Mami-san? Welcome!” Madoka answered the door, beaming at her.

Brushing a stray curl back, Mami said, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything….” She set her shoes to the side and followed Madoka into the living room.

“You’re always welcome here, Mami-chan,” Junko chimed in from her spot on the floor, not taking her eyes off the television. She gestured to the couch behind her, “Take a seat. Madoka’s working on her homework, so I’m afraid you’ll have to wait if you girls want to hang out.”

Madoka pouted, whining, “But it’s Friday, Mama. I have all weekend to do it!”

Junko wagged her finger at Madoka, whose shoulders slumped.

“Sorry, Mami-san,” she grimaced, “if I don’t do my now I probably won’t get around to it before Sunday night.” She plopped down at the low table, dragging her papers toward her.

“It’s alright, Madoka-san,” Mami said. She scooted forward and, wringing her hands, continued, “I actually… wanted to talk to Junko-san.” She clasped her hands to her chest, bowing her head. “May I, Junko-san?”

“Eh?” Junko turned away from the television. “Of course, Mami-chan! My wisdom is always at the disposal of the younger generation!” She stood and turned off the news program. “Let’s talk in my office so we don’t disturb Madoka.”

Madoka glanced at Mami, a question posed in her expression. Mami flashed her a smile as she walked after the elder Kaname.

Once Junko shut the door, she turned expectantly to Mami, mouth quirked mischievously. Thankfully, she refrained from her usual insinuations.

Alright, this is it. You can do it.

“Well, you see, Junko-san,” Mami began, leaning forward, “this is my third year already….” She paused, twisting her fingers. “I’ll graduate this fall. That’s—with everything going on in my life I just—it never came up, you see, and—” She took a deep breath and looked at the older woman in the eye. “That is to say, I haven’t made any plans for after graduation.”

Because I thought I was going to die before I could graduate.

Her gaze dropped once again, a blush burning her face.

Junko hummed, prompting Mami to look back up hopefully.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Junko assured her. Then, with a half-smirk, she added, “To tell the truth, I still don’t know what to do with my life.”

Mami looked skeptic, making Junko chuckle.

“Ask Madoka,” she said, but then she grimaced. “Eh, actually, don’t ask Madoka. She’ll tell you all sorts of stories and ruin my street cred,” Junko winked and Mami laughed despite herself.

Reeling in her train of thought, Junko continued, “Here I am, poring over past currency rates with annoying coworkers and wishing that the boss would hurry up and keel over or at least give me a promotion, and yet! I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Questions popped up in Mami’s mind, “It’s not your dream job, Junko-san? Then… then why would you bother staying?”

Junko shrugged. She rubbed her chin, musing, “Probably because it’s a challenge. I can give it my all and thus find reward in conquering it. I never had a dream job, not like Saotome and our classmates, but I had the energy and will to devote myself to anything.

“So, Mami-chan, the only advice I can give you here is that if you don’t know what you want to do with your life, then pick something that will at least propel you forward—don’t settle for enduring.”

Mulling it over, Mami clarified, “Then it’s okay if I go to a local college and choose a study plan at random? Ah, rather, not at random… but something that isn’t my passion?”

Junko agreed, adding, “You have a talent for cooking, though. Not to say you have to follow it, but there are cooking schools out there. Perhaps you could become a professional chef.”

Shaking her head, Mami murmured, “That’s more of a therapy for me, a way of making myself and others happy. I think… becoming a professional would take that away from me, you know?”

“Perfectly understandable, Mami-chan,” Junko reassured her. “Sometimes it’s okay to be selfish.”

Clasping her hands, Mami bowed. “Thank you, Junko-san. I’m so relieved,” she said, finally letting her racing thoughts and pulse calm down. The tension in her shoulders began to bleed away, though she would probably ask Yuma to give her a massage in the evening.

Pleased, Junko waved away her thanks, saying, “It’s definitely a pleasure to help you, Mami-chan. I’m here for all my daughter’s friends. The world is all too harsh on youth. If I can help you, I will.”

Oh, that’s right… that’s not all.

This is going to be embarrassing.

“There is one other thing I would like your advice on,” Mami started. Even the tips of her ears flushed red as she murmured, “A—a confession.”

Junko squealed and slammed her hands on her desk, leaning forward. “Who?” she asked, an almost manic grin on her face.

Leaning back, Mami said, “I’d—I’d rather… not say. M-mostly because, well, she probably won’t accept my feelings.” Her embarrassment faded as dejection settled in.

No, Kyouko will never accept them, but…. “But I still want to tell her,” she declared, momentarily determined.

“‘Her’?” Junko echoed, settling back down. Frowning slightly, she said, “Would that happen to have any hand in the possibility of her not reciprocating? Because you’re both girls?”

Of course Junko would catch on without any further clues.

Mami nodded, biting her lip.

Junko smacked her fist in her hand and declared, “This calls for a drink! Unfortunately, you’re not of age, so we’ll have to settle on tea. I’ll be just a moment, Mami-chan.” With that, she darted out the door.

“What?” Mami asked Junko’s vacated seat.

Not a moment later, however, Junko dashed back into the room. “Tell me more,” she demanded.

What happened to ‘this calls for a drink’?

“Err, there’s not much to say…,” Mami bowed her head, “we’ve just been together for so long…. That aside, though, I want to make her happy, and I want her to be happy with me. I can live without her, but why on earth would I want to? Even if it’s… unexpected.”

Once again, Junko nodded. She empathized, “And that’s that.”

Tomohisa entered, a tray of tea in his hands. “Junko said to break out the leaves for this special occasion,” he said, smiling.

“Thank you, Tomohisa-san. I appreciate it,” Mami bowed her head.

He waved his hands in front of him, reassuring her, “Love is a gift we give freely, Mami-chan.” With a softer smile towards his wife, Tomohisa left them alone.

Mami echoed, “Love…?” She blushed.

“Stealing kisses from your missus makes you freak out, eh?” Junko joked, but Mami turned even redder than before.

“I-I haven’t… not… not with anyone….”

When a minute passed and Mami did not continue, Junko sighed, a fond smile playing on her lips. “I remember when I stood in front of Tomohisa’s father and declared that I would marry Tomo with or without his father’s approval.” She closed her eyes as she recalled, “My face was so red and my hands shook so much, it’s a minor miracle old man Kaname didn’t dismiss me!”

She passed the cup of tea to Mami before continuing, “I’ve been crossing all the lines my entire life, Mami-chan. Always stealing the thunder, so to speak, of self-proclaimed princes—on the move, collecting numbers all throughout high school.

“Male, female, it mattered not to them or me. Ah, but those boys. Boys! Some of them were so hard-headed; they couldn’t accept that girls like girls just like boys do. Is that what bothers you, Mami-chan?” She peered at the girl over her cup, eyebrow cocked.

Blowing at her tea, Mami shook her head. “Not really. I think, with all that has gone on in my life, I could not care less for what others think of me.” She frowned, amending, “Rather, I don’t care about strangers and their opinions. I care about her opinion only.”

“Ah,” Junko nodded, “you think she won’t accept a confession from a girl?”

Mami shrugged. She explained, “I’m not sure about her thoughts on the matter… of homosexuality and the like, I mean. She’s—was?—Catholic, though her father was excommunicated from the Church following his… ah, alternative sermons.” She bit at the inside of her cheek and countered, “But as far as I know she isn’t a practicing Catholic.”

Still, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t share their beliefs….

Nodding, Junko drummed her fingers on her desk. She seemed to be deep in thought, for she said nothing the next few minutes.

Feeling even more awkward, Mami sipped at her tea and let her gaze flit across the study of the Kaname family head.

Various papers littered the desk, a half-full glass of something presumably alcoholic sat atop a folder, and a few pictures stood lined up along the left edge—all in all, it looked like anyone’s desk.

It was the rest of the study that showcased Junko Kaname’s eccentric side.

Replicas of Impressionism paintings adorned the upper half of the wall opposite the door; its lower half showcased childish drawings, complete with frames and arranged with care. She had no doubt those were examples of Madoka’s childhood imagination and Tatsuya’s current explorations.

Behind the desk, floor-to-ceiling shelves framed a large window. Sculptures of gargoyles leered at Mami from the higher shelves, though regular law school tomes occupied the rest of the shelves. The view outside was of the backyard, where some trees and scattered toys could be seen.

Facing Junko, school awards and company certificates were scattered amongst photos on top of photos—a chocolate-covered Madoka next to a law diploma, an employee of the month award next to Tomohisa in the garden, and so on.

Well, it’s not really all that bizarre.

It’s the office of a woman who is alive and in love with life, isn’t it?

“You need to have a frank conversation with her, Mami-chan,” Junko said at last.

Mami jerked back towards her.

Junko leant forward, steeping her fingers under her serious gaze. At the girl’s panicked look, she continued gently but sternly, “This is as it is in life, Mami-chan. Sometimes we don’t do the things we should because we’re scared. We would rather endure suffering that is familiar and ‘safe’ than summon the courage to go out of our comfort zone.

“Be brave, Mami-chan. Communication is truly the best weapon anyone could ever have—if you know her concerns then you have at least the sliver of a chance to prove her wrong.”

Staring down at her reflection in the tea, Mami nodded.

“To those who oppose everything outside heterosexuality,” Junko added, “I’d say something along the lines of, ‘Don’t tell me what I feel—I’m real and I don’t feel like boys.’ Simple as that, you see.” She chuckled, “Though I’d rather just walk up to my crush and say, ‘Saw your face, heard your name, I gotta get with you’!”

Mami laughed along, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t be so forward, Junko-san,” she said.

“That’s the problem with you girls,” Junko groused playfully, “too damn serious.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.

Is she comparing me to Homura? Surely I’m not that stiff!

Junko stood, gesturing to Mami. “C’mon, let’s see if Madoka’s finished her homework. I’m sure you’re tired of little ol’ me,” she smirked.

“Fishing for compliments, Junko-san?” Mami teased.

There! Even I can joke with adults, sometimes.

Laughing, Junko ushered the girl back to the living room.

Upon seeing them return, Madoka asked, “Is everything alright, Mami-san?” Her entire person radiated concern.

Not for the first time, Mami found herself thankful that she had crossed paths with Madoka Kaname.

“Everything’s fine, Madoka-san,” Mami said with a genuine smile.

And everything will work out.

Chapter Text

Your Song

“So Miss Akemi’s still out sick, eh?” Mr. Mikisugi thumbed through the stack of last week’s assignments that she had turned into him.

“Yes, sir, but the doctor says she’s on track to hopefully return in two weeks,” she said. “And she’s been keeping up with the assignments, so she’s not far behind, is she, sir?”

It ached in her chest. To see Homura so frustrated about missing class, about falling behind and having work pile up until it seemed that even if she ever managed to climb out of the trench she would never be able to surmount the mountain—it hurt. Madoka got second-hand anxiety just from thinking about it, and that was without the general anxiety that Homura suffered.

Mr. Mikisugi shrugged. “Hm, that’s something best left for when she returns.”

It hurt because no one else but Homura could see it through. This was Homura’s life, and unfortunately for Homura it was a life filled with… unfortunate obstacles. Lots of them.

“Well, here’s today’s lecture notes. The only homework is the reading, which I’ve written up at that top. The test next Friday will be on the Nazi conquest of Europe, just up to, but not including, the invasion of Poland. She can email me if she thinks she can come in after school to take the test, but tell Miss Akemi that there’s no rush.”

Accepting the stapled papers, Madoka bowed and thanked him.

“Just make sure she gets better soon, eh? Such a shame to see life be unfair to such a good student,” he said, shaking his head as he walked away.

Unfair was the word. It was unfair that Homura had to endure so much.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

But there was a lot of good in Homura’s life, too.

Like—well, not to be presumptuous, not at all, but Madoka herself brought Homura at least some joy, and there was Mama and Papa and Takkun and Mami and Kyouko and Sayaka and Nagisa and Yuma.

Even if Homura struggled to return affection, her eyes showed that she loved her friends just as much as they loved her (though it was a little rocky with Sayaka, but still!).

There were walks in the park and café dates and study sessions and family dinners, in whatever combination happened to occur.

With Homura around, everything was… a little bit… or a lot... brighter. Something like that.

Putting it words was difficult.

If she were a writer, or a singer, or a poet, or anyone else who had a way with words, then she would write a love letter to show Homura just how much she was loved. Or, if Homura would let her, she would shout it from the rooftop of the school for the whole world to know.

This feeling inside… what she meant to say…

Madoka didn’t have much, but she had this, and she hoped Homura wouldn’t mind that she put on canvas how wonderful life was now that she was in the world.

So there.

Also, a reminder, because, more often than not, Homura forgot that there was balance, that she had happiness in equal measure to unhappiness.

Likened to writing, she would say that the painting was a vignette: a little bird perched on a reed above a stream, all bathed in dawn’s soft light.

Every free moment she had had she spent on this work. She had painted a robin, for its shape and color were easy enough to do, and she chose the reed because it was so thin, yet so, so strong. It was bent—not broken.

Her best work yet.

For Homura.

For her she gathered every free moment, every possible reference, every color needed, every tutorial, everything necessary to bring serenity to life.

Maybe it was too symbolic, maybe Homura wouldn’t understand what Madoka meant to say, but she would explain. She would explain and it might be an uncomfortable conversation but it would be so worth it.

It would not be Homura’s song, but close enough.

Chapter Text

Lost and Found

She saw people all the time.

There, in the local college food court, the help wanted ads abandoned on the table, and her plate of cheese fries long gone—she didn’t really feel like doing anything other than watch the people walk past.

Like that group dressed in what she assumed were nursing outfits. The tall guy, with a nice shirt and nice pants, and backpack high on his back. Another guy, wearing basketball shorts. The girl in front of her, with intense concentration scrawled on her face, hunched over a tablet, her lunch and thermos and pencil bag covering the view of whatever she was working on. A student worker walked in, looking around hesitantly for a seat. Lots of people hunched over their computers, earbuds plugged in. One girl actually had earphones.

She wore her own earbuds, with a single song on repeat. The words faded in and out of focus as her attention shifted; sometimes she forgot she was listening to anything.

She wondered if it was like that for others. Did they put music on and let it morph into silence?

People regularly entered the food court, and people constantly left. It was a steady flow of movement. Some had carry-out containers; she wondered what they had ordered. She felt like ordering something more, herself, but she had an apple in her bag and she was supposed to only spend $4.32 on a black forest ham sandwich.

Not that there was any need for rationing money, not yet, but it bugged her. It nagged at her, having to pay for her meals.

She hated that stupid feeling, roiling in her belly all the goddamn time.

A pretty woman, with a nice hat. A guy with a skateboard. Another girl with takeout. Couple of friends. Dude in suit, there went the pretty woman with a cup of water, and one guy had a home lunch in hand while he waited for his friend to order something.

Was there anybody out there, waiting for her?

They were all students, pursuing higher education for better-paying jobs. Or they were professors, wrapped up in their little worlds of research, their attention never open to anything else.

Good for them. They would do a whole lot better than looking at ads in the newspaper—probably, anyway.

In the pauses between replays, she could hear the cafeteria’s own music, playing pop music loud enough to be heard over the constant conversations, but not loud enough to really enjoy. Funny, though. So many people in their bubbles, yet there enough indulging in conversation that the place was far from silent.

The menu, right in her line of sight, kept tempting her. It was barely noon. She had a few more hours to kill before the other would be home, and on top of that another half hour to make something to eat.

Of course she could go back early and make something herself.

But she wouldn’t.

Next stupid question?

Still, she felt bad. It was this stupid song, reminding her of Mami’s smiling face, always fucking smiling.

The girl in front of her left. A girl outside was leaning against the wall, having a merry old chat on her phone—she wore her sunglasses on her head, like some goddamn hipster. Man, that was such a stupid fashion, yet it looked well on her. Perfect hair, too. She looked so cool, she probably spent ten minutes on herself.

Did that even exist? Being cool without even trying?

Her own hair was awfully messy, with just the one bow in the back to keep it in a decent ponytail.

Wait. Had she been thinking of anything important before this stupid tangent?

Eh, probably not.

A whole stream of students now, probably getting out of class. It was twenty past now, so it must be one of those hour and twenty minutes classes. Each one of them had their own lives, and wasn’t that the weirdest thought ever?

They were at the lost and found.

Not that it mattered. They could go fail and pass and research and travel abroad and walk around campus with purpose in mind. None if it would touch her.

Would it touch Mami?

She wanted Mami to keep going to school. That girl deserved to have something more in her life before she died.

‘Cause she was going to die, of course. It was a matter of time before their shitty deal caught up with them.

But yeah, in the meantime, at least one of them might as well have some sense of fulfillment.

Because if it was her, then baby, she just wanted to tell her nothing would bring them down.

That’s why she was looking for a second job. Of course she would stay, stay the night and the morning and the week and the whole month and however long they had left in this miserable place.

And maybe she would put up a fight, get cold feet and whatever, but she had to hold her tight.

“Gotta love this field and the cherry sky….” She just thought it was funny. How the heck could the sky look like a goddamn cherry? There wasn’t any field around for them, either; that was Homura and Madoka’s territory.

Tch. It didn’t matter—she was just having a conversation with herself and a fucking song, not even brave enough to talk to Mami in person.

Just thoughts she asked herself, directed to Mami, but never said aloud.

It was such a fucking hopeful song, despite the underlying angst that she knew all too well. It didn’t mean she would go out and serenade Mami any time soon.

Someone else took the seat in front of her, though this time she had a view of the girl’s back instead of her face. A messy lock trailed down her back, refusing to go upfront like the rest of it.

Girl in a pretty black dress and lavender sweater, leaving and going up the stairs.

All sorts of people. Chubby man, dressed in all khaki—short-sleeved button-up, shorts, and a hat, like some British colonial in India.

See? She knew stuff.

Or she watched enough stupid movies to absorb things.

Forty past twelve. The next bus left in ten minutes; she could make it if she left soon.

Guess she needed to run. But run towards someone, not away. Screw these other people; she had her own to look after.

…

She was turning into such a fucking sap. Those two lovebirds were awful influences.

This might’ve been the lost and found, but their home was one, too.

Was there anyone out there, waiting for her on her way?

Yeah, there was. There was Mami, and the two runts. Yuma and Nagisa. So there she would go, meet them, because if anyone was lost, it was her, and if anyone was found, it was them. They would find her, too. Eventually.

Stepping out, shoving her hands in her pockets, she looked up at the sky.

Heh. Under blossom clouds, indeed.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

It always struck her, how fucking relieved Mami looked when she got back and found her there.

She hated that look. She hated the fact that it was justified, it was deserved, for she had put it there herself. The godforsaken past wouldn’t go away just ‘cause things were decent.

Nah, it just meant the mind would wander back to those shitty days more, looking for something to chew on.

“Eat your lunch before I do it for you,” she grumbled.

All the things that mattered she forgot a lot. She got caught up in the bad, the ugly, the painful.

It was just so easy to forget the way Mami’s hair looked when she woke up after having fallen asleep with her on the couch, the way the runt’s whole face lit up whenever she got acknowledged, and the other runt who would leave her the last slice of cake whenever she came back late.

Easy to forget… but when she remembered, they stayed with her a while.

This place was her first love.

First, it was a place to stay when she didn’t feel like dealing with her family. Then, it was a place with free food—and free companionship, too—that didn’t ask jack of her. And then it was a shitty place associated with shitty memories and her shitty actions.

And then there was everything in between, blah-blah-blah.

Now it was a haven. An honest-to-God haven, even on the days she was so afraid of coming home—home—because she’d fucked up again.

Mami’s hand waved in front of her face. “Earth to Kyouko,” she said, looking concerned and amused. Looking like she usually did when it came to Kyouko, basically.

She grunted.

“You’ve been zoning out,” Mami continued; she was used to it. “Something on your mind?”

