Raymond McNeil
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Mixed Ashes [Souls Beyond Time Bonus 3]
🕑 Added 2017-12-02 17:01:00 +0000 UTC Whoo, this one took a while because the planned Beta (someone who wasn't my regular) never got back to me, so it's been on the back burner until I finally got off my ass and remembered I'd just never had it reviewed. That said, my traditional Beta gave me the all clear on it within a day, which on one hand frustrates me and on another hand gave me a great opportunity to review the work from a more objective view point while rereading. I'm actually really satisfied where this one went, and I'm excited to write out the final one some point soon. That'll come after my next fanfic chapter, mind you, which is a massive Diakko one-shot, but it'll be coming. And from there, finding an artist, tweaking the proper nouns, and getting the damned thing published! :DEnough blabbering though! Enjoy! :D
O/o\O
Mixed Ashes
Days
Time.
As she loops one last wire into the detonator she wishes so desperately that time would just stand still. Finish the bomb, plant it in the hideout, grab what she can carry and run. Nothing new, mechanical almost, but it always rushed by so damn fast. Any slip up or gaff and her chances of getting home go from slim to none. Her finger slips against the last cog and she recoils, hissing as she sticks the pad between her lips.
"Damn this thing," she mutters, giving the cog two more twists before slamming the casing shut.
Okay, bombs done, all wires up and ticking.
Wait.
"Shit!" Homura rocks out of her chair. She can't risk tossing it, too much noise, it'd just give her away, and trying to disarm it, a ramshackle IED, would probably just end up killing her. She built the damn thing which only means that she knew how temperamental it was to begin with. So the only option that faced her was to accelerate her plans.
Time really wasn't playing fair.
Metal drags against the granite counter, the explosive folding easily between her palms. It's probably not a good sign that dealing with jury rigged incendiaries has become normal for her.
She isn't far from the camp, just around the corner and up a staircase and she's in the heart of enemy territory. Her feet kicks chiseled stone, dust wafting into the ether in her wake. In a blink she reaches the stairs and in two she's already halfway up it, dashing around one more corner as her heart thumps in time with the bomb. Sweat glosses her hand when she dives into the compound; she has forty seconds to place down the IED, grab what she can and go.
A table rests besides a cot with perfect view of the room and she knows immediately where to set the bomb. Homura jitters to the stand, her hands shaking as the four-pronged base touched smooth, laminate oak.
Thirty-five seconds; she can work with that. She saw a rifle in the corner of the room she'd need, and doubtless there was a pistol above the dresse-.
There's a click downstairs and her blood ices over. There weren't any insurgents in the camp, she'd scouted it not ten minutes prior.
Thirty-two seconds.
Instinctively she reaches for her belt only to find her handgun missing. Homura flinches realizing she'd left it downstairs to clean once she'd gotten the bomb ready. Accidentally priming it early means she was unarmed with her back to the wall.
Twenty-nine seconds.
Thumps ring out from the stairs, deafened by a carpet of sand but still alarmingly loud. She calculates her options and finds her mind coming up empty. There ARE no options. Unless she can swivel past him, this is her last moment alive.
Twenty-four seconds.
Well, at least she can go out on her terms and bring one of those bastards with her. She drops her knees to a readied stance, fingers poised to pounce. She's actually pretty terrible in a straight up fight, but she's hoping the element of surprise will let her hold him in place long enough to get caught in the blast.
Twenty-seconds.
A puff of pink squeezed and pulled into an uneven shower of color stumbles into view, gentle fuscia eyes popping up to lock with Nomura's own steely amethyst.
Homura blinks and drops her arms.
"...Madoka?"
Madoka's wobbles a bit, balancing a cavalcade of grocery bags in her arms. She smiles and lifts what she can with pride, "Surprise! I thought I'd stop by and make you a home-cooked meal; must've been a while since you had one of those."
Homura blinks.
"Uh, yeah. I-I guess it has..."
Ten seconds.
"What are you doing up here anyway?" the pinkette's asks, glancing around the bedroom.
Homura glances to the bomb on the nightstand, "My clock. It wasn't set to daylight savings and when I went to change it I found out it was broken. I was fixing it..."
One second.
An earsplitting noise brakes through the air, causing both girls to flinch. Homura reaches behind her and slams the nobbule on top, ending the raucous cacophony.
"What's the alarm for?" Madoka's asks, raising a brow. Homura shakes her head.
"To take my medicine. I was going to do that after vacuuming. Guess I didn't quite get my times right."
Madoka nods, "Well, that's okay, small mistakes are fine when we can learn from them. It might take you a while to get back in your groove." She glances over at the vacuum, tucked safely away in the corner of the room, "How about you grab that and get started on it and I'll have dinner done when you're finished?"
