Work Text:
The rain was pouring.
Madoka was barely listening to the drone of his professor, too busy staring at the rivulets of raindrops racing each other on the window. His mind spun muddily with thoughts of what he’d written last night, a generic fantasy plot for GODZA’s new play.
It’d been more than satisfactory, in his opinion. But he had no doubts that his father would rewrite it all later tonight.
Mentally tracing the path one of the raindrops took as it slid down the glass, Madoka bleakly noticed that the clear lines on the window made a triangle. He shifted his gaze back to the front of the room.
As he watched his professor scribble the equation for the pythagorean theorem across the board, he closed his eyes. This had to be a joke.
The depressing weather. The exhaustion in his shoulders. The triangles. There was no way God wasn’t fucking with him right now.
But that’s all it ever seemed to be, wasn’t it?
Madoka’s life was full of just that: things not taken seriously. His scripts weren’t taken seriously, nor was his well-being. Nor was his father, nor was his brother. Madoka had been hit, from the moment he was born, with joke after joke after joke, inflicted upon him by some cruel god who had put him on this earth only to suffer. Talentless and brotherless and lifeless.
(Though a part of him knew that he must be partially to blame. What does it mean, if one simply accepts fate without trying to change it? Weren’t being complacent and taking charge two sides of the same coin?)
Memories of his brother’s frowning face and Madoka’s inability to allow his pen to move the way he wanted to flashed in his mind. A clap of thunder roared outside, echoing through the quiet lecture hall.
Whatever. With resignation, Madoka slumped forward in his chair and let the fatigue take over his body. He was too tired to deal with any of this. Pythagoras, and Madoka’s internal plight, could wait.
The warbling voice of the professor coupled with the gentle tapping of raindrops against the window easily lulled him into a sort of half-sleep, a state where he wasn’t quite sure if he was dreaming or awake. It made his insides feel kind of gross, as he listened to the rain patter on against the roof.
He spent the rest of the class like that, dozing off gently in his seat. He dreamt of triangles, of brothers, and of scripts. They were nice dreams. Yet the exhaustion didn’t seem to relieve itself from his shoulders.
What shook him out of this stupor was a rough, quiet voice.
“Hey, you gonna wake up?”
Blinking blearily, Madoka sat up and made eye contact with the boy who had been sitting next to him, who was now standing in front of his desk and scowling.
He was handsome. Though the creases between his eyebrows made him appear less so. The headphones around his neck were blaring out a blaring rock tune. It was harsh on Madoka’s ears.
“Sorry,” Madoka replied, clearing his throat to get the sleep out of it. “Thank you for waking me up.”
His seatmate’s frown deepened. Leaning forward, he peered down at Madoka through his eyelashes. Madoka was too worn out to feel uncomfortable enough to move away.
They stayed like that for what felt like several minutes, a quiet stand-off between them as his seatmate seemed to ponder where it was exactly that he’d seen Madoka from. Lightning flashed outside and lit up the side of his seatmate’s face.
“Tch,” His seatmate straightened up. “Whatever.”
Madoka watched as the other boy averted his gaze and lifted his headphones off of his neck, settling them against his ears. A ding sounded from his phone, and he scowled at it before turning from Madoka and walking away.
So even that guy had friends, huh.
Madoka swept the papers off of his desk into his bag. Giving the blackboard one last glance, he shuffled forwards and exited the room. He made his way out of the building, pushing past the crowds of people mingling with friends until his feet hit the pavement outside.
Absentmindedly, Madoka noted that it was still raining, and that the tension in his bones seemed even heavier than before.
He opened his umbrella and made his way home alone.
---
Madoka was right, of course.
His dad hadn’t confronted him that night, but rather, the next morning.
He’d supposedly forgotten, too worked up on editing another of Madoka’s scripts. Madoka hadn’t forgotten, but he hadn’t been about to say anything about it, either.
“Do you have the script?” His dad asked roughly at breakfast.
Madoka jerked in his head in response, not lifting his eyes to meet him.
