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The rapping on her door alerts her to her visitor, so late into the night of a quiet Saturday. Momo brings up her face to stare at the door, wary. She blinks, attempting to ignore the sound and instead focusing on the book in her hand. The person outside doesn’t stop, knocks growing increasingly louder each time their knuckles hit the door.
It’s not banging, but there’s a sense of urgency carried by the way each beat lessens by seconds. Momo doesn’t want to get up from her cozy spot on her bed, doesn’t want to throw her blanket off her body, doesn’t want to pad towards her door, squeezing herself between the small space of her bed and her desk.
But the knocking continues, unrelenting. She has half the mind to just ignore it until it goes away, or even throw her book to make it stop (but then, that would alert them of her presence). Before she can make up her mind, the knocking just suddenly... stops.
After exactly two beats, a voice rings from the outside.
“Yaomomo? You awake?”
Momo blinks again, the voice coaxing her out of her bed without another second passing by. Her blanket is thrown aside, book placed on her bed as she hurries to open her door — and there, greeting her is the smiling face of one Jirou Kyouka, sheepishly about to knock once more (what with her hand poised into a fist, lifted and in the process of once again attempting to wake her).
Not that she’d been asleep. But that point is moot.
“Jirou-san? Is something the matter?”
Now, this doesn’t mean that Momo would ignore her classmates when they come knocking on her door. On the contrary, she’s glad to be of any help, going as far as staying up (however late it is) for her fellow heroes-in-training in case they needed her. But the dorms is still a terrifying place (especially given how a small, obnoxious grape-shaped boy has come to her door numerous times in the past, requesting assistance or whatever he wanted). And it isn’t like Momo is choosy with how she distributes her help — she likes to think that anyone who asks for her will have her time for the day.
It’s just that said unnamed boy brings her so many uncomfortable feelings, tension crawling all over her skin, awash with fear and dislike.
But Jirou — Jirou doesn’t do that to her.
Jirou allows her to feel light every time they converse. The way she’s just there , a constant since they’ve all started their life in the dorms. Even before that, when high school started for her and she’d been the silent overachiever of their class, focusing on her schoolwork more than her peers.
Private as U.A. was, she was glad it wasn’t anything similar to the middle school Momo went to — where money spoke wonders, where friends were a commodity that seemed almost rare to have, where everyone had plastics smiles, plastic hearts, plastic personalities to shroud their years until they could remove themselves from the presence of one another. So she was glad for U.A., and she was glad for her classmates (or, most of them, at least).
And she was especially glad for Jirou, who Momo feels the most at ease, after their disastrous training at the USJ, so long ago. And the years that followed them make her feel a fluttering in her chest. When she’s near Jirou, holding her hand so as to not get lost in the unruly Sunday morning crowd on their way to the shopping mall. Smiling at her whenever one or more of her ugly emotions rise from the depths of her stomach, bubbling through her skin like her creations. Laughing at her inability to understand jokes, but never in a malicious way. No, never like that.
She must look like an idiot, thinking of silly things. Silly things. Yes, they’re silly things. Friendship doesn’t entail her to over-analyze all the times they’ve gone out to spend the day in each other’s company. She doesn’t need to understand (for now) why her chest thrums pleasantly whenever Jirou’s within reach; why her cheeks are tomato red when she hears Jirou speak; why her knees are jelly and her mouth is dry whenever Jirou’s at Recovery GIrl’s clinic, nursing wounds from their last training session.
No, of course not. She doesn’t need to know why everything in her head seems to keep revolving around Jirou. Not now. Not now.
(For now.)
Her musings are thoroughly broken when Jirou calls out to her, tone soft as to not wake the only other person in that floor. Momo watches in awe, brows quirked in that way she’d never realized (that everyone noted, most of all the girl in front of her), as said girl shuffles her feet on the carpeted floor, almost like she’s embarrassed. But as Momo continues watching, she can see how Jirou’s nervous jitters lessen, like she’s steeled her resolve.
Resolve? Why would she —?