You are on my mind, she wanted to say, but she bit back the words.

Instead, she said, “I’m not turning into a huge puddle of mush, am I?”

Nagisa scoffed, interjecting, “You’re not mushy at all! You’re, like, the total opposite of that!”

“I wasn’t asking you, runt,” she grumbled.

“I think Kyouko-nee-san is very nice,” Yuma piped up, using that cutesy voice that always got to her. Kid was too goddamn wily and adorable for her own good.

Mami was looking at her, curious and maybe a little suspicious.

Yeah, she’d be suspicious of herself, too.

“Never mind.”

She pushed around the food on her plate, trying to get a little bit of everything onto the spoon so that she could enjoy it all together. The potato didn’t feeling like cooperating, apparently, tch.

“How was your day?” Mami liked to ask this question, like they were some married couple having dinner with the kids after a long day at work.

Well, frankly they kind of were. But runt one and runt two were not her daughters, no sir. She was the older sibling figure to them, and that was how it was going to stay. Mami could mother them all she wanted and Homura could be their dad or something—

Okay, that was a pretty shitty comparison.

Definitive familial roles aside, they were her family.

This was her lost and found.

“You’re doing it again,” Nagisa sang.

Scowling at her, she retorted, “Good to know.”

“In all seriousness,” Mami cut in, “is everything alright?” This time, she looked more concerned than anything.

“There’s this song stuck in my head. I guess it’s just been annoying the heck out of me.”

It was more or less the truth.

“Oh! I know what you can do! You can just play another song, get that one stuck in your head, and then you’ll forget all about the first song,” Yuma said.

“But then there’s still something stuck in my head!”

Yuma shrugged. “Well, at least it’ll be one of your own choosing.”

One of her own choosing, eh? She had a point.

“Guess it wouldn’t hurt to give it a shot.”

Mami wiped her mouth in that dainty way of hers and stood up, empty plate in hand. “Thank you for lunch, Kyouko,” she said again, even though Mami’d already thanked her, and she didn’t need thanks, anyway.

She knew what she wanted to say.

She might as well say it, no more pussyfooting around it; everything considered, things might hit the fan soon, and she sure as hell didn’t want to have an even bigger pile of regrets on her chest.

“You’ve patrol today. I was out at the community college, thinking. I wanted to do something nice for you.”

Eh, close enough, again. She just didn’t want to say exactly what she wanted to say before she got a chance to scribble it down somewhere, get it straight in her head so she wouldn’t fuck it up.

It took Mami by surprise, and it evidently got her thinking. She had her head tilted and eyebrows furrowed, just a little.

“Well. I appreciate it, Kyouko,” she said, smiling again.

It was so easy to make her smile, and so easy to make her upset, and so easy to forget everything.

Jerking a hand through her bangs, she grumbled under her breath, “Tonight we’re at the lost and found.”

/\

Chapter Text

Our Demons

She was beyond glad when her body finally decided to make an effort again.

It meant she could go back to classes, for one, and for another, it meant that Madoka breathed easier around her—it meant that everyone breathed easier around her.

Because everyone cared, of course; she couldn’t quite make up her mind on whether she liked that or not. Because care was nice, but the worry and fear it brought were certainly not nice, and she would do anything to banish that awful, heinous feeling, even if it meant internalizing all her emotions and pains and thoughts and everything else that would so much as dare disrupt the balance she had dragged from the depths of hell.

Well. Alright. Being cooped up had definitely given her a bit of cabin fever—which was why she was doing this in the first place, actually.

She was tagging along as back-up on today’s patrol (though, frankly, she wasn’t going to be of much help if they really needed it), having finally convinced Madoka and Junko to let her go, and while she knew she wouldn’t be at the frontlines, she felt better knowing that she was doing something.

And so she followed behind the main party. Occasionally Mami Tomoe would glance back at her, and Sayaka Miki would glower, but both left her well enough alone.

It was the youngest of their group that gave her trouble. Nagisa Momoe enjoyed spinning circles around everyone, chanting under her breath, “You took the honey from the queen bee keeper,” and somehow that jarred her.

You took the honey from the queen bee keeper.

The phrase, delivered in a lilting yet monotonous voice, settled into her chest. It sought out its fellow bees.

“Oi. You coming, transfer student?” Sayaka Miki snipped at her, hackles raised and fury in her eyes; Sayaka Miki liked to act more beast than human.

She shrugged.

Nagisa Momoe piped up from somewhere in her peripheral, “Play nice, Sayaka-san!”

Glowering, but mercifully silent, Sayaka Miki turned sharply to disappear into the witch’s lair. Nagisa Momoe grinned up at her before following, and she was the last to enter.

Without fail, the low buzzing in her ears grew louder, more insistent, the closer she went to the witch. By the time she was inside, it had morphed into voices clamoring for her attention, one atop another, unrelenting and unforgiving and redundant.

Up ahead, she caught a glimpse of Sayaka Miki’s cape as it vanished around a corner, and Nagisa Momoe jumped impatiently at the juncture.

“C’mon!” she urged, “we’re going this way.”

She walked a little faster, and the walls and the floor shifted, and she just barely managed to grab onto Nagisa Momoe’s hand; everything behind her disappeared into a bubbling, gurgling wall of sludge.

“We don’t want to get separated,” Nagisa Momoe said, tugging her along, quickening their pace, as if she didn’t already know. But it made sense—she was notoriously bad at team work.

No wonder she was so stubborn.

Nobody ever made her dig deeper. She simply gave up on them, and they gave up on her, and that was the end.

Around them, slugs of all sizes oozed along, and leeches hid amongst the slugs, and she took a page from Madoka’s book: she summoned her bow, only her bow, and shot an arrow vertically, where it divided into countless needles to impale a greater berth of creatures.

“That’s a nice trick,” Nagisa Momoe praised. “C’mon,” she redoubled her speed.

Breathing deeply, she managed to say, “We’ve lost sight of the others.”

Nagisa Momoe shrugged.

They kept running through the labyrinth.

She wasn’t sure where they were going, but the corridor that appeared seemed endless and Nagisa Momoe was relentless, so onwards they went into the belly of the beast.

For the most part, aside from shooting more arrows to clear their path, she was content to be led.

Everyone had a choice this time around; she would never again be the one to take them away.

Or so she liked to say, but she wasn’t fooling herself.

After all, Sayaka Miki’s blazing eyes told her, she wasn’t a good person at all.

I suppose I can always trust Sayaka Miki to remind me of everything I’ve done.

“There you are!” Mami Tomoe cried, pulling her protégé into her arms, smiling in relief at both of them. Even Sayaka Miki gave her an approving nod.

Nonetheless, she cut into their reunion, “This is not the time or the place.”

“Yeah, what she said,” Sayaka Miki concurred, though her rigid stance might have belied her reluctance to agree with anything Homura said. Still, at least Sayaka Miki gave an attempt. Let it never be said that Sayaka Miki was a coward.

(She blamed it on the labyrinth. She had enough self-awareness to know its influence.)

Mami Tomoe wiped her eyes, and, clearing her throat, she nodded. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to get carried away.”

“It’s okay, nee-san,” Nagisa Momoe readily reassured her, even as she pulled away from the embrace. “Did you find the witch?”

Sayaka Miki jerked her thumb to their left, saying, “Last we saw, the main chamber was somewhere that way, but this one moves around a lot for something so sluggish.” She sneered towards the slugs that were gradually creeping closer to their cleared position.

“Close together this time,” Mami ordered. “Nagisa will clear a path, I’ll follow, then Sayaka-san, and Homura-san will cover us. Got it?”

She’s a true leader, isn’t she?

Because she has a choice now.

All nodded, with Nagisa bouncing on the soles of her feet, no doubt itching to blast her trumpet.

When they finally, finally caught up with the body of the witch, her limbs were trembling with exhaustion, her fingers fumbling on her arrows, fumbling like Madoka’s never did, her breath sharp and painful in the back of her throat, and even her magical girl uniform lent her no confidence.

Nagisa Momoe went first, trumpet blaring, nearly uprooting the leech that curled around the caricature of some faceless memory.

Mami Tomoe flung her flintlocks towards the familiars after discarding them, using the burst of vanishing magic to attack the vile creatures that oozed closer.

Sayaka Miki focused her attention on the familiars that clung stubbornly to their miserable existence—slime globs flew from severed bodies and every single one of them screeched upon meeting their death at Sayaka Miki’s unforgiving blades.

Meanwhile, she lingered in the back, shooting her arrows every now and then, but mostly attempting to regain her breath and silence the incessant buzzing that waxed and waned in her ears.

Everyone’s got a choice this time around.

This time around.

Around.

A leech covered her foot; she stared at it, stared at it, stared, its ring of teeth twitched—she recoiled, using an arrow as a spear to destroy it.

She breathed a little easier once it was gone, but she kept thinking about it, the voices kept nagging at her, chanting, ‘This time around, this time around, around.’

Looking back up, suddenly remembering the existence of Mami Tomoe and Nagisa Momoe and Sayaka Miki, she watched them from her remote corner of this hell. She watched them battle, with their sloppy teamwork and their earnest faith.

She blinked.

They wavered, somehow. Blurred around the edges, and her hand moved up to adjust her glasses, and her fingers ended up grazing her hair instead.

Sorry, sorry.

I’m sorry, Madoka.

She was already saying sorry, and she hadn’t even finished fainting.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

“I knew we shouldn’t have brought her, damn it, I knew it! Now Madoka’s gonna be here any minute, and Akemi’s passed out on the couch, and what am I supposed to tell her?! That I let her best friend—excuse me, her girlfriend—get overwhelmed by a second-rate witch?! Damn it!”

Evidently Sayaka Miki slammed her hands on the coffee table, for there was a slap and Mami Tomoe chided, “Sayaka-san.”

“Don’t—okay? Just don’t.”

She opened her eyes, grimacing against the sour taste she recognized coating her tongue and her mouth.

The lights were dimmed, however, so she was thankful for at least that small mercy.

But she thought of Sayaka Miki’s words. Apparently she wasn’t the only one living in fear of Madoka, which sounded bad, of course, but she meant it… in some obscure, oblique way. That was to say, both she and Sayaka Miki… they held Madoka Kaname so dear, so important, so vital, that they would rather kill themselves than let Madoka Kaname’s soft face crumble under the reality of the world.

No wonder they had demons.

“I am fine,” she said aloud, announcing her presence to whoever was with her.

Mami Tomoe soon appeared above her, worry making her forehead furrow and the skin around her eyes tight. “Homura,” she murmured.

“Oh, thank god,” Sayaka Miki breathed out, approaching.

“The witch…?” she asked as she sat up, rolling out a kink in her neck.

I feel much better without that witch’s bees flitting around in my head. But she wasn’t going to admit that to anyone whose name wasn’t Madoka Kaname.

Mami Tomoe shook her head, but answered nonetheless, “It wasn’t that difficult. We got a grief seed out of it.” She handed her a cup of tea; her expression hesitated.

What Mami Tomoe was too polite, too respectful, to say, Sayaka Miki had no such qualms. “Do you need it?” she demanded.

“No,” she said, and she told the truth.

But she had told the lie so many times that when it was true, they had difficulty believing her (not that she blamed them).

Everything she had done was coming back around.

The tea scalded her tongue. She didn’t mind, for it was an almost pleasant sensation.

“I have soup and rice left over,” Mami Tomoe offered. “If you want to join us for a late supper. You and Madoka-san, I mean. Sayaka-san is going home once Madoka-san gets here, and Kyouko and Yuma are asleep, so it will only be Nagisa-chan and I tonight.”

She mulled that over.

Having a meal before she returned to the Kaname home would bring color back into her cheeks, and the sooner she ate, the better.

On the other hand, it would mean—it would mean digging deeper, because Mami Tomoe was still the girl whose loneliness had blinded her to the truth, because Mami Tomoe was not the girl whose madness had driven her to end lives, because—because.

It meant facing everything she didn’t want to face. It was just a supper shared between friends, but it was so much more than that in her mind. Her mind, which would never let her rest.

“As long as Madoka agrees,” she said, setting the cup down with a soft clink.

Mami Tomoe smiled, taking the cup and its saucer. “Excellent. I’ll set the table, then, while we wait for Madoka-san.” She left.

Returning to the foreground, Sayaka Miki waited until Mami Tomoe was fully occupied before grumbling, “What were you thinking?”

“I am not sure I understand, Sayaka Miki.”

That did not, of course, deter Sayaka Miki.

“You should’ve said something before we left—or, better yet, you shouldn’t have come with us in the first place,” she growled, though she was careful this time to keep her volume controlled. It was all in the tone, after all.

“Is that care I detect in your words, Miki-san?” Meant as a tease, it came out rather flat, perhaps even accusatory. Well. She wasn’t very good at interacting with people; she wished Madoka would arrive already so she wouldn’t have to try her hand at de-escalation.

Sayaka Miki didn’t remain confounded by Homura’s lackluster humor for long, unfortunately. “Are you—are you serious?” Her face reddened, and she looked a moment away from giving into her anger.

Frankly, it irked her, Sayaka Miki’s righteous anger.

That was why she dug in her heels, made herself purposefully difficult and contrary around Madoka’s other best friend.

And, alright, there were other reasons, as well.

Like: everything you ever did is coming back around.

She wondered if it was the same for Sayaka. If she had somehow known, from the very beginning, that Homura Akemi was the harbinger of tragedy. Sayaka Miki, in every timeline, had clung to that one belief (and even that hadn’t saved her).

“God,” Sayaka Miki muttered, turning away. “You’re so gloomy and sick. It makes me feel guilty. Why couldn’t you have… I don’t know.... Never mind.”

Now is not the time to have a crisis, Sayaka Miki. Madoka’s not even here yet. Why would you subject me to this torture?

“You know what I don’t know?” Nagisa Momoe interjected, making both her and Sayaka Miki jerk violently.

“Geez, don’t do that, Nagisa,” Sayaka Miki gasped, her hand clutching her chest.

Giggling, Nagisa pressed a finger to her lips. “Let’s not disturb Mami-nee-san, okay?” Her teeth flashed—for a moment, they looked inhuman, crowding out of her mouth and more than ready to devour.

It is peculiar, how often I forget that this child has inexplicably retained aspects of her witch form. Of course, far be it for me to tell her. The less Nagisa Momoe knows the better.

Unless she knows already. I would not put it past her.

“I thought,” Nagisa Momoe began in her typical sing-song cadence, “that you’d learned something from your trip to the church, Sayaka-san.”

Sayaka stared at her. “How do you know about that?”

Nagisa Momoe clasped her hands together, beaming up at Sayaka.

“Well… yeah, I did.” Sayaka Miki crossed her arms, looking, dare she say it, petulant.

Better Sayaka Miki than herself.

“Mhm, and?”

Definitely her better than me.

Sayaka Miki glowered at the floor; she tilted her head towards the couch, admitting, “Something about Akemi always manages to piss me off. I can’t help it. Maybe I can, I guess, but I don’t. It’s just easier to—why am I explaining myself to you?” She made as if to leave.

Sayaka Miki’s words took her by surprise. Of course, it was foolish to think that the people she had struggled to bring through the war were the same people who lived now, but somehow she had written Sayaka Miki off as someone immutable.

Someone set in stone.

That thought had been a type of comfort, taken for granted until it vanished in the face of the truth.

Nagisa Momoe latched onto Sayaka’s arm, dragging her to join Homura on the couch.

Madoka, where on Earth are you? Save me!

She shifted closer to the opposite edge, folding her arms into her lap to make herself as slim as possible.

This was not at all how she had expected the night to progress.

Nagisa Momoe’s dichromatic eyes gazed into her own. She wondered how Mami Tomoe had felt, captured in a similar gaze, moments before her death (her deaths).

“Homura-san,” Nagisa Momoe said. “You’ve been a great tutor, y’know? But you’re so blind sometimes.” She plopped down on the carpet, forced to look up at them, yet utterly in control. “I thought it was… amusing, at first. But now it’s pretty pointless; it’s bringing you down, making you lose what little progress you’ve managed to make.”

“Nagisa…,” Sayaka let her confusion hang in the air.

You are unusually blunt and cutting.

For once, Nagisa Momoe’s expression was not one of gleeful oblivion. Her mouth settled into a grim line—annoyed, as if Homura and Sayaka were misbehaving school children, as if she were more capable of than they.

Which, to be fair, she probably was.

Everything you ever did is coming back around.

Such as underestimating those around her.

“I can’t help you if I’m weaker.”

Those words hadn’t come out of her mouth.

They were—“Sayaka Miki?”

Sayaka Miki shrugged, turning her head to the side.

On the other hand, Nagisa Momoe appeared to regain much of her carefree demeanor, for she said, “Great! I’ll leave you two to sort out your problems. I’m pretty hungry, though, so don’t take long about it.” With that, she clambered to her feet and skipped to the kitchen, where Mami Tomoe was undoubtedly busying herself so as to give them privacy.

The world liked to conspire against her.

“Um,” she began, oh-so eloquently, and it sounded so absurd that she simply stopped.

Sayaka Miki sighed, sagging against the cushions. “Yeah, this is going to be on me, isn’t it? No offence, I mean.” She sunk further down.

“…None taken.”

“Hitomi and Kyousuke had this long talk with me—well, it wasn’t that long, and I guess it wasn’t much of a revelation for someone like you, but it was, and I’m trying to do better. It’s high time I stopped fucking up, right?”

She was not sure she wanted to hear this.

Not from Sayaka Miki of all people.

Laughing weakly, Sayaka waved her hand half-heartedly. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re not interested in that, but my point is… my point is, we both suck at letting go of things. I don’t know why my first instinct is to be suspicious of you, but I’ve known you for years now; after what we went through, all of us, shouldn’t I let go of it?

“And Hitomi said something, that I’ve been stuck on for a while now, that I think might sort of explain—or at least partly explain why we’re so easily caught in these ruts.”

Blue eyes, which had so often reviled her, now looked earnest in a way she had only ever seen directed towards Madoka (and perhaps Hitomi Shizuki, but the other lived on the outskirts of her awareness).

“I know I’ve been the weak link since the beginning. It rubs me in all the wrong directions. How much do you know of my personality? A lot, I bet, but some things are sunk in too deep to see.

“My point is. I’m sorry. I want us to stop fighting. I want you to know that most of the time, I hate you only because you are the ‘knight,’ and I am the ‘court jester’ instead of the hero I dreamed about as a kid.

“Sure, some parts of you, the Machiavellian ones, definitely bother me. I’ll never let you get away with that the whole ‘the end justifies the means.’ But you’ve been—you’ve been a good person lately. So. So I’m going to seriously work to fix our relationship.”

What am I supposed to say?

Glancing down at her ring, she mumbled, “Okay.”

Sayaka Miki scoffed, though it was more exasperated than anything else.

“I will not explain myself to you,” she snapped, only to append, “Not today. Perhaps at a later date, if… when we are on better terms.” It was the biggest concession she was willing to make.

“Good enough,” Sayaka Miki agreed.

Before she could start dreading an awkward silence, Mami Tomoe stepped out of the kitchen. “If you are amendable, Sayaka-san, perhaps you would join us”

“Sure.”

“Then,” Mami Tomoe’s eyes twinkled suspiciously, “there’s someone waiting for you both.”

She exchanged a wary look with Sayaka Miki, who said, “This was totally set up, wasn’t it?”

Madoka, from her seat at the table, waved and replied, “Yep! Surprise!” Next to her, Nagisa Momoe hummed cheerfully to herself, apparently not so preoccupied with the book in her hands.

“What a nice way of showing you care,” she muttered to Madoka, taking the seat beside her. Madoka nuzzled her, making her blush and drop her complaints. It wasn’t like it truly bothered her.

“When—how did you get in here!” Sayaka demanded.

Madoka smiled sheepishly. “We snuck in through the window,” she explained, gesturing to Mami Tomoe.

