Chapter Text
Suggested Listening: "Conturbatio", Puella Magi Madoka Magica OST
O/o\O
PART 2
Dial tone.
All dial tone and her fists were as snow, shuddering mounds atop a crumbling mountain. The insidious noise persisted, pressing into her ears as searing spears, bleeding out whatever hope lay dormant in her malformed heart, just as it had in Pakistan, in India, in China. Only now, there was no excuse, no forgotten national area code, no connection problems.
Homura wanted to cry, but by this point her tears had all but dried. She settled for a tired swallow and a need to lean against the payphone.
Her inner monologue berated her, that she should have made the call when she'd made port in Kagoshima, but she'd stubbornly refused to take such suggestions to heart, to stave off what she knew was not coincidence but was actual, tangible disappointment. She pushed off from the hooded payphone, pulling the ragged jacket on her shoulders tighter together, doing her best to insulate herself from the droplets of rain that started pounding the asphalt at her feet.
Home.
That was her focus, her goal, and her only point of desire. As much as she hungered for the warmth of human connection, Madoka would have to wait.
Besides, what exactly was her plan? "Hey Madoka, I'm back! Guess that vacation took a little longer than expected!"
Homura scoffed at that played out monologue. She didn't even know how long it had been. She'd done everything she could to snag a date and time while she was trekking across Asia, but the format of each paper she found was confusing and she could never trust the date when she found one. It couldn't have possibly been that long, her mind kept saying, it'd be impossible for that much time to pass without her noticing.
I mean, she mused, if that much time had passed, Madoka had probably moved on.
Nails bit into callused palms, a thin trail of bile rising to her teeth. With a growl she turned away from the payphone and refreshed her efforts to be homebound, leaving behind such dismal thoughts.
There was a chill in the springtime air, especially with the burgeoning rain, and Homura couldn't stop the shiver that emerged from her spine. Having spent so much time in warmer climates, especially after passing through the cities dotting India's interior. Acclimation to the heat was going to play hell with her once winter rolled around.
A stranger hurried past, carrying an umbrella that inadvertently spritzed the errant girl with extra rain as he ran by.
Homura's fingers tightened around the handgun secured just above her hip; a reflex that seemed alarmingly normal to her now that she was back in her own society. Still, the pistol and the two spare magazines stuffed down her belt were a comfort to her at this point.
Her mind drifted back to what other things use to mirror such comfort and her mind struck upon an evening tea she'd had alone with Mami one day during the Summer and how soothing the chai had been going down. She wracked her frazzled mind and found scant recollections that she had a few bags of it herself back home. Hoping that they hadn't spoiled, as well as wondering if teabags could even spoil, Homura made her first real plans for the minute she arrived home.
And then after that would probably be dusting. Oh boy, the dusting.
That said, she had to wonder if the house had been sold or if she'd even been declared dead.
She shivered again and made the rather dull remark that sleep and rest should probably be her priority, the longing for her old lonely bed having grown entrenched in her psyche over the days. But, she had become accustomed to tireless days working, exhausting herself right down to the bone before collapsing, and even with the discomforting nature of travel she felt too pert and energetic to even entertain the thought. She needed to tire herself out or else she'd be up long past midnight.
It was only when her feet began to beat those familiar steps closer to home, the aged sidewalk, ever changing with repair and decay, the grey buildings that sucked in the blinding colors of the sun or dyed with the shades of night, the wires that tangled above and between both and created a lattice that divided the skies above; she wasn't quite sure when the exhausted smile crawled between her lips.
That little moment of heaven, of warmth in a windy, rainy spring night, was capped when she finally found herself stood before a gothic door laden in deep blues and rich golds, more worn than she recalled but still just as proud. Her fingers pulled off the pistol in her waistband and scrambled for the keys in her pocket, recovered what felt like decades prior and having served as yet another reminder that dragged her along her path homeward.
