Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kamijou Kyousuke is dead.

Maybe his despair has simply been too much for the Wraiths to ignore. The sweet corruption of his musical dream crushed by the recent frustration with his agent, as well as his failed relationship with Shizuki Hitomi, is exactly the kind of alluring taste they loved.

Kyoko stands over his mangled body.

It doesn’t really matter. Not really. Because the fact remains - he's dead.

She’s too late.

What a stupid boy. She thinks to herself as the surge of panic boils distantly in her stomach. He never realized what others - Sayaka - sacrificed for him. Of course he would go and get himself killed.

Sayaka.

Kyoko has been trying very hard not to think about it during the fight. It was a tough battle, if her bloodied outfit is any indication. Still, the guilt has been gnawing her conscience away the moment she spotted the violinist in the pile of victims. Now the fight is over, there is nothing else to distract her from the fact.

Sayaka.

The blue-haired girl is due back to the city in two weeks. Kyoko has been looking forward to seeing her. Before she left with her parents on vacation (to celebrate her graduation from high school), Kyoko promised to look after the city in her absence. To protect this shithole she calls home.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of things while you’re away.” She told Sayaka over an easy grin, ruffling her hair.

Sayaka accepted the affectionate gesture with a huff and a slight pout.

“Don’t overdo yourself.” She said. Her worry was like the last tinge of summer in the first week of school, almost imperceptible but present nevertheless. “Don’t get killed.”

Well, Kyoko is not dead, but Kamijou Kyousuke is.

Sayaka still loves him. She thinks to herself.

And now he lies there. His left hand shredded to ribbons, his entrails torn out of his body, splayed across the floor of the fading barrier, interweaving with those of the other victims. Ironic. This is reminiscent of what he did to the heart that granted him the miracle.

The boy Sayaka loves is dead.

What the fuck is she going to do?

She feels the familiar clicking of Homura’s magic before she sees her, before she lands behind her at a respectable distance. She makes no attempt to acknowledge her arrival.

It is Homura who breaks the silence.

“Kyoko?” She calls quietly, carefully.

But the way Kyoko hears it. The way her name rings out, is like the loud bang of a bird cage slamming shut.

She knows that Homura knows, perhaps even better than her. The gnawing of the monster at the pit of her stomach. The anger and frustration burning like wild forest fire. Kyoko knows from the few times Homura was too delirious to keep her emotion in check, she is a veteran when it comes to self-loathing as a perpetual failure to everything she has set out to protect.

Welcome to the club. She imagines Homura saying that to her, trying to conjure the best imitation of her monotone. It almost makes her laugh.

Her shoulder jerks awkwardly, as if uncertain what to do. She clears her throat.

“Promise me you won't tell.”

She should have turned. It’s not polite to ask for a favor without looking at the other party. But then again, when has she ever cared about manners? So she doesn’t.

Homura is quiet for a moment, weighing her words. Over the years, they have built a sort of comradeship. A kind of understanding that only people who have screwed up so badly they are past the point of suffering could comprehend.

Homura respects Kyoko. There is no questioning that. If it was more of her style, she might even call her a friend.

“There is nothing we can do now.” She tries to put a little more empathy into those words, and is surprised to find it less difficult than she imagined. “Come morning, they will find him, and everyone here… if you wish to move their remains out of the barrier.”

Kyoko stares at the mountain of mangled limbs. Something drips and splashes against the pool of blood by the remains. She blinks, and realizes it has come from a wound across her shoulder.

“I thought you’re against wasting time.” She mumbles to the pile.

“I am.” A pause. And an unspoken ‘so do you’. “But Miki-san will likely want something to mourn over.”

Kyoko has no response to that. An invisible hand is choking her.

Of course Sayaka would. It is only fair. She never had a chance to tell this silly boy what he meant to her in life, it is only logical that she would want a chance to say so to his grave. Or at the very least, a chance to say goodbye.

Because no matter how loudly you scream at heaven, the lost ones would never hear. Could never. The dead do not suffer the living. The suffering is left to the survivors.

Then, an idea strikes her. It is reckless, idiotic, impractical, and probably suicidal.

Why am I doing this?

The thought is quieter than the breath of a dead man, drowned out by her own shaky breath as she activates her magic. She forces herself to remember and forget at the same time as she calls forth her illusion.

An old man trying to reconstruct every detail of his childhood home, destroyed and lost decades ago. An orphan trying to remember the faces of their parents dead when they were still infants. This is probably what it feels like.

Her body shakes. She feels nauseated. Every inch of her skin is ablaze with the frigidity of death. Every ounce of her being struggles against her will.

Homura takes a step forward in alarm, but stops herself abruptly.

Kyoko doesn’t notice. She can taste the ashes of the burning church. Pressure builds in her head like her brain has become a balloon overinflated to the brink. The buzzings in her ears sound suspiciously like the dying cry of her mother and Momo, choking on blood.

She remembers a story. Of a mythical bird reborn from flames. She wonders if the bird goes through the excruciating pain of being burned alive before rebirth.

And then it is over.

She opens her eyes and looks down at herself. White suit. Slender limbs. The build of a young man pampered by love and comfort she never had.

It is wrong. She knows that. The pressure stops building but does not lessen any. It wants a way out. Every instinct in her tells her to stop. She thinks she might throw up, so she digs her nails into her palm.

What else can I do? She asks the voice pleading for it to stop hurting. What else is there to be done?

Nothing. The voice begs. Just stop it.

Well, too bad. She can’t accept doing nothing.

(She ignores the fact the voice sounds like Sayaka’s.)

She whips around just in time to catch the tail end of Homura’s rare display of emotion. The flicker of shock and upset makes her feel something as well, but they all fade away so quickly it’s impossible to be sure they aren’t just illusions.