“Of course you did,” Sayaka Miki rolled her eyes.

/\

Chapter Text

Icarus

A rare free afternoon found her along the bank of the Mitakihara River with Madoka.

“I haven’t seen you around lately, Hitomi.”

Her point exactly.

From the corner of her eye, she could see that Madoka remained lounging on her back, gaze directed towards the sky rather than towards her. Madoka had spoken, but the lazy quality of her body indicated a query without any sort of weight.

Query without accusation, as Madoka always was.

As such, her gaze returned to the water.

There were no boats to catch her interest, but an uneven gleam of the sun’s reflection on the water cast a shadow that seemed to suggest something lurking beneath the surface, waiting an opportune moment to burst into the open air—ah, there went her imagination, running away in fanciful flight again.

“How are Sayaka and Miss Homura getting along?” Hitomi posed her own question, turning her body to face Madoka.

Madoka craned her head to look up at Hitomi, saying, “I think they’re a lot better now! They don’t fight as much—though I wouldn’t go so far as to call them friends, since they still like to ignore each other and stuff. Still, it makes me happy that they’ve found a good middle ground.” By the end of it, she was clasping her hands beneath her chin, grinning widely.

Hitomi mused aloud, “That must explain why Sayaka has neglected us,” with a wry smile added to her airy tone.

Because Sayaka was not the only one who had a tendency to neglect; indeed, she was the most innocent of them all.

Or should she say, the least guilty of them all?

It was all in the semantics and syntax.

“Of course Sayaka hasn’t forgotten about you and Kyousuke!” Madoka exclaimed with her expression earnest and eyes wide. “She’s just been a bit preoccupied with all the magical girl business lately, especially with Homura’s… bad health as of late.”

No change on that front, then. How unfortunate for Miss Homura.

Hitomi took a bag of cookies from her school bag. They were not too crushed, thankfully.

“Would you like a cookie?” She held the bag out towards Madoka.

Smiling again, Madoka eagerly accepted. “Thank you!”

A few cookies later, she brushed the crumbs from her uniform’s shirt and skirt as she said, “She is flying too close to the sun—and her life, it has only just begun, yet she is flying towards an early grave.”

The cadence of her words forced Madoka to a pause; mid-chew, with her cheeks puffed out, Madoka met her eyes guilelessly and without any alarm whatsoever. She looked like the very picture of innocent curiosity.

“It scares me half to death,” she appended, hunching her shoulders just so.

Sometimes it took a little more to get Madoka to reveal the cards she held close to her chest—though Hitomi’s worry was genuine.

Very genuine.

In this instance, Madoka laughed, also quite sincerely, letting the tension and wariness fade away like mist before the rays of the sun.

“I’m glad,” Madoka replied once her laughter subsided to a broad smile. “Sayaka needs people to worry about her. I mean, people who are ‘real’ in her eyes; I think she’s hyperaware of what she thinks she has become when she’s with the others, you know.”

“How typical of her,” she remarked, “though her progress is commendable. She is learning to protect her flame from the wild winds around her.”

With another wry smile, she added, “She is not the type to lie down on a bed she’s made.”

And was that not part of what attracted Hitomi? Sayaka Miki, who refused to leave anything well enough alone, and who was so indecisive—so glacial in her decisions, a stark contrast to those such as Hitomi Shizuki.

“You know how she is. She puts up her armor because that’s who she wants to be: a knight in shining armor, saving damsels in distress and championing the world’s justice…”

“Except that’s not who she should be, and her defenses are wounding her from the inside,” Madoka finished her thought for her, nodding. “That’s how it feels to take a fall, you know. It’s not on the outside that you start to crumble. It’s from the inside, with your heart plummeting down the cliff to the rocks below.”

Was that how it was?

She would not know, for nothing she faced took place on such high stakes.

For Hitomi, it was not a matter of life or death. For Hitomi, it was a matter of control and happiness, these things that were secondary to those such as Sayaka.

‘Those such as Sayaka.’ ‘Those such as Hitomi.’

And those such as Kyousuke Kamijou; yet another category that enabled doubt to creep inside, like insidious ivy crawling up the tower, confident that the stone would eventually give in to time’s inexorable power.

“It is frustrating.”

“Isn’t it?” Madoka agreed, bobbing her head in blithe acknowledgement. Then her eyebrows furrowed and her voice hardened as she continued, “But when you look towards the future, it tells you nothing. You have to take matters into your own hands; take another breath, have hope, and take action.”

Ah, a bitter truth.

Madoka never spoke so bluntly, so… sternly, especially not in regards to their little assembly of magical girls. With them, Madoka walked on egg shells. Hearing Madoka speak thusly—it was almost—almost blasphemy.

She laughed aloud.

“Eh?” Madoka glanced at her again, this time quizzically. Her eyes shone with something akin to joy, because that was who Madoka was.

Others’ happiness was her happiness.

Deception did not exist for those such as Madoka Kaname.

Gone, again, that out-of-character general. It might not have ever existed. It, too, might have been a product of Hitomi’s imagination.

“Do you think they will succeed?”

“I hope so,” Madoka said. “I really, really hope so. And if anyone tells me it’s wrong to have hope—that hope isn’t enough—then I’ll tell them they’re wrong. Every single time. I will.”

Because hope was what kept them all alive, day after day after day.

Leave it to Madoka to ignore every other factor that contributed to their chances of survival.

Perhaps it would be better to ask Miss Homura—the only one who would brusquely speak of the situation without offering even the slightest bit of comfort or glossing over the darker details.

Again, mirth tickled at her: imagine, Hitomi Shizuki asking someone like Homura Akemi for love advice!

But she sighed instead. It was not such a ludicrous thought, given that Madoka and Homura seemed to be in a very happy relationship.

Her shoulders tensed.

So many different types of people… who was wrong, and who was right?

If right and wrong even existed.

“Enough about that, though,” Madoka unashamedly dismissed their current topic. “How is cram school going for you?”

She should have expected it from the very first sentence Madoka had spoken.

It made her smile bitterly every single time; it left a painful coil in her chest and made her question her relationship to Kyousuke every single time Madoka asked, but it was such a concerned question—how could she resent it?

“Hitomi?”

Some part of her wished Sayaka had never confessed to Madoka what had happened that night.

Because now Hitomi had attachments.

She had real friends, who wanted to know. Who urged her to continue living, and would sorely miss Hitomi. Who asked questions and invited her into their homes and smudged the meticulous lines of her ideas of the way world worked—

Imagine that.

A world in which Hitomi Shizuki lived for herself.

“Do ask me that question again tomorrow, Madoka. I might have a better answer for you then.”

Even so, that sensitivity was not enough to draw out her words.

“Oh? You won’t tell me what’s on your mind, Hitomi?” Madoka insisted, pouting.

She replied, “Aside from my concern for Sayaka? No.”

There: a safer topic.

“Magical girls and witches… you and I could never possibly understand. Sayaka and the rest think they’ve lost their humanity. They don’t consider themselves human—Homura and Sayaka especially, and I think Miss Kyouko has her own doubts.”

Perhaps she had miscalculated.

She had not meant for their conversation to dwell on the age-old question.

“And with their humanity gone, what do they have left? Monstrosity, apparently, and it’s so difficult to convince them otherwise.” Madoka sat up, tugging on one of her pigtails, biting her lip in helpless frustration.

Difficult, indeed.

Frankly, it frustrated her as much as it did Madoka.

This question had no answer, yet it refused to leave. Locked in the tallest tower, it watched over them, day and night.

Could they solve the entire problem of the magical girl-witch-Incubator system? Could they face an entire alien race of vastly superior beings to defend humanity’s independence? Could they condemn the entire universe for the lives of a handful of girls?

No; though a part of her—the weak, indecisive part of her—wanted to do so, she knew better than to wish for it. Not even for Sayaka.

Then the reflection on the water winked at her.

The reflection—the reflection of a girl.

“Madoka,” she said slowly, “did you see that?”

“See what?”

They stared at the water’s surface.

She dared the apparition to respond—

And it did.

“Oh,” Madoka said, eyebrows shooting up. “Let me call Miss Kyouko. Keep an eye on it, okay? Make sure it doesn’t do anything.”

The glittering light seemed to wink at them, playful yet sinister beneath its veneer of still serenity. It spread to a greater area of the river, gradually; inch by inch it creeped in broad daylight towards the shores.

Make sure it did nothing?

Easier said than done. In fact, impossible to do if one was not a magical girl.

She doubted Miss Kyouko would arrive on time.

Indeed: while Madoka waited, fidgeting and anxious, for Miss Kyouko to answer, a fish burst out with a spray of oily water. It drenched them twice; once at its advent, and again when it fell into the river.

Against her will, her entire body trembled at the viscous, slippery quality of the water.

“Please, please, Kyouko….”

“We should leave. Immediately as of five minutes ago.”

They scrambled up, towards the meadow above—but did not make it far before their trembling limbs and an insistent dizzy spell got the best of them.

Driven to her knees, Hitomi fought to retain control of her mind—

Her mind—

It was hers. No witch would ever take it again!

“Hitomi, Hitomi, get up, come on!”

“G-getting there, Madoka,” she gritted out. She pulled at her sluggish, rebellious limbs, ordering them to obey her commands, not those of the witch.

At last, her body complied; she felt almost light now that she was in complete control of her own mind and body.

Standing on a cliff face, against the highest foe they would ever face—she felt it in her chest.

Her heart, beating madly, demanding she live to die another day.

This was how it felt to take a fall.

Here, with all her senses intact, in sound of mind and body.

“Um, well, I hope you’re sound of mind and body, Hitomi, because it looks like we’re inside the witch’s barrier.”

Oh dear, had she said that aloud?

No, never mind that, she scolded herself as she looked around to ascertain the veracity of Madoka’s anxious statement.

Dear-oh-dear.

Unfortunately, the hillside and the river were gone, replaced by… by an Impressionistic parody, as if someone had taken Monet and redone him in watercolors—evidence of the lair that had bloomed all around them while she had been struggling on her front.

Her hands were ill-defined blotches. There was no line for where Hitomi Shizuki ended and the world began.

“I told Homura that we’d be here by the river,” Madoka said, glancing around the labyrinth with nervous eyes that were little more than splotches of wine-red paint, “and we were supposed to meet soon at my house, so she should come here to investigate when she realizes that we’re missing and out of contact.”

“Which still means we must survive this place without a shred of magic long enough to be rescued,” Hitomi pointed out. “So far we have not been attacked, or lured further into the barrier. Perhaps it would be best to remain in place here? Wherever ‘here’ is.”

Madoka wrung her hands, whispering, “I don’t know how far in we are—I think—I think we’re still on the outskirts, but we were actually heading towards the witch instead of away from it….”

Oh.

The river—sky blue, melding into a slightly darker blue sky—seemed innocuous enough now that they were inside the barrier.

It had been a decoy. Were witches capable of being so intelligent? Were they not supposed to be mere beasts, berserk and insane in their despair?

Maybe this was hopeless—a match between an intelligent, malevolent force and two powerless school girls was clearly biased against them.

Hopeless.

They would die here before Miss Homura or any of the other magical girls could rescue them.

Stop it, Hitomi, she scolded herself. She had no need for these doubts.

Curse witches and their ability to worm past every defense. If she could, she would enter her own mind and forcefully eradicate all traces of tampering.

No one told her what and how to feel.

Not Kyousuke, not Sayaka, not Madoka, not her parents and absolutely not any witch, insecure in its place in life.

“We have two choices here,” Madoka said, straightening up as she visibly steeled herself. “We can wait here and hope for the best, or we can go up the hill and hope for the best.”

The river would not give them anything, so yes, those were their only options.

There was a tree—which had not existed before the birth of the witch—a little ways beyond their current position, at the crest of the hill.

“How about we make it to the tree, then wait for our rescue there?” she suggested. It would afford them some measure of protection, if only barely; still, being so out in the open made her back feel awfully exposed, so she welcomed any semblance of armor.

Madoka nodded, a jerky movement. “Okay,” Madoka took a deep breath, “let’s go.”

Slowly, cautiously, they continued up the slope.

Only a few minutes ago they had been caught up in their thoughts as the outsiders of the magical girl world. Now, they were in the thick of it, entirely on their own.

Alone.

Her lips twitched in a sardonic smile: she knew all about being alone—and about being lonely.

Just before they reached the hill’s peak, they reached the point of elevation required to see beyond the hill—to find the tips of stone towers jutting into the sky. When they reached the tree, the entirety of the castle sprawled out in the valley below them, for all of a sudden they knew that they were no longer on a hill.

It had become a mountain range.

“Astounding,” she breathed. The meadow had become a scene straight out of a storybook; she could not help but wonder if Sayaka’s labyrinth would one day look like this (perish the thought, of course).

“I guess this means we’re still on the periphery?” Madoka asked, dubious. “But it’s not like any other labyrinth I’ve seen before… it’s too straightforward.”

Straightforward?

Ah, she would not know. The last time she had had anything to do with a witch had been… well, that dark day that stood out in her memory as a black hole instead of a blank patch of no memory at all.

“Do you want to go further?”

Madoka sent her an alarmed look, protesting, “You know that’s not a good idea, Hitomi.”

Quite true, it was not at all a good idea, regardless of her burning curiosity.

Something flickered in the corner of her eye; she turned—“Look out!”

Madoka turned so slowly, too slowly—the hawk’s wing clipped the back of Hitomi’s head.

All breath left Hitomi’s lungs.

‘My, my, look who we have here!’

‘Our disobedient young daughter, who thinks to make her own bed!’

‘Tsk, tsk. Hitomi, will you lie down right within it? Will you forsake everything for that?’

‘You cannot lie, Hitomi. You have made your decision already.’

‘Tell us—will you tell us?’

‘Do not worry your pretty little head about it, Hitomi. Let the adults take care of it. We shall clean up your mess; we shall fix things for you.’

‘I hope you have learned your lesson, young lady!’

Please, Mother, Father—

They appeared before her: Father, with his polished glasses gleaming in the light; Mother, with her silver silk gown and shining pearl necklace; and Kyousuke, who shrugged helplessly at her from behind her parents.

Mother repeated, “I hope you have learned your lesson, young lady. A person of your standing is, without a doubt, above such things. Cease this foolishness at once.”

“Young Kamijou here is a good lad, why must you ask for more? More is not necessary, dear. Greed is unbecoming of you.”

Greed?

All of her desires, all of her wishes, all of her hopes—reduced to greed.

“That is not—” her hands clenched into fists—“that is not who I am.”

“Oh?” her father sneered.

Kyousuke made as if to move towards her, but when her father laid a firm hand on Kyousuke’s shoulder, he froze.

“Unclench your fists, dear. That is terribly uncouth of a young lady,” Mother reprimanded her, a green fan slipping from her sleeve to cover Mother’s mouth. Mother’s eyes, however, continued to judge her.

“Dearest, Hitomi,” Father coaxed, softening his voice and his expression, “come with us.”

“Please, darling,” Mother added.

A part of her yearned to join them. To be with her parents, and Kyousuke, in a perfect world where nothing else mattered.

But Kyousuke frantically shook his head at her, mobile once more.

“Run, Hitomi!” he shouted, shoving Father’s hand off his shoulder and latching onto Mother’s arm, dragging her backwards. “They’re not your parents!”

But they were.

“Nonsense, boy!” Father roared, while Mother gave an affronted gasp, struggling to escape Kyousuke’s grasp.

They were the Mother and Father who lived in her mind.

And he was the Kyousuke who lived in her mind, as well.

While they fought—

“Oh, hey,” Sayaka remarked, giving Hitomi the barest glance. In her hands, a sword stabbed into the ground, and Sayaka’s cape fluttered in a nonexistent breeze. Sayaka herself coolly gazed down at the castle in the valley below.

“Your life, Sayaka—it’s only just begun! Why must you—”

“Hitomi! Return at once!”

“Why won’t you run, Hitomi!”

“Your foolishness has gone too far!”

“I know I’m flying towards an early grave,” Sayaka shrugged. “But I’ll never stop reaching for the sun. For justice.”

She made as if to reply, but a sharp sting to her cheek jerked her—

Right back into the real world as she fell to her knees, gasping for air.

“Hitomi, oh, Hitomi—I’m so, so sorry but you just wouldn’t wake up and—how do you feel?”

Blinking sparks of pain from her eyesight, she took a moment to rasp out, “Fine. I’m fine, Madoka.”

Madoka’s trembling form did not come into focus; it took her another moment to remember that they were in a witch’s barrier, which had rendered them thus, and one more to realize that she lay on Madoka’s lap.

She endeavored to rise, only to have Madoka push her back down gently.

“Take your time, Hitomi,” Madoka insisted, and added with a touch of humor, “it’s all we can do at the moment.”

“Where are we?”

“Still at the tree. I’m not anywhere near strong enough to carry you far.”

Of course.

Focusing on her shallow breathing, she waited until the after-images of Sayaka turning away from her faded away.

Then, she asked, “How long do you think we’ve been here?”

Madoka shrugged, gazing at something beyond Hitomi’s range of sight.

“It feels like a long time—but, you know, time isn’t exactly a constant thing inside labyrinths. A few minutes might have passed outside, or a few hours.” Madoka sighed. “I wish I knew.

“On the bright side! The witch hasn’t bothered us, nor has the familiar—the hawk that attacked you, I mean. It looked surprisingly realistic, with much more detail than we’re done in; I think the artist used a finer brush and spent more time on it.”

The artist?

“You mean the witch?”

Lips pursuing, Madoka nodded. “The witch… before she was a witch, she must’ve been a painter,” she explained, a trace of defensiveness in her voice.

A painter, like Madoka was.

“I meant no disrespect….”

“Oh,” Madoka’s frown became an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, it’s just… it’s a sore subject for the others. They don’t like thinking about it—which I’m sure is perfectly understandable from their point of view, even if it isn’t from mine.”

Because they were outsiders, kept at arm’s length from whatever it was that went on in the world of magic, wishes, and curses.

Kept even farther away by a single-minded Sayaka.

Except… that was partially Hitomi’s fault, as well. Normally, she would not be one to shirk away from responsibility, or even from pain if she thought it necessary to endure, but Sayaka managed to bring out the indecisive in Hitomi.

“I used to be so sure of myself.”

“H-Hitomi?”

Until lately, she had known exactly what she wanted out of life and exactly how she would obtain it.

Nothing had changed.

Nothing—except her resolve to bury her darkest desires. That resolve had crumbled, little by little, because she had friends who cared and would not let her isolate herself, who would not let her keep the world at an arm’s distance from herself.

“I am not so certain anymore.”

She sighed, moving away from Madoka to sit on her own. Now she had a clear view of the castle in the distance—so far away, it might as well not have existed for them, who remained unmolested in their little sanctuary.

Why not?

Here, in this witch’s labyrinth, she could be honest: an honesty unforced from the witch’s machinations.

After all, she was Hitomi Shizuki.

She was better than this.

“I will end my relationship with Kyousuke,” she declared, meeting Madoka’s concerned gaze.

Madoka’s eyebrows nearly met her hairline; it was a comical sight, but unfortunately this was a serious conversation.

Everything would be serious until she had her life back in order. Only then would she allow herself to relax.

“He doesn’t make you happy, does he?” Madoka nodded knowingly.

Trust Madoka to know.

She inclined her head, “Right. He does not, because he is not who I want.”

Madoka’s eyes lit up, and she even went so far as to clap her hands as she asked, “Have you—it doesn’t bother you, anymore?”

Girls can’t love girls.

A familiar refrain that she had been forced to swallow when Madoka and Sayaka had expanded their circle of friends. A familiar refrain that had steadily become more false the longer she observed Madoka and Homura, whose relationship seemed so pure and loving, it almost made her jealous.

Besides, who was she to take pride in herself if there was even a single part of herself that brought her shame?

