Chapter Text
“I don’t mind.”
He agrees without thinking, his reverberating heart submerged in willingness the second Sayaka smiles, gentle and relieved. It doesn’t shine quite as brightly as usual, attenuated by her watery eyes and quivering lips, but it still sent quite the storm; a rushing warmth that flooded Makoto’s core.
“Thank you, Makoto.” Sayaka’s voice still shook, but that panicked, desperate edge began to fade, drying out with her tears.
He invites her in, all nerves and a pounding pulse. He lets a few butterflies escape, mumbling “sorry about the mess,” like an idiot. They’ve only been trapped here for three days, and Makoto has done nothing but sleep in this room. He even bothers to make his bed in the morning.
Sayaka’s kind expression doesn’t waver. “Don’t worry, Makoto. I did come uninvited, after all.”
“N-No, it’s—!”
“Makoto.”
His mouth snaps shut. There’s a hand in his. It curls around his fingers and tugs gently, almost insistent.
“I’m your assistant, remember? It’s my job to support you,” Sayaka says, cheerfully. “Actually, I guess you’re the one supporting me right now.” She laughs, though it’s hidden at the end of her words, a sweet, subconscious sound.
Makoto thinks it might’ve been breathtaking at one point, how easily she manages to flip the switch to her emotions, but, here, in a place like this, Makoto can’t help but be concerned by the mask.
Still, he plays along. “Hey, we’re supposed to take care of each other, right?”
Sayaka only brightens. “Right!”
They’re still for a moment, and Sayaka’s warm gaze is painfully prolonged. Thankful? Fond? Makoto doesn’t maintain it long enough to find out. He can’t, not when he’s becoming increasingly aware of their joined hands.
He stumbles. “Y-You probably want to get to bed, so I’ll just…” he begins, slowly slipping out of her grip. It tightens, a frown twisting Sayaka’s face.
“Where are you going?”
The genuine confusion in her voice confuses him in turn. “Well, if you’re staying here, I thought we should… switch rooms.” Makoto winces as he says it. He didn’t exactly ask Sayaka if she was okay with that, but… “Speaking of which, we should probably switch keys—" Makoto cuts himself off this time.
Sayaka is wildly shaking her head, and Makoto used to believe he couldn’t get any paler, but Sayaka’s hold on him is strong.
“No,” she shoots, sharp. Undefiable. Even when Makoto opens his mouth to try and argue back, not a word leaves him.
“If someone’s trying to break into my room, I don’t want you staying there either.” Sayaka speaks decidedly even when clouded by tense air. “You should stay here, Makoto.”
“Stay?” He sputters. All the implications leave him laughably winded despite it being a perfectly sensible suggestion. Taking Sayaka’s place in her room would simply be swapping danger levels with the idol, and as much as Makoto would love to be some kind of hero to Sayaka, decency shouldn’t get in the way of survival. “Are you sure?”
Sayaka nods. “I wouldn’t be able to get any sleep if I knew you were staying there. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” Maybe it’s the faux gold plating of that katana he’d brought back to his room glittering in the corner of his vision, but Sayaka’s eyes were gleaming a deep sapphire, chillingly tender.
Now that’s just unfair.
“N-No, I wouldn’t—”
“Stay here, then.” A plea, almost, and Makoto couldn’t refuse that even if he tried.
“Okay.”
Sayaka, satisfied, sends him another quick smile before disappearing into his bathroom.
He has to shake the sudden unease settling on his shoulders. Sayaka may have convinced him to stay, but that only further muddled the situation. He glances around his room senselessly. His bed only has one set of sheets, and if he’s going to be honest, the floor looks incredibly uncomfortable.
Just for one night, Makoto, he tells himself. We’ll figure out the rest in the morning.
Making sure Sayaka is safe and secure should be his top priority, he can put up with a hard surface and a sore back.
Makoto’s contemplating between the floor and the desk chair when Sayaka emerges, dressed down for bed.