“Well?” She wheezes.

Homura comes up to her and gives her a onceover. With a sigh, she nods her approval to the disguise.

Then they stand there, staring at each other.

“Are you sure about this?”

It’s not so much a question but a warning. Nothing good will come of this. They both know.

The distorted space around them flickers out of existence.

But the alternative, the truth, is out of the question for Kyoko. No. She will not allow despair to take away the one good thing about this world from her. She just needs time to figure out what to do.

“I can’t lose her.” Her voice is low and rough, unfamiliarly masculine to herself. Homura cringes. Kyoko takes a deep breath to soften the voice. “I can’t.”

Homura nods curtly, once. Then, as suddenly as she appeared, she disappears into the night, like she was never there.

Kyoko looks up from the dirty alley. The sky seems almost the color of a bruise. The static-filled sound of a cheap pop song wafts through the backdoor of the bar. Bunch of whiny wuss. She scoffs. What do they know about love?

What do I know?

Some foul liquid drips from the fire escape overhead and lands on her shoulder, precisely where her wound is. She grimaces and staggers out of the way.

Sucking in a deep breath, she looks down to where the pile of corpses was. Nothing is left except the empty dread in the pit of her stomach.

Her wounds sizzle like tears on hot iron. Numbly, she wobbles to the opening of the alley and stumbles out into the buzzling street, on her way to Kamijou Kyousuke’s life.

“'Tis in my memory lock'd,
And you yourself shall keep the key of it.”

Sayaka came to him a lot faster than Kyoko expected.

“What’s going on with you?”

She barged into his room unannounced (or maybe she did but Kyoko was too absorbed in trying to memorize the pieces he had to perform in the coming concert), kicking down his door and charging in like a white knight coming to rescue the damsel in distress.

(Kyoko will figure out that metaphor much later, once she comes off the shock of Sayaka’s early return. She will nearly choke on the chunk of steak the Kamijou serves for dinner. Kamijou’s father will look up briefly, and his mother will chide him for his table manners. She would have planned to leave the table after the second serving, but she will excuse herself after the first.)

Sayaka’s sudden appearance nearly gives Kyoko a heart attack. Her shock delays the usual scowl she would have worn under such circumstances. Her mouth opens just as a customary curse is about to escape.

Then her eyes meet the concerned cerulean and she remembers who she is.

And when she does, all words evaporate because those would be Kyoko’s words, and she is not Kyoko. She isn’t even Kamijou Kyousuke. She is an ugly monster. A changeling wearing the skin of a dead man.

Some unspecified corner of her mind wonders how anyone could miss the poorly hidden affection shining in Sayaka’s eyes, least of all when they were the subject of such love and devotion. It sparks a flame of rage, remembering that Kamijou Kyousuke never realized he was the lucky recipient of the miracle someone exchanged their life for. Never realized Sayaka’s love. Never even said thank you.

The anger must have seeped out despite her best effort, because Sayaka suddenly looks unsure and draws back slightly. A small frown settles between her bangs.

“Kyousuke?”

The intensity of the softly spoken name almost breaks Kyoko.

Then she remembers. She’s not Kyoko. Not right now. So she closes her mouth and opens it again in the best imitation of a smile.

“I didn’t realize you are back so fast.”

It is his voice and the appropriate things he would say to his childhood friend (at least according to her observation). Yet somehow it feels like betrayal.

Sayaka arches her eyebrows. 

“Well, I'm here.” She plops down on the same style of leather chair Kyoko (no, she’s not Kyoko, she reprimands herself but is distracted by how close Sayaka is) sits in. It gives out a small squeak and Kyoko catches herself before she flinches too obviously.

“How was the vacation?”

Several times during their short conversation she almost forgets she is not Kyoko. It has felt like any other conversation they might have (well, perhaps minus the constant consumption of snacks and the good-natured banters).

She can tell Sayaka is still slightly confused, but for one reason or another she does not push it once he assures her he is just stressed about the upcoming concert. By the end she looks almost relaxed.

Kyoko observes her fatigue from the travel and patiently suggests she should go home and rest. Sayaka hesitates but does not object.

After she leaves, Kyoko lets the disguise fall with a choked gasp. She slides from the chain and sinks to the floor, screaming voicelessly into her arms. She picks herself up some time later and resolves to find an apartment for him. What is he doing still living with his parents, anyway?

When she dozes off by the door that night, wary that her illusion will break if she falls asleep and Kamijou’s parents find a stranger in the place of their son, Kyoko suddenly realizes something.

She never said Sayaka’s name with his voice.

“My lord, I have remembrances of yours
That I have longed long to re-deliver.
I pray you now receive them.”

Kyoko almost doesn’t catch the box of pocky when it sails through the air straight for her head.

“You tryna kill me or something?”

The lack of aggression in her voice surprises herself. Perhaps she is more tired than she thought (or allowed herself to feel).

Homura flicks her hair back and does not smile. Not that she normally smiles, mind you.

“If that could kill you-”

“Don’t.”

Homura merely flicks her hair again, the other way.

“How long do you intend to keep this up?”

Kyoko opens the box but cannot find it in her to eat it. She hasn’t been eating much lately. The ash of the burned church stuck on her tongue.

“For as long as I have to.”

Homura is quiet for a long while, probably judging her foolishness. It is only after the raven-haired Puella Magi speaks Kyoko realizes she is merely hesitating.

“You know, we could fake some kind of terminal illness for him. That way, Miki-san would have enough time to say her goodbye.”

To the wrong person. Kyoko thinks, taking a pocky out and stuffing the box into her pocket.