“It still does,” she admitted, shrugging a bit, “and ultimately it does not matter. I believe that both she and I are ready.”

Madoka snorted, “I don’t think Sayaka’s ready at all, Hitomi. She’s not going to see this coming, even though everyone else definitely did.”

Her answer was interrupted by a great shout of, “Madoka!”

Lo and behold, their saviors came charging in: Homura, made reckless by worry, and Sayaka, blue eyes blazing with an energy that she had been lacking for such a long time.

“Stay here with them,” Sayaka ordered, launching past them—though she met Hitomi’s gaze squarely when she passed.

Wrapped up in Homura’s tight embrace, Madoka called out, “Be careful! Good luck!”

Sayaka’s delighted laughter echoed through the witch’s world, breaking the dead silence and heralding the onset of a new era—

Ah, there went Hitomi’s imagination again, running away from her.

“Good luck to Hitomi, too,” Madoka added, beaming at her. “I’m afraid Sayaka’s a little dense, and you’re going to need it.”

Peering at her, Homura murmured, “Congratulations?”

“Not quite yet,” Hitomi laughed.

But soon, for Hitomi Shizuki had regained her sense of self.

She would take on the world.

/\

Chapter Text

Beautiful Now

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it—the labyrinth, I mean, not the witch herself. It was like something straight out of a storybook!” azure explained, hands ges-ti-cu-la-ting wildly and almost knocking plum’s glasses off.

“She fit in well,” plum remarked with an eye-roll and a step to the side. “Charging in with not a plan or even a second thought, her sword aloft, and righteousness burning in her veins.”

“Like a knight?” green of budding leaves asked, completely disregarding plum’s acrid tone, too busy thinking of their own storybook at home, where the heroes stayed heroes and the villains stayed villains—where happy endings came true, black-and-white, simple and easy.

Plum nodded and ruddy red suffused azure’s cheeks as she sputtered, “I-it wasn’t like that!”

Forest gazed up at azure in open-mouthed awe, because forest was still a kid at heart; it made her fists clench and her teeth grate, but she wouldn’t be so cruel to rip into forest’s dreams (rip into them with her too-sharp teeth and shred those dreams into bloody scraps that she would then devour in hopes of sa-ti-at-ing the void).

“Hey,” robin’s egg blue bumped shoulders with her, “cheer up, kiddo. Mami-san will get out of classroom duty soon enough, so no more moping, alright?”

It was her turn to blush, a rusty red that didn’t suit her at all, and she protested, “I wasn’t moping.” She also wanted to point out that she wasn’t dependent on Mami, wasn’t some little kid, but she knew protests would have the opposite effect of what she wanted, so instead she sent a pleading glance to green for a helping hand.

“Nee-chan’s just grumpy because I wouldn’t tell her where Mami-nee-san hid the leftover cheesecake,” harlequin offered up, adding an exasperated eye roll to sell the lie.

“This won’t last forever, so why try to fight it?” she retorted with her own pout.

Cornflower sighed, more playful than irate, “You’re so nihilistic. Kyouko’s a bad influence.”

Blue and purple’s conversation devolved into mock-grumbling about how much of a bad influence scarlet was, turning her and green into gluttons.

Glutton.

Eat-eat-eat—rip-scarf-devour—g o r g e—eat-eat-eat—

What an awful word. She preferred to think of her appetite as green’s gas-tro-nome, or e-pi-cure. It was better. Nicer. Gentler.

But, whatever. It was an offhand comment, harmless teasing, something without bite, without need for retaliation. It didn’t mean anything. She shouldn’t let these little things bother her so much, shouldn’t be so sensitive, shouldn’t—

Ding! went the doorbell.

Mulberry’s twitching fingers gave away her nervousness while sky blue only tapped her foot in mild impatience. Even after all this time, after all that had happened, mulberry doubted her place in the Kaname household.

(Who was she to judge? Jagged teeth, hunger pains, mere words, and too much yellow made her feel like she didn’t belong in her own body. She com-mis-er-ate-d with violet-red.)

“Girls!” heliotrope greeted them with all her typical joc-u-lar-i-ty. “Come in, come in, make yourselves at home,” and swept amethyst into the house with a seemingly careless clap on the shoulder.

“Pardon the intrusion,” three voices chorused and one voice stumbled as they followed in heliotrope’s wake.

From the kitchen, beaver’s brown called, “Are Madoka’s friends here? Welcome, everyone!”

“Hi! Hi! Homu-nee! Saya-nee!” chirped pastel pink from his high chair at the kitchen table.

“Thank you, Tomohisa-san,” wisteria replied, her head inclining just a little too much to be casual though her lips curved into a pleased smile at pastel pink’s attention.

“It’s no problem, Homura-san. You all are always welcome in our home. Go on; I’ll bring the tea in for you,” beaver’s brown reassured.

They trooped into the living room without further ado; she noted, however, that green led the way almost too eagerly, outpacing the others—fleeing.

Curious, that real-life proof would unnerve green more than the fairytales they read at night.

But she let matters lie, instead crowing loudly, “Dibs on couch!” as she launched herself forward past green’s abrupt—suspicious, obvious—hesitation.

“Momoe—”

“—nee-chan—”

“—kid, you got the couch last time!” turquoise protested, fists indignant on hips.

Shrugging, she spread her hands in a ‘what can you do?’ expression. It wasn’t her fault they were all so slow and complacent (so serious, so uncertain of themselves without their usual buffers in place that it made her teeth itch). She ran her tongue over the inside of her teeth, probing her blunt molars.

“Now there’s someone who knows what she wants and goes for it,” heliotrope declared approvingly at her from the entryway. Her heart jolted uncomfortably in her chest.

“Junko-san, don’t encourage Nagisa. She’s spoiled enough already,” sky blue chided and teased with a grin.

Defending her honor, she protested, “Am not,” followed by green quietly—but not quietly enough—muttering, “Sure, if you say so, nee-chan.” She crossed her arms and huffed.

“Try not to get into too much trouble before your sleepover even starts, okay, girls?” Heliotrope tried and failed to look stern, her amused laughter at their solemn chorus of “Yes, Mrs. Kaname” trailing behind her as she left them to their own devices.

“Scoot over,” green nudged her; she pushed her shoulder playfully into green’s and they had a mock fight that only stopped when blue cleared her throat.

“We’re watching Ajin because I have the remote,” blue declared victoriously.

“But we want to watch Sailor Moon,” green pouted.

Hunter’s green and marine blue engaged in a stare-down, and mauvine’s smirking voice suggested, “Put it to a vote. Raise your hand if you want to watch Sailor Moon.”

Four hands went up: hers in solidarity with green, both of green’s hands in unabashed eagerness, and mauvine’s slowly joined them, clearly taunting cyan.

Ignoring green’s cheers, cyan scowled fiercely at mauvine, who gleefully reported, “Outvoted. If you’d be so kind, Sayaka Miki, turn the television on? It’s nearly time for Sailor Moon to start.”

“Do you even like Sailor Moon?” cyan grumbled as she turned the television on and plopped down on the floor beside mauvine’s claimed armchair, close enough that whatever bickering conversation that followed did not disturb green’s rapt attention.

The murmurs between blue and purple, and green’s muffled gasps and commentary, lulled her into not-quite-sleepiness. Her eyes drooped; her shoulders slumped. There was just—just—a sense of peace that settled over her. For once, the subdued atmosphere that always surrounded them had a nicer quality to it, something…

…a-me-li-o-rate-d.

Even her sur-li-ness, grinding teeth perpetually waiting for yellow cheese, couldn’t resist chasing these moments, couldn’t resist following the fireflies of hope when they appeared, couldn’t resist hunting bits of happiness.

For now, she could rest.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

Sometime later—about three rerun episodes of Sailor Moon, and thankfully during the tail end of the credits and last notes of the ending song, the door burst open, a bright voice calling out, “I’m home!” and two other, respectfully demure, voices adding, “Thank you for having us.”

Leaning back against the couch, she blinked her eyes to refocus them away from the television’s bright light as Madoka-san’s parents chimed a reply in the kitchen. Next to her, Nagisa perked up, head cocked toward the sound of Kyouko’s abrupt, nervous laughter following some indistinguishable murmurs of conversation as the television moved onto commercials.

“They’re here!” Nagisa announced, dragging Sayaka-san’s attention away from her phone.

Sayaka-san grinned apparently at the evidence of Kyouko’s bashfulness; Homura-san, on the other hand, remained peacefully, obliviously napping in a nest of blankets she’d somehow acquired sometime between the first episode and now.

A few seconds later, Madoka-san popped into the living room, Kyouko and Mami hot on her heels. “Hi, everyone!” Madoka-san greeted, smiling at them all, but her eyes sparkled at Homura-san in particular and she went straight to Homura-san’s side.

Madoka’s hand hesitated just the slightest bit before stroking Homura’s cheek.

“What about you, runt?”

“Huh?” She jerked her head back; Kyouko stared at her expectantly, head tilted just so. Nagisa stared at her, too, undoubtedly knowing. “Oh. Um.” She cast about for something to say, couldn’t quite ignore Homura-san’s waking murmur of, “Madoka,” couldn’t keep her eyes from straying to Madoka-san giving Homura-san a quick kiss.

“Oi! There are children present!” Kyouko squawked, hands flying to cover Yuma’s eyes.

She ducked from Kyouko’s flailing hands, just in time for a pillow to promptly hit Kyouko in the face thanks to Sayaka-san’s exasperation.

“Calm down, geez,” Sayaka-san rolled her eyes, “you’re almost as bad as Hitomi about public displays of affection. No, actually: you’re worse than Hitomi, and I didn’t even think that was possible!” Sayaka-san grinned teasingly.

Kyouko pulled a face at being compared to Hitomi-san, and Mami laughed, patting Kyouko’s shoulder in consolation. The pout Kyouko gave Mami, however, grabbed her attention away from Madoka and Homura’s cuddling.

She watched Mami-nee-san murmur something to Kyouko-nee-chan, who smirked and bumped their shoulders together; she wondered when, how, why that had happened—how had she overlooked it? Their hands brushed and their heads tilted toward each other in a way that was so obvious…

They were like fireflies drawn to each other.

Beautiful together, even if they were only so in a single moment.

Unsettled, she forced herself to interject, “You have good timing, nee-chan.” When Kyouko cocked an eyebrow at her, she gestured to the television, explaining, “The episode just ended.” Kyouko exchanged an exasperated look with Mami, and together they turned a fond gaze to Yuma. Her heart thumped in her chest.

(Not parents, not parents, they were not her parents.)

“Great!” Madoka-san cheered, startling Yuma. “We should get started on making dinner, then! We got all the ingredients for a special cold noodle meal! Oh, I’m so excited!!” Madoka-san’s hands clapped, excessive joy practically saturating the room. “Aren’t you excited, Homura-chan?” Madoka-san glommed onto Homura-san.

“Very excited,” Homura-san deadpanned, though a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “I could hardly sleep last night for how excited I was.”

“You mean for how excited Madoka was,” Sayaka-san poked at a pouting Madoka-san.

“Right?! She kept texting me and Mami all night! Yet somehow, you’re still full of energy while I feel dead on my feet,” Kyouko huffed, getting an encouraging snicker from Sayaka-san.

“As if you weren’t beside yourself with anticipation,” Mami retorted with a stern finger-wag to Kyouko.

“Doesn’t count: I always look forward to food.”

Pulling on Kyouko’s hand, Nagisa whined, “Let’s go already—I want to see what kind of cold noodles they’re going to make!”

“Here’s a hint: watermelon is an important ingredient,” Madoka-san cheerfully piped up, now bouncing up and down on her heels and making Homura-san lightly sway in tandem since Madoka-san still had an unrelenting grip on Homura-san’s arm. By the faint smile on Homura-san’s face, she didn’t seem to mind.

Kyouko thought for a moment, humming pensively and squinting to better focus, then her eyes lit up and she promptly dragged both Nagisa and Mami into the kitchen, Sayaka-san hot on their heels and leaving Yuma alone with Madoka-san and Homura-san.

Homura-san remarked, “We can always rely on Kyouko Sakura to keep her priorities aligned.” She smirked even as she finally left her nest.

“Food is important,” Madoka-san cheerfully agreed, missing Homura-san’s faint teasing as she helped Homura-san fix her hair.

“Nee-chan is a gourmand,” Yuma interjected in defense of her older sister (and, partially, to remind them of her presence).

“A starving gourmand if you don’t hurry up,” complained Kyouko, sticking her head back into the living room. “What’s the hold up?”

“We’re going, we’re going,” Madoka-san placated, and they followed Kyouko to the kitchen.

There, Nagisa was smugly showing off her knowledge of German to Sayaka-san at the table, while on the other side of the kitchen Mami was talking to Mr. Kaname about the finer points of cooking noodles.

Madoka-san announced, “Papa, we’re taking over the kitchen now~”

“Alright. Have fun, everyone,” Mr. Kaname chuckled, nodding to Mami and patting his daughter’s head as he left. “I’ll keep Mama and Takkun entertained while our chefs du jour prepare tonight’s dinner.”

“Thank you,” the six of them chorused as they crammed around the kitchen counter with unbridled anticipation, though Yuma loitered back a bit, having heard Mrs. Kaname’s voice in the hallway.

The others were preoccupied enough to not notice her distraction.

She hovered just inside the kitchen for a moment, watching from the corner of her eye an altogether alien scene unfolding: Mrs. Kaname tossed up a squealing Tatsuya and Mr. Kaname scolded her, smiles blooming readily even when they thought themselves alone, unobserved.

Madoka is lucky to have this family.

A proper family. A home. A mother and a father and a little brother. They loved each other. They didn’t have to worry about stuff like whether or not they’d still be alive the next day, whether or not their lives would remain stable.

It made her heart pound and squeeze in her chest. She couldn’t decide whether she hated it or wanted it more.

Nagisa, at least, had had a mother. Mami had had her parents. Kyouko had had a whole family, too. But she? She hadn’t had any such thing. She hadn’t had security.

(She’d had—cigarette burns and shoulder shoves and hoarse yells ringing in her ears. Then, she’d had one gruff friend. Now she had—something.)

Why would Madoka want to leave this family behind? That, that was selfish, ungrateful, and a colossal waste. She had a perfectly good family, and she ruined it with them.

Yes, that was the question—why on Earth would Madoka choose girls doomed to die over her own family? Madoka could just walk away from everything, wash her hands of this mess, and no one would blame her because Madoka Kaname had so much more to lose—so many more reasons to live—than the rest of them.

“Yuma-chan?” Mami-san called out.

“Sorry, I got distracted,” she reassured Mami, hurrying to settle in beside Nagisa at the far end of the counter. She stuffed her messy thoughts back inside her head.

“We’re slicing cucumbers right now. Then we’re going to slice carrots, and tomatoes, and kimchi,” Nagisa informed her, pouting.

“Hey, at least you didn’t get stuck watching eggs and noodles boil.” Sayaka-san pointed to the stove behind them, where Homura-san was perched on a chair with her hands clasped in her lap and a bored look on her face.

That pulled a slight smile out of Yuma, but Madoka-san’s chatter, Mami’s explanations, the conversation between Sayaka-san and Kyouko, and the repetitive motion of slicing vegetables left her mind free to continue dwell on her anger towards Madoka-san (to brood, as Nagisa would say).

It made her really, really angry to think of Madoka-san’s selfishness. So much so that she had to take a deep breath. Maybe it wasn’t fair of her to judge Madoka-san so harshly. After all, Madoka-san was supposed to be one of them, too. It was only at Homura-san’s request that Madoka-san refrained from making a wish. That meant something, right?

Like, like Hitomi Shizuki: there was more than met the eye. It happened all the time in books, and life imitated art.

Right?

She just… couldn’t shake off the thought that it didn’t make sense to continue to associate with Madoka, to intrude on the happy lives of the Kaname family, to bring malaise into a corner of the world that had managed to stay intact.

Nothing made sense, but she kept her head down and her hands busy. There was no point, after all, in spoiling even this little bit of peace for the others.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

“You’re staring, again,” she hissed, a warning she kept on having to repeat because chartreuse just couldn’t tear her eyes away from cherry blossoms and thistle. Not that she really had room to judge—wheels of yellow cheese and the crunch of white bone—but at least she herself wasn’t so overt, and definitely not in front of sharp-eyed heliotrope!

“Forgive me for staring,” verdant snapped under her breath, chopsticks forcefully stabbing into her meal, “but you might as well forgive me for breathing.”

They stared at each other for long seconds, each unwilling to concede, but eventually verdant did force her gaze back down to continue eating. The chatter around them from crisscrossing conversations covered their little moment, but Nagisa was sure someone or other had noticed (and would en-qui-re, eventually).

Honestly.

They were so awkward, green and red and yellow, much more than purple, whose agitation was more of a habit these days, settling easily enough after a bit of reassurance. It was so painfully obvious that red and yellow didn’t know what to do in the face of a “real” family, that green couldn’t decide whether to hate or to love the Kanames, that the three of them very much felt like… in-ter-lo-pers.

Intruders, castaways, orphans.

They wore their sense of “not belonging” on their sleeves for anyone, everyone, someone to see; their yearning for a home practically shone out of their eyes. In her less kind, more ruthless thoughts, she thought they were pitiful.

It made her—angry, frustrated, hurt—it made her wonder why their little mish-mash of color fell short in their eyes despite Nagisa herself feeling warm and happy and secure in their self-made family.

As she watched rouge nod along with sharp attentiveness to something heliotrope was saying while fern and saffron hung onto beaver brown’s measured words, however, she knew the answer was as obvious as their longing: red and yellow were scarcely older than children, and they were unsatisfactory substitutes for green, who had never known a true parent. It was nearly too much weight for the three of them to bear.

Weak-weak-weak.

Even the sweetness of the watermelon couldn’t counter the sudden, itching urge to bite. She blinked rapidly a few times to force the silly thoughts out of her mind. She was tired, still adjusting to the ration on grief seeds, and nothing more. She shoved more cold noodles into her mouth.

She ate silently, but with happy little hums in-ter-sper-sed between spoonfuls of soft food.

This was supposed to be a happy occasion. And yet—

—it took forever for dinner to end.

“Alright everyone,” heliotrope drew their attention once dinner finally, finally, finally came to a lull. “As wonderful as it is to be surrounded by your adoring fresh faces—” heliotrope rolled her eyes when beaver’s brown nudged her—“I know it will take you a while to settle down to sleep, so let Tomo and I take care of the cleanup while you girls get ready for bed. You have free reign of the bathroom!” Heliotrope winked.

“Oh, but, we should help,” marigold protested, anemone nodding solemnly in agreement. They looked to cyan but got only a placid smile in response, and lavender’s eyes drooped in tell-tale exhaustion.

“You are guests and friends. You can take your plates to the sink, but that’s all for tonight,” carnation said, and the note of warning in her smiling face settled it. Sometimes pink could be fe-ro-cious in her care for them.

So, they gathered their dishes, wished heliotrope and beaver brown a good night, and trooped into pink’s bedroom.

Qui-es-cent quietness accompanied them as they got ready for bed: yellow and red shuffled awkwardly around pink, purple, and blue’s confident motions, and green was distracted by the tons of stuffed animals pink had in her room.

For a few moments, the silence contained in a single bedroom felt almost too much to bear, but when they moved en masse to the bathroom, bubblegum pink broke it with admiration for goldenrod’s os-ten-ta-tious curls.

“Nee-chan uses magic,” laurel green revealed with a smirk, finally looking away from the stuffed animals on the shelves.

“Wait, she does? That’s cheating, Mami-san,” bubblegum turned her pout to goldenrod, who blushed and shrugged, not ceasing the careful strokes of her hairbrush through her wavy hair.

“I simply make full use of my available resources.”

Vermillion warbled around her toothbrush, “Shesh jush vain.” Her grin was mostly obscured by frothy toothpaste that slowly oozed down her chin.