“You haven’t gotten in yet? You didn’t have to wait for me, Makoto.”
Her words are distant as he tests the cushion on the chair. Not great, but it'll do. “No, it’s fine I…” they click as he’s pulling it from under the desk, halting like his center of gravity had been pressed down. “Wait, what?”
Sayaka looks guiltily to the side, hands folded in front of her. “I must’ve woken you up when I came knocking,” she says, and resolves to make almost forceful eye contact with him, kicking whatever retort he might’ve had back down his throat. “I’m already imposing on your space. I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed.”
As true as that may be, Sayaka must have been really freaked out after what just happened. Being involuntarily removed from a life she worked extremely hard to maintain, and the prospect of death fogging just around the corner…
There’s no way she wasn’t completely terrified when someone tried to get into her room. Makoto’s surprised she had the strength to even stand after experiencing something like that, but he shouldn’t expect anything less from a girl like Sayaka.
Makoto shakes his head. “I can’t have you sleeping on the floor, Sayaka. You must be pretty shaken up, so I want you to be as comfortable as possible.”
Sayaka’s mouth parts for a moment, and Makoto can almost hear the protests daring at the seam of her lips. They’re personally hushed when she presses them into a thin line, the room slipping into silence.
It’s a cumbersome few seconds. Sayaka’s leveling him with a stare so acute it only further unveiled the character that was the Ultimate Pop Sensation, a girl who knew the world in shades so dark, Makoto could only imagine the kind of scars hidden under such pale skin.
He can only do so much, if Sayaka would just—
“Let's share, then,” she finally says.
Makoto nearly plummets to the ground, catching himself on the chair. “What?”
“I’ll feel safe,” she explains, curling a finger into a few strands of her hair. “That’s what you wanted, right?”
Makoto’s almost offended at how harmless she sounds, even while pulling back the covers and sliding into his bed.
He sputters. “S-Sayaka, I don’t think—”
“It’s fine. I trust you,” she says, grinning as though she’s won.
She has.
*
Makoto tries with sizeable difficulty to pretend there isn’t a girl in bed beside him (Sayaka, no less), but with the warmth on his left and the unbalanced, light breaths, it’s unmistakable. He’s completely rigid, having climbed in beside Sayaka and laid flat on his back. It’s not his usual sleeping position, and he wants to turn onto his side, but he’s worried that even the smallest shift will shatter the built tranquility.
Sayaka crosses that threshold with an ease Makoto suspects she didn’t intend.
She unfolds a vague echo of sounds. A draw of breath, ruffling linens. He can hear the aggrieved air blow out the small gaps between her teeth, like she’s being betrayed by her own body.
Makoto strains to see her out of the corner of his eye, but it’s impossible in the dark. He wonders if he should even be trying, if he should just ignore it and save Sayaka the embarrassment as he navigates his way to sleep.
She tries to muffle her sobs by burrowing into the blanket, but the bed shares her pain, mimicking her shudders by creaking underneath them.
It’s tortuous, and Makoto is spiraling. He can only hope to be helpful to Sayaka, as he’s never seen himself as someone anyone could possibly find solace in.
Makoto commands himself to flip around, and he’s met with Sayaka’s long, blue hair. It cascades over his pillow, shielding the side of her face.
“Sayaka?” he calls softly, dragging his body upward to lean against the bed’s frame. “Are you okay?”
She appears to give up at the abrupt, inquisitive tone of voice. He watches her body give, going slack. It almost startles him how different Sayaka looks when she’s drained. When she’s defeated.
She shakes her head. “I’m scared.”
That should be obvious, but Makoto realizes that it’s the first time Sayaka has genuinely reacted to the situation. She’d only blown up once before, but aside from that, anyone could assume she wasn’t choked up by fear.
“I don’t want to be forgotten, Makoto. I don’t want to be alone.” The sheets shift as her voice trembles, and Makoto sees her hand before it reaches him.