An intoxication beset her, something akin to the seasickness experienced from stowing away on the cargo ship into Kagoshima combined with the fumes during the festival she passed through in India, though this sensation was entirely borne from beneath her skin. With her world skewing crooked, she jammed the key into the lock and twisted, pushing the door open in one swaying motion.
Her feet skittered forward, with her toes jamming against the wooden step. She dropped to her knees, shins jamming against the boards as her hands flew to support her against the onset of gravity. Even now, after so long independent of medication, of medical aide, fighting against her own faulty body never became easier. She swallowed, focusing her vision.
She kicked out at the door and shut it behind her, pushing the shoe off her foot with the opposite leg as she drew the limb back. Quickly shedding herself of both her jacket and her other shoe she crawled to her feet, wiping the sweat from her heating brow and staggering in towards the kitchen. It was strange to her, how foreign and yet so familiar the world felt around her now; the air smelled rich and soft, like a velvet flower, and was a scent that by all means should have been familiar. It was her own, or had been long ago, and now it was almost alien to her. There was, among it as well, a hint of something else, something sweet that lingered in the air but wasn't prominent enough to identify.
Pushing such thoughts to the side for later, Homura approached her kitchen cabinets, ratty, dusty socks stumbling across the laminate floor. Quick and efficient she reached beyond those doors, pulling down a number of different bottles, all with different labels, sizes and caps. Though her vision was about as clear as Vaseline at this point, she managed to identify one of the many bottles, opened it, and downed twice the prescribed dosage, praying to god that the pills, like teabags, did not sour with age. Mission complete she stumbled to the kitchen table, yanking out one of the three chairs and dropping down into it, only sparing a moment to shove her accrued munitions to the table's surface so as to make her posture all the more comfortable.
And there she sat for minutes on end, until the world stopped spinning around her and until the heat had left her head. Eventually her vision cleared enough and her balance tuned enough to move again. She pushed back and stood, stumbling a moment before regaining her footing.
She looked back at the pills and approached, scanning the bottle she had downed pills from and ensuring she'd not ended up poisoning herself. Satisfied from what she could read on the bottle, she replaced her assortment of medicinals only to hesitate with her daily pills. What she had just taken were her emergency medications, in case of an attack of any severity… but she'd gotten along fine without both for god knew how long. Did she even really need the daily medication if she'd survived in its absence.
Scowling, she put all of the medication back and set about finding a pad and pen, making a note to call her doctor to consult on such an issue. Just as she finished she paused, pen tipping the katakana. Doctor… Banker… Accountant… Police… School… There were a lot of people she'd need to get in touch with over the next few days, let alone her friends.
She sent out a silent prayer that Madoka had not moved, and barring that that Sayaka Miki, Mami Tomoe and Hitomi Shizuki would be willing enough to track the pinkette down.
Homura edged into her living room, a round, cavernous space filled with an eclectic myriad of seats and chairs, all forming a circle around one central table and spiraling to two smaller ones that hung out near the edges of the great curvature. It only now really occurred to her how strange the arrangement was. Her mother, she'd know, had been an architect, having designed the house and furnished it alongside her entrepreneur father. For her, it had simply been home, but after seeing so many different houses and homes across the world, now she was beginning to realize her home life had been anything but mundane. At least, now she was feeling that it hadn't been mundane; thought didn't necessary equal comprehension.
It also very briefly occurred to her that those thoughts were the first time in forever where she'd actually thought about her parents… and the first time she'd ever thought about them so distantly. In an instant, almost winding, she realized that the impact they'd left on her had been diminished from miles to inches. They had lived, they had died; no different than those she'd fought alongside and killed across the globe. Whether or not they'd actually cared about her while they were alive no longer concerned her.
With this thought in mind, she did an about face and dove back into the kitchen, quickly whipping up a cup of tea for herself and waiting out the scant minutes the water would need to boil by checking her handgun for fault and malfunction. Satisfied the weapon was functional (as she had been the dozens of times she'd check on her ride over) she allowed it some solace on the table, unloaded and safetied.