Behind vermillion, Nagisa and laurel green giggled and rolled their eyes.

“Well, I think Mami-san is beautiful,” robin’s egg blue declared earnestly. They all turned to stare at her, and, after a long moment, blue blushed bright red and hastily ducked out.

Vermillion laughed, nearly choking on the water she was using to rinse her mouth.

“I used to do it by hand before,” sunflower smiled wryly, rolling her eyes at rouge, “but it’s just so much easier to do it by magic. It’s one of the few indulgences I allow myself.” Ignoring rouge’s muttered, Few, right, sunflower added, “Don’t you get tired of brushing your hair, Homura-san?”

“Sometimes,” verbena murmured absentmindedly, squinting at her glasses as she cleaned specks of water from them.

“I like to brush Homura-chan’s hair before we go to sleep,” rose remarked, patting her face dry. “It relaxes both of us.” At that, verbana’s cheeks tinged red but she said nothing, instead ducking her head to hide her bashful smile behind her hair.

At least this time, green was too preoccupied dodging vermillion’s wet hands to notice rose and lavender’s moment.

“You know,” saffron mused, “I never thought of it that way.” The strokes through her hair paused, and saffron looked blankly into one of the wall mirrors.

Teal popped into the bathroom again, asking, “Thought of what in what way?”

“Brushing someone’s hair is a mutually enjoyable exercise,” lavender reported, this time looking far more awake and—eager? Lavender had her head turned to rose, who was in the middle of brushing her teeth. “That, I can corroborate.”

“Not with my hair,” auburn sharply told saffron, taking a wary step back.

Grinning wryly, saffron retorted, “Your hair is impossible to tame. No, I was thinking we should… maybe, if you want, we could—we could braid each other’s hair.” That last part came out mumbled and fast. Harvest gold stared hard at the floor, red taking over her face and shoulders rounding up.

“It’ll be fun to try to braid Sayaka-chan’s hair,” cerise noted before the silence could become heavy again, a happy grin spreading across her whole face.

“Oh, now that sounds like fun,” auburn smirked, but she looked at harvest gold as she said it. “It’ll be a good bonding exercise, good for moral, or whatever,” auburn shrugged carelessly. More seriously, still staring straight at harvest gold, she said, “It’s not a bad idea,” to which harvest gold loosened her shoulders and beamed.

Why does it matter at all? Nagisa wanted to ask, but that was a selfish question, a question almost as selfish as the wish that brought her one moment of happiness and many more of regret.

It wasn’t their fault.

It was hers.

For wanting more, for having silly expectations and in-com-pat-i-ble standards, for forgetting the consequences—it was unrealistic of her, wasn’t it?

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

She’d felt off-kilter, silly, ever since she’d let Madoka-san brush and braid her hair. It’d been a nice experience, but she couldn’t help the tension that flared in her sternum in response to Madoka-san’s cheerful humming and casual touch; the others had relaxed into easy smiles, sinking into the mistake of forgetting that this little slumber party ultimately wouldn’t change anything.

Even Mami had melted into a boneless pile of contentment under Homura-san’s careful brushing—something neither Kyouko nor Nagisa had managed to achieve.

It was unfair.

“I’m going to get some water,” Madoka-san said as she finished brushing Homura-san’s hair, the last one to get her hair done.

“Maybe you should bring a pitcher and some cups,” Homura-san suggested. Slow blinks indicated that Homura-san was fighting off the urge to sleep.

“I’ll help.” Yuma scrambled out of the futon, brushing aside Nagisa’s hands. This was the perfect chance to do something, to get some answers (if she could marshal her thoughts into questions in time, if she could untie her tongue, if she could muster enough bravery to sidestep Madoka-san’s act of obliviousness).

“Thanks, Yuma-chan.” Madoka-san smiled at her; it was downright infuriating how guileless Madoka-san acted, and that was enough to solidify her resolve to have a rational discussion without the others (interfering, muddling things, making excuses again and again and again).

They left Madoka’s bedroom in silence, walked down the stairs into the even deeper silence of the dark house, left the lights off as they tip-toed around the kitchen getting enough plastic cups for everyone, and filled a pitcher. It was… quiescent. Madoka-san didn’t even hum while they shuffled around; it would’ve been a stiff, menacing silence if Yuma hadn’t seen Madoka-san’s smile through the grey. Madoka-san, it seemed, was well at ease in the darkness.

Did that say something about Madoka-san? This was real life, so—probably not.

Finally, when Madoka-san made to go back upstairs, Yuma blurted, “How can you be so calm?” Her voice sounded loud and disembodied. Was she asking the right question? Was there even a right question at all?

“…You disappear,” Madoka-san said. It was hard to tell her expression when she had her head tilted up the stairs. Her tone was gentle, yet somehow not condescending. “You disappear and pass the crown. I watch your beautiful souls from the sidelines, wondering what my purpose is. I know witnessing can’t possibly compare to living, but it still hurts to know that I’ll keep moving forward after you’ve stopped. Do you know why, Yuma?

“Do you know why someone like me will live over someone who deserves it more?”

She shook her head. Flowery language and self-deprecation aside, she didn’t have any sort of answer to give Madoka-san, who pointedly kept her gaze somewhere above them and probably didn’t expect an answer.

The silence between them was enough, until finally Madoka-san continued, “I know—I know there’s a reason our worlds have collided. We don’t know why, or how, but that’s fine. It’s better not to know, because this way we can make our own meaning, you know?” Madoka nodded to herself. “I’m going to treasure what’s left of our lives. I’m going to remember you.”

Pretty words, but Yuma still had misgivings: “Remember us? That’s pointless. That doesn’t do anything. You’re just collecting us, like we’re strays, like you’re some philanthropist.” She grit her teeth, hard, trying to ignore Mami’s voice in her head that chided her for being so disrespectful (and, further down, an angry, shouting voice demanding respect and silence from her—y’dunno anythin’, stupid brat).

“Yuma… is that how you see yourself? As a collectible?” Madoka frowned, soulful eyes and wringing hands.

“Don’t answer my question with a question,” she insisted.

Madoka shrugged, almost helplessly, and said, “You said so yourself, Yuma-chan: this won’t last forever. But why does that automatically mean that we have to give up? We’re living now. You are living right now. And that’s—that’s—we’re alive, Yuma-chan. Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

“Do you think it’s that easy?” she snapped. “What about, what about the pain, the depression, the, the fact that we’re going to die—”

“—No,” Madoka shook her head, “I don’t mean that your pain, your circumstances, and the end of the story aren’t valid, or that you’re not entitled to your feelings, and I won’t pretend to understand when you’re out there and I’m in here. It’s just….” Madoka waved her hands, evidently searching for a way to adequately phrase what she meant.

As Madoka pulled her thoughts together, Yuma took a deep breath, because Madoka wasn’t being confrontational. This wasn’t a… a competition. She recalled the conversation she’d had with Nagisa a few months ago—her own words had been, “it’s not a competition of who’s suffering more.” She had said that, yet… she had doubted that it would ever stop feeling like a competition. She lived as if it were, in fact, a competition; no matter what she’d said to Nagisa, and no matter the logical arguments, she knew she hadn’t made a real effort to actually change her mindset.

Did it even matter? Ultimately, whether or not she listened to what Madoka had to say, Yuma and the others would die.

(Would become witches. Would kill each other and kill themselves. There was nothing that could change those cold truths. This wasn’t a fairytale. This didn’t have a storybook happy ending, and saying they’d die was just one more way of diminishing the brutal, violent, inevitable truth.)

It was pointless.

“Mami-san might not have a future,” Madoka said at last, her words merciless in the dark and empty kitchen, the kitchen where just a few hours ago Mami-nee-san had joyously guided them through cooking a proper, traditional meal, “but that doesn’t mean her present needs to be completely miserable. Why shouldn’t she enjoy her own life? Why shouldn’t you, Yuma-chan, enjoy your life?

“What’s the point in living at all if you’re just waiting to die?” Madoka’s eyes bored into Yuma’s, the optimism relentless optimism in them and her soft voice at odds with her accusation. “Why live at all?”

It was an accusation from someone who had no right to accuse yet somehow had seen what Yuma had taken for granted; in her own defense, she couldn’t help blurting out, “Because it’s mine.”

Silence.

A drawn-out pause.

She had forgotten, but she knew it was true. Everything else—well, everything else mattered, but this was true. All the complications, manipulations, downfalls that were in her life, those held importance. They did not diminish this truth.

“What’s left of this moment… it’s mine.” Madoka laughed, and Yuma laughed a slightly wet, constricted laugh. Then, she affirmed: “Wherever it’s going, I’m not going to waste it, because this is my life.”

“You’ll light up the sky, Yuma-chan. I know you will.”

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

Once everyone’s breathing had tapered off into sleep—blue being the last to fall asleep, green being a light sleeper for the first half hour, and red taking a while to stop tossing and turning—she opened her eyes to a pitch-black bedroom. She blinked, felt her eyes burn as they changed, waited for the sharp itch in her teeth to fade, and slowly, carefully sat up to stare at their grey forms in a bedroom of darker grey.

Pink and purple shared pink’s bed, intertwined so deeply that they were basically one form underneath their blanket. Between the bed and pink’s desk, blue lay on a futon all to herself, facing toward the bed with both hands curled under her chin. By the foot of the bed, Nagisa was pressed against the wall because feldgrau had hogged most of their futon. On green’s other side were yellow and red; red was flat on her back a few feet from the door while mellow yellow curled close and clutched red’s shirt in a tight fist.

Everyone breathed slow and deep, fast asleep.

There was no reason to stay awake, but she kept sweeping her gaze across the room, kept running her tongue over the sharp points and edges of her teeth. She couldn’t sleep, not yet. She was just…

…just…

…thoughtful. She couldn’t get feldgrau’s shining eyes out of her head. She stared harder at the others, wondering why feldgrau had come back different. Lighter. Happier. More of a firefly than a shadow.

They all looked so grey even though she knew they were full of color when awake. They were grey, and they were colorful. It was weird, that jux-ta-po-si-tion, but in a roundabout way it made sense: they were magical girls. They were hopeful, and they were pessimistic.

They were both.

Until the day they disappeared—they were alive.

Her breaths evened out.

They were alive.

/\

Chapter Text

Anchor

Courting—not dating, because they knew that once they went down this path, they would be serious as serious could get even if they might one day end up never speaking to each other after a devastating divorce—Sayaka was a challenge. All the love she had for Hitomi did not erase the fact that Sayaka tied herself into contradictory knots more often than not. Of course, Hitomi insisted that it was a welcome challenge, that she loved Sayaka’s foibles as well as Sayaka’s better traits, and that she was confident she would earn Sayaka’s absolute faith.

The light in Hitomi’s eyes, the shape and the taste of her mouth, the scent of her hair and her skin—Sayaka wanted nothing more than to sink into Hitomi freely, easily, painlessly. She really did. If Sayaka let her, she knew Hitomi would never let her down. Hitomi would anchor her to the world. But Sayaka would fail to give the same to Hitomi. Sayaka would doubtlessly fail Hitomi again and again and again, for Sayaka knew herself to be much weaker, and she knew she would take from Hitomi more than she would give.

She was a weak, useless zombie. It would be constant, wretched, rotten work piled onto Hitomi's already overburdened shoulders.

No matter that Hitomi kept telling her, “It’s not rotten work. Not to me. Not if it’s you,” a loud part of Sayaka could only see their romance end in tragedy. She would take, and take, and one day the world would catch onto the fact that Sayaka Miki had, in fact, died that day in April and she would take from Hitomi one final time.

But, damn her weak self, an equally loud part of her looked to and believed in Hitomi’s faith as the world spun around them. So what if Sayaka was a zombie? She could still hold Hitomi in her warm arms, she could feel the wind on her face as she chased Madoka, she could snark at Homura as well as ever. The fact that she did all this as a zombie had little impact on her day-to-day life—up until Hitomi one day asked to hold her soul gem.

Exploring that led to interesting new frontiers which had her reevaluating her zombiehood as something that might actually have a bright side; which was, of course, immediately noticed.

“Sayaka’s been very happy for a few days now,” remarked Madoka as the first hyena.

“A specific flavor of happy,” added Mami as the second hyena.

“Sayaka,” leered Kyouko as the third hyena, suddenly circling her, “is this…? Have you discovered—?”

 So desperate was she to avoid an embarrassing grilling, she turned to Homura for rescue; for once, Homura did not make her work for it, and simply said, “I and the younger ones among us don’t need to hear any more of Miki’s private life. Let’s focus on our patrol schedule.” Not even a subtle insult included; Homura went up a few points in Sayaka’s regard, while her supposed best friend went down a few points as she pouted.

“Bah, we already know the score! It’s the same every week! Talking about Sayaka’s bedroom life sounds waaaaay better.” There went Sayaka’s face: as red as freaking Kyouko’s hair. “But,” Kyouko raised her hands with a smirk, “I’ll keep my mouth shut for your innocent, un-despoiled ears, Akemi.”

Yuma and Nagisa were starting to look alarmingly intrigued—they were getting at that age—so Mami nudged Kyouko, and Madoka said with a little giggle, “We’ll talk later, Sayaka-chan!”

Madoka had become suspiciously bold—unfortunately, glaring at Homura after that save wouldn’t be chivalrous, so Sayaka settled for grumbling, “I don’t pry about your relationship.”

“Because you didn’t like me,” Homura drawled.

Which was a fair point but also strikingly shocking: she really had let go of the suffocating, tar-like animosity she had felt toward Homura (and, honestly, herself) for that awful April. Certain behaviors, at this point, continued through sheer inertia rather than anything active. She might actually be learning to accept her existence as a zombie.

So, it was with that optimistic realization in her heart that, as she was leaving the Tomoe residence after their meeting, she agreed when Mami asked her if she and Hitomi would like to go on a double date with Mami and Kyouko.

“Madoka and Homura,” Mami said with a fond look down the street where the pair had gone just a few minutes earlier, “have had to demure on account of Homura’s health. Kyouko was surprisingly disappointed about it. Homura has been doing better, though, so we might still get that double date, but, ah, I was also just thinking that we really haven’t heard all that much about Shizuki-san.”

Nothing good, Sayaka suddenly remembered, due to the whole drama between herself and Hitomi and Kyousuke.

Drama that had led to Kyouko not having a good impression of Hitomi (and Kyousuke), what with Sayaka’s bad decisions kind of starting from there. Even years later, that cursed April still followed them. “Actually, I’ll, uh, have to check with Hitomi. But I’m sure she’ll say yes.” Oh, self-loathing, old friend, what a surprise to see you again so soon!

“Wonderful! Let’s see, ask her if a picnic next Saturday works for her, since Yuma and Nagisa will be spending the day at Madoka-chan’s place. Kyouko also has Fridays free at her work right now, but I believe Shizuki-san has cram school?”

“Yeah, she has cram school Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, plus a bunch of other stuff throughout the week, but I’ll let you know if she can spare a couple of hours on Saturday,” she said. The real issue would be getting Hitomi to agree to spending time making nice to someone who had made no secret of disliking Hitomi. It was Sayaka’s own fault, however, and a knight had to take responsibility of their actions.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

The invitation came from Tomoe-san to Sayaka, who tied herself in knots over the idea for days until Hitomi coaxed it out of her: Tomoe-san wanted to know if they were available and amendable to a picnic outing between the four of them this coming Saturday afternoon. It was kind of a double date, Sayaka explained, but also Mami and Kyouko wanted to get to know Sayaka’s… girlfriend.

Hitomi thought it cute that Sayaka stumbled over the label. “Do you want to go?” she asked, her hands lax around a can of vending machine coffee. They were in public, so Sayaka would not be handing over her soul gem, but Hitomi imagined herself holding her lover’s soul gem as she pressed a thumb against the warm aluminum.

Shrugging, Sayaka mumbled against the lip of her own can, “I’m not the one who’ll be grilled.”

Indecisiveness aside, Sayaka did have a point. Whereas Sakura-san had made plain her disdain for Hitomi, Tomoe-san had withheld judgement and remained distant from the interplay between Sayaka, Kyousuke, and Hitomi. Tomoe-san would likely use this opportunity to form an opinion. Since Sayaka held Mami Tomoe’s opinion in high regard—could that opinion influence Sayaka’s participation in her relationship with Hitomi?

She did not want to say that she had not felt happiness before Sayaka—that would place far too much of herself in someone else’s hands, which she refused even if that someone else was Sayaka and even if she was sort of asking that of Sayaka—yet this emotion in her chest at the thought of losing Sayaka felt like… bereavement. Such fear and ignorance, however, had no purpose in Hitomi’s world. As shaky and fragile as their relationship felt, Hitomi would nevertheless place her faith in Sayaka.

Carefully, she nudged Sayaka’s shoulder.

“Guess that means we’re going,” Sayaka grinned weakly. “You have a really weird type of pride, you know?”

Silly Sayaka—this was another evaluation. While Mami Tomoe and Kyouko Sakura gauged her suitability as Sayaka’s partner, Hitomi would gauge Sayaka’s devotion to her in the face of opposition. Sayaka claimed to have no fear of parental disapproval, and Kyousuke’s parents did hold Sayaka in surprisingly high regard, but all the faith in the world was not an excuse to slack on preparations. If she wanted Sayaka’s meeting with her parents to go as well as possible, then she needed to know where the weak points of Sayaka’s armor were. Hitomi strived for practicality in all things, after all.

Realizing she still had Sayaka’s gaze on her, she said, “They are your friends. You care, so I will make the effort to care.”

“But you won’t stand for any disrespect,” Sayaka said, jumping to her feet to pace restlessly as she added, “just go easy on Kyouko. If I’m beneath your station, Kyouko’s… well, uh. She’s definitely a lot more casual than the rest of us. And, um. Well. You know she doesn’t really like you, but that’s my fault, because I was—um, you know—”

“I know, Sayaka. We’ve met,” she reminded her girlfriend.

“I just want to make sure you know!” Sayaka raised her hands defensively. “I want them to like you,” she added softly.

Hitomi tapped her nails in succession against her coffee, deliberately not responding, and Sayaka’s eyes darted down to observe their movement. Then their eyes met, and Sayaka had to glance away with a fierce blush. “Also, they know we’re—we’re, um, y’know—sleeping together?” At Hitomi’s raised eyebrow and faux-disinterested hum, Sayaka squirmed in place and finally mumbled, “I guess I’m just that easy to read. So, uh, I’m definitely getting roasted by Kyouko. And you, too.”

“I expected as much,” she told Sayaka, mostly out of a desire to move the conversation along to more palatable, less fraught topics before she had to go back inside for cram school. “I’m sure you’ve realized by now how much bolder Madoka has become. Moreover, you are quite fetching when you’re happy.”

Sayaka blinked as she tried to follow Hitomi’s logic, and her resulting blush delighted Hitomi enough that she had to press her mouth to her coffee can in lieu of kissing Sayaka silly. As much as she refused to be shamed after so long holding herself back (after finally purging herself of what she had unwittingly internalized), they were right outside her cram school’s building and she had not yet informed her parents of their relationship. They were so new, Sayaka still brittle, Hitomi still possessive; the day when they would have to draw certain boundaries would come soon enough, anyway.

Loving Sayaka felt so right, however, that Hitomi felt confident promising Sayaka her full support no matter how much work she would have to put into making their relationship last. It was work, she would not lie, but so long as the person was Sayaka Miki, she did not consider it rotten work. It had been a hard struggle with Kyousuke, after all, for whom she had felt a fraction of that which she felt for Sayaka, yet still she had been willing to put in that effort for him. Why would she balk when she believed in this relationship so much more?

“Okay, you’re teasing me to show me how in control you are at all times, that I’m being a worrywart,” Sayaka nodded along to her own words, eyes clearly on the movement of Hitomi’s throat as she drank. “I love your confidence, so you know what? I’m just going to sit back and enjoy watching you charm Kyouko, somehow.”