He grasps it tightly. “You’re not alone, Sayaka. I’ll always be right here,” Makoto whispers, dragging her hand toward his heart. He hopes it’s not beating as fast as it feels, but she has to know. She has to know he’s right here. Alive and able, right by her side.
Sayaka’s fingers twist into his shirt. “Thank you, Makoto.”
It’s insincere, Makoto can hear it. That wasn’t what she meant.
Sayaka is a performer, eyes have been on her the moment she first stepped onto a stage. If heads begin to turn, if the lights go out forever, she may as well not exist.
To be cleaned out of the minds of her fans… for someone like Sayaka, it’s a fate worse than death. It’s oblivion.
He was right to feel out of place. No way he could alleviate Sayaka, he doesn’t even have a speck of a clue as to what she’s going through.
Still, there’s no way he won’t try. She deserves that, at least.
Makoto curls around her all but casually, inching his free hand around her waist, getting too nervous to hold her at the hip and practically palming her upper back instead.
A few minutes pass, the room almost eerily silent. Makoto wonders if Sayaka’s managed to fall asleep, and doesn’t see a future where he joins her, not with the light puffs of air hitting his chest and her body, warm and solid, pressed evenly against his. Despite being a bit shorter, Sayaka fits herself just underneath his chin, huddling close. Her face is barely visible from where Makoto is positioned, and he feels like a creep for even wanting to see her sleeping face. Maybe he’ll relax if he can catch a glimpse of how peaceful she looks. Just a little confirmation of whether or not this is helping at all. There’s only a peek of her white skin, and if he strains, he can catch the brief fluttering of her long lashes.
“Beautiful,” he almost comments, but drowns the thought in a pool of personal scorn. It’s not… wrong, but Sayaka’s well-being is principal. He shouldn’t be thinking about her dark, round eyes and doll-like face, or how she’s alluring and well-loved like a freshly grown delphinium. Tall and a rich cobalt, standing apart from the rest even when smothered in a field with flowers just as striking.
Someone like that is in his arms right now. How is he supposed to calm down?
“Makoto?”
He jolts involuntarily, practically towing Sayaka up with him.
She starts alongside him, though it's a much more controlled reaction, and he can feel her muscles twitch. Her shoulders relax. “Sorry, did I scare you?”
Yes, he doesn’t want to say, but he doesn’t want to lie and say no either. “I’m okay,” he settles on, and cards the hand that’s not cradling Sayaka through her hair. Completely, utterly inattentive. He shouldn’t be doing this without her permission, but the nerves tangled within him began to unfurl, spreading throughout his body, flexing his fingers.
He loses the ability to be worried about it, however, when Sayaka stirs beside him, letting out a long, pleased sigh.
“You know,” she begins, and if Makoto catches the sly edge to her voice, he’s hardly given the chance to process it. Sayaka inches back, and with the new, small space between them she splays a hand across Makoto’s chest.
She may as well shove Makoto off the side of the bed before he falls off himself. If he can, at least. Makoto feels so trapped by her eyes; he can’t manage to move his body. They haven’t stopped glinting since she entered his room.
Tricky, he thinks. Has she always been scheming?
“I’ve never stayed with a boy before,” she whispers, voice curved dangerously. Good thing Makoto hears the smirk modifying her words, he can barely focus enough to see it.
He swallows. “W-Well this isn’t your typical situation, something different is bound to happen.”
She laughs, and if Makoto wasn’t already so enraptured, he might’ve found it cloying.
“I guess that’s true,” she muses, “something different.” The teasing look crackles on her face. It becomes sorrowful, angry.
Different. The word feels wrong, misshapen as it leaves her. It must’ve even had a sour taste, judging by the displeased quirk of Sayaka’s lips.
Makoto thinks back to one of their past conversations, to the way her eyes softened when looking back on the beginnings of her career. She mentioned how much she looked forward to every day of her life. To wake up and live your dream again and again, who wouldn’t want that?
“Tell me about one of your concerts,” he says, fingers moving through her hair again. Just how many times is he going to cross the line before Sayaka up and leaves, damning whatever dangers befall the limited safety of her own room?
