Work Text:
The rain had been coming down for hours.
The storm pressed quick and soft against the rooftop, a constant hush that made everything feel slower. Weightier. Gigi sat next to the two massive windows of Cecilia’s room, tail curled around her ankles, chin on her knee.
Cecilia was somewhere else in base. Probably the kitchen. Probably humming some tune she couldn’t get out of her head.
Gigi had no excuse to be here—no plan, no prank, not even a half-formed excuse. She was just… drifting. That was the worst part. When you weren’t even pretending anymore.
She wasn’t sure when this habit started. When the lines between wanting to be annoying and be comforted blurred.
She remembers one moment.
Barely a blink. They were watching a movie neither of them liked. Gigi had been rambling—trying to provoke, to distract and get a reaction. And then Cecilia laughed.
A loud laugh. Infectious. Completely free.
And her hand had landed briefly—accidentally—on Gigi’s. Warm, static, real. The movie kept playing, but Gigi didn’t hear the rest of it.
After that, something shifted.
She didn’t stop teasing or showing up uninvited—but the way she lingered changed. Her edges dulled. Her silence, when it came, stretched longer. Eventually, it led her to the closet.
At first, she thought it would irritate Cecilia. That it was just another way to annoy the automaton. But in the dark, surrounded by the soft rustle of dresses, Gigi found something else: peace. A place where she didn’t have to look at Cecilia and pretend not to want more.
She knows it’s weird. She’s aware—in that too-loud, self-conscious way that creeps in when it’s quiet. Gigi thinks it’s the stillness. The weightless dark where no one’s watching. Where her feelings don’t echo so sharply.
Originally, sneaking into Cecilia’s closet was supposed to earn her a groan—or at least a sigh. She wanted Cecilia to scold her, to pull her back to the surface. Anything to slow the little ship already setting sail from her stupid heart, before it could make harbour in her head.
Then it wasn’t.
It stopped being a joke the way a smile fades without anyone noticing. The moment just… softened. What used to feel like mischief started to feel like relief.
It became something she craved—a hiding place that smelled like lemongrass, warm fabric brushing her arms, the faint hum of Cecilia’s world pressed close. Here, she could lose herself in the dark and pretend she didn’t want anything at all. Pretend the wanting itself was just another trick of the quiet.
Sometimes she sat there long enough to forget what she’d been running from. Other times, she imagined the door opening, imagined Cecilia’s face in the sliver of light. A dozen versions of the same moment: surprise, confusion, maybe even that sharp little frown that always made Gigi feel too much.
She told herself she wanted to get caught. That a little scolding might shake her out of this strange gravity. But deep down, she knew that wasn’t it. She didn’t want the scolding—she wanted the looking. The proof that Cecilia could see her at all.
So she waits for the creak of the door. For the maybe. Maybe Cecilia will open it. Maybe those imagined eyes will find her.
She thinks about it every time—how Cecilia would look at her. How different it would be if she knew the awful things Gigi’s been hiding.
Today is no different. Gigi finds herself at the closet door, following a rhythm her body’s memorised. Wait until Cecilia’s gone. Drift inside.
But today, she hesitates—hand on the knob, breath shallow. There’s a pressure behind her ribs. Not just about hiding anymore. About being close. About surrounding herself with something that feels like her.
She lingers in Cecilia’s room, tracing the outline of her world—the violin. The sewing machine.
Gigi knows Cecilia. She’s her best friend. But she doesn’t understand how these pieces came to be part of her. When had she picked up music? Sewing?
Sometimes, when the quiet stretches too long, Gigi curls up on the floor and imagines Cecilia finding her like that. The surprise. The pause. The soft, bewildered look she’d give before asking, gently, why.
She remembers the moment their hands brushed. Their faces close. Since when had it changed? Since when had she started falling?
She doesn’t want this.
It makes everything unfair. It turns just being here into a lie she’s too afraid to speak aloud
I’m in love with Cecilia.
The thought is absurd. Terrifying. That’s why she hides—knees pulled tight, tucked between dresses that smell like lemongrass. In the dark, her heart trips over itself. Her thoughts unravel.
Between every whisper of I want her so badly comes the guilt—heavy, twisting. This isn’t harmless. This isn’t safe.
What would Cecilia say?
What would she see in Gigi, if she knew?
Gigi squeezes her eyes shut.
It’s not like she chose this. These feelings grew like moss—quiet, creeping, impossible to scrape away. Now they’re everywhere: in the seams of Cecilia’s dresses, in the echo of her laugh long after it’s faded.
Her tail droops.
She clutches the hem of a green dress—the one from the garden party mission. She remembers that day, how Cecilia smiled too brightly at someone else. How the sight of it had stung, sharp and small, in a place Gigi hadn’t known could hurt.
Then—the door opens. Cecilia’s back.
Gigi’s heart leaps. Her tail thuds softly. A part of her hopes Cecilia hears it. The rest is just panic.
She listens—footsteps, the clink of porcelain, a cupboard creaking, fabric rustling. Cecilia settles on the couch, probably with the book she’s always halfway through. Gigi stays curled, hidden in cotton and silk. The air feels different now. Charged. Every second, a dare.
She could leave. Say something dumb. Pretend she was looking for a scarf even if that’ll never work.
But she doesn’t want to leave. Not yet, not ever.
Cecilia hums—a tune Gigi recognises. That same melody, only heard when Cecilia forgets to act composed.
Then a soft sigh. One that carries the weight of the day, but also… something gentle, something personal.