“And Tomoe-san,” she had to add. She also very much doubted Sayaka would be as blasé as she claimed, but that bluster was part of Sayaka’s charm.

“Don’t worry about Mami-chan,” Sayaka waved off, but Hitomi would not so easily underestimate the high esteem Sayaka held for her beloved sempai. Especially since Hitomi would be deliberately provocative; she would be walking a dangerously fine line.

Her watch beeped, and Sayaka’s eyes flashed. Neither, however, said anything for a moment. Then, “I have to go back, now,” she said, holding out a hand for Sayaka to help her up. It was a transparent excuse to touch; one they took with gratitude and frustration both as they held fast to each other’s hand for a too-short moment.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Hitomi-chan,” said her darling Sayaka with a fierce look in her eyes.

They parted reluctantly.

“Tomorrow,” she echoed.

“I know you have someone to pick you up, but remember to let me know when you get home, okay?” Sayaka asked as she did every other day Hitomi had to stay late for cram school. Like she couldn’t quite let go, like she had to stall for just a few more seconds with Hitomi.

They couldn’t have that, Hitomi couldn’t have Sayaka getting into bad habits, so she took a deliberate step back. “Mhm,” she tilted her head in a fraction of a nod. She turned, and left.

This would be the most likely path their life would take over the coming years: busy schedules and societal norms cutting short their moments together. For Sayaka, she was glad to endure. Yet enduring was surviving, not living. Hitomi would very much like to live her life.

Perhaps Madoka had a point in pushing for hope.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

After the second hour of a long, torturous, convoluted outfit selection process in which Mami came increasingly closer to losing her remaining marbles trying to figure out what would impress Little-Miss-Rich-Girl, “without looking like I’m trying too hard!” Kyouko found herself cursing Homura’s poor health and Sayaka’s poor choices in girlfriends.

“This one, or this one?”

“That one.”

“But what about this one?”

“Looks good.”

“So, this one, or that one?”

“This one.”

“Why?”

“Can’t go wrong with thigh-highs. You always look so hot in them.”

“Kyouko!”

“Sorry! My brain is melting!” Despite being well-known as a restless soul prone to skipping town, Kyouko started to suspect she would be the steady, reliable one in their relationship. Should she be worried that the idea kind of appealed to her?

Mami wilted, which at least got rid of the manic look but otherwise unfortunately wasn’t much of an improvement. “I’m thinking too hard about this, aren’t I.” Mami sunk onto her bed, head in her hands, and Kyouko only hesitated a little bit before sitting down next to her and wrapping an arm around her girlfriend.

“You just gotta be more confident in yourself, Mami-chan. Like, you’re an independent young woman who’s running a household before you even graduate from high school, while also being a veteran magical girl! And even before all that, you’ve been practically emancipated since middle school! You’ve got way more real-life experience than some snobby girl born with a silver spoon in her mouth!”

“Don’t make assumptions about Shizuki-san,” Mami chided her, but leant more of her weight onto Kyouko.

“Yeah, yeah. How ‘bout I show you what I’m gonna wear, and you can come up with something so that we’re matching colors or something? That’s cute and trendy, right?”

Mami perked up, saying, “What if I picked out your outfit for you? You know you’ll just choose jean shorts and an old hoodie, anyway.”

“…Won’t you have the same problem you’re having right now?”

“It’s always easier to dress someone else,” Mami waved her off with a smile. That was a definite improvement, but Kyouko stayed where she was. “And it’s a good idea, tying our outfits to each other’s. I’d like that.”

“Pick whatever you want, babe. I’ll wear it, no questions asked.”

Eyebrow twitching and giving her a side glance, Mami clearly doubted her commitment but didn’t voice it. That expression by itself was enough to goad Kyouko into rolling her eyes and snarking, “I’m pretty sure I look hot no matter what I’m wearing, especially now that I’ve got height on my side. The jean shorts-and-hoodie combo proves it.”

“I’m sure you think so, dear,” Mami patted the arm holding her.

“What—!”

“—But, seriously, please don’t antagonize Shizuki-san. We’re going to trust that Sayaka-chan knows what she’s doing, and we’re going to be supportive, okay? This isn’t, isn’t an inquisition or anything of the sort. We just want to get to know Shizuki-san.”

She sighed. “We already know she’s the type to make ultimatums.” As soon as she said that, however, she tensed and so did Mami. “I mean—stupid ones. Silly. Petty. Not, I mean, nothing like what we had.”

“Well, we were a bit stupid and petty, in hindsight. That comes with the territory of middle school girlhood, I think. And high school girlhood,” Mami added with a thoughtful tilt of her head that sent Mami’s extensive hair straight into Kyouko’s face. “As intense as our lives are, we’re still girls. And, you know, Junko-san serves as irrefutable proof that adults can make stupid, silly, petty decisions.”

“I’m not liking what I’m hearing..., but fine. I’m not convinced at all, but I’ll keep my mouth shut as long as Shizuki makes Sayaka happy. I’m still totally reserving the right to aggressively confront Sayaka about her choices if anything goes wrong!”

“We’ll just have to follow Madoka’s lead, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have hope, even if the world disagrees.”

Optimism looked very good on Mami. And even Homura believed in that cheesiness, and Kyouko didn’t really want to spend every moment tense and angry and confrontational towards everyone and everything, so she felt no qualms pulling Mami more tightly against herself and admitting, “Y’know what? I think even my jaded heart can manage that.”

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

Shizuki took her damn sweet time giving someone else’s girlfriend a once-over. Mami was probably twisting herself into knots thinking Shizuki was judging her, but Kyouko just knew that was an appraisal. That look was a little too appreciative, however, so Kyouko loudly cleared her throat and stepped forward a bit to catch Shizuki’s eye.

“We’re lucky to have such fine weather for our little picnic, aren’t we, Shizuki-san?”

“Indeed, we are, Sakura-san,” answered Sayaka’s girlfriend seamlessly, acting all demure, but Kyouko caught the barest hint of a smirk there. Wily as any vixen. “Shall we go, then?”

Sayaka looked to Mami first—was it time to get a big stick?—who said, “Yes, let’s get going.”

“Yeah,” Sayaka nodded a little too slowly. “I’m sure Kyouko’s hungry already.”

“That,” she jabbed a finger at Sayaka as they set off, “was completely uncalled for. Some of us work, okay?” That actually hadn’t been intended as an attack on Shizuki, but Sayaka’s flinch and Mami’s worried hand on her arm meant it had been taken as one. In a lighter tone, she said, “So, a person’s gotta have some hobbies on the side to live a little, and my hobby happens to be food.”

“It’s what makes us such a good match,” Mami contributed, the hand she had on Kyouko’s arm reversing its grip so that suddenly Mami was Kyouko’s arm candy. (Hm, that didn’t sound quite right?) “I love to bake, and Kyouko saves me from over-indulging. Her feedback has even inspired some new recipes.”

“I live to serve,” she drawled, carefully insouciant, and the subtle dig at Sayaka flew past them. She allowed herself a smirk, then carefully redirected her thoughts. That picnic basket was probably a pain to carry one-handed.

“Your devotion is truly inspiring, Sakura-san,” cut in Shizuki.

Ah, Sayaka’s girlfriend proved astute, again. Maybe in the future they would be close enough to trade barbs pointed enough to cut deep without the ensuing blood ruining everyone’s day—because what was life without a little pain—but today Kyouko had been instructed to be as gentle as possible with this new development. “Took me a bit to find it in me,” she said instead, because that was necessary. She wordlessly took the picnic basket from Mami’s other hand.

“Pardon me, Sakura-san, but I believe bravery counts for more than fearlessness does.” Shizuki had to take a quick step back to avoid a collision when Sayaka abruptly stopped, and Kyouko pulled Mami aside so they wouldn’t become a four-car pile-up. “Sayaka-san?”’

“I’m wondering where ‘reckless’ fits on that scale,” Sayaka laughed self-consciously, hand going behind her head and not quite making eye-contact despite putting herself so squarely in the spotlight.

When Shizuki took a moment too long to think of how to respond to that, Mami said wryly, “You can be brave and reckless at the same time.” From the sudden pressure of nails through her cardigan, Kyouko figured that comment was aimed at… any and all of them, frankly. The universe knew every single one of them had been brave and stupidly reckless at least once—Shizuki included, judging from the way she pursed her mouth for a moment.

“It happens to the best of us,” Kyouko offered, and Sayaka scoffed but relaxed.

Picnic back on track, they walked for a few minutes in silence. From their position behind Shizuki, behind Sayaka, Kyouko and Mami had a good opportunity to study the couples’ body language. Unlike Mami, who had so readily looped an actually possessive hand around Kyouko’s arm, Shizuki kept her hands to herself, all prim and proper and barely-restrained.

Sayaka, meanwhile, seemed determined to out-walk her own barely-restrained desire to lavish attention upon Shizuki. Now, Madoka may have had a point that there was some spicy gossip to be had there, but on second thought Homura was right. They didn’t need to know that much about Sayaka’s private life. Sayaka just had to get better at not giving everything away on her face for everyone to see.

Except, not as good as Shizuki, whose only tell showed in her unnaturally stiff hands. Half of Sayaka’s insecurities probably came from Shizuki’s serene, but stone-cold expressions.

Contrary to what Shizuki was undoubtedly thinking, no one paid them much mind. There went four reasonably-fashionable girls, out and about on whatever it was teenage girls got up to in this day and age. There was nothing unusual to see here. It was just another day, another group of faceless girls.

“Next time, let’s just host them at our home for dinner,” she bent down to mutter at Mami.

The startled look Mami gave her in response was somehow insulting.

“What? I think they’d be less, y’know, tense. Right?”

“No, I got that,” Mami said slowly, hand momentarily flexing on Kyouko’s arm, “it’s just… never mind.”  At Kyouko’s insistent nudge, Mami huffed and said, “Fine, I was surprised to hear you say something that sounded so casually… domestic? ‘Hosting at our home,’ I mean. As if we’re a proper, adult couple that can just… throw cocktail parties to socialize with other young, affluent couples.”

Kyouko scrunched up her face at that, because, what?

“I just like the Gilded Age aesthetic, okay?”

Up ahead, Shizuki deigned to spare them a thought and look back at them.

Sayaka remained focused on quickly getting to their destination in one, sane piece.

“That’s weird,” Kyouko decided to say instead of anything scathing, and she received a pinch for her consideration. “Ow! That wasn’t an insult!” she protested, but she knew it didn’t sound very convincing through the suppressed laughter in her voice.

“It very much sounded like one!”

Shizuki’s gaze lingered on them—or on Mami, as she clung to Kyouko despite their little (not-really-a-) spat. Envious? It wouldn’t be a problem if Shizuki and Sayaka would just loosen up about being seen together in public.

Then again, with Shizuki’s parents still in the picture, their hesitation was valid. Orphanhood sure had its benefits!

Now Kyouko really wanted to get to eating.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

She hadn’t told Kyouko the full truth: being here, with her and with other people, not only felt casually domestic, but effortlessly real.

Holding onto Kyouko like this, and being held in return, both of them leaning against a grounding, sturdy tree made her feel less like a doll playing house with other dolls and more like a real human being building a life with her partner. Yes, she’d gotten dolled up for this double date, and she’d dressed up Kyouko, too, but this hadn’t felt like putting on a costume to play a role. This had felt like she was a teenage girl dipping into the fun parts of adulthood, not just prematurely struggling under adulthood’s responsibilities.

Everything that had been weighing on her—namely, she and her partner muddling through raising two preteens into adolescence and beyond despite themselves not yet being actual adults—still burdened her shoulders. All her worries—about money, about higher education, about getting enough grief seeds to keep their group going—remained in the tension of her jaw, her neck, her aching feet.

She made eye contact with Hitomi Shizuki.

Yet she found she could meet those steely eyes without faltering. Despite the heavy scrutiny of that gaze, she found herself smiling.

It helped that the tiramisù was perfectly intact, not a single crumb or frosted swirl amiss. Thank the stars!

With a nonverbal gesture, she offered Sayaka’s new girlfriend the tiramisù she and Nagisa and Yuma had so painstakingly prepared yesterday; Shizuki-san readily accepted. She took note of Shizuki-san’s gratifyingly pleased reaction to report to the girls, later. To the others, she said, “I’m sure Kyouko has room for dessert and more besides, but what about you, Sayaka-chan?”

“Lemme just take that off your hands, Mami-chan,” Kyouko immediately replied, leaning into Mami’s side and adding, “I think Sayaka-chan would much rather be fed little bites from her girlfriend’s plate.”

“Hey!” Sayaka-chan turned adorably red.

“Mou, Kyouko!” Having to lean precariously far to avoid Kyouko stealing the rest of the tiramisù, and with one of Kyouko’s hands wandering suspiciously close to her sensitive ribcage, Mami made the split-second decision to pass it off to Shizuki-san, who managed to not fumble the hasty pass. That left Mami free to seize Kyouko’s hands. “I ought to tie you to this tree,” she grumbled to her scheming girlfriend.

“But then I wouldn’t be able to do this,” said Kyouko, promptly draping herself fully onto Mami. Despite being a good handful of centimeters taller, Kyouko didn’t actually weigh much more than her, so she would’ve been content to let her partner remain like that—if it weren’t for the bark digging into her back and the laser focus of Sayaka-chan and Shizuki-san on them.

“Off, please,” Mami pushed at Kyouko’s quite push-able face. Her stubborn partner stayed put. At least those mischievous hands and that great mane of hair stayed in their proper places.

“Anyway,” Sayaka-chan tore her gaze away from them—had she subtly scooted closer to Shizuki-san?—and, rather boldly, set her hand on Shizuki-san’s knee to get her attention. That was rather unnecessary, since Shizuki-san had snapped towards Sayaka-chan at the sound of that first syllable. After opening and closing her mouth a few times, hand spasming on Shizuki-san’s knee, the proximity a double-edged sword, Sayaka-chan finally lifted her paper plate and weakly asked, “Cake?”

“My apologies, Sayaka,” Shizuki-san said, rather absently. A long moment later, she blinked and unfroze enough to cut and serve Sayaka-chan a slice. Then Sayaka-chan nearly dropped her plate.

“They’re so ridiculous. They need all the help they can get,” Kyouko muttered to her as she finally released Mami from her misery but kept an arm around her shoulders. After a moment’s consideration, she agreed with Kyouko’s assessment. Now, how would they go about helping these two?

“I got it, I got it!” Sayaka-chan babbled, visibly sweating.

“Don’t embarrass us in front of your sempais,” Shizuki-san said sharply; that expression which had previously been deceptively placid was suddenly severe and critical.

“W-What?”

Kyouko went rigid, and Sayaka-chan could only look on in stupefied dismay. Shizuki-san cocked one imperious eyebrow at Sayaka. Without a reply, an oppressive silence took root. But Mami had committed to trusting Sayaka.

So, Mami leant forward, forestalling Kyouko. “There is no need to stand on ceremony with us, girls. Nor should you be so nervous—we picked this place for its relative seclusion, and we are all birds of a feather, so to speak.” She made eye contact with Shizuki-san. “Now, since Sayaka-chan has had her piece, could you cut Kyouko a slice, Shizuki-san?”

“I get dessert after all?” Kyouko drawled, mercifully restraining her ire and playing along.

“I realized I forgot to thank you, earlier, for carrying the picnic basket,” she said with a quick peck at Kyouko’s lovely, soft cheek. Thank you for everything, Kyouko.

Lips twitching into a surprised smile, Kyouko took a moment to hold out her plate for Shizuki-san to carefully deposit a slice. Shizuki-san, moving with truly enviable grace, had smoothed out her expression back into stillness. That girl was dangerous. But was trust without danger?

“Does it count as dessert if it’s the first course?” Sayaka-chan ventured to say, though not without a consternated glance toward Shizuki-san.

Mami offered a bashful smile at Shizuki-san, who, in catching her checking on the tiramisù, had led to Mami trying to save a little face by playing it off as a deliberate act. Dangerous as Shizuki-san was, a demonstration of vulnerability might get Sayaka’s new girlfriend to play nice. “Well, I’ll be honest… I was afraid the tiramisù might have suffered cosmetic or catastrophic damage, so I just had to check on it as soon as possible.”

“Ah,” Kyouko said, nodding her head sagely and sporting a vexing smirk that practically invited inquisitive minds to dig deeper.

“I’m missing something here.” Sayaka-chan leaned forward, eyes brightening a bit, having taken the bait and properly invested in the conversation now.

“Since you asked,” Kyouko made a show of conceding, unheeding of Mami rolling her eyes, “I once had the great misfortune… of taking an exquisite slice of chocolate cake… to work….”

“…How is that—”

“—I was gettin’ there! Let me tell my story!”

“Well, then stop pausing dramatically in weird places!”

Shizuki-san watched both Sayaka-chan and Kyouko intently, tiramisù forgotten in her hands.

“Tch,” Kyouko wagged a finger in Sayaka-chan’s direction but continued, “so Mami’d outdone herself with this particular chocolate cake. Truly worthy of a chef’s kiss and deserved better than to be devoured by unsophisticated runts who could barely tell the difference between a Starbucks Danish and a bakery Danish.”

“—Kyouko, neither could you.” Mami resisted the urge to smush her face into her hands.

“Excuse you, I have since refined my palate!”

“And so have they.”

“Anyway! I convinced my beloved partner here to cut me an extra slice to take to work. A generous portion, please, I told her. That meant we had to dig up a bigger container for it, but we made it work. Or so I thought.” Kyouko paused dramatically, then continued before Sayaka could interject, “When I opened the container during my lunch hour the next day… to my horror, despair, utter shock!—” Sayaka-chan’s mouth twitched.

“—The frosting peeled away entirely. It had stuck to the lid.” Kyouko dashed a hand against her eyes, as if wiping away tears. Mind, Kyouko really had cried at the time, though she probably wouldn’t admit to such with Shizuki-san present.

Sayaka-chan remained leaning forward. Then she frowned, “…That’s it?”

“Y’know what, you suck as an audience. One star, do not recommend. See if I ever tell you a heart-felt story ever again!”

“I just think we didn’t need to sit through an entire production for something so, so…!” Sayaka-chan flapped her free hand in exasperation.

“Now, now, Sayaka-chan. Getting a photo of that took a few years off my life, you know? My pride as a baker took a serious hit.”

“It was good frosting,” Kyouko insisted. “Nothing like the grocery store stuff!”

Shizuki-san chose that moment to interject: “May we see this photo?”

Kyouko tilted her head in a rather dangerous manner as she silently considered Shizuki-san.

Mami conceded, “Perhaps a visual will be more persuasive to this skeptical audience. Give me a few minutes to look for it, but go ahead and enjoy the tiramisù, please. I would love to hear your thoughts on the homemade coffee brew.”

“She made all the food from scratch,” Kyouko quickly boasted, “even the different breads for the tea sandwiches!”

“Sorry for making you do all the work, Mami-sempai,” said Sayaka-chan, guiltily.

“Oh, hardly!” Mami replied as she hazarded a few key words in the LINE search bar, “Kyouko and the girls helped. Kyouko is actually quite adept in the kitchen; it’s just that she usually doesn’t have the patience.” She scrolled a bit, realized she and Kyouko exchanged way too many pictures of cakes, then opted to search again with different key words.

“I’m just an assistant. I chop what you tell me to chop, wash what you tell me to wash, stir what you tell me to stir, that kind of thing. Easy enough. You’re the chef: the one with the vision, the skills, the passion,” Kyouko insisted.

That was flattering, but strange, yet it was definitely preferrable to Kyouko engaging in a fight with Shizuki-san. Still, she leaned a little more into Kyouko’s warmth.

“You don’t need to convince me of Mami-sempai’s awesomeness,” Sayaka-chan waved her fork at nothing in particular. “This right here is proof enough! I don’t know anything about coffee, Mami-sempai. All I can really say is that this tastes great… and I’d really, really like another serving, please!”