Homura smiles, nodding, "That... sounds lovely, Madoka."
Madoka hops in place, her poff of a ponytail barely wisping the base of her neck. And then she just stands there. Motionless. Hesitant? There's a brief second where she scoots into the room and is a hair’s breath from Homura's cheek, to where she can feel the other girl's breath on her hairs and on her skin, warming Homura's face and cooling her beaded sweat.
And then Madoka's presence is gone, recused and guarded with her head hung low and her arms bunched together either out of shame or to better support the plastic bags, she could not tell.
"R-r-ight, I-I'll get started on dinner. G-good luck with the kissin-cleaning, I meant cleaning!" Madoka stutters, her cheeks as rosy as her hair. With a couple of steps she's out the door, and by the time Homura gathers her senses the sounds of culinary prep work have already started to drift through the house.
Homura glares at the vacuum near her bed and grabs it, hefting it easily with one hand. She hesitates, however, next to the dresser. She carefully reaches up to the lip and pulls a bulky metal form from the cabinet's roof. Her glare becomes a scowl: she thought she'd left it downstairs to be cleaned. She needed to be careful: it was too dangerous to have something so important misplaced at the wrong time.
O/o\O
Half an hour after arriving and dinner was nearly finished, with Madoka adding the final touches to the tsukemen when the vacuum in the library down the hall shut off. Homura's home had always been rather awe-inspiring with just how sprawling it was given the relatively small plot of land it was built on. Mrs. Akemi had something to do with the design she knew, but Homura was always so tight-lipped about her parents so that was all she knew on the matter.
Was. Is? Madoka wrapped her fingers around the seeping warmth of her mug, the coffee licking the rims in time with the small movements of her wrists. This whole situation was... weird.
Homura was back! She was alive and spent the last three years making her way home! By every measure of the word it was a miracle, especially with how Homura described her time over seas... at least what little she was willing to mention.
And there in lie the rub.
There were things Homura was blatantly hiding from Madoka. Madoka had spent that three year expanse with her own life and times, but she never quite stopped grieving for her sickly friend and by the first Christmas without Homura she had memorized every gaunt crease and bony limb she could lay eyes on in their old photographs together. The Homura now may have had gained more muscle, a sheen to her hair, and a confidence to her step, but those deep amethyst eyes she'd fallen in love with had lost something in that transformation, a softness that had been run beneath a grinder and sharpened to a fine point. Of course, there wasn't anything wrong with that; in fact Madoka would sheepishly admit that being dissected by that calculated gaze could leave her breathless, but it was clear that the first love in Madoka's life was gone and replaced with something more terrifying, more mysterious.
Madoka stood, freshly tied cotton candy pigtails bounding in sync with her steps as she prepared the last steps of the meal, filling two bowls with bubbling broth and one large one stacked high with veggies, noodles and meat. Her stomach churned watching every ounce of food spill into the dish from her wok. While she wasn't opposed to heavy meals, she'd been more than content with eating less in the last few weeks; the piles of calories were there for Homura's sake, who doubtlessly had little chance for any well rounded meals while trapped abroad. Imagining her alone and hungry, eating trash or worse just to stay alive... Madoka's unsettled stomach was replaced by a guilty jolt down her spine. She would sit down with Homura and they would both have a full, filling meal, even if their waistlines became a little rounder in the end.
The pinkette turned to grab their chopsticks for the meal and froze as she found herself at the other end of that haunting gaze, purple gems carving at her features from the main hallway.
"Ah! H-Homura! You startled me!" Madoka sighed, gripping her chest.
Homura opened her mouth and then shut it before languidly opening it again, "That wasn't what I.... I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."
"No, no, its okay. I, uh, forgot how quiet you are! You're a real ninja, you know that?" Madoka smiled.
"Not really," Homura smiled back, flipping a thistle of hair over her shoulder as she strode into the room, "You're just lost in thought. I suppose some things don't really change much, do they?"
The comment decked Madoka like a sidewinder to the jaw. Years of playful banter with Sayaka had taught her to puff her cheeks and pout after retorts like that. And so she did.
"Homuraaa!" Madoka whined, "When did you become so mean?"
Only, this wasn't Sayaka and that was clearly not the right response.
"I..." Homura stammered, sliding back a step. In an instant the cool, composed confidence drained from her body, shrinking her to a husk that only vaguely resembled her gardens persona, "I... Sorry, I didn't think. I was... I was j-joking and... I'm sorry, I-I'm sorry..."
Madoka was sure that the color had drained from her own face in time with Homura's posture.
"N-No! Homura, I'm fine, I'm fine, I was joking too!"