“Yaomomo? You okay? You’re spacing out,” Jirou’s words bring her back (again — this is the second time she’s taken by the presence of her friend, why yes of course she’s your friend, and Momo bites back the urge to berate herself for the thoughts running through her head), “oh, wait, did I wake you up? I’m so sorry I didn’t —”
“No!” Momo says a little too loudly — hopefully, not loud enough to rouse Asui-san (Tsuyu, her mind supplies helpfully, in the frog-girl’s familiarly straight voice), holding her hands in a placating manner, “I mean, no you didn’t. Don’t worry Jirou-san.”
The smile that flits across her face is nothing short of genuine, and she brings her hands down in favor of clapping them behind her back.
“Did you need something though? Isn’t it quite late?”
And there, Momo can see Jirou tensing up again. But it looks to be a different kind, not the type of tension that grips her body when she’d receive a sermon from Aizawa-sensei, or when she’d feel the uncomfortable aura of the unnamed boy lurking amongst the shadows of their dorm. No, Momo knows what those look like.
“Ah, yeah! About that,” There’s something so uniquely fascinating about a sheepish Jirou, twirling her jacks around her finger — because she’s so confident of herself most of the day. Ah, but that confidence seems to have returned, as she stops with her unconscious habit, looking Momo in the eye.
Even in her sleep wear (a dark purple t-shirt and white pajama pants), she looks just as beautiful and confident as her hero persona.
Wait.
“I, I sorta wanted to show you something? D’you mind if we go out for a little while? We’ll be back before you know it, I promise!”
Jirou sounds so excited (of the muted variety, though Momo has known her for long enough to be able to tell the sincerity of her emotions), so happy to extend the invitation that Momo can’t help but agree without another though, her elation at being invited by Jirou somewhere threatening to show on her face. She doesn’t think about how late it is, or what punishment they’ll get in the event they’re caught out of their rooms. Momo doesn’t even think about the where, not when a grinning “Of course!” escapes her, and at the grateful smile Jirou gives her in response, the butterflies pooling along the walls of her stomach threaten to burst.
(They’ve gone out to little trips before, what makes this one different?)
(Momo has an inkling but she refuses to see through it. Because there’s no way it’s the right idea.)
.
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They’re on the roof of Alliance Heights.
It’s a chilly evening, a Saturday signalling the end of their busy week.
It’s a chilly evening she had been spending coiled beneath her fluffiest blanket, reading through a book recommended to her by Cementoss-sensei, waiting for sleep to claim her (but being unable to allow it, especially after Jirou came knocking).
So now here she is, chilled to the bone in her too thin pajamas, having only taken a robe with her to cover herself up. Not that she’s easily affected by the cold. Usually.
And yet, for some reason, at that moment, she’s very much cold, with the wind nipping at her skin and the protection her clothes provide, that is to say, none at all, it’s no wonder that she can feel herself shivering slightly.
Still, Momo wouldn’t want to just leave Jirou, not when she’s looking around for something on their roof, face brightening when she finds it, dragging Momo towards said it.
Said it is a blanket. A thick blanket sprawled beneath the night’s sky. When Momo looks up, all she sees is a clear spread across her eyes and they widen with surprise. It’s the first time she’s seen so many stars littering the sky, each glimmering against the backdrop of black.
Momo’s amazement makes Jirou laugh, a twinkling sound in the back of her head as something shoots stark across her sight.
A shooting star.
“Ah, it’s starting!” Jirou rushes to pull Momo faster now, as one meteor falls. The next doesn’t come at once, but it does once they’ve settled on the blanket, and belatedly, Momo sees that there are pillows around them as well. Like Jirou’s hoping to lay down there.
(With her?)
Just the thought of it makes her face bloom with heat.
They’re sitting together though, not laying down, because Momo doesn’t know how her heart would take it if they actually did, shoulders touching and all. And while her queen-sized poster bed would be perfect for such an event, that is, sharing said bed with someone else, Momo has never invited any of her classmates into her room for a sleepover. Oh, she’s entertained the idea numerous times, but despite the agreeable nature the girls in her class possessed, she’s never asked any of them before.