“Even so, Sayaka-chan, I would say that wanting seconds is the best compliment I could receive,” Mami said, giving Sayaka-chan a smile before nudging Kyouko. “Could you….”

“Hm?”

“…I’m sorry, Sayaka-chan.” Somehow, Kyouko had inhaled the rest of the tiramisù in the three minutes they’d been talking. It hadn’t been all that much to start, and no food would last long around Kyouko, granted. “I’ll make another one and we can have it with tea at a later date. I’ll have to make several more, actually,” she sighed, shaking her head.

“Kyouko!! You have access to Mami-sempai’s baking whenever you want—couldn’t you have left some for us?!”

“You snooze, you lose,” was all Kyouko had to say in a mocking tone which maybe had a bit more of an edge than usual.

Well, Mami definitely couldn’t begrudge her for that, nor for finishing the rest of their dessert by herself. She let her eyes drift back to her phone as she considered what to say. The tension in the air stubbornly persisted. That it hadn’t boiled over yet was a miracle, considering Sayaka-chan’s and Kyouko’s tempers. Oh-ho! Mami found the picture. Her lips twitched, seeing that absurdity again. She handed her phone to Kyouko for her to pass to Sayaka-chan.

“It’s certainly no consolation prize, Sayaka-chan, but perhaps you will get a laugh out of this,” Mami said as Kyouko groaned upon processing what was on the screen.

“Cursed image,” Kyouko muttered as she shoved the phone in Sayaka-chan’s direction.

“Right, the photo you were talking about.” Sayaka-chan set her empty plate down to carefully take Mami’s phone in both hands. “Wow, that’s actually—heh! Look at this, Hitomi-chan.” Earlier awkwardness notwithstanding, Sayaka-chan leaned toward her girlfriend so she could see the screen.

“Oh, my,” Shizuki-san covered her mouth in polite, restrained amusement. Was she leaning in closer than necessary? Yes, Shizuki-san most certainly was. So was Sayaka-chan, actually. Hardly any space remained between the two. Even when Sayaka-chan straightened up to return Mami’s phone, the two sat closer than they had been at first. Spat officially forgotten?

“Do you get it now?” Kyouko demanded.

“Yeah, yeah. I see how this would’ve been traumatizing for you,” Sayaka-chan rolled her eyes.

“Mishaps aside,” Shizuki-san said delicately, “I would like to compliment you, Tomoe-san. You have skillfully achieved the delicate balance between the bitter and sweet components needed for a successful tiramisù, Tomoe-san. As robust as the coffee is, it does not overshadow the other flavors. Would you be willing to tell me how you made it?”

“I am glad you think so, Shizuki-san,” Mami smiled. What was Shizuki-san after? “And please, call me Mami-san. As much as I would love to walk you through the process, I’m afraid we would quickly bore our partners.” She hesitated as she wondered how to navigate these unreliable waters, then inspiration struck. But should she? She glanced at Sayaka-chan and decided that yes, she would. Kyouko had already said that the next time would be at their home—a joke that nonetheless implied permission. “Come visit us at our place, and we can make an espresso together.”

Next to her, Kyouko sighed deeply. After all, that implicit permission had been given before Shizuki-san had reminded them that they should be wary. “We might as well make it a group thing, so Madoka and Homura don’t feel left out,” was what Kyouko said instead of any protests, however. “Just don’t give Homura anything caffeinated.”

She suddenly desperately wanted to hold Kyouko’s hand—so she would. Why should she deny herself? Deny Kyouko? Her hand crossed the scant space between them to take Kyouko’s hand. When Kyouko reciprocated, fingers interweaving, Mami realized they were looking at each other with uncontrollable smiles, apropos of nothing.

No, not nothing—just, nothing in particular.

With a blush, she cleared her throat and redirected her gaze to the other couple; Sayaka-chan and Shizuki-san, thankfully, had redirected their attention to the picnic basket instead of staring at them, this time.

The first to risk looking up, Shizuki-san continued the thread of their conversation as if there hadn’t been any pause. “That is a generous offer, but I would not want us to impose on you, Tomoe-san, Sakura-san,” she said.

“Besides, where would that leave Yuma-chan and Nagisa-chan?” asked Sayaka-chan, sparing them a quick glance but evidently drawn more to the food now. “It’s already crowded enough when we meet up—and I know, ‘what’s one more person?’ But, like, seriously, sometimes I wish Homura’d kept her apartment.”

“Huh? What d’you mean?” Kyouko tore her own gaze from the food to frown at Sayaka-chan, who froze in the middle of setting out the various containers.

“What?”

They stared at each other for a long moment, both adorably befuddled.

“I believe Sayaka-chan isn’t aware that Homura-san does, in fact, still have her apartment,” Mami clarified for them. Turning to Sayaka-chan, she added, “She’s holding on to it until her plans with Madoka-chan are solidified.”

“I… I didn’t know that. I thought she didn’t, since she spends all her time at the Kaname’s home now.” Sayaka-chan looked troubled.

“I believe you were distracted when Homura-san mentioned it,” Shizuki-san said.

“What! When was this?”

“In November, when we had our career planning. You were quite preoccupied.”

This time, Sayaka-chan looked decidedly put-out. A “Hmph,” was all the response she gave.

“She’s real territorial, though,” Kyouko said, and refused to let go of Mami’s hand as she precariously reached over to grab the smoked salmon tea sandwiches one-handed in an apt demonstration that Kyouko, too, was quite territorial.

“You know, I made the cucumber tea sandwiches with whipped cream cheese this time,” said Mami pointedly, to which Kyouko grumbled but acquiesced. Of course, Mami then found herself with a number of cucumber tea sandwiches suddenly on her plate, courtesy of her partner. “So you can be picky,” Mami murmured, and Kyouko grumbled some more.

“Perhaps she would be willing to host us if we asked through Madoka,” offered the devious and ruthless Shizuki-san.

“Ah, but Homura-chan’s apartment doesn’t have electricity right now, since she’s living with the Kaname family,” Mami suddenly remembered.

“We might as well impose on Junko-san and Tomohisa-san,” Sayaka-chan said as she loaded a paper plate with a few different tea sandwiches and then handed it to a startled Shizuki-san.

“Thank you,” murmured Shizuki-san. That placid expression, for a fleeting moment, disappeared to reflect instead what seemed to be genuine adoration; certainly, Sayaka-chan perceived it and finally let go of the guarded mien she’d donned when Shizuki-san had unsheathed her claws.

“We’re gonna need more reconnaissance,” Kyouko muttered into Mami’s ear.

Yes. Shizuki-san was inscrutable enough that this outing alone would not be enough to come to a definitive conclusion on Shizuki-san’s character. “I’ll ask Junko-san the next time I visit her,” she said at conversational volume to distracted agreement from the other couple. She was pleased to see her and the girls’ hard work being so appreciated.

Jerking upright next to her, Kyouko called out, “Dibs on the fruit salad!”

“I know you have a sweet tooth,” Sayaka-chan slanted a look toward Mami, then focused aack on Kyouko, “but you haven’t even had any ‘real’ food yet!”

“I’m just planning ahead,” Kyouko said and took an unnecessarily savage bite into a cucumber tea sandwich—as if Mami didn’t know full well that Kyouko had done that for her because she was too polite to partake of her favorite dish ahead of everyone else.

Smiling to herself, she tightened her grip on Kyouko’s hand. Eating one-handed would be difficult, but well worth the trouble.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

Hitomi could admit when she had erred.

Sakura-san had paid keen attention yet had not responded to Hitomi’s prodding. Tomoe-san had been as gracious as Sayaka-chan described. Both had made clear that they would rather build up than tear down. No shovel talk or grilling ever manifested.

That made her glad, for Sayaka’s sake, but she was no closer to charting a course for Sayaka’s formal introduction to Hitomi’s parents. Tomoe-san and Sakura-san were so willing to bend for Sayaka. Hitomi had at one point practically felt Sakura-san’s urge to rip fangs through Hitomi’s jugular, but nothing had come of that. Mother and Father would not be so restrained—not for Hitomi, and certainly not for Sayaka.

Perhaps if she had insisted? Surely she could have engineered the scenario she wanted if she had applied herself more.

No.

Her hopes that she could use the double-date as a test for Sayaka had been dashed, and it was only partially due to their seniors’ magnanimity.

Even if only to herself, Hitomi could admit that she did not enjoy manipulating Sayaka.

There had never been any enjoyment, to be precise, but the pragmaticism behind her decisions concerning Sayaka had become… less and less palatable as time passed. Sayaka was her partner, her beloved. The world was cruel enough, wasn’t it? Hitomi could bear to be kind, even coddling, if only in private—in safe spaces with safe people—though the coddling ought to be only in moderate quantities, of course.

She sighed. The view out her window darkened steadily into the city’s version of night. She should stop brooding unproductively. She stood, gave into her restless energy to pace for just a few brief moments, then flung herself onto her spacious bed. What would she give to have Sayaka here, in her bed? Nothing. Her eyes traced the grain of her bed’s canopy. She didn’t even want Sayaka here; her bedroom was private, not safe.

No, now that veered into being petulantly maudlin. Hitomi did like her home, her social standing, her wealth. For all their flaws, for as much as she sometimes chafed under their rigid expectations and emotional distance, she still loved her parents. The problem was that being with Sayaka crossed several boundaries; it went against convention, which was tradition, which was the foundation of the world in which she and her parents lived.

She crushed a pillow into her arms as she rolled onto her side. Her mind whirred furiously, fruitlessly, relentlessly. How could Hitomi have her cake, and eat it, too?

She could say with absolute certainty only that she wanted Sayaka as her partner. That felt good, and right, and solid. On second thought, she could also say with absolute certainty that she would fight for her place at Sayaka’s side—with tooth and nail and every underhanded trick under the sun, if need be.

With hope, even.

Despite herself and her valid worries, she smiled: exasperated, but nonetheless genuine.

It might be late, but she decided she wanted to hear Sayaka’s voice one more time before going to sleep. So, she would call, and tomorrow she would revisit her dilemma with fresh eyes. Why deny herself? They ought to actually enjoy being together, after all. And she very much enjoyed Sayaka’s voice, among other things.

Hitomi could admit to being human.

/\

Chapter Text

King

Everywhere she looked, there were joyous persons: Madoka decorating cookies with Tomohisa at the kitchen island, Junko talking with Shizuki and Tomoe by the coffee machine, Nagisa Momoe playing tug-of-war with Tatsuya-kun in the living room, and Yuma Chitose trying to mediate between Kyouko, Sayaka Miki, and Kamijou-san just outside.

Despite the Kaname home easily accommodating a dozen people, it somehow felt more crowded than Mami Tomoe’s small apartment did during their meetings. Perhaps it had to do with the auditory and social volume, rather than the physical space. After the lonely sterility of her private hospital room, and then the abyssal solitude of her apartment and the scrutinizing isolation of school, the gentle tides of conversation in this home tugged at her extremities; it was nice, and it verged on overwhelming.

She could step outside, and help Chitose before the situation turned ugly. Or, she could give Tatsuya-kun a hand in defeating his foe. On the other-other hand, she could walk into the kitchen for a cookie, or a cup of coffee (decaf). She could approach, and be welcomed.

But her heart was weak, and so was she. Tipping into overwhelmed, then, she slunk back down the corridor. Taking the stairs to her and Madoka’s bedroom felt like a monumental task for her heavy limbs, so she slipped into Junko’s office, instead. She forced herself to take a deep breath. She held it for a few seconds and wondered what it would be like: to cease. She exhaled, and inhaled again. Exhaled, inhaled. She continued existing.

She perched on the desk and looked with unseeing eyes at Madoka and Tatsuya’s artwork.

Self-improvement was neither in her nature, nor in her nurture. Course-correcting so late in her development sometimes felt like an agonizing waste of time. Resentment coated her actions, futile anger dripped from her thoughts, and a pit of darkness lived in her sternum, where it encroached on her weak heart.

She shouldn’t wallow or brood, for those were literally life-threatening, and yet here she was, clenching her jaw over the thought of being Sisyphus. Again.

But it was true that she wanted to improve even if she was tired of fighting, tired of treading water, tired of driving her exhausted mind and body through another day, another night.

It was still true that she wanted to live another day and be happy.

She wanted the future that was within reach. She wanted more of Madoka’s bright laughter and soft sighs. She wanted to be an older sister to Tatsuya-kun, a second daughter to Junko-san and Tomohisa-san, a life partner to Madoka. She wanted to see the other magical girls continue flourishing; she wanted to get to know them, properly, outside those extreme circumstances that traded their survival on the distortion of their selves.

It was, dare she say, a thrill to watch how they lived under skies clearer than the ones of that awful, stormy day. Although her heart was weak and so was she—that did not negate her desire to be here with them all. If she still put Madoka above herself—even still, even so, Homura wanted to live.

Counting blessings felt disingenuous, counting flaws would only drive her to reach for perfection without regard of how it whittled her to nothing, and counting wishes used to be an exercise in self-torture: she had wanted so many things, ranging from Madoka’s life and her friends’ lives to just a few more minutes in Madoka’s presence, yet had been denied over and over again. Now, however, she could wish for things like seeing Shizuki and Sayaka Miki freely express their mutual joy. She could wish for that double date with Kyouko and Tomoe.

She could wish, and it would be attainable. She could wish, and not pay for it with her soul.

Finding herself smiling, she resolved to rejoin the others. She would soak in the silence a few minutes more—she was still an introvert, after all—and then go see if Kamijou-san needed rescuing. Perhaps Sayaka Miki would explain why she had invited him.

Just then, Madoka appeared in the doorway of her mother’s office.

They took a moment to take each other in: Madoka, framed by the doorway; Homura, still perched on Junko-san’s desk. It was definitely easier to count wishes when her dearest wish had already been granted. Now she would be greedy: she would wish for those little and large details that made life worthwhile.

“I missed you,” said Madoka, one hand outstretched. “Also, maybe you could come help Yuma-chan? We’re kinda scared that Kyouko-chan’s going to strangle Kyousuke-kun but no one wants to risk getting bit or something.”

Uninterested in being coy or recalcitrant, at least for the moment, she spoke plainly, “I miss you every moment we are apart. Everything just became a little much and I wanted some quiet.” She beckoned Madoka in rather than stand to leave, appreciating the blush and pout she provoked. “I was going to head back in a bit. I’m sure Chitose-san can keep the peace a little longer.”

Madoka eyed the desk, saying, “Yuma-chan’s outnumbered. I’m not sitting on Mama’s desk…”

“Junko-san has a perfectly functional chair, and Chitose-san has only herself to blame for stepping in between those three,” Homura drawled.

“You’re such a meanie, Homura-chan.” Madoka scowled at her but notably did not refuse to take the seat, thereby leaving poor Yuma Chitose to her fate.

“Mm. I am your meanie.” Homura shifted sideways a bit to continue facing Madoka; her perch on the desk became just a degree more precarious, but it was a fun spot of harmless rebellion, so she remained.

They shared an even longer look. Eyebrows and mouth twitching as she fought to keep her disapproving scowl, and sitting on her hands to keep from fidgeting, Madoka seemed determined not to look away or speak first. Homura, on the other hand, could not bring herself to quash her own small smile as her body relaxed in her beloved’s presence. She hid nothing and did not flinch from being perceived.

“Fine, you got me,” Madoka finally broke out into a smile, though one tinged in relief. “I was scared you were brooding or upset and stuck in your head by yourself. I thought—well, I thought I’d give you an excuse to do something, if you didn’t want to talk. I don’t want to pressure you.”

Homura slid one hand across the desk toward Madoka, who eagerly seized it with both her own hands; Homura had to keep herself anchored by curling her off-hand around the lip of the desk, but she was sure she would be fine for a few minutes at least. Sacrificing parts of herself for Madoka was practically seared into her soul at this point, and this was harmless enough.

“I was a bit moody, at first,” she admitted, “but I calmed down. I truly only needed a break—the brooding was more… a force of habit, I suppose.”

Processing that for a few moments, Madoka then asked, “Do you think you’re doing better?”

“In general? Hm. There is pain. I still have many bad moments, entire bad days,” she acknowledged, and shook her head. “I also have good days. I want my good days to outweigh the bad ones. Outnumber them, if I can manage that.

“Your joy is still my joy, and your sorrows will always be my own. I do want to be healthy and happy, yet it comes second to what I want for you.” She sighed as Madoka started massaging her hand. “Putting you over myself does not necessarily mean that I am willing to throw myself away. I have tempered that impulse. Sometimes I can only value myself because you value me. Sometimes I value myself for my own self. To me, that qualifies as doing better. I do not always believe it of me, but I believe it often enough that it is easier each time.”

“That makes me very happy to hear,” said Madoka, drawing a bigger smile from Homura even as Madoka started bending her fingers backward. “I know you’d do anything to make me happy and I don’t want that to be to your detriment. I like seeing you happy. I like that we communicate better now.”

“Actually, ah, would you mind explaining why you feel the need to subject my hand to strange contortions?” Madoka jolted, almost dropping Homura’s hand. “You do not need to stop; I just think I ought to be the one massaging your hand, since you are the artist between us.”

“Sorry!” Madoka gentled her hold. “I think I got carried away, sorry. I guess it’s just habit—muscle memory?—because I do this not just for me, but fairly often for Hitomi-chan and Sayaka-chan, too. Their hands sometimes cramp from playing music too long.”

“With Kamijou-san, I presume?”

“Mhm. It gives me something to do besides spectating from far away, or being the cheerleader on the sidelines.”

“I see.” Homura considered Madoka. “You are more than a spectator, Madoka. You keep me going when I think my weak heart cannot endure anymore, but you are more than a cheerleader. Someone else might tell you that cheerleading and spectating are important in and of themselves, that without perception we are faceless nobodies, and they would be correct, but I would rather say that Madoka being Madoka in any capacity, whatever shape or form or facet or aspect is worthwhile. Every part of you matters to me, more than anything.”

“First of all, your physical heart is trying its best,” Madoka said, to which Homura nodded because she knew she should have more compassion for herself, “and so is your metaphorical heart. Second of all, I want you to be proud of yourself. I want you to like yourself. I want you to be able to live without me.

“But, in the moments you can’t—I’m honored to be your lifeline, as you are mine. I don’t always believe in myself, either, and I’m still scared, but I have hope and I have you.”

Homura gently extracted her hand to instead cup Madoka’s darling face. As much as her heart quailed at the thought of living bereft of Madoka, she could not help but feel an immense pride and fierce joy: Madoka looked less and less adrift as the years passed. Her mother’s desk no longer dwarfed her. Some long-lost, whimsical part of Homura fancied she could see a king in Madoka’s demeanor.

“We’re not making out in Mama’s office!”

Laughing softly, applying a slight squeeze to Madoka’s round face, she retorted, “I cannot lean over any more without sprawling myself across this desk. We are not going to make out here.”

Breaking out into uncontrollable giggles, Madoka could only shake her head.

Homura, for her part, could only indulge and marvel at the fact that they could enjoy silly moments like this at all. Perhaps she could, in fact, count her blessings.

“We can go back now. I have recharged enough,” she said after a bit, as Madoka caught her breath; loathe though she was to cut short her time alone with Madoka, their friends would eventually go looking for them. The resultant teasing would be merciless—though perhaps deserved, considering Madoka’s nosiness of late toward Sayaka Miki’s relationship with Hitomi Shizuki. Perhaps Madoka had become a little too bold.

“Yes!” Madoka hops up excitedly. “I set aside some cookies just for you!”

“As a precaution against Kyouko-san’s insatiable appetite?”

“No, actually. I decorated them with hearts!”

Pausing a few paces away from the door, Homura turned to Madoka to tell her, “I will savor every one of them though of course nothing can compare to your own sweetness.”

