Work Text:
At the age of thirteen, Mashiro Nijigaoka had the striking realization that she was completely and utterly average.
She wasn’t sure where the idea had come from, but all of a sudden, it had overwhelmed her -- a sense of total mundanity she just couldn’t shake. No, it wasn’t just a sense; it was a fact. Mashiro was not special.
It didn’t bother her, not that much. After all, she had never felt the need to be center stage. She attended an average middle school and was an average pupil: not a student council president, not a teacher’s pet, not the head of a club or the captain of a sports team. Which was fine by her. She had interests, of course -- she liked to garden and cook, especially with her grandmother, and enjoyed passing time in nature and around animals -- but her hobbies were average enough for a girl her age. Not that there was anything wrong with that!
Average was fine.
Mashiro didn’t stand out in a crowd, and she usually kept to herself, so she never had to deal with bullies or the drama of a large friend group. If you had asked her classmates to describe her, they might have responded by saying she was nice. Polite. Quiet. The more blunt ones might have said she was plain.
Mashiro is fourteen now, and she still doesn’t mind it. Being average.
She hums as she turns over in her bed, holding her hand up to graze the single ray of moonlight shining gently through her window. She’s not sure what time it is, but it must be late; the night is dark and deep. She steals a glance at the sleeping girl sprawled across the floor of her room, a softly snoring baby lying next to her, and her gaze softens.
Unlike Mashiro, Sora Harewataru is anything but average.
In the hours since she’d faced off against the terrifying pig monster that attacked them both on the streets of Sorashido City, Sora had done her best to explain her situation to Mashiro. It may have been a little hard to believe at first—after all, the world Sora had claimed to come from was the kind that only existed in fairy tales—but if there’s anything Mashiro knows how to do, it's consider the impossible. Open your eyes, Mashiron. That’s what her grandmother has always told her. Observe. Don’t let the shadows of the world blind you to the light.
And Mashiro couldn’t have ignored the light when its brilliant blue eyes were staring right at her, piercing as the sun on a summer day. How else could she have fallen from so high up? I saw her float to the ground right in front of my eyes! And that monster she battled…the way she transformed…there’s no way I could pretend all of that wasn’t real!
There’s no way it wasn’t real. Right?
She sneaks another glance at Sora. Her strong body has relaxed in sleep, and she’s all soft edges, now, hand resting gingerly on her stomach as it rises and falls. Mashiro quickly turns back over, training her eyes on the ceiling, and the air is heavy with silence.
Maybe I was just dreaming.
After a few moments of pensive thought, she finally glances at the digital clock on her dresser. It blinks at a solemn pace, bright red LEDs reading “23:12.” She should have drifted off hours ago. But really, how is she supposed to sleep under circumstances like this?
Mashiro has realized that one consequence of being average is you’re left completely and totally unprepared for the Unexpected. Now, there is an Unexpected in Mashiro’s very own room, and her heart is pounding so fast she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to rest again.
Unlike Sora, who sleeps soundly despite Mashiro’s tossing and turning. The sleeping bag Mashiro had set up for her has been left unzipped and, after hours of use, is now messily folded in several layers around the girl’s sleeping figure. Her short blue hair is fanned around her head like a halo, and her expression, unlike the rest of her body, is restless, as if she doesn’t want to be sleeping -- as if she’d rather be out in battle. Her eyebrows furrow just a little. She looks lost; Mashiro isn’t sure in what.
Meanwhile, the baby — Elle-chan — breathes steadily. She seems so much more peaceful than the babies Mashiro is used to seeing at the park on her walk home from school.
She and Sora make an odd pair.
Come to think of it, this whole situation is odd. Why are the two of them here, of all places? In Mashiro Nijigaoka’s house? Sora is a hero—a real one. Sora is a Pretty Cure who transforms in a puff of smoke and glitter, who can jump hundreds of feet into the air and defeat villains with a single punch. Sora is nothing like Mashiro. Mashiro, after all, is just a normal middle school girl. And yet…
“From now on, I will become a knight who protects Mashiro, and I will do my very best to be loyal to her.”
Her cheeks flush, and she buries her face into a pillow.
Nope. Nopenopenopenopenope.
Average people, Mashiro Nijigaoka reminds herself, don’t get knights and fantasy worlds and fairy-tale adventures. And she’s okay with that, she is! Mashiro likes her life, however average it may be. She likes her garden, she likes her grandmother, she likes her teachers at school and the girls she talks to and the classes she takes, all of that! She isn’t sure she wants any of it to change.
She likes her life as it is. She does.
Alien princesses, magical kingdoms, evil monsters…the world Sora lives in is strange. Foreign. Sora makes Mashiro feel like she’s standing at a precipice — no, no, on a coast. She feels like she’s standing on a coast, and the sun is shining in the bright blue sky, and she can’t help but wonder how deep the water goes.
She can’t help but wonder what would happen if she were to dip her toe in.
Mashiro catches the clock again out of the corner of her eye and heaves out a sigh.
She delicately lifts her quilted blanket off her body as she slides off her bed and onto the floor. Might as well get a glass of water, if I’m not falling asleep any time soon. Shadows in shades of blue and purple cloak her room in gloomy dusk, and a small, moon-shaped night light flickers weakly in the corner. Mashiro grimaces at its feeble glow. She feels so- so childish, looking around her room like this. After all, her room has barely changed since she was a little girl. Has Mashiro changed?
She’d like to think so, but her room says otherwise.
She wobbles into the hallway blearily, and the floorboards creak under her soft steps, the grating noise discordant in the silence of the night. Her grandmother claims to love the squeak s and groan s of the old chestnut wood; she says the floors sing like the prettiest of nightingales, but Mashiro can’t help but doubt her words now, wincing at the sound with every step she takes. She’s only just made it to the bathroom and begun filling up a cup with water when she hears a noise behind her.
