Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled like miso and stolen curry.

Iroha Sakayori cracked one eye open at the familiar fridge-door creak—7:42 a.m. on a Sunday she had mentally blocked off for quiet inventory and maybe one new demo sketch. Sunlight sliced through the half-open blinds, turning dust motes into lazy floating notes she instinctively started counting in 4/4 time. Two years since the utility pole had glowed in the rain. Two years since the luminous baby had turned into the silver-blonde whirlwind currently treating the vegetable drawer like her personal all-you-can-eat raid.

And still, every ordinary morning like this caught somewhere behind her ribs, right between the next rent due date and the lingering question of how long the android body’s power cells would hold without recalibration.

She sat up. The oversized black shirt she’d commandeered from Kaguya’s side slipped off one shoulder. Her apron from last night’s studio shift still hung loose around her waist, carrying the faint bitterness of convenience-store coffee. Dark hair fell into her face as she rubbed her eyes, already running the mental ledger: leftover curry should stretch two more days if Kaguya didn’t treat the fridge like a late-night stage.

There it was.

Kaguya crouched half-inside the open fridge, pink nails tapping an impatient rhythm on the shelf. The curry container sat open on the counter, spoon still stuck in it like abandoned set dressing from last night’s session. Iroha leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, already adding two extra grocery runs to next week’s schedule.

“We’re not bankrupt yet,” she said. “But keep going and we will be.”

Kaguya straightened in one bouncy motion, curry sauce still glistening on her lower lip. The oversized black shirt she wore—Iroha’s favorite, still carrying that faint studio-ozone tang—rode up her thighs as she spun around.

Her grin flashed, bright and utterly shameless.

“Oh nooo, Iroha-chan’s budget lecture voice!” she teased, spoon waving like a conductor’s baton. “But look—emergency curry inspection complete! It’s still good. Mostly.”

Then she launched.

One rabbit-like leap carried her across the small living room. Iroha barely had time to uncross her arms before the impact hit, cushions whooshing under their combined weight. Warm skin, curry-scented breath, and the solid press of a body that still moved like gravity was optional. Iroha let the tackle happen.

She should have been annoyed at the half-empty container sitting open on the counter like abandoned set dressing. At the way her planned quiet Sunday had already derailed into another unscheduled rehearsal of their everyday chaos.

Instead the same ridiculous warmth flickered behind her ribs—the exact feeling from the night the utility pole had crash-landed everything and left her rewriting blueprints until her fingers cramped. She should have pushed Kaguya off and salvaged the quiet Sunday. She didn’t.

Kaguya shifted, straddling her hips with playful triumph, chin propped on Iroha’s sternum. Those eyes still carried the weight of eight thousand years, but today they looked at Iroha like she was the only stable orbit worth crashing for. Iroha filed the thought away next to tomorrow’s mixing notes.

Iroha’s dry laugh slipped out before she could file it away. She reached up, fingers threading through silver-blonde strands, tugging lightly just to watch the grin widen.

“You’re going to be the death of my grocery budget,” Iroha murmured, the words softening at the edges despite herself.

Kaguya’s delighted squeak vibrated against her skin. “Budget’s just a boring Earth rule, Iroha-chan! But fine—I’d crash-land the whole moon again if it meant mornings like this.”

Before Iroha could fire back another dry remark, Kaguya scrambled up, grabbing both her hands. Sticky fingers laced tight, pink nails pressing gently into her palms with the same careless precision Kaguya used on stage mics.

“Emergency dance practice, right now!” Kaguya declared, eyes sparkling. “The kitchen is our stage, Iroha-chan—no excuses, no budgets, just us and the beat!”

She tugged. Iroha let herself be pulled, bare feet padding across cool tile. Kaguya’s oversized shirt swished with every bouncy step; Iroha’s apron strings trailed like forgotten melody lines she’d have to re-record later.

Kaguya spun her once, laughing, then tapped the small speaker. Their first demo track filled the sunlit space—simple piano notes looping soft and steady, layered with the faint vocal harmony they’d recorded together two years ago.

Kaguya’s hands settled warm at Iroha’s waist. Iroha’s found their natural place on Kaguya’s hips without thinking.

They swayed.

The faint lunar-mint shampoo cut through the lingering curry. Their breathing synced to the music like it always did, a habit Iroha had never bothered to break even when mixing sessions ran long. Kaguya rested her forehead against Iroha’s, that bright, chaotic spark softening into something raw and sincere that still made Iroha’s producer instincts want to capture it on a track.

Yet for half a heartbeat the touch felt almost too bright, too loud—like the memory of a quieter harmony that had waited centuries without ever raising its voice. Iroha pushed the comparison aside before it could settle.

“Two years,” she whispered, voice dropping beneath the sparkle, “and I still can’t believe you picked this messy, fridge-raiding orbit with me. I’d crash-land a hundred more times just for mornings like this.”

Iroha let her eyes close for a beat, temples brushing, breaths mingling under the gentle piano outro.

“If we keep dancing instead of grocery shopping,” she murmured, the words softening at the edges despite herself, “the festival crowd’s gonna have to feed us on stage.”