Ducking her head as she blushed, then making deliberate eye contact, Madoka beamed, “I love you, too, Homura-chan!”

Indulging in staring at each other lovingly for a long, drawn-out moment nearly derailed them, but they somehow managed to keep themselves on track. Homura, for her part, reminded herself that Yuma Chitose likely teetered on the brink of annihilation in a 1vs3 battle.

“Go on,” she nodded toward the kitchen once they were near, “I will join you once I have ascertained Chitose-san’s continued wellbeing, and the other threes’ continued existences.”

Madoka winced, only partially exaggerated, and said, “Shout and I’ll come rescue you.”

“I just might,” she drawled as they turned and, past the figures of Nagisa Momoe and Tatsuya, caught a glimpse of Kamijou-san and Yuma Chitose barely holding back an irate Sayaka Miki. Kyouko, of course, leaned into Sayaka Miki’s personal space with a clearly taunting air.

“Good luck!” Madoka gave her a quick peck before practically fleeing the vicinity.

Sighing deeply enough to disturb a witch (and not the anomaly in the living room), she girded her resolve. “I do, in fact, consider them friends,” she reminded herself.

／人◕‿‿◕人＼

“You mean to tell me that those three—a foodie and two musicians—have been arguing over tomatoes for almost an hour?”

“Neither side will back down!” Yuma Chitose wailed.

“So this is the hill upon which you choose to die?” Homura drawled at Kyouko, who had sat on the grass with her hands crossed behind her head and was utterly blasé toward the metaphorical daggers Sayaka Miki’s fierce gaze threw at her from the other side of the garden.

“Who, me?” Kyouko dragged her gaze down from the sky in time to catch Homura’s deadpan look. “Right, me. Nah… I just wanted to see if the rich kid and the airhead would believe me if I said these fine specimens here are cherry tomatoes if I insisted long enough.”

Instead of exploding, Sayaka Miki made the emotionally mature decision to merely flip ‘the bird’ at Kyouko—much to Yuma Chitose’s scandalized relief.

“Ah…” Kamijou-san raised his hand, “I am not so out of touch with reality, Sakura-san.”

Sayaka Miki sighed deeply, deflating herself so utterly that she surely put out a house fire somewhere with all that disgorged air. “You say that, but you were getting convinced. You really thought, for a moment, that those were really cherry tomatoes. I could tell.”

“N-No, not at all, Sayaka-san. Whatever gave you that idea?” Kamijou-san suddenly looked distinctly shifty.

“I pronounce Kyouko Sakura the winner of this round,” Homura intoned, to which everyone except Kyouko shot her aghast glares. Poor Yuma Chitose seemed to not know what to do with herself, and Sayaka Miki visibly began to gather steam for what would surely be a blistering tirade. Meanwhile, Kamijou-san could only hang his head in shame.

“Welp!” Kyouko cut the silence with a grin like a particularly sharp knife, “that’s all I came here for!” Kyouko shot up to her feet from her prone position on the ground in a remarkable feat of sheer physicality. “Later, losers!”

“Take me with you.” Not waiting for assent, Homura quickly fell into step with Kyouko as she passed; behind them, Yuma Chitose frantically tried to diffuse Sayaka Miki, inadvertently buying time for Homura and Kyouko to escape unscathed.

Upon their reentry to the house, Nagisa Momoe looked up from where she and Tatsuya-kun had moved from tug-of-war onto a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle and remarked, “That was fast.”

Kyouko practically threw herself to the floor next to Tatsuya-kun, who squealed in the way of children who couldn’t decide if they were repulsed or thrilled or both. “I’m older and wiser now,” Kyouko said as she began amassing red-colored puzzle pieces. “I know better’n to drag out a fight that I’ve already won. Hey, tall-dark-and-lonesome, are you joining or nah?”

“Homu-nee, stay, please!” Tatsuya-kun piped up with unbridled enthusiasm.

Immediately kneeling, Homura said, “Gladly, Takkun. Where is the reference image?”

“Dunno! Nagi-chan hid the box.”

“Some of these red pieces have, like, the wood bit from a picture frame. Looks like it’s some sort of frame diagonally oriented on a red wall. There’s a bit of green on these ones and I see a lot of solid pieces the same shade, so it’s probably a two-toned wall. It’s a horrible choice for interior design but it gives us a sense of the layout,” Kyouko rattled off as she sifted through her pile to create sub-piles.

Nagisa slowly raised a hand, lowered it partway, raised it again, lowered it completely, and said, “I wanted a challenge, going based off only a brief glimpse of the image, but you know what—how you figured out that much is straight-up scary, Kyouko-chan. Here’s the box.”

“I have a great eye for images!”

Privately, Homura marveled at the speed with which Kyouko began forming coherent blocs; a ‘great eye’ was not the whole of it. Of course, those keen senses paired with a quick wit was why Kyouko had often been the most tolerable of the magical girls throughout Homura’s time loops. It was—good, to see Kyouko living better.

Tatsuya-kun peered at the proffered box; he considered the hodge-podge of pieces in his hand, and remarked, “Lotsa tiny pieces.”

“A lot of tiny pieces,” Homura corrected. “How about we find those light green pieces Kyouko-san mentioned? Or we could find all the edge pieces and sort them by whether their edge is on the left, right, bottom, or top. That way, with Kyouko-san and Momoe-san working from the middle, we can cover the most ground in the least amount of time.”

“Yes,” Tatsuya-kun nodded sharply.

Lips twitching, Nagisa clarified, “So, I should send any edge pieces I find your way?”

“Uh-huh!”

Homura and Tatsuya-kun kept the box for reference as they painstakingly formed the boundaries of the puzzle, and the group spent several peaceful minutes in amiable silence as they worked, occasionally giving pieces to one another and linking blocs together.

A surprisingly short while later, they had a fully assembled puzzle between them.

“That was a nice bit of wholesome fun. Guess I’ll have to apologize,” Kyouko said.

“You’d better,” Nagisa intoned, “or else I’m telling Mami-nee-chan!”

“Ahpol’gizing is important,” Tatsuya-kun nodded sagely despite lacking context. He refocused on the puzzle, running his fingers along the seams of the pieces. Madoka liked to do the same—what a joy it was, to be able to find aspects of her beloved in others without resentment.

Kyouko gave Homura a sidelong look. Homura shrugged. Apologizing came easier than counting blessings, but not by much. Still, she offered, “Since Kamijou-san is the type to readily to forgive and forget, and Shizuki-san will be watching all our interactions closely, Sayaka Miki will likely only grumble a bit before accepting your prompt apology.”

At the mention of Hitomi Shizuki, Kyouko’s expression pinched. “That one… I don’t quite know what to make of her. She didn’t come running to save her two precious people, and Mami hasn’t given any sign for needing backup. I guess Shizuki respects Junko-san and Tomohisa-san enough not to start anything while in their home. But, honestly, I’m watching her interactions pretty darn closely.”

“I’m sure she’s noticed you’re being super protective of your girlfriend and her own girlfriend, and I think she’s a little scared of Junko-san, actually,” Nagisa giggled. “Speaking of which: do you want to show your family the puzzle, Tatsuya-kun?”

“Yeah!” Tatsuya-kun tore his gaze away from the completed puzzle that had him so entranced and stood, saying, “I’m gonna show onee-chan!” He raced off by himself before anyone could get in another word.

“He has so much energy,” Nagisa said, admiration in her tone.

“Like you don’t also have insane amounts of energy?” Kyouko grumbled, twisting her neck to stretch out stiff muscles. “You’re like that energy bunny, what with all the sugar you eat. How d’you even sleep at night?”

“Easily, because I’m not actually running on as much sugar as you think I am,” Nagisa rolled her eyes at Kyouko. “Getting good sleep at night is why I have so much energy in the first place, anyway. And Yuma-chan sticks me in the sunlight sometimes, whenever she thinks I need a boost. She said that’s how human bodies are supposed to regulate their circadian rhythm. I don’t know if it actually works or if it’s some sort of placebo effect.”

Homura startled them, and herself, by laughing: her mind had conjured an image of a sprout growing from Nagisa Momoe’s head as she was sat by a window in a patch of sunlight.

“She might be onto something,” Kyouko mused, “considering Homura here was out in the sun for a bit and came back with more energy than she’d had earlier.”

“I took a break,” Homura countered, somehow still smiling despite the inanity of their words. “I was reenergized before stepping outside.”

“Y’know what?” Kyouko crossed her arms behind her head. “I’ll just give ya this one for free—since you helped me out back there.”

Homura tilted her head to one side (still smiling, still enjoying this silly conversation). “Why do you make it sound like you are doing me a favor when I know I have the right of it?”

“On account of your health, of course. I’m nothing if not a generous, conscientious person.”

“Hah!” Nagisa burst into guffaws, which Kyouko took as a mortal insult, lunging forward to grab Nagisa by the scruff. That was, as a matter of fact, alarming enough for Homura to lose her smile; Charlotte should not be taken lightly despite its whimsical appearance, yet Kyouko recklessly manhandled—“I give, I give!” Nagisa whined as she went limp in Kyouko’s grasp.

“I am fairly certain that is called ‘bullying.’ I thought Sakura-san was supposed to be a conscientious person,” Homura mildly remarked, though she had to take a subtle deep breath to center herself. Charlotte might be terrifying, but Nagisa Momoe was a friend, young and loyal. The monsters lived only in her head, now; one day they would disappear altogether.

Kyouko rolled her eyes, but Tatsuya-kun raced back with Madoka in tow and thus were Homura and Nagisa spared further antics.

“Look, onee-chan!”

Madoka brushed a hand against Homura’s shoulder as she passed and they shared a quick smile before she redirected her attention to her little brother and the completed puzzle. “Wow, good work, Takkun!” She knelt to run her fingers over the puzzle. “Putting together one-thousand pieces so quickly is impressive!”

“Too bad we gotta break it up soon….”

“Break it?” Tatsuya-kun repeated, suddenly worried.

“She means disassemble the puzzle,” Nagisa explained. “We can’t keep it on the floor like this, so we have to disassemble it to fit back in the box. But it’s okay, because you can rebuild it another time. You could even try assembling it by yourself!”

“You could frame it,” Homura suggested when Tatsuya-kun’s look of distress did not abate.

“Yes!”

“We’ll have to move it somewhere safe if you want to frame it, Takkun,” said Madoka. “Let’s go ask Mama and Papa to help. Also, everyone: the cookies have cooled and are ready whenever you are!” Madoka sent them a wide smile.

“Nice.” Kyouko stood up, twisting her neck again and rolling her shoulders. “Cookies’ll have to do… for now. I’ve worked up an appetite.”

“How so?” Homura gave a consternated glance to Kyouko, for they truly had not exerted themselves in the two hours since the first round of snacks.

“Existing,” Kyouko smirked.

Giggling and stretching out her arms, Nagisa said, “I think instead of being able to cry on demand, Kyouko can be hungry on demand.”

“Ah, your secret talent. I understand.”

They all laughed, even Tatsuya-kun (he almost certainly did not understand and merely laughed because they did), and made their way across the spacious living room to the kitchen.

“Come on, it’s cookie time~!” Madoka sang.

“Mama! Papa!” Tatsuya-kun ran past Mami Tomoe and Hitomi Shizuki at the kitchen island to his parents, who were standing by the coffee machine. “I need help! Save the puzzle!”

“What is it, Takkun?”

“Save the puzzle!” Tatsuya-kun repeated. “Homu-nee said I can frame it!”

As Junko-san and Tomohisa-san were pulled by Tatsuya-kun back to the living room, the others turned their attention to the cookies. “Don’t mind if I do,” Kyouko said, one hand resting on her girlfriend’s arm and the other reaching toward the plate of cookies. Nagisa bounced excitedly barely a step behind Kyouko, and Shizuki-san took a careful step back.

“I have yours over here, Homura-chan,” Madoka whispered at Homura, pulling at her sleeve.

“Wait, where is everyone else?” Mami Tomoe said, one look stopping Kyouko in her tracks.

“Maybe we got too excited,” Nagisa hedged.

Mami Tomoe looked unimpressed, so Homura reaffirmed her belief that discretion was the batter part of valor. She said, “I will go get them,” accidentally cutting off Hitomi Shizuki.

“Thank you, Homura-san,” said Mami Tomoe. “Shizuki-san, you can help me divide these evenly—Tomohisa-san left some plates over there—and Madoka-chan, you can keep these two gluttons from cutting ahead in line.”

Catching Homura’s eye, Madoka pouted a bit but nodded; Kyouko and Nagisa, while protesting these unfounded allegations, made Shizuki-san’s mask slip a little under their intense scrutiny as she obtained a stack of paper plates.

Shizuki-san had not done herself any favors in keeping Mami Tomoe and Kyouko Sakura at arm’s length; Homura would pity her, perhaps even empathize with her, if it were not for the fact that Shizuki-san had more than enough grit to see herself through her attempt… at setting boundaries? Or whatever it was Shizuki-san had hoped to accomplish.

Still, in Homura’s expert opinion, the tension between Shizuki-san and the others compared not at all to the tension they all were capable of creating: to the stifling, crushing tension of the weeks leading up to Walpurgishnacht. By that metric, Shizuki-san was doing just fine. She would have to ask Madoka to look into it, however, just in case the situation was more dire than it appeared.

Or perhaps she would ask Mami Tomoe, personally.

That would be… well.

She would have to, eventually. But not yet.

Waving at the Kaname family (busy attempting to transfer the puzzle to a probably-too-small clipboard for transportation) as she passed, she heaved a sigh when she processed the fact that she had a few more hours of socializing left. She would have to take another break (or two).

Kamijou-san, Yuma Chitose, and Sayaka Miki noticed neither the door sliding open nor her approach. She practically stood atop Sayaka Miki by the time anyone perceived her presence, so engrossed were they in their game.

“Whoa!” yelped Sayaka Miki, startling the other two. She fumbled but did not drop her cards.

Homura gave the group a considering look. “Who brought a deck of cards?”

“Sakura-san did,” Kamijou-san said, one hand on his chest. He had, in fact, dropped his cards. “She gave them to me before our, ah, debate on tomatoes.” Shizuki-san was more convincing when twisting events.

“He didn’t know what to do with them, so we taught him Go Fish,” Yuma Chitose explained.

“It is truly quite fun,” Kamijou-san said. He beckoned to the others to give him their cards.

“Especially since the biggest cheaters—Kyouko and Hitomi—aren’t playing.”

“Hitomi-san cheats?!” Kamijou-san gasped.

“Oh, for sure!” Sayaka Miki nodded vigorously. “Whenever me and Madoka would play card games with her, Hitomi would absolutely be the one cheating. She thinks that if you’re not cheating, then you’re not even trying to win. Then Madoka thought that sounded like something Junko-san would say, so she gave it a try.” Sayaka Miki shook her head, smiling fondly. Homura found herself listening closely. “No amount of cheating could make up for Madoka’s poker-face—it’s that bad—and she plain just couldn’t shake feeling bad about cheating, even when Hitomi and I were actively encouraging it.”

Frowning, Kamijou-san asked, “Why would you encourage dishonesty?” Silently, Homura seconded the question.

“We weren’t encouraging dishonesty,” Sayaka Miki waved her hand. “We wanted her to be more confident in herself, but mostly we thought she needed—not a reality check, but, like, she needed to cultivate a less naïve outlook, to understand that not everyone was good, you know?” She addressed that to Homura, who inclined her head. “It obviously didn’t work, but I’m glad we tried. We were looking out for her, and Hitomi and I promised to never let anyone take advantage of her good nature…

“And then I got scammed by the Incubators, of course.” Sayaka Miki scowled at the grass.

No. It was only Mami Tomoe and Madoka Kaname, that first loop. And the second. In the third, Sayaka Miki introduced a new variable by contracting, and Kyouko had to come in to help them against Walpurgisnacht. Nevertheless, from a certain unkind point of view, Sayaka Miki was correct in that she was partially to blame for Madoka falling into Kyubey’s grasp.

Unkind. Unfair. Whatever burdens Sayaka Miki carried, Madoka’s life should not be one.

“I like Madoka-chan the way she is,” Yuma Chitose asserted tentatively before the silence could settle for long. “I can’t picture Shizuki-san the way you describe her, though.”

“Hitomi-san epitomizes the ‘still waters run deep’ metaphor: she does not expose much of herself to casual perusal,” Kamijou-san explained.

“Cookies are ready,” Homura cut in—abrupt and terser than she meant to.

Yuma, luckily, seemed to accurately gauge the current of Homura’s mood; the girl leapt to her feet and urged Kamijou-san to follow her “post-haste or else Kyouko-nee-chan won’t leave us anything at all! Not even crumbs!” with such persuasion that Homura and Sayaka Miki were left alone in the metaphorical dust just a few seconds later.

Homura resolved to give Yuma one of her reserved cookies. She also suddenly noticed the hot sun (hello, sweaty skin), but since she did not want to have this conversation within earshot of the rest of the Kaname family, she would have to grit her teeth for a hot minute.

“I’m guessing this isn’t about Hitomi,” Sayaka Miki said.

“As much of a white knight as you think you are, you need not shoulder everything wrong ever by yourself. Madoka is her own person. My intervention additionally muddled how certain events unfolded. You,” weren’t the best, weren’t perfect, weren’t right, “were young. You are still young. We are all young. We all made mistakes. You need not hold onto guilt, real or perceived. It’s long been time for us to put our faults to bed.”

Sayaka Miki stared at her.

The deadly laser in the sky shoved more energy into them.

Unnecessarily cruel enough for all of them. She said, awkwardly but gently, “If we linger any longer, your girlfriend might get strange ideas again.”

Sayaka Miki sighed; she truly had an impressive lung capacity. “Hitomi’s finding her place amongst us. Not everyone can be like Madoka. But,” here Sayaka Miki reached through the foot of space between them to rest a hand on Homura’s shoulder, “you’re absolutely right. We don’t have to get bogged down in the past. I don’t even want the past of our childhood. You have changed. You’re getting rid of the monsters in your head—I want that for me, too.”

“Right.” She strove not to shift uncomfortably under Sayaka Miki’s grasp. “So. Do your best.”

“You,” Sayaka Miki gently patted her shoulder despite the weird angle, “are so freakin’ weird and awkward, and I appreciate you. Everyone appreciates you.”

She twitched, shocked by the bloom of joy that came from having Sayaka Miki say that. After a moment’s thought, she figured it must be from her younger self, who had wanted so desperately for Madoka Kaname’s friends to like her, too. She had not let herself dwell on their rejection of her, not when Madoka kept dying and everyone kept proving themselves useless and untrustworthy, but yes, that rejection had hurt.

“Thank you,” was all she could say in the moment.

It was more than enough for Sayaka, who only nodded and said, her hand falling away from Homura’s shoulder, “Let’s go see if Kyouko left us anything. I mean, I’m sure Mami-sempai at least stopped her from eating everything.”

Homura had just been about to offer up another one of her precious cookies, but she kept her silence for the time being. She would wait to see if Mami Tomoe had managed to reign in her partner. Besides, Hitomi Shizuki really could get strange about things; Kamijou-san had understated just how deep those still waters were.

“Are you guys still alive?!” Madoka called out to them from the living room, waving with so much enthusiasm one would think something of note was happening.

In a way, she mused, this gathering was something noteworthy.

“We’re going, we’re going!” Sayaka shouted back. “Guess we took too long out here, huh.”

“At least Shizuki-san has not yet done something dramatic.”

“‘Yet’? C’mon, don’t jinx us!”

She laughed and, taking longer strides with her longer legs so that she could reach Madoka that much sooner, said, “I  will take my chances. I am king.”

“Dammit, why d’you have to be so tall!”

Even before they were within each other’s reach, her hand sought Madoka’s as Madoka’s hand sought hers: their love was all the motivation, all the crown she needed. When they touched, she thought: We can change.

We are king.

/\