Reflexively she stepped forward and raised her arms, to pull the suddenly conflicted girl into a hug. And just as reflexively Homura jerked away, suddenly cradling her own limbs and her right hand scrabbling over a blackened shape affixed to her hip. Madoka's blood became ice and her feet locked in place.
"Ho... mur... a...?" the pinkette's squeaked, vocal chords dropping to a dry rasp. "Wh-wha-what is that...?"
"It-t-t... It's a..." something in Homura's inflection matched what Madoka remembered; the anxiety, the spike in her pitch, and that stutter that she had always found adorable. But all of that was covered by a mask, one that was slipping off quickly and was only being held together by an almost animalistic panic. "It doesn't matter..." the ghastly girl finally choked out. She angled her side away from Madoka, pointedly concealing the shadow mounted on her belt.
"I... O-ohkay," Madoka breathed. "Let's both take a breath, alright. I think we're both getting worked up over nothing," she let the words simmer on her tongue, "I think."
Homura's rabid features did not seem to falter, but as the seconds passed on her tightened lips and sunken eyes began to melt away, imploding under Madoka's watchful gaze. The survivor gasped, allowing her shoulders a moment of respite. There was quiet, save for the uneasy breathing flowing between them.
"It's... a gun. A-a pistol, to be more accurate," Homura finally answered, stuffing a lock of her bangs behind her ear. "I've had it for a while now..."
"O-oh..." Madoka swallowed. Her eyes locked and listed in time with Homura's hand, the trembling digits jittering over the matte black plastic.
Homura trailed the gaze and in an instant she blanched, her knocked elbows curling into her stomach, "N-no, Mad-doka, I wasn't-please, don't be scared, I wouldn't ever think of..." She looked down at the tool, at how close she was to wrenching it free and what little color left in her face drained completely. Madoka flinched as the gun was drawn, expecting some kind of reprisal for an incomprehensible offense, but all that came was a clatter of plastic and metal as the pistol dropped to the floor, its magazine and a single loose bullet spilling to the tile alongside it.
"No, no, I wasn't going to, I wasn't, I was just..." Homura sputtered, stepping to press her back against the wall. Fingers, knotted and calloused, raked through her ebony hair as she slid to the ground. "I wouldn't, I-I-I... No... No..."
Madoka pulled her legs free of their stasis, creeping forward inch by inch, and with each soft fall of her heels Homura crumpled that much more. The moment she was close enough she dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around Homura's shoulders.
A split-second later and she found herself unable to breathe. Rocky scarred pads dug into her layrnx, thumbs pressing up into the curve of her jaw preventing anything from slipping down her throat. She tried to call Homura's name but it came out garbled, unintelligible... strangled. Madoka scrabbled at the hand around her neck, moisture prickling in the corners of her eyes, the world blurring and spinning around her. A spark of adrenaline momentarily drowned out the agony, just as drool began to pool beneath her tongue. Once more she cried Homura's name, a croak drained of air but tinged with desperation.
And the grip relaxed. Madoka slipped to the tile, coughing onto them pristine surface, her own fingers frantically probing the red streaks rubbed raw across her skin.
Homura curled in on herself, doing her damnedest to melt through the wall through sheer force alone. "I'm sorry! I-I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" she shrieked. Her fingers fell to the kitchen moulding, her nails splitting and bleeding as she continued to push against the abrasive grout.
Madoka shuddered, fire slipping down her lungs, or perhaps her lungs were the fire. It made no difference as she snapped her eyes forward, drilling her gaze into Homura. Without hesitation she threw her arms around Homura's shoulders and squeezed her even tighter than before, tight enough to hold her still against her reflexive jolt.
"I-I'm s-s-sor-rr-rry..." she wailed at the ceiling, "I'm-m s-s-o s-sorry!"
"Homura..." Madoka cooed, pressing herself even closer, "It's-It's okay, Homura. I forgive you. I'm alright." She cradled her friend, gently running her fingers through the other girl's shady locks, "I... I forgive you, it’s not your fault... You've been through a lot and you're not well." Arching her back she did what she could to look into Homura's eyes. Homura remained focused on the ceiling, eyes unmoving. Madoka leaned back in and squeezed, careful to not pull too tight, "You're not well, but I'm her for you, I'm here to help you get better, no matter what it takes."
Homura shuddered against the warm touch and wailed against the soothing words. But in the end she let herself be held and she continued to wail long into the night.
O/o\O
Weeks
Homura isn't well.
She knows this, she's known this, and yet even then that knowledge did nothing to mediate her problem; all the self awareness in the world cannot shake years of compacted survival instinct.
The first time she hurts Madoka it is when she is questioned about the gun and she strangles the one person she had been so desperate to see for so long. And the jubilant pink girl forgave her, held her close