Kaguya’s laugh bubbled warm against her cheek. “Then let me be your favorite expense, Iroha-chan! Every single spin—I’ll make it worth the bankruptcy!”

The track faded. They lingered in the final notes a moment longer than the arrangement required.

“Breakfast time!” Kaguya announced. “Real breakfast. Not just curry theft. I’m helping!”

Iroha raised an eyebrow, already reaching for the rice cooker. “Helping usually means you steal three bites before I finish plating and then blame ‘passionate cooking energy.’”

“Exactly! Quality control, Iroha-chan. Someone’s gotta make sure it’s kissable.”

Kaguya pressed pink nails into the warm rice, shaping slightly lopsided hearts. One ended up burnt on the bottom—she blamed the “extra love”—but she arranged them with theatrical flair, sprinkling furikake that spelled a tiny crooked “K” and “I.” Iroha poured the strawberry milk, sliding the glass across without comment. Kaguya took it with both hands, humming the demo under her breath, then immediately leaned over and stole a bite straight from Iroha’s plate.

“Hey.”

“Sharing is caring~ And your rice balls taste better when they’re half mine anyway.”

Iroha shook her head, but the corner of her mouth curved upward. They sat at the small table, knees brushing underneath. Kaguya chattered in easy loops about their quiet Tsukuyomi streams, the low-key gigs where her energy somehow pulled bigger crowds, and Iroha’s latest tracks laced with secret lunar motifs.

Halfway through, Iroha reached out, thumb brushing a stray grain of rice from Kaguya’s lower lip. Kaguya caught her hand, kissed the pad with exaggerated tenderness, then grinned around it. “See? Best quality control ever.”

Between bites Iroha’s gaze caught on a single new silver strand glinting near Kaguya’s temple. The android body would age eventually—ten years of blueprints had bought them this, but time still ticked forward in small, human ways. She filed the observation away like another line item in the long-term maintenance log she kept in her head, right next to power-cell degradation estimates and festival merch cost projections.

The ache that followed was familiar, the same quiet guilt that used to keep her awake at 4 a.m. wondering whether any version of Kaguya would ever come home.

Kaguya noticed the flicker instantly. She leaned across the table, nuzzling into the side of Iroha’s head and pressing a soft forehead kiss right where worry tried to crease.

“Stop thinking heavy thoughts before ten a.m.,” Kaguya murmured, voice playful but threaded with that deeper sincerity that always cracked Iroha’s carefully maintained distance. “We’ve got forever—or at least enough time to finish breakfast, do one more dance, and still raid the fridge again later. I promise.”

Iroha exhaled, letting the quiet ache ease under Kaguya’s warmth, but the promise didn’t quite erase the new variable now hovering at the edge of every rehearsal schedule: what happened when both versions of that promise ended up in the same room.

She squeezed Kaguya’s hand once, then picked up her chopsticks again. The rice ball tasted faintly of curry and strawberries and the quiet certainty that they were exactly where they belonged—for now.

They finished in easy rhythm, plates emptying between soft laughter and stolen bites. Kaguya licked the last grain of rice from her thumb with theatrical satisfaction, then mostly draped herself against Iroha’s back while Iroha rinsed dishes, chin hooked over her shoulder, humming fragments of their old demo.

The kitchen counter tablet chimed once. A soft, glowing notification pulsed in official Tsukuyomi blue.

Iroha dried her hands and tapped it open. Kaguya stayed glued to her, arms sliding around her waist from behind, warm and solid and endlessly curious.

The words landed like a single low piano note:

Rehearsing with both versions of the woman she loved in the same space—the whirlwind who left curry fingerprints everywhere, and the calm, knowing echo who had waited eight thousand years with nothing but a pink plushie and quiet devotion.

Iroha’s quiet smile faltered for half a second. Just long enough for the old ache to brush the new warmth, the same ache she used to feel sketching blueprints at 4 a.m. while wondering if any version of Kaguya would ever come home.

Now the stage wanted both versions at once, and Iroha wasn’t sure which key would feel more like home—or whether her own grounding melody could hold them together without cracking.

Kaguya felt the tiny tension in her shoulders and squeezed gently, arms tightening. She read the invitation aloud in her brightest, most dramatic flair, voice bouncing off the sunlit tiles.

“Three keys, one stage! Sounds like us, Iroha-chan—chaotic me, elegant echo-me, and you holding the whole melody together. We’re gonna blow the roof off Tsukuyomi and the real world!”

She pressed a lingering kiss to Iroha’s temple, soft and reassuring, tasting faintly of strawberry milk and stolen curry.

Iroha exhaled and leaned back into the embrace, hands settling over Kaguya’s on her stomach. The tablet screen dimmed, but the invitation glowed faintly—like a promise wrapped in a gentle question that had just added a new harmony she hadn’t written yet.

Two years of choosing each other in grocery aisles and late-night studios. Now the stage was asking them to choose again, louder and in three keys instead of two.

Kaguya nuzzled one last time against her hair, voice soft and certain against her ear. “Whatever happens… we’re writing the next album together. And every track’s gonna have our happy ending in it.”

Iroha smiled, small and private, already hearing the faint echo of a third voice layered beneath their familiar duet.

They were really here—and the rehearsal had already begun.