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When Mafuyu wakes up, she is scarily warm. To be fair, it’s a normal temperature, but Mafuyu can’t ever seem to keep warm when she’s sleeping, so it’s unusual for her. The lyricist feels the foggy memory of Kanade clinging to her arm, remarking about it concernedly, as if the composer didn’t have her own issues with temperature. The blankets are bunched around her, and she seems to be holding what feels a little like a portable heater.
Generally, though, it’s not a good idea to be hugging one of those, so Mafuyu is all but startled awake, her eyes flying open with a sharp inhale. What greets her is less metal, more flesh, and less heated, more warm to the touch.
It’s not a portable heater.
Kanade’s sleeping face greets Mafuyu, her hair tangled from sleep. The lyricist sort of wants to run her hand through it, but by the look of it, that action might rouse the composer, pulling at her hair uncomfortably when Mafuyu’s fingers inevitably get caught on a knot. Even the way Mafuyu is positioned on the bed—the lyricist clinging onto the composer’s arm desperately—suggests that, even in sleep, Mafuyu might’ve known who was in bed with her. It drags a lazy sort of smile across her face, and yet again, she’s surprised at how quickly both her body and mind have come to accept Kanade’s presence, no matter where she goes.
After all, it was the first time she had slept in Kanade’s room. The fact that her subconscious still knew that the composer was precious was honestly embarrassing, and if Mafuyu was the sort of person to blush, her face would be on fire. But, well, Kanade has always been precious to her, always been the one thing in her life that just made sense. It made sense that they lived together, made sense that they slept together, and it made sense how Mafuyu’s eyes couldn’t seem to stray from Kanade’s sleeping figure.
Luckily, Kanade isn’t awake for the way Mafuyu stares at her, for the way the lyricist mumbles something under her breath. Even Mafuyu herself isn’t knowledgeable on the words that tumble out, more a murmur than any actual words. No doubt, it’s a quiet, sweet compliment, lost in between the cracks of sunlight filtering through the curtains.
Goodness, she’s glad she didn’t do it. Mafuyu’s glad she hadn’t taken her life, all those months ago. The feeling comes as a shock to even herself, but Mafuyu doesn’t want to disappear, and if she does, it’s more out of embarrassment than anything else.
However, Mafuyu does want to stay here. She doesn’t want to face the world how she is, weakened and tired. She doesn’t want to get up, to leave this shield of warmth that, even in sleep, the composer provides for her effortlessly. She doesn’t want to leave, because she has a feeling that she’ll miss Kanade, even right down the hall, making breakfast. Yes, she’ll miss Kanade far too much.
But it is morning, and Mafuyu feels bad, staring at Kanade like she’s a painting in a museum. So she sits up. It feels like a dream that she never thought would come true, waking up to Kanade’s breathing. She’s imagined it, but never quite like this, never with this much silent longing between them. No, she had imagined Kanade being more flustered about it than she was, but Mafuyu can't help the sheepish, small smile from painting her lips and face with a slight flush.
There is a first time for everything, after all.