“Where is it?” There was a sense of urgency in his dad’s tone that Madoka didn’t quite understand.
“My room.” Madoka replied curtly.
He heard, rather than saw, his dad scurry up the stairs. He heard, rather than saw, the loud thud of his feet as he ran into Madoka’s room. He heard, rather than saw, the way his father exclaimed in relief once he’d found the script.
Madoka ate the rest of his breakfast quietly, breath bated as he heard the quiet shuffling coming from upstairs. Once he was finished, he slowly placed his dishes in the sink, then left the house without a word.
It was too suffocating to be there any longer.
---
A few days later, the classmate who kept giving Madoka weird looks was sitting next to his seat again.
Madoka sighed internally. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the guy or anything, but today he was tired. He’d stayed up late last night correcting the mistakes his father had added to his script. He just wanted to listen to his math lecture and fill his mind with the numbers and nothing else - no writing, no scripts, no actors, no brothers.
But as soon as he sat down, the boy leaned forward, right into Madoka’s personal space. Madoka subconsciously leaned away from him.
“Where have I seen you before?” His seatmate asked roughly.
His eyes were a clear and brilliant violet, piercing straight into Madoka like a knife. Madoka tiredly noted that they’d provide good visual inspiration.
“Sorry, but I don’t think I’ve met you before.” Madoka said gruffly.
Thunder shook the room. Madoka glanced outside. So it was raining again.
The trill of a ringtone sounded from his seatmate’s phone. Madoka watched out of the corner of his eye as the other boy frowned at his screen, pressed the decline button, and began furiously typing out something on his screen.
Madoka couldn’t relate. The only person who he ever texted these days was his father.
As his professor walked into the room and began the lecture, Madoka turned his eyes back to the front of the room.
All throughout the lecture, the boy next to him continued tapping away at his phone. His expression was neutral (not that Madoka had spent a lot of time analyzing it or anything.) Yet there was a gleam in his eyes that seemed somehow content.
By contrast, Madoka spent most of his time scribbling down odd words and phrases here and there. A silly practice, one that his father would frown at. After all, it wasn’t his job to write for pleasure.
Well, whatever. That boy had friends, Madoka had scripts. Different people were made for different things. Madoka knew that one too well, if his relationship with his brother proved anything.
When class ended, Madoka quickly stood up and gave the boy next to him a small bow. The boy barely glanced back up at him, eyes glued to his phone screen. Madoka felt almost disappointed.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
---
The amber light glowed from the lamp on Madoka’s desk, illuminating the scraps of paper in front of him. It was barely midnight, but he was nearly collapsed in his seat from exhaustion. It was kind of pathetic, really. People were waiting on him to finish this script. Important people.
On the wall, the shadows flickered and danced whenever he moved.
Madoka was a ghost. A shadow, a being who didn’t exist in name and who didn’t serve a clear purpose. He was not at all different from the shadows on the wall.
Were ghosts allowed to have friends?
Madoka, eyelids drooping and arm falling limply to his side, allowed sleep to overcome him.
---
When he woke up the next morning, his father was slumped over his desk.
Madoka shivered when he thought about how similar he must have looked last night, snoring away in his writing chair.
He left the house quietly again.
---
Usui Masumi. That was his seatmate’s name, as Madoka had come to learn after being dragged by the drama club members alongside him after school.
A year younger than him, and in a theatre troupe. Possibly knew of his brother.
Madoka was walking back, hands stuffed in his pockets after this encounter. He’d managed to quietly slip away, with only a name in metaphorical hand, and now he was on his way to the GODZA theater to speak to Kamikizaka-san about his script.
“I just thought you looked really bored while writing.”
What was that about, anyways?
Madoka side-stepped a puddle on the sidewalk. It wasn’t raining anymore, but the ground was wet and the sky gloomy. It made Madoka’s heart feel heavy.
“The guy I know seems to be having so much fun writing.”
Well, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? Madoka didn’t write for fun. He wrote for his father. He wrote for GODZA.