Momo’s hand finds a pillow and she inadvertently clutches onto it, a lifeline of sorts, as another shooting star appears in the sky.
Jirou’s clutching her own pillow, passing it between her hands. “I wanted to show you the meteor shower today. I mean, yeah, it’s not that much yet and I kinda almost forgot about it but I really glad didn’t? Sorry for waking you Yaomomo, I just, uh, I remembered you saying something about them and I knew you’d like to see it.”
“I, Jirou-san, this is wonderful,” her voice croaks with words she’d like to say but unable to, flooded by emotion she knew she needed to clamp down on in case it spilled all over their little escapade, ruining the moment. Momo’s not a very nice crier — she’s always so loud and obnoxious about her crying, plus her tears always drip in fat blobs that splash on whatever surface her face is on.
Right now, the sky is a mess of falling stars. And right now, Jirou’s caring nature pierces through her shivering body, and yet she feels nothing but a warmness bubbling from the deepest parts of her. Momo’s lips turn, smile gracing her features as she lets go of the pillow, making instead of hold onto Jirou’s own. This only causes Jirou to stop, frozen as palms (sweaty? how in the world are Momo’s palms sweaty ), touch together.
The world around Momo blurs, with Jirou’s form the only thing clear to her eyes. The backdrop of a starry night, of falling stars cascading like rain, a shower of light all serve to magnify the understanding that has taken root in her chest since she’s thought about it. That idea. That she might be in love with Jirou. With Kyouka. With Jirou Kyouka, Earphone Jack, hero-in-training, her classmate of three years. Her friend, best friend even.
Her hands close in on Jirou’s own, (and thankfully, the fat blobs of tears that have been edging her eyes don’t fall), as she beholds the varying emotions splayed across Jirou’s own face. From surprise to embarrassment, glee, and then an inkling of fondness, eyes glazing into something so utterly breathtaking to Momo that she wants to pull Jirou into a hug.
(Or a kiss.)
But she doesn’t. Attempt the second option that her head (and heart) keeps shouting, at least, making do with a quick hug before letting go and turning back to the stars and the meteor shower still happening. She lets her stomach settle for a moment, butterflies perching themselves quietly along the lines of her unease and fear.
Maybe some other time.
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The meteor shower ends as it began, with one last star falling for them to marvel at. Momo made a wish upon the first one that fell (however unconscious it was, her brain automatically thinking of it once the realization of their activity came to light), and for this last one, she makes another wish.
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.
“You could have kissed me, you know.” Jirou says as she stands up, finally at the end of their activity. Momo blinks, mouth agape as a soft grin latches onto Jirou’s face, looking away from the still sitting Momo. “I, I know I should’ve said it while we were still watching, and, argh, I knew this was a stupid idea, oh g — why’d I even let myself dream —” Mumbling overcomes the girl as Momo remains seated, unable to move.
Something bursts. Momo wished she kissed Jirou earlier. Jirou wanted Momo to kiss her. She feels like an utter fool, unable to go through with her own wish.
But her resolve hardens now, and the butterflies flock all over her stomach, probably chanting do it do it do it if they could speak.
“Well,” Momo stands up then, letting her full height tower over Jirou’s form, “I think I can remedy my mistake.”
And when their lips touch, when her chapped lips meet Jirou’s chapped lips, it’s bliss coated in awkwardness, because this isn’t as romantic as a kiss beneath shooting stars, beneath a plethora of wishes. But it’s still a kiss, and she’s kissing Jirou Kyouka, her friend, her crush, her love. Something poetic should be written about this moment, but Momo can’t stop her brain from dying from this, basking in the glow that came with a kiss from someone so special, so perfect. When they move apart, when Jirou’s stunned face finds her smiling one, Momo lets out a breath, says “I think I love you.”, and allows herself to be enveloped into a hug as Jirou beams at her, and says, “I think I love you.” too.
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And, well, in the days to come, when their classmates realize that they’re holding hands and shooting each other gazes full of adoration and euphoria, Momo will be glad that she answered her door when Jirou, no, when Kyouka knocked on her door that night.