Gigi aches. She wants to be out there. Wants to be the reason Cecilia sighs with relief.
She presses her forehead to velvet. Lemongrass clings to her skin. Every creak in the floorboards makes her flinch. Every inhale is shallow, every heartbeat loud in the quiet.
She lets herself linger a moment longer, drawn to the closeness of Cecilia’s presence, the soft hum of her life threading into the stillness.
She doesn’t realise she’s holding her breath until it aches.
Then—the closet’s door opens.
A pause. The brush of fabric.
“Oh,” Cecilia says. Like she’s not surprised. “You’re here again.”
Gigi’s heart stumbles.
She doesn’t look up, and the words come out pitifully. “I’m looking for my scarf.” Rehearsed, awkward—and the silence that followed felt familiar.
Cecilia shifts. Who probably sees said scarf poking out of Gigi’s jacket. But as always she gives her an out: “I think I saw it next to my favourite skirt.”
Gigi’s breath catches. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to check it out.” She doesn’t make an attempt to reach out and look, half hoping Cecilia won’t mention it.
“Hey.” Cecilia’s gaze drops, Gigi follows it. Her tail, almost out of the closet, claws inching closer and closer to the automaton’s wrist. Then Cecilia looks back up. “It’s looks so uncomfortable in there.”
Gigi’s tail flicks, she tries to reel it back. “I’m not complaining.” It’s without thought, before it comes crashing down that she just lost her out.
“I’m trying to understand.” A soft thump—Cecilia sits beside her. Doesn’t shut the door. Doesn’t make it a moment. “There’s chairs. A comfy bed. But you decide to be here, with my dresses.” It’s not an accusation, just the simple question of why?
“It’s quiet, and smells nice.”
Cecilia leans against the wall. “So you’re hiding because of aromatherapy?”
“I dunno,” Gigi mutters. “Your closet doesn’t expect anything from me. It’s just… here.”
Cecilia’s voice softens. “And me?” Gigi turns, barely meeting her gaze. The question she rehearsed an answer to: “You’re different.”
The breath between them stretches long, a taut thread of quiet that hums in Gigi’s chest. “Okay,” Cecilia says eventually. “But if you’re gonna haunt my closet, I get to ask: why mine?”
Gigi hesitates. The truth sticks like tiny thorns she doesn’t want to touch.
Because it smells like you.
Because it’s the closest I can get without breaking it.
Because you’re what I want and I’m too afraid to say it.
She shrugs. “You’ve got good taste in clothes.”
Cecilia snorts. “Please. Half of these are backup mission dresses and pity-silk from people who think I like fabric.”
“You do.”
“…Maybe.” A beat. “Still doesn’t explain why you look like someone kicked you out of your own room.”
Gigi curls tighter. “I don’t want to be found.”
“But you want to be near me,” Cecilia claims. It’s true, but Gigi won’t ever admit that. She doesn’t have the strength to.
Cecilia sighs—tired, not annoyed. She leans closer, their shoulders brushing, a small weight that feels too human for someone who whirrs and clicks. Gigi goes still. The air between them tightens, alive with something neither of them will name.
“You don’t have to hide,” Cecilia says finally. Her voice isn’t soft, not exactly—it’s steady, like she’s decided something.
Gigi laughs under her breath. “Then what would I do with myself?”
“Maybe,” Cecilia murmurs, tilting her head just enough that her head almost rests on Gigi’s shoulder, “I could find you.”
Gigi swallows hard. The closet feels smaller now—too warm, too bright. She can smell lemongrass, and something else beneath it: metal with the faintest trace of hope.
She doesn’t answer immediately. Just lets the silence stretch, and for once, doesn’t look away. “You know,” she begins dryly, “if really wanna find me, I think some yaoi manga as bait will work.”
Cecilia giggles. “Or gacha?”
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
Silence. But this one feels different. Settled. Safe.
Cecilia reaches out, adjusting the hem of the green formal dress near Gigi’s head. Her fingers pause on the fabric, lingering just enough to be electric.
“This is the one I wore to the garden mission,” she says. “You hated that day.”
“I hated the guy you were smiling at.”
Cecilia blinks. “Oh.”
Gigi winces. “Sorry, forget I said anything.”
“No,” Cecilia murmurs. “I’m not mad. Just… understanding.”
Green locks onto pink. “I didn’t know you were watching me that closely.”
Gigi’s voice cracks. “Yeah. That’s kind of the problem.”
Cecilia holds still. Then, quietly: “You know, for someone hiding in the closet… you’re kind of terrible at staying in the closet.”
Gigi groans. “That was so bad.”
“I thought it was kind of brave.”
Silence folds between them—gentle, uncertain.
“You can stay as long as you want,” Cecilia says, barely above the rain. “Just don’t vanish when I start wanting actual answers.”
Gigi’s throat tightens. It isn’t the words that undo her, but the way they sound—like an open door she isn’t sure she’s ready to step through. Answers meaning questions she’s been dreading. Questions she secretly wants her to ask.
And somehow that doesn’t really scare her anymore. Maybe she’s just tired. Or maybe it’s because, for once, the fear feels smaller than the wanting.
Outside, the rain murmurs against the windows.
The closet breathes around them.
And for once, Gigi doesn’t think about all the fears she carried in here. The guilt. The longing. The what-ifs.
Cecilia doesn’t move, but her presence feels closer somehow—quiet and patient, like she’s willing to wait for the truth to catch up on its own terms.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Gigi whispers.