He furrowed his brow. This was giving him a headache.
He wasn’t stupid, he knew that writing wasn’t meant to be a chore. But to have someone say it to your face that you looked unhappy…
Water sloshed up against his leg. Madoka looked down.
He was standing in the middle of a puddle.
Reaching down to pat it dry, he let out a small sigh. Reluctantly, he lifted his head, then moved onwards.
---
Madoka wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten roped into this.
He’d only wanted to talk to Kamikizaka-san, to explain the reason for the script being so rushed and inconsistent and ultimately late. Yet here he was, walking alongside what appeared to be a very angry adult and an almost obscenely relaxed kid.
It was drizzling again, the clouds gray and overcast. Madoka was trailing behind the other two, who were having a pretty intense conversation.
Were they friends? Madoka wasn’t sure.
He tightened his grip on his umbrella. It seemed like everyone had friends these days. Madoka didn’t even have a family.
His eyes were glued to the ground. He felt almost as if he was shrinking in on himself, being near such seemingly open people.
As he passed by a puddle, he peered briefly at his reflection, and a familiar face stared back, mouth downturned and sad. Madoka could visibly see his under eye circles. The distortion from the rain was slowly rippling his face, morphing it into something different, something indiscernible.
Madoka hadn’t realized he’d stopped in his tracks.
“Huh?” The carefree boy called out. “Are you okay back there?”
Madoka lifted his head.
“Sorry,” He replied. “I’m fine.”
There was a weird feeling in his chest that he decided to ignore as he followed the other boys home.
---
Shifuto’s house was nothing like his own
Even though it was small and cramped, it felt warm. Madoka’s house was so large that it had always felt empty, hollow. Especially once Misumi had left.
But here, with its piles of shoes and single table and cracked windows, Madoka felt the love seeping in from every corner. He saw it, too, when Shifuto made food for his younger brother. And he heard it when Shifuto had told him, “Well, isn’t it natural?”
Sure, it was natural to love your siblings. But growing up, it had been hammered into Madoka that his older brother was what was unnatural. So it wasn’t possible to love such an unnatural person, no matter how closely you were related.
Though of course Madoka thought differently now that he was older, now that he realized that he wasn’t any more normal than his brother.
For the first time in years, Madoka felt oddly at home. He’d never been invited into a stranger’s home like this before. He’d never even been over to a friend’s house when he was little.
Friends…
He supposed that this must be what having friends felt like.
As he chatted away quietly with Shifuto and Haruto, downing cheap udon, he felt some of the shell surrounding his heart begin to crack. By the time that Shifuto and Haruto had suggested Madoka write his own script, the way he wanted, it had fallen away completely.
When had Madoka ever been so soft?
All those years, he hadn’t been swayed once by his older brother’s pleading eyes or cheerful tone. Yet here he was, seated with these people he’d only met a few hours ago, feeling almost as if he wanted to smile. To be happy. To live for himself.
He guessed that things were different once you were older. Once you were no longer ten, eleven, twelve, but nineteen and open to seeing the world through a new lens.
Was this what he deserved?
Madoka selfishly thought that he didn’t want to think about that statement.
So despite it all, he left Shifuto’s house with a desire to write his own story, and a very warm heart.
---
For whatever reason, Masumi wasn’t at school the next day.
Madoka didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but he certainly hadn’t thought he’d feel the strong claws of disappointment latch onto him upon hearing this news.
—-
Nearly a full day later, after the news of Kamikizaka-san’s approval of his father’s script and Madoka’s bafflement upon reading it, Madoka sat down to write a script for himself.
He stared at the blank pages in front of him. The clock beside him ticked slowly, echoing softly in the room.
There was a strange buzzing his veins, a tiny tremor of excitement rushing throughout him. Even holding his pen felt different right now. Once he put it to paper, he knew he’d feel the difference instantly.
Madoka exhaled slowly. Thought of his brother. His father. His grandfather. Shifuto and Haruto.
He brought his pen down.
---
What did it mean to be a brother, and what did it mean to be a ghost?