She took her tea and loaded it in a tray, bringing it out to the living room table. Seated and with a nice, long steeped cup of tea in her palms, she relaxed into the moment, allowing the familiar chai slip down gullet and sooth the weary walls of her throat. Satisfied in her seat she reached for the remote, taking a moment to remember exactly how to operate the TV that decorated her wall. Normally, the TV wouldn't be alone, instead matched by a number of projectors in the ceiling designed to decal the walls in inventive shapes and brain-jogging imagery; yet another design of her mother's, though one she knew had been born from one of her father's suggestions.
But the projectors remained off, and at this point the stiff movement from each news caster was about all she could handle for the moment.
She didn't really pay attention to the news, so much as had it on to fill the air. Hearing Japanese spoken so rapidly, without broken grammar and without soiled diction, was soothing; a luxury in her world that she'd taken for granted the minute the plane had crashed in the Middle East.
That, right then, was when she noticed the pile sitting under the television.
Rolled into tight tubes and stacked atop one another were thick papers all sleeked in plastic coating, each one neatly arranged next to one another in order from yellowing to pristine white.
Homura blinked, confused.
Even before she had been born, her father had subscribed to a particular, ritzy paper, one that was only delivered once per week in sequence with a number of economic factoids and figures. She had never seen fit to cancel it as several years had been paid in advance and she wasn't necessarily hurting for funds with the lifestyle she lived.
Still, to see all of the papers, tucked away with such order and care…
The girl placed down her cup and saucer, gently padding her way over to the collected sheets, floating her way over towards the freshest copies she could, where the stack was only half as tall and the pages were only yellowed by a day or two. She took the nearest most one on the stack, pulling it out of its disposable sheath and flicking the page open. The plastic wrap fluttered to the floor, forgotten, landing atop a pink cell phone still charging at a plug in the wall.
Her eyes skimmed the pages, flying immediately to the top right corner. She gagged, her fingers going numb as the paper spilled to the ground, leafs flying around her ankles like dancing sparrows.
Homura blinked, her mind reeling.
The date.
It was impossible. She hadn't been gone that long. Sure months could have passed, a year even…
But three and a half?
Her eyes blinked, her arms twitched, her mouth moved, yet it felt like all motor function had effectively ceased.
Three and a half years. She had been gone for three and a half years.
In that time she should have graduated high school.
In that time she should be in college.
In that time she should have been planning the direction of the rest of her life.
In that time she should have been with Madoka.
But instead she had been confined to deserts, bazaars and seedy alleys, to industrial street corners and rotting docks, scavenging each day for food and, if she was lucky, shelter. She was trapped behind the walls of desperation while the world had completely passed her by… while Madoka had passed her by.
Homura wanted to cry.
She wanted to cry and she couldn't.
She wanted to cry damnit, so why wouldn't her body let her.
The ailing girl fell to her knees amid the news caster's talk of seasonal storms. It was getting harder to breath, and this time she definitely knew that it had nothing to do with her body's condition. In and out, in and out, the huffs of air skittering between her teeth as the hyperventilation began to take hold.
She was going into shock. Or, at least, what she had labeled as shock; she'd felt it before and knew that, whatever it was, giving in would just lead to her writing on the floor like an invalid. So she did the only thing she could do.
Homura screamed. Raw and ear piercing, right to the heavens and straight to every hell she could imagine, she screamed, her voice shredding to a rasp against the clenching of her throat.
And after that, silence lingered in the house.
She stood, still shaking, approaching her tea and sipping at it with trembling hands, the scalding liquid that spilled onto her knuckles going almost entirely unnoticed.
Lavender eyes blinked into the distance as she stood, aimless in her world. She set down the cup and leaned on the table, long raven streaks of hair pooling down onto the tray. Her fingers brushed by a button on the table and with an accidental click the projector's whirled to life, the room suddenly becoming a mishmash of color and imagery all beset against a blackened background.