Another set of feet, stumbling down the hallway with little grace.
(The floorboards complain accordingly.)
“Hello? Who’s there?”
“Nn,” a voice replies from the dark hallway. Slowly, a figure steps into the dim light coming from the bathroom door. Messy blue hair…tired eyes…clenched fists…
“Sora!” Mashiro yelps. She claps a hand over her mouth as soon as she speaks, and her voice echoes across the bathroom weakly before dissipating into nothingness. “Sorry,” she apologizes as gently as she can, “you surprised me. Um…” Sora’s hands look like they’re shaking. Oh, dear, what should she do? Mashiro wishes she knew what to do in a situation like this. “A-are you okay? Why- um, why are you still awake?”
“...’Mno reason,” Sora mumbles, staring at Mashiro stilly from the doorway. Her eyes are glazed over, and she seems smaller than usual, her strong, wide shoulders slumped into a disgruntled slouch. She must be exhausted. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
There has to be something. Sora’s expression is stoic, but her eyebrows are still furrowed, just slightly, and her hands are still trembling, just a little, and it’s barely noticeable but Mashiro notices anyway because she always sees things like that. What is it, Sora? she wonders. What could possibly be keeping you awake?
The bathroom lights flicker.
“Um…yeah. Me neither,” Mashiro says.
She steps sideways, and Sora seems to recognize the invitation, entering from the hallway to steady her hands on the bathroom sink as she lowers herself to the floor. Mashiro slowly slides down next to her, shivering as her skin makes contact with the tile. Its yellowed surface is cold and firm against her legs.
For a moment, all is silent.
(Except for the floorboards. And the crickets. They are never silent, not completely -- at least, not to her.)
“I just-” Sora starts eventually, before falling silent again, fingers tracing squares of grout as she stares at the floor. “I don’t know. I’m not really sure. This is all…a little harder than I thought.” At this, she laughs weakly, pulling her legs close to her chest.
“What is?”
“Being a hero,” Sora answers.
“Oh.”
“Because heroes aren’t supposed to be scared of anything,” she continues. “Heroes have to be brave to protect the people they care about.”
If not for her trembling hands, Mashiro would never have been able to tell Sora was scared. The girl had seemed to radiate confidence from the moment they’d met, and the idea of her being frightened seemed completely and utterly foreign. “But, um…you seem brave to me, Sora.”
This makes Sora chuckle, but she still won’t look at Mashiro, her wistful gaze trained firmly on the wall. “I seem brave, maybe. But there are lots of things I’m scared of. And…” she continues, returning to picking at grout. “And I have to get rid of those fears if I want to be a hero.” Her words come out stilted and matter-of-fact, as if her fear is a challenge she’s determined to overcome.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh”? Oh, come on, Mashiro! Say something else! But the words do not come -- all she can think about is how quiet it is, how cold the ground feels, how close Sora is sitting to her. They remain in awkward silence for a few moments before she comes to her senses and places her hand on top of Sora’s awkwardly. And then she regrets it. She had been trying to be reassuring, but she’s not sure it’s working, and now Sora is staring at her, bright blue eyes questioning as the silence between them stretches on for a moment too long. Mashiro is about to yank her hand away when Sora's confusion breaks into a grin.
“What are you doing?” she asks, and Mashiro’s face is red all of a sudden because this is so embarrassing, and gosh , she really wishes she knew what to do in a situation like this. If she had just said something like a normal person, this never would have happened!
“I’m - well - I couldn’t think of anything to say ,” she stammers, pulling away quickly as she hides her face in her palms. Sora only giggles more, grabbing Mashiro’s hand and sliding it into her own. Sora’s hand is warm and reassuring, and Mashiro looks away, embarrassed, as she continues. “I was hoping it would make you feel better.”
“Well, it worked.”
“Wh-oh. Oh. Um. Good. I’m glad. And, Sora…” Her eyes dart back up to meet Sora’s, and the girl is still smiling giddily. “You’re allowed to be - to be afraid, you know? Heroes can be afraid too. It’s- normal to be afraid."
Sora’s smile fades, and she nods absentmindedly, but — her gaze is still firm, and Mashiro knows she hasn’t changed her mind, not really.
“It’s normal to be afraid,” Mashiro repeats. “Everyone is afraid of something. And besides, if bravery…if bravery is about overcoming fear, and you aren’t scared of anything, how are you meant to be brave?"
This seems to strike a chord with Sora, and she pulls her hand away, turning to look at Mashiro as her face shifts in - recognition? Understanding? Gratefulness? Whatever it is, she gives the softest of smiles and leans closer to Mashiro, her head plunking down softly on her shoulder as she closes her eyes and lets out her first real sigh.
“To be brave…being brave is more important than being fearless, I think,” Mashiro rambles on. “And you are very brave. In my opinion.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course. If you don’t mind me asking, though…why were you — why did you really have trouble sleeping?”
“Oh, it was a variety of things, but the main reason — well, it’s going to sound silly, but —“ Sora cuts herself off, throwing back her head and laughing. “I was scared of the dark!” Her airy giggles echo throughout the bathroom, and the night seems a little less lonely now, a little less cold; The ambient noises of midnight in the city are drowned out by a warm buzz emanating from the bathroom. She’s right. It does sound a little silly. A hero being afraid of the dark..it’s…it’s…
It’s at this moment, at the age of fourteen, that average-as-can-be Mashiro Nijigaoka realizes she and the extraordinary Pretty Cure Sora Harewataru have more in common than she ever could have imagined.