“Well, we’d have to find a terminal illness that leaves no body behind.” She replies dryly.

She hopes Homura can sense her appreciation.

“What about an accident? He went on a vacation and never came back?”

Kyoko has to laugh. “Come on, really?”

“It’s not too far from the truth.” Homura points out.

“Well, yeah. But…”

“You are killing yourself.”

Kyoko suddenly finds the pocky between her fingers extremely interesting.

A car races down the main street. There is a long, dragging scream of rubber against pavement, then a loud bang.

“We should go.” Kyoko says. “I don’t want to deal with cops.”

Neither of them move.

“Are you…” Homura starts, pauses, and chews on the words in her mind several times. “…punishing yourself?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“That’s not a no.” Homura tilts her head. Her eyes glint under the dim lamp in the park. “Have you become attached to her affection for him?”

Kyoko’s own eyes glimmer, for an entirely different reason. “You’re awfully talkative today.”

“I know it’s insulting,” Homura backs off with a slight bow of her head. “But it had to be asked.”

Kyoko looks away. Her phone (which Sayaka insisted she must have and even bought and paid monthly for her until she got a part-time job) buzzs in the pocket of her shorts.

“I have to go.”

“Take care.” Homura says and looks to the floor by her boots. “Don’t forget the Grief Cubes.”

Kyoko knows Homura saw her Soul Gem, but is considerate enough to say nothing. She hides her grimace and limps as she bends to pick up the cubes. Then she hobbles out of sight as quickly as she can.

She may have magic, but she’s not a fucking miracle worker.

“Well, God'ield you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.
Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
God be at your table.”

Sayaka knows it isn’t really Kamijou Kyousuke performing on the stage right now.

Of course she knows. His music is pure and single-minded and gently cruel. There is no room left for others in his world besides the great passion between bow and strings. In his every breath there is music, and it is only through music he lived.

So of course Sayaka noticed the jagged dissonance in the chords, even through the poor reception of the radio.

Kyousuke didn’t weave the notes like they were stolen shards of broken glasses. Like he was in pain every time his hands pushed and pulled his instrument. Like the strings were flame licking at his fingers.

To her, every note he played from that day forth was a desperate cry. A plea too sorrowful for her to bear. Nobody understood it. Or maybe those who could never heard it.

Hitomi doesn’t listen to classical music anymore, as far as Sayaka can tell. They still meet occasionally to catch up, if the green-haired woman can find time in her busy schedule. They remain somewhat close friends, although never as close as they once were, before that fateful month in junior high that changed everything.

They never talk about Kyousuke when they meet. It is an unspoken rule. A sacred trust between friends who do not want to hurt each other.

Or maybe they know it is a double-edged sword. If either one mentions him, their bond will truly be broken this time.

But now, sitting at the front-row only a few seats from the Kamijous, Sayaka wishes desperately that Hitomi is here.

If she is here, she can surely tell that this is not Kyousuke’s music. If she is here, Sayaka would not be alone in the revelation and understanding. If Hitomi is here, Sayaka would have enough courage to tell the critics that praise the unadultured emotion between the notes, the parents who can’t even sense something amiss with their own child, the rest of the world that frenzy over this new Kyousuke, that they are utterly, hopelessly wrong.

When the concert ends, she is the only one who does not join the standing ovation.

She did not realize what those dissonances meant until now. Until those gray eyes meets hers and he smiles at her like she is the only person he plays for.

Now she understands, she is angry and insulted.

Of course Sayaka knows it is not Kyousuke who stood on the stage. She has known since the first time she heard this new Kyousuke played.

The only reason she didn’t confront ‘him’ the first chance she had was because she wanted to know what’s really going on. Or so she told herself.

She had meant to shove the ‘new Kyousuke’ to the wall and threaten ‘him’ until ‘he’ told her where the real Kyousuke was. But she swallowed any emity the moment she pushed open the door to his room and their eyes made contact.

Because Kyousuke - his imposter, really - actually looked at her. And she couldn’t give up the illusion that she was, for once, actually reflected in those gentle gray pools that shone like starlight.

It was only after she left the Kamijou residence, on her way back home, that she remembered what she had set out to do. She remembered because Kyousuke never could love anything like he loved his violin, but what was reflected in the windows of the soul wrapped under the costume ran deeper.

That day, Sayaka became painfully aware she was for once on the receiving end of devotion.

“He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone,
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.”

Sayaka had her suspicions - no, maybe that’s not the right way to phrase it. They had grown much closer than she ever expected. It was both a blessing and a curse, because she saw in Kyoko’s eyes the same gentle passion she had grown used to seeing and came to realize she had come too far to give it up.

“Kyoko!”

Homura’s voice shakes her out of her daze. Time catches up to her and she sees crimson twirling in the air, like maple leaves dancing on autumn wind.

“Tch…!”

Except it is not any kind of plantation but fire, fiery red hair and blood, blood, so much blood. Some of it splashes onto her face.

She reaches out her hand too late, too late to catch the falling Kyoko. Too late to stop herself from connecting all the dots and recognizing everything leading up to this point and where it will inevitably end up.

Distantly, she hears arrows wheezing through the air and decimating the rest of the Wraiths. She pays it no mind, just staring, staring at Kyoko, who is trying and failing to get back up but refuses to give in to the pain.

Homura lands between them and shoots each of them an icy glare.

“What the hell are you doing?” Homura sneers, but to whom, Sayaka isn’t sure.

“Lay off, will ya?” Kyoko pants. “I slipped is all.”

Sayaka stands motionless, fixated on the way the redhead’s shattered rib cage rises and falls jaggedly with each pained breath.

“Can you move?” Homura asks.