Homura jumped back, startled by the sudden movement around her.
She winced against the projections, seeing so many lights like flashes across sand and rock. And once more she was back on those dunes alone against the berating hordes of zealots and fools. She was not safe; someone had collected those papers. She was not safe; the house had been cleaned and dusted. She was not safe; the projectors should be entangled in cobwebs.
Flashes of the men who'd stormed into her savior's home, flashes of the first man she had to kill in cold blood, flashes of the humvee flipping through the air around her, flashes of the plane shredding to bits. She pawed at her waistband only to find it empty, remembering only too late that her protector, her friend had been so callously and carelessly left on the kitchen table.
Someone had been in her home, and it was only when the front door opened not twenty-five feet away did Homura feel entirely helpless, frozen without her sidearm at her disposal.
"H-hello…?"
A voice drifted through the disturbed darkness, and the confused lilt only truly began to register when the home intruder finally reached the wall panel nearest the front door. The projectors went off and the lights went on.
Homura's voice caught in her throat.
"…M-Madoka?"
O/o\O
Suggested Listening: "I Think this World is Precious", Puella Magi Madoka Magica Rebellion OST
O/o\O
Madoka checked her watch, wincing at seeing how late it had gotten. It didn't help that she had run out of her home without anything particularly warm on. An umbrella was great against the light rain coming down around her, but the chill in the air was wreaking havoc with her skin.
Homura's house was about a twenty minute walk from her home, and though she felt some pride in having cleared that distance in ten, there was really no winner when it came to being out alone in the cold. Still the commute was warming in that it was familiar for her. The house had been built by the girl's parents and completely paid off before they'd passed on. When Homura's plane had crashed, Madoka had taken it upon herself to use the emergency key the raven girl had given her to keep the place tidy for her. She wasn't exactly sure what the legality of the situation was, but no one had come to claim the property yet, and so long as it looked maintained she didn't think there'd be any major issues cropping up. That way if Homura came back…
Madoka shuttered. It had been quite some time since she'd thought about Homura… at least in any positive context. Her home was one such positive aspect, something she could care for, maintain and adore, something that helped her hold onto hope, no matter how slim. These last few weeks had been utterly draining and it almost felt like she'd left a part of herself behind as the days dragged on. To remember happier times, hanging out at Homura's house, watching movies, sleeping over, gossiping and studying…
She laughed to herself. Even studying seemed appealing to her now. At least in retrospect; she still wasn't thrilled with studying for English.
The little pep talk her mother had given her before leaving out had been therapeutic. In many ways, she'd known everything her mother had told her, but for someone to spell it out to her, to put it to words… Well, she could feel those anxieties slipping away, never quite leaving, but her focus was crystallizing the more she managed to sort through them and push them to the side.
It felt like the world was both a much larger place and yet a smaller one, and as disorienting as that should have been, all she felt was confidence that she would eventually be able to take on both. When that would be, however, she wasn't sure. A flash of Mami's face in her memories was all she needed to make her flinch in place and lose her bubbling edge. She had a feeling that mood swings like that would be rather regular going forward.
She perked up, stopping at the navy blue door with her key at the ready. There was no need to drag more morose thoughts into the hauntingly beautiful home; it had enough of its own and Madoka only wanted to contribute some light to the shaded house.
Twisting the tumbler of the door Madoka frowned, realizing that the door hadn't actually been locked. Had she forgotten to lock it? Did someone break in?
She lowered the umbrella to her side, collapsing it so she could use it as a cudgel just in case there was danger. It'd probably do her little good, but she needed her phone and she was certainly more than a little uncomfortable with someone snooping around Homura's house. Or worse yet, what if someone had finally come to inspect the home, to take it away under some kind of property law?
Madoka swallowed, gently pushing the door open and letting herself in. She would have normally removed her shoes at this point, but the unease was enough for her to justify leaving them on.