Madoka’s hand had never flown across the page so naturally before.
In their house, both Misumi and Madoka were ghosts. Ghosts in different senses, yet ghosts all the same. The difference lay in the fact that Madoka had grown up to be one, yet his brother grew up being one.
How could it be that even though these feelings were so difficult to face, they were so easy to write about? How was it that Madoka was constantly grappling with that nagging voice in the back of his mind that told him he was a bad, a horrible person, even, for treating his older brother this way, but that putting pen to paper alleviated so much of that overwhelming emotion?
An hour passed quickly by. Then a second, then a third. Madoka’s brain had never before felt so muddled.
In the midst of it all, the sky outside opened up and the rain began to fall yet again.
---
Masumi was back again the next day.
It had turned into sort of an unspoken rule that they had some sort of ritual going on.
Madoka would sit down in his seat and ignore Masumi as he gave him a questioning look. Then, after this had gone on for awhile, Madoka would look up, stare straight at Masumi, and give him somewhat of a glare. Then Masumi would frown at him, pull out his cell phone to text someone, and then either of the two would spend the lecture napping.
Today, though, Madoka’s head felt a little lighter. The weight on his shoulders was not as intense. And so, he didn’t frown nearly as much as he would have before.
Masumi’s lips quirked up a bit. Then he shrugged, and slumped forward in his seat.
Madoka thought of the half-finished script waiting for him at home. His hands twitched.
Throughout the entire lecture, Madoka didn’t find himself dwelling once on the fact that Masumi had people to text while he didn’t. Rather, he remembered the two new contacts in his phone and smiled gently to himself.
Maybe he wouldn’t mind getting the number of the kid sitting next to him. Especially if he had a connection to Misumi...
Madoka shook his head. Now, what was this ridiculousness?
Nevertheless, as soon as the lecture ended, Madoka turned to Masumi, apology ready.
“Um, excuse me…” He said softly.
“Hm?” Masumi’s headphones were halfway around his neck.
“I…” Madoka started, but was promptly interrupted by the sound of his phone chirping. Almost on reflex, from all of the times his father would call him, he whipped it out of his pocket.
Shifuto: Hey, rehearsal’s starting in 15. You here yet?
Damn it. Madoka had promised to attend GODZA rehearsals that day. He looked up at Masumi, who was curiously peering at him, hands hovering over his headphones. This would probably have to wait.
With a small bow, Madoka said. “I’m sorry. I have somewhere to be.”
He hurried off, leaving a confused Masumi behind.
---
Seeing someone perform his writing almost made it worth it.
Madoka had never been to a play before, and his father certainly hadn’t let him come near any of the ones he’d written for. So nii-san’s doing things like this, huh, he’d thought, bewildered, as he stared at the stage in front of him.
He knew Misumi was a talented actor. He’d seen him with his grandfather. But Madoka had never seen him in a play before.
Did he put in as much effort as Haruto and Shifuto? Did he throw himself wholly into the role just as these actors did? Did he make the script come alive, changing words that danced across the page into real conservations, real actions, real meaning?
Because seeing Haruto and Shifuto made Madoka’s chest swell with pride to realize that I’m the one who made this all happen.
They, and actors like them, were the ones who let the writers fully bloom, petals unfurling from behind the scenes. Without actors, Madoka wouldn’t have anyone to write scripts for. And inversely, actors would have nothing to act if scriptwriters didn’t provide.
There were flowers that would blossom even if you never watered them, but they would never bloom. Madoka was sure, after seeing this performance, that this was the case for both actors and writers alike.
Though Madoka’s own lack of acting talent was painful, perhaps that was alright. Knowing that there was someone out there, a brother out there, to help him bloom in his own way, made it alright. That was why that Madoka was sure that Misumi, whatever he was performing, was doing the same as Shifuto and Haruto-san. That was his brother, after all. Earnest and cheerful, despite everything.
Madoka felt almost impossibly happy, euphoric even, right up until the very end of the play.