Sayaka has never seen Homura quite this angry before. That must be what stopped her from functioning properly.

“Just give me a minute.” Kyoko grumbles. “Or a hand. Christ…”

Homura does offer a hand, but not to pull her up. She pushes Kyoko down to the ground.

“I wasn’t asking you to puncture your organs with your broken bones.” She spits out, then looks up at Sayaka. Her words are polite, but they are colder than ice.  “Miki-san, I believe it’s your time to shine now.”

Sayaka nods and kneels down beside Kyoko, but she has no idea what she is doing.

The moment of chaos gradually catches up to her and she slowly comes to realize what happened. She made a mistake, was about to suffer the consequences, and then… and then… Kyoko ‘slipped’ and got in the way between her and the attack.

She places a hand on Kyoko’s shoulder. Too quickly. Too roughly. Kyoko sucks in a sudden breath.

“Jesus, woman. Be more gentle, will ya?”

“So-sorry.” She stammers, and shivers a little. It was too close. She has once again walked on the edge of a knife. She has almost died. Again.

Kyoko smirks, which flickered into a grimace when her wounds complained again. But she is strong, and she smiles again.

“A year and still a rookie.”

“Shut up.”

The music notes dance in the pale blue light, slowly closing the most severe wounds. Sayaka focuses on her task, moving from the one the size of a basketball at Kyoko’s waist to her half missing thigh to the deep cut from her neck to -

Kyoko catches her hand.

“You can stop now.” The redhead says quietly.

Sayaka looks at her, uncomprehending.

Kyoko nods to her midriff. “Your Soul Gem.” She says simply, still having trouble breathing. “Here, Homura’s divided the grief cubes up for us. Use yours.”

Homura has disappeared at some point, leaving only the two of them in the parking lot of the abandoned mall. Sayaka tries to recall when Homura left, but can find no answer.

When Sayaka makes no attempt to retrieve the prize, Kyoko rolls her eyes and presses one to the muddied sapphire. Then another. Then another. Until she feels lightheaded, like she is floating above clouds.

“Hey.”

She looks at Kyoko's face. Their eyes meet, and again Sayaka sees the gentle fire, burning almost too bright for her to look at.

(From the corner of her eyes Sayaka sees Kyoko’s Soul Gem is still quite tainted, even though she has already used half of her share. A part of her wants to tell Kyoko to take what remain of her own share and use it, but she has magically lost her voice.)

“Hey.” Kyoko says again, perhaps more warmly than she intended.

She has come too far to give it up.

“I’m alright.” Kyoko wipes away the tears she didn’t even realize she is shedding. “A good night’s rest, and I’ll be up in no time.”

Kyousuke was gently cruel. Kyoko is cruelly gentle.

“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance;
pray, love, remember;
and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.”

Kyoko passes out as soon as she drags herself through the apartment door. She wakes up when her cheek hits the floor.

She scowls in reflex and suffers the consequence. Her magic sputters and barely manages to heal the latest of her injuries. Her limbs shake, muscles locking every so often as she pushes herself further into the room. Her movement ragged like a broken marionette.

If it was Mami (who had left the city for college), she would have found a more tactful solution to all these. Maybe if she was still here, Kamijou wouldn’t have died in the first place.

She gives up on her attempt of dragging herself to bed and stays on the wooden floor. She thinks she sees an ant scurrying away into the shadow of her furniture.

It has been a month since the whole charade started. A little over three weeks since Sayaka returned from the vacation. She didn’t realize during the first few days, but keeping up the facade as both Sakura Kyoko and Kamijou Kyousuke is probably going to do her in a lot faster than she expected. And still, Kyoko has no idea what else she could do.

Suddenly she remembers and looks up to the wall. She has hung up a calendar, and tomorrow is marked with a blue pen.

“Damn it.” She barks out a rough laughter only she could hear. “God fucking damn it.”

Kamijou is supposed to go on a date with Sayaka tomorrow.

“There’s fennel for you, and columbines;
there’s rue for you, and here’s some for me;
we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays.
O, you must wear your rue with a difference.”

Sayaka glares at the face outside her door like she can will it to spontaneously combust.

Kyoko probably doesn’t realize her magic is failing her, or she doubts she would dare knocking on her door. She wears a black tank top underneath white dress shirt, which she only bothers with the third and fourth buttons, and a pair of jeans Sayaka is fairly certain Kyousuke does not own. With the illusion on the verge of collapsing, Sayaka can almost see the thinner, smaller frame draped underneath.

And the remnant of the cut on her neck, from yesterday.

Sayaka remembers how the blood oozed out from between Kyoko’s fingers. It practically gives Kyoko a new collar.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, colder than revenge.

“Huh?” Kyoko blinks in confusion. Kyousuke’s gray eyes flicker to the shade of sunset for the briefest of the moment. “Taking you to dinner.”

“No you aren’t.”

Kyoko frowns with Kyousuke’s face. It has been years since she gave up on him, but her heart still tugs for no reason at the disappointment.

“Why not? I thought we had this planned…”

“Are you really in a position to go anywhere?” Sayaka interrupts with raised voice. She can’t say whether she feels more exasperated or annoyed. “Look at you!”

Fear fleets past those eyes as they flicker to red once again. The sight sends a surge of something akin to satisfaction through Sayaka’s heart. She refrains from reaching out.

“I-I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh for the love of-”

Her fingers miss the cut on the neck and shove her shoulders. Kyoko goes down like a house of cards.

“You almost died yesterday!”

This time the illusion falls away completely and she sees Kyoko’s stunned expression. But it recovers quickly.

“I-I’m not-” She panics. “I didn’t- I don’t-”

“Don’t make me say it.”