"H-hello…?" she croaked, walking to the doorway leading towards the living room. Someone had turned on the projectors and the TV and Madoka moved to shut them off and bring on the proper lights.
With the room cleared of distraction, violet eyes met fuscia.
"…M-Madoka?"
The pinkette dropped the umbrella, eyes locked open, her mouth agape and trembling.
There was silence as the two just stared at each other, two ghosts crossing paths in an unmoving world.
"H-H-Homura…" Madoka sputtered. She put a step forward, wobbling on her legs.
The raven girl was different than Madoka remembered. The girl was taller, taller than Madoka would have imagined her getting, taller than maybe even Sayaka at this point, though that might just be because Madoka had only grown a few scant inches herself over the years and the heights of tall people were hard to gauge. The previously silken hair was dried and loosed from its regular twintails, streaming down her back in matted waves. Her clothing was dirty and stained, torn in places, and pieces of the ramshackle outfit looked either one size too small or one size too big. But the real difference sat in those eyes. Where there once had been youthful hesitance there was weary acceptance, where once there had been fear there was resolution. Even through the shell-shocked expression Madoka could tell that Homura had grown beyond what she could remember.
But none of that mattered now, not to either of them. The second Madoka had taken her first step forward, Homura had already strut three.
In seconds, the two were embraced, holding together tighter than any vice, as if the world would wrench them apart one more time as a sick, twisted joke. Almost immediately their legs buckled, one set from physical exhaustion and the other from emotional. On their knees, intertwined, Madoka and Homura began to cry, bawling into each other's shoulder, fingers desperately grasping at cloth and fabric, doing what little they possibly could to pull themselves tighter into the embrace.
"I… I never thought I'd… I always hope but I never… Homura…" Madoka strained, nuzzling further into Homura's neck. "I missed you, I've always missed you, every day… Oh, God, I thought you were…"
The raven girl twitched with each word, the sounds so saccharine and sweet, so mature yet so familiar that a flare of joyous pain burst from her chest with each syllable. In her own right, she responded, "Madoka… Madoka…" She pressed her jaw to the girl's temple, drinking in the intoxicating aroma in the girl's hair, the same aroma that undercut her home's natural scent, "Madoka… I love you Madoka…"
The words were pained, but practiced and confident.
Madoka hiccupped and pulled back, pursing her lips at the admission, the confession. Her fingers flew to Homura's lapel, rubbing the ruined material of the girl's blouse, unsure. Steeling her gaze, Madoka squirmed, a war waging behind her eyes before she nodded to herself, looked the errant girl right in the eye.
In the next second, she pulled the taller girl into a kiss, briefly blinding them both to the world around them. Cold lips against warm, chapped against full, weary against apprehensive; all of horrible weights of the world, crashes and crushes, anxieties and woes, all slipped away between two pairs of broken lips.
Madoka pulled back, unable to stop even more tears from falling. She averted her gaze to the ground, shivering while keeping her hold on her friend, "That was… that was for when you left… but now… I… I'm not the same… You're… you're not the same… We're… A lot's happened, Homura… I don't know if I-"
"I know…" Homura croaked. "I know, I know, I know…" she repeated, pressing their foreheads together. "Just… Just right now… Just the two of us… Right here… We can talk tomorrow… But right now…"
Madoka leaned in and rewrapped her arms around the other girl, "Right now…" She closed her eyes and nuzzled closer, "Just you and me…"
Homura closed the hug and leaned back, bringing them both to rest against one of the many cushions of her home, "Just for tonight… If only for tonight…"
Within ten minutes the two had stopped crying and by twenty they'd both fallen asleep. In the morning would come no class but instead explanations and conversations, talk of struggles, of disasters and successes. And from that would be borne solace, would be borne reprieve from those same struggles and disasters.
There was time for them both to fall in love again, to know if their old flame could be salvaged, but they knew that now was the time to heal, and that was something the two could do together.