And again, Sayaka in no way implies she dislikes the contact, gently humming in response to his query. “A lot of our shows were similar,” she immediately sets the image in motion, pictures of her performances Makoto found online start to come to life in his head.
“It was always the same structure: dramatic entrance, greeting the audience, a song, an interlude, another song…” Makoto can almost see the stage lights flashing on her face. Pink, blue, yellow, pivoting around Sayaka and her band members. She’s practically alight with memories, and her retelling bends in remembrance of her music, like she’s singing to him.
“The crowd never stopped bustling. They knew every song.”
(The hand on his chest is warm.)
“I could feel their energy, it coursed through all of us. Carried us through each and every show.” That sorrowful look is back, clouding over the luminosity of her past. “I always had someone to encourage me. I could look ahead, and feel inspirited by every smiling face in the crowd. If I looked back, I’d see determination in all of my band members, and my microphone wouldn’t feel so heavy anymore.”
Makoto can only watch and listen as she speaks, torn further down the longer she goes. He wanted Sayaka to voice her misery since terror first racked her body. At her own pace, especially not forcefully ripped out of her like what happened when they saw those tapes. He thought it would be a long time before she willingly opened up to him, but maybe that initial breakdown pried open the flood gates, crushing her dam irreparably.
“I only have you to look to for that now,” she murmurs solemnly.
Makoto’s stomach nearly drops. Her tone is understandable, but it still shakes him. Makoto… isn’t much, and he certainly can’t compare to a crowd of adoring fans or a group of talented performers who knew Sayaka a lot better. Still, he asks: “Is that… a bad thing?”
Sayaka appears to take in the implication of her words, mouth spilling. “No! No, of course not, but…”
Seeing Sayaka struggle, it’s a new sight. Makoto can’t recall a moment where she ever verbally scrambled for purchase. It doesn’t fit.
“It’s different,” she says again, and it doesn’t sound any better than before.
“We’d sort through different songs, perform on different stages in different cities, bring in different reactions from different people… but that kind of ‘different’ was normal. It never changed.
“It didn’t matter, because each time… I felt that I’d become what I’d always wanted. With every practiced song and every dance routine, I could melt the loneliness of anyone watching. That’s worth everything to me, Makoto.
“Having something that special change… isn’t it scarier than it ending all together?” Sayaka finally exhales, and then relents, succumbing to weariness and allowing for more layers than Makoto even realized were there to peel. Her hand, once bold, grabs tight onto his arm.
Makoto wants to tug her closer.
“Sayaka,” he begins, and struggles to keep his voice even when he realizes she’s trembling again. “Would you mind doing something for me?”
The clench on his arm suddenly smoothes, and Sayaka instead strokes up.
The flashes in demeanor are going to wipe him out.
“What is it, Makoto?” she whispers his name like a serenade, as if she’s expecting something. Even so, he feels fear in the way her hand moves. Too gentle, coaxing.
He doesn’t like it. He wants her to stop. He wants—
“I want you to give yourself a break,” he says, smiling in a way he hopes is reassuring. “There may still be cameras here…” he glances behind them, “but it’s dark, no one can see you but me.”
Sayaka’s hand is gone, and the air has become unreasonably cold, but Makoto pushes. “You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone as long as you’re here.”
Sayaka quiets completely, eyes widening, and this time they’re not so mesmerizing that he misses the rawness encased in such a fine blue. “Makoto—”
“Do you trust me?”
“I—yes, but—”
“Then it should be okay to let go for a while. At least until morning.” He doesn’t wait for her to answer, pulling her against him once more. “Your dream will still be here when you wake up.”
The shaking may not stop completely, but Sayaka nods, tucking herself into the dip of his shoulder and snaking her arms around his back.
He internally celebrates when he feels her heartbeat steady, and in turn lets his eyes fall closed.
“Thank you,” is the last thing she mumbles, and Makoto doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse that he can feel her smile on his neck.