Because there are things that, once said, can never be ignored again.

Kyoko opens his mouth but shuts it without saying a word. Then, like a wolf defeated and shamed in battle, she slinks back.

“O-okay.” She takes a shaky breath, and slowly picks herself up from the floor. She moves like someone in great pain.

Sayaka watches Kyoko limp back two steps. Her face is now a blur that is neither Kyousuke’s nor Kyoko’s. All she can recognize is pale skins and-

“I didn’t- I didn’t mean to…”

Her words are so quiet Sayaka wonders whether it is also part of the illusion. Like dry paint, they crumble.

“I’m so…”

Kyoko knows she has fucked up the moment her knees give out suddenly. She can see nothing but the alarmed and scared look on Sayaka’s face as she reaches out for a second time, her fingers outstretched.

There is that familiar buzzing in her ears again, so deafening she can’t hear anything else. But unlike when she forced herself to use her illusion magic, there is no fire. Only the cold and damp fingers of corruption caressing her, clinging to her.

She wonders if the mythical bird reborn from flames also dies in this fashion. If flames and light gives it life, surely this dark miasma signals its death.

Her vision swims like she is suddenly under water. Her limbs are tied down with the rocks of her sins and dragging, dragging, dragging her down. Away from the light and warmth. Away from heaven.

“...!”

But she does see Sayaka’s lips move. And for a blissful moment before darkness swallows her up, she allows herself to hope Sayaka is calling out her name.

“There’s a daisy.
I would give you some violets,
but they wither’d all when my father died.
They say he made a good end,— 

Kyoko wakes up in Sayaka’s bed.

Sayaka is kneeling on the floor beside her, head resting on the sheet. She traps one of Kyoko’s wrists in her hand like a handcuff.

Kyoko tries to get up, but as soon as she does her vision darkens again. She nearly doubles over in pain.

Sayaka awakes almost instantly, her hand on Kyoko’s wrist squeezing tightly and the other working to gently lay her back down.

“I did what I could, but-” she trails off with a sigh.

Kyoko tries to call out to her, but all she manages is a strangled wheeze. Sayaka sits up and reaches for a cup of water she has prepared by the bedside table. Kyoko pushes herself up again, more gingerly this time.

Sayaka feeds her the water, tipping the cup so slowly Kyoko nearly loses her patience. She doesn’t try to snatch the cup away only because she is certain she would spill it on Sayaka’s bed.

She drinks eagerly, and Sayaka continues tipping the cup until the last drop. Her gesture is so awkward, Kyoko notes, she wonders whether Sayaka ever had to take care of someone else.

All the while, Sayaka is quiet and her expression unreadable.

Once Kyoko is done, she turns to put the cup away, before settling down on the bed, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Kyoko.

Kyoko clears her throat.

“How long was I…?”

She feels a sudden weight on her shoulder. Something soft and blue tickles her cheek. It prevents her from turning to look.

“Sayaka?”

“Your Soul Gem was almost completely black.” She whispers. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Kyoko wonders whether she should even try. “How long?”

“It’s Sunday, so a day and half.”

“No, I mean, how long have you…?”

Sayaka grips her forearm. “Does it matter?”

She supposes not.

“Why?”

Kyoko briefly considers replying with the same question she asked just a pause ago. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

“You made me say it, so yes. Yes we have to.”

No you haven’t. She wants to say.  And if we leave right now we can find you somewhere safe and warm. I can find a way to make you smile, to make you happy, even just for one more day.

She swallows the bitter taste of morning breath - is it even morning? She can’t tell. The drapes are closed. They are shut off from the rest of the world, and in this world there is no dusk or dawn, only a tacet that separates the two touching bodies.

“Because-” She struggles to find her voice. To find a way to tell the truth without saying anything at all. “Because I’m selfish.”

Sayaka’s nails dig into her skin, as if trying to stop her, although the rest of her are as still as a statue. If not for the pain shooting up her arm, Kyoko might have thought she had fallen asleep.

“I told you in the beginning, didn’t I?” And now she has started, nothing could stop it anyway. “I’m a selfish person. Everything I do is to benefit myself.”

Sayaka extracts herself from her side. Kyoko squeezes her eyes shut a moment, mentally preparing herself for her just punishment. They turn to each other at the same time.

She expects a wide range of reaction from her, definitely an enraged slap or fist, or perhaps Sayaka would simply walk out to find some Wraiths to take out her aggression. Maybe they would spar, and if that’s the case Kyoko has every intention to take a couple well deserved hits if she could atone for the sacrilege.

Instead, Sayaka turns fully to her, and cups her cheek. She is locked in those ocean blue eyes.

“I already-” She begins with a trembling voice, then stops and shakes her head. “You are an idiot. You know that?”

Kyoko expected those words, but not the way Sayaka oh-so-gently spoke them. Much less for their distance to be suddenly erased until all she can feel is soft and warm and salty moisture against her lips.

She pushes back on instinct.

That night, her fingers trace her body like they are the strings on a violin. It is no different from what she has been doing for the past six months, repeating the desperate, silent prayers to be absolved of the horrible deeds committed.

Only this time, the soft sighs and moans from Sayaka fuse with her solo into a duet.

“For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.”

When Kyoko wakes the next morning, Sayaka is gone.

She kneels by the bedside that still smells like raspberry and does not ask for forgiveness. But she does pray for the last time to the silent heaven.

Just because you see a tragedy coming, doesn't mean it won't break your heart.

“When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.”

Chapter Text

The content sigh behind her was so quiet, one could easily mistake it with the soft whistling between the crack of windows.

Kyoko stirred.

Something light as feather draped across her body. A finger traced circles on the back of her hand, leading her on a leash toward the realm of awareness.