Was it normal for someone to be this happy? Was it normal for a ghost to be this happy?
The arm that Shifuto had thrown around Madoka after the show had felt real, though. It had been tangible. His fingers hadn’t slipped through Madoka. And on top of that, it had felt indescribably nice.
It had been sunny all afternoon, right up until the moment that Madoka found out his father had plagiarized the script.
---
Madoka’s shoulders hurt. His wrist was cramped. He felt as if he was going to be sick.
But as he stared down at the finished script in front of him later that night, he felt absolutely exhilarated.
The rain was pounding heavily against his window again, almost begging to be let in. Madoka stared outside, in a hazy defiance, a leaf of paper clutched in his hand at the sharp hour of 4 am.
He would not let the rain get to him.
He collapsed into bed, script still in hand, and was promptly lulled to sleep by the smattering of raindrops crashing against the glass.
---
Madoka cried when he saw his play performed.
He cried, because Haruto and Shifuto weren’t Madoka or Misumi. They didn’t know his story like he did. They had never lived through the hell that had been the Ikaruga home.
Yet somehow, he couldn’t think of a single thing either of them could have done to portray his feelings any more accurately.
Madoka was sure that if Misumi was watching somewhere in the audience, that his message would come across. That his apology would come across. And Madoka, because he knew his brother, knew that Misumi would accept it. In fact, he probably would have accepted it even if Madoka had never apologized.
If Madoka had shown up in front of Misumi with no explanation, no apology, no nothing, Madoka knew that Misumi would still welcome him with open arms.
But Madoka was tired of sitting around and doing nothing. Only ghosts, only wilted flowers sat around and did nothing.
He was tired of doing nothing, and so he had written this script. And so he was hoping, curled up in his front row seat all alone, that Misumi was watching somewhere and that he would get it. That he would get how Madoka was tired.
And so, sitting there all alone, Madoka let himself cry.
His tears fell like the rain outside, splashing onto his shirt and rolling down his chin in waves.
He felt lighter by the second.
---
Misumi invited him to stay for dinner as if it was nothing.
Madoka had fun, sure, and the food tasted good, but the constant lump in his throat meant that he had a hard time swallowing. Even with his newfound friends beside him, his eyes seemed to constantly drift back towards his brother.
Misumi was glowing.
Madoka hadn’t seen him smile so widely in years, laughing and joking with his friends. Madoka didn’t think that he himself had ever smiled like that before, until today.
He spent the entirety of dinner almost on edge, simultaneously in awe of his brother’s happiness, and nearly in shame of his own.
But as soon as they had finished their dinner, after Madoka had run into Masumi again, Misumi took Madoka to see his room.
He pulled Madoka along by the wrist, and Madoka let himself stumble forward for once, not fighting the clumsiness and chaos that was his older brother. He let himself be dragged down the hallway and into a room that was so bright, so blinding, and so Misumi that he instantly let out a small laugh despite himself.
Triangles, strung across the floor, hung up on the wall, tacked up on the ceiling. There were triangles everywhere.
Misumi beamed at him. “See? Lots of triangles!” He cheered.
Madoka’s laugh caught in his throat when he saw that glowing smile aimed at him.
“Yeah…”
Misumi walked over to his bed and lifted one of the triangular pillows, squeezing it gently as Madoka continued to stand in the doorway of his room. He was humming a small tune under his breath.
“Nii-san…” Madoka said hesitantly. “I…”
Misumi looked up at him questioningly.
“I’m sorry.” Madoka choked out. Tears were welling up in his eyes again. “I just…”
Misumi’s gaze softened.
“Madoka…” He said gently. “Don’t cry… It’s okay. I understand! You already apologized using your play, right?”
Madoka only stared back at him. There was a part of him that wanted to look down in shame as the tears began to spill for the second time that day, but he knew that he owed it to Misumi to at least look him in the eye when he was apologizing properly.
“Y-Yeah…” Madoka said, voice thick with tears. “But I still…”
“Hey, it’s okay! Please don’t cry!” Misumi’s eyes were wide with concern.