She responded with a tired groan.

The tickling sensation continued, spreading upwards. To her wrist, forearm, elbow, then…

“For someone of a religious upbringing, your knowledge in this sort of things is certainly impressive.”

Kyoko clung to the sweet darkness of sleep, willing it to return. It was much too late. She needed to get up on time tomorrow, or she risked losing the bonus. And god she needed that bonus.

“What?” The teasing laugh ghosted over her ears. “Tired after a little bit of exercise?”

Kyoko pushed back subconsciously, scowling a smile.

“Shut up.”

By the time she realized her mistake, it had been too late. The sound of her own voice echoing in the empty room jolted her awake. Her weight fell through the body behind that never existed. And her own fingers brushed against bedsheet chilled by the night and her solitude, grasping for the phantom of a long abandoned dream.

She snarled an empty threat at the part of her mind that dared to suggest grief. It withered away under her wraith. But she was already awake, and angry at herself.

She got up and nearly pulled out some of her crimson locks in frustration. She knew there would be no more rest that night, so she did the only thing she could and got up to make herself some coffee. The cheap powder dissolved against boiling water, and she drank like someone dying of thirst, uncaring the burns sprouting from her lips to her tongue to wherever it went afterward.

Sometimes being a magical girl was indeed convenient. She didn’t even feel the damage, only the boiling water at the pit of her stomach, fighting with the invisible flame.

Kyoko dreamt every night. Sometimes she woke up with a faint smile, which lingered until she remembered all there was to remember. More often than not, the dreams kept her awake with the taste of rotten apple.

It was her own fault she was in this situation, she knew that. She had seen it coming miles away. But she did the best she could and if that was not enough, what else could she have done? Even if she was given the chance to start over a thousand times, she had no doubt she would have chosen the same. And so, beggar can’t be chooser.

She contemplated lying back down and staring at the ceiling until the alarm rang, but just the thought itself made her shiver again.

She kept to the left side of the bed nowadays, despite it being quite small to begin with. Just one of those habits, she supposed, that developed out of necessity, lingered even after the need for enforcement no longer existed, and just stuck with her like a tattoo. Like how she still closed her hands before a meal in thanks. Like how she still fought to protect the streets whenever she could. Like how she still looked for…

Like a lot of things, she supposed.

She made herself a second cup, and proceeded much slower this time. She was out of milk and sugar (and many things besides, to be honest), so she took the instant coffee black. It felt like she was drinking mud.

And it was fitting, because at nights like this the memory always came back, and they tasted worse than anything she had ever consumed (and she had, out of desperation, ingested many unsavory things). Because she would always remember Sayaka’s brilliant smile and how it had been another lifetime.

If one was to ask whether Sayaka was ever happy when they were together, Kyoko could not answer with any degree of certainty. After so much time, she could no more tell the differences between pieces of scattered dreams and broken shards of memories than a blind man feeling for razors among shattered glasses.

Same difference, when you’ve lost someone to their own volition.

She closed her eyes and hid her face in her arms. If she stayed with her castle of shame, maybe she would not have to fall apart all over again.

She woke to low, irregular heartbeats. Knuckles against wood.

Someone was at her door.

It’s probably her old drunk of a neighbor. God knows she should really file a complaint to the landlord. She buried herself deeper in her misery and tried to get back to sleep. It was definitely not time to get up yet.

But the knocking, insistent as her past, refused to cease. And before she fell to the dreamless sleep, the sound morphed with memories of her father knocking on others’ doors, begging them to listen.

Kyoko got up, irritable, pushing the messy hair out of her face. She knew she looked like hell, but maybe that would be a good thing and teach her neighbor a lesson.

She marched up to the door, a fist forming in preparation to make acquaintance with her annoying neighbor while the other throwing open the door abruptly.

Then she caught herself.

No, not really. She didn't catch anything. Her heart leapt at the incredible sight in front of her, then took a spectacular dive worthy of all sport medals in the world. And she stood there dumb and confused and afraid and relieved all compressed into one giant ball of emotion that equated to rapidly beating damnation.

Her visitor cocked her head at first, and Kyoko was suddenly blinded by the ashen reflection of drifting snow past the doorway. Moonlight bruised her unexpected guest who stood stark against the lonely night.

I must be dreaming. She thought numbly, staring, feeling her heart breaking all over again.

Her salvation and nightmare stood leaning against her door frame, shivering as if she had never felt warmth.

And for reasons she couldn’t comprehend, what she thought had died long time ago stirred back to life.

Sayaka tilted her head and smiled, but offered no greeting nor explanation of where she had been for the past three years. Kyoko wasn’t sure whether the lack of movement was due to fatigue. All she could focus on was the pair of blue eyes captivating hers.

And Sayaka smiled an innocent, mirthless smile.

“I’m pregnant.”

She’s too thin. Kyoko decided. Weightless. A breeze could carry her away.

The thought scared her, so she ducked behind the kitchen counter and rummaged through her drawers. She could feel Sayaka’s curious gaze on her back, and she had to suppress both the tears and the urge to stand up and scream.

What more do you want from me?

“Okay, so.” She mumbled from somewhere out of sight.

Sayaka leaned on the counter to hear her. Kyoko heard it but didn’t dare look up, afraid of what she’d see from the reflection. She weighed her options as her hand trailed through boxes and bags of her reservoir. She peeked out, ashamed.

“I have pasta.”

Sayaka blinked. And started laughing.

“What?”

Sayaka was laughing so hard she had tears streaming freely down her cheeks. Kind of like raindrops clinging to Kyoko’s dirty apartment windows which blurred the sky outside. (She never did anything about it, but she also never stopped looking out either.)

“Nothing.” Sayaka said. She was breathless, wiping the corner of her eyes.

There was a snake coiling around her lungs. It squeezed down. Kyoko growled, or at least she thought she did.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

Her voice was so quiet, so tired, so defeated. Even the words themselves felt wrong as soon as they slipped out. She hated it. She hated what this reunion was doing to her and how she hated absolutely nothing about it at all.

They stared at each other, Kyoko wounded and challenging, and Sayaka surprised and amused. The scene was all too familiar. With a start, Kyoko realized what it was. They were actresses who had their scripts exchanged the night before the grand performance.

“I’m not.” Sayaka hummed, smiling with her chin resting against her palms. She was oblivious of Kyoko’s discomfort. Or perhaps just didn’t care about it enough. Another smile crept up to her lips, and Kyoko loathed the mocking innocent of it. “I’m just really happy.”

Kyoko swallowed the lump on her throat. She was the first to look away.

You had my heart.

“About what? Pasta?”

“No.” Sayaka stood up and sauntered to her side. She was smiling that infuriatingly fake smile which once upon a time would have driven Kyoko mad with fury and passion.

Now she just stood there, mute and numb, observing their proximity from the next galaxy.

Sayaka leaned in, her lips barely grazing Kyoko’s. Her breath burning, bitter cold, sent shivers down Kyoko’s spine and lit fire in her stomach. She realized she was shaking only when their skin touched.

But then Sayaka’s gaze softened and flickered like pale wintry stars. She drew back and stole yet another handful of fragmented souls from Kyoko she wasn’t even aware she still had.

Sayaka stared at her as with one eyebrow raised, as if daring her to speak.

Kyoko gritted her teeth and balled her fists and smothered the boiling emotion from where she imagined her soul was. She turned and proceeded to shove a banged-up pot under the faucet with more force than required.

Sayaka didn’t push for her reaction. She stalked back to the chair, light-footed.

By the time Kyoko moved the half full pot to the stove, she was almost calm enough to assess the situation more rationally. Homura had been a good influence on her like that.

And then, of course, Sayaka had to speak again.

“I’m sorry.”

Kyoko pretended to not hear it over the still running faucet (which she totally didn’t intentionally forget to turn off). And she reminded herself. Pain is optional.

They always fought for dominance. Who gets the last word in an argument. The last stick of pocky in the box. It was their way of passion, and it had started long before they had tangled themselves up in this mess.

If there was one element that defined Sakura Kyoko, it would have been fire. She was driven by the anger of the unfairness showered on her father. She was reborn (or left over, depending on how you view it) from the blood that took her family. She lived until her own heat created sparks with someone of her equal, until they could create a fire together.

Fire could warm. Fire could shine. But at the same time, fire could also burn and hurt and drive away. It was at Sayaka’s unannounced departure that Kyoko realized, with laughters that would not die and tears that would not dry, that she had forgotten the very nature of flame.

And afterwards she bore the cross the way she was supposed to. When there’s no one else there to share the fire, it consumes its owner.

As the days rolled by, she had become accustomed to the dying flame.

When you grow old enough, your emotion is no longer a rollercoaster ride. You learn to apply the brake, or better yet, hammer the railroad flat so that you never risk the fall.

She thought she had it all figured out.

And then again she watched it all went up in flame.

She didn’t need to ask.

Sometimes she would catch a faraway look on Sayaka’s face, as she fiddled with her Soul Gem absent-mindedly with one hand, and stroking her belly with the other.

Sayaka was lean and pale when she came to Kyoko’s door, but Kyoko had set her mind to fix that. And she did. Months later, Sayaka had regained her natural color. In these time, she had begun to show.

Kyoko made it a ritual to stand by the door and watch Sayaka from a distance. She wasn’t sure whether she had any place in her life anymore. She waited for either invitation or rejection, but was content with just being there to witness it all.

One day Sayaka asked, without looking back to Kyoko by the door. “Aren’t you going to ask?”

“Ask what?”

The hand stroking the belly ceased, and Sayaka turned fully to Kyoko. She looked, for the first time since her sudden arrival, surprised. And Kyoko wasn’t sure if it was her misconception, but Sayaka also looked lost. But only for the briefest of moment.

Something fleeting flashed across the youthful feature of her mermaid princess. But she voiced none of those.

Instead, when Sayaka did speak again, it was full of something Kyoko was afraid to make sense of.

“You are an idiot, you know that?”

It was the tenderness that made Kyoko realize what Sayaka was asking about. She shifted on her feet, while a hand scratched her cheek with embarrassment. God she felt like a sheepish high-schooler in love.

“Well.” She shrugged. Maybe she was. It didn’t matter. “What’s for dinner?”

Sayaka laughed. And it wasn’t one of those half-smile that seemed to have molded onto her face recently. It was joyful. It was real.

“Dummy.” She quipped lightly.

It was pleasant. Kyoko didn’t even realize she was smiling too. Kind of like taking a stroll in a spring evening, surrounded by the comforting fragrance of blooming flowers.

A piece of her mind told her this wouldn’t last. That it wouldn’t lead anywhere good. Just like last time.

She told it to shut up.

Sayaka was still chuckling as she got up from her seat by the dirty window. “Go take a shower.” She chided with the first hint of motherly love. “It will be ready when you come out.”

Kyoko shrugged again and retreated from the room.

It never occurred to her to ask. Now that she thought about it, she supposed it was quite odd. But at the same time, the only important question (as far as she was concerned, anyway) was what Sayaka wanted to do with the baby. And since the answer to that was quite obvious, she never thought to question anything else.