Madoka sniffled. He felt like a child again as he wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Do you… Do you want a triangle hug?” Misumi said hesitantly.
Madoka saw the question in Misumi’s expression, the quiet uncertainty that lingered from years of living together under their roof. It was still there, still present even considering their current situation. Perhaps it would never go away.
That thought made Madoka sad, but he supposed it was only natural. You couldn’t magically fix things with one play and one apology. But he supposed it wouldn’t be too bad, not if a little awkwardness here and there meant that the two of them got to be together again like this.
Madoka nodded.
Misumi was there in a second, arms enveloping Madoka as the sobs racked his body. Madoka buried his face into Misumi’s shoulder, thinking about how comforting he smelled. He was getting snot and tears all over Misumi’s sweatshirt, he could feel it, but he had never felt more loved before. Despite it all, despite everything that had transpired between them, Madoka felt nothing but genuine care in his brother’s embrace.
He brought his arms up to hug Misumi back. They hadn’t done this in so long, if ever.
Why hadn’t they ever done this, exactly?
Quietly, almost sneakily, Madoka heart a faint tapping against the window. Peering over Misumi’s shoulders, tears still pouring, he saw that it had begun to rain once again.
“It’s raining…” Madoka sniffled.
“Aww, you’re right.” Misumi said, pulling away from him slightly. Madoka could hear the frown in his voice. “I wanted to go triangle hunting with you outside…”
Madoka swallowed.
“I’ll…” He started. “I’ll triangle hunt with you inside, nii-san. If that’s okay.”
“Really?” Misumi leaned away from him then, jumping up with excitement. His eyes were as wide as saucers. “Let’s go, let’s go right now!”
Madoka let out a watery laugh. As Misumi tugged him along by the arm once again, Madoka wiped the tears from his eyes. They were finally stopping.
Misumi dragged him past the other Mankai company members and past the director, and as Madoka turned around and locked eyes with Shifuto and Haruto, who both smiled at him proudly, he’d never before felt more content, even with the rain hammering away in the background.
---
Madoka borrowed Misumi’s umbrella as he walked home.
It was patterned with triangles, naturally. It made Madoka smile fondly, but as soon as he’d walked out of sight from the Mankai company building, he closed it without a second thought.
There was just something about it tonight, something so alluring about the heavy rain clouds and the splash of drops against the pavement. Madoka couldn’t stand it any longer. After spending so long ignoring his true feelings, his true desires, there wasn’t any way that he couldn’t give in to something as trivial as this.
So he closed his umbrella and let the rain fall on him.
The first drops hit his forearms. They were chillingly cold. Surprisingly, he found that he rather liked it.
The rain poured and poured and poured and Madoka stood there, letting the water seep past his clothes and into his skin, turning it pruney and wrinkly and soft.
His bangs were stuck flat to his forehead, his hair glued to the back of his neck, and he opened his palms slowly. Watching as the drops plopped carefully into his cupped hands, he let out a smile.
To hell with it.
Rain brought growth. Rain let the flowers bloom. Maybe it was time to forgive himself, after all.
---
The next day, Madoka sat down in his seat at school with a new mindset.
When Masumi arrived, Madoka turned to greet him first.
“Hello,” He said quietly.
Masumi only stared at him.
Madoka swallowed nervously. Then, he gave a small bow.
“I apologize for the other day.”
The response was almost instantaneous.
“You already said sorry.” Masumi replied.
Madoka blinked.
“And you said sorry to Misumi too, didn’t you?” Masumi continued, frowning. “So you don’t have to say it again. We’re fine.”
With that, the younger boy leaned forward in his seat and put his headphones over his ears.
They were fine, huh?
Madoka smiled softly to himself. Maybe he could make a new friend out of Masumi, after all.
It’d be nice to have a new friend, alongside the ones he had already made. And of course, alongside his brilliant older brother.
When the rain began to fall as his professor started the lecture, Madoka only smiled as he stared out of the window.