Besides, there were plenty other stuff to worry about. Sayaka only ever said it once when they were much younger, but Kyoko could tell she was still very much bothered by the fact she was a “zombie”.

Kyoko never convinced her otherwise and, knowing how stubborn Sayaka could be, she had settled to show her she was as human as anybody else by actions and not words.

Besides. She thought to herself as she retrieve her clothes. I had my own things to worry about too. Now that Sayaka was here, Kyoko would need to find a second job to make up for the expense.

How her meager salary was going to support Sayaka and the child was beyond her. Still, the prospect of a purpose alone was enough to send her skipping through the city.

It really didn’t matter who the father was.

As with most tragedy of her life, the bad news came unannounced, unprompted, and caught her off guard.

She rushed to the hospital when she got the call. Her blood was frozen solid with fear. She couldn’t drive way the image of her father hanging from the beam of the church, accompanied by the unmoving bodies of her dear mother and baby sister whence the river of blood came from.

She sat in agony outside on the bench. Mami was coming. Madoka too, and probably bringing Homura.

She had informed them of Sayaka’s return (with her permission, oddly enough). And although Sayaka had shunned away from any human contact aside from Kyoko (she tried not to think about it too much, lest she got her hope up again for nothing), they were presences Kyoko could count on at time of crisis like this. She didn’t trust herself enough to comfort others.

The doctors emerged from the operating room before any of them arrived.

And Kyoko didn’t need to ask to know what happened.

She knew it was not her fault, but she couldn’t stop blaming herself anyway.

As with most obstacles in their life, this particular problem was not a question of “what to do next”, but rather a statement pointing out “good things never last”.

That’s why Kyoko did not remove Sayaka from her room, from the fortress of pillow and blanket in front of the television, after the days she lost the child.

It wasn’t until she was sorting through the bill, days later, that she realized there was only buzzing snowflakes on the machine for quite some time. She had avoided looking at Sayaka’s face thus far, fearing she would lose her resolve to be strong when they both needed her strength and income. And every day she returned the house was quiet and she was too tired and afraid to check on Sayaka.

But presently she threw down the bill at the realization, and barged into the room.

Sayaka sat unmoving in front of the television where she had left her.

Kyoko came to her side, and kneeled down next to her.

Sayaka did not react in any way, simply let Kyoko carefully pull her into her arms. Her eyes never left the snowy screen, unseeing.

And Kyoko waited. She had always waited. She figured this wasn’t that different.

After an eternity, Sayaka relaxed in her arms. Her voice was hoarse even in whisper.

“His room was going to be painted blue and red.”

Kyoko stroke her hair. It had grown long, passing her shoulder. She murmured something of acknowledgement, even though they never talked about the child and the arrangement after Sayaka gave birth. It even came as a surprise to Kyoko that it would be a boy.

“And there’d be a lot of model airplanes hanging from the ceiling.”

How could you break your heart for someone yet still willing to give them them everything you have left?

“And when he had nightmares, we’d both go rock him back to sleep.”

She could hear the nonexistent mobile hanging above the curb they could not afford. Another life cut short. How could this world be so cruel when it had given her the best thing that ever happened to her?

“I’d play him classic musics. And you’d tell him all those stories about heroes and miracles.”

Stories where love and courage triumphed. Fairy tales that had no place in their life. Their world. Kyoko would have given up anything to bring Sayaka such a world, but for that to happen, it would still have been too perfect of a world. A world where she could have been something more than a sorry excuse of life. A world where she was for once the hero who saved the day instead of the abandoned child nobody cared enough to take with them.

“And…”

It started raining. She pulled her closer to shelter her from the downpour.

“...and he would be the happiest child ever. You’ve always been so good with kids, Kyoko. I’ve always known.”

She wasn’t living in abandoned buildings under collapsed roofs anymore. But the rain drenched the front of her shirt anyway.

All she ever wanted was to protect her. Consequences be damned.

And it must be something in Sayaka’s voice or the way her lips curved against her collarbones or something equally ridiculous that made Kyoko realize that, fuck it, she still loves her.

“You’d be a great parent.”

Kyoko wasn’t sure who said that. She pulled away just long enough so she could tilt Sayaka’s chin up and kiss her. Gently. Calmingly.

Sayaka reciprocated with the ferocity of a storm. She clung to her for dear life, searching, begging to be anchored. And Kyoko gave her everything and more.

In the end, she touched their foreheads together. All the hope and despair and pain and love and loneliness and everything she did and did not understand melted into the greatest confession of a lifetime. A whisper that blew hope into her fucked up life.

“Will you marry me?”

Sayaka smiled through her tears and kissed her back.

But she never gave a reply.

The next day, Kyoko walked into the bathroom to find a mermaid bathed in crimson.

“Are you going to be okay?”

She looked up to see Mami’s concerned face. She pulled her lips up into a tired smile and looked through her mentor, to the grey sky behind.

Madoka was beside herself with grief when she graced Kyoko with her presence just moments ago. She had pulled the smaller girl into a somewhat awkward hug to offer her condolences and let go before the gentle-hearted young woman could cling to her for comfort (or was it the other way around?)

Kyoko handed Madoka back to Homura, who stood one step behind and watched the scene unfold with the same detachment she had grown quite used to.

(She was ignoring the sympathetic sorrow in her friend’s eyes, because if she admitted she had seen it, she would have to also admit there was a hole ripped from her soul. Again.)

“I'll be fine.” She told Mami, but she wasn’t fooling anyone.

A survivor she may be, but there was only so many times something could break before it was deemed irrevocable destroyed.

Looking up to the bright blue sky that resembled all and nothing of the love of her life’s eyes, Kyoko wondered.

She wondered if there’s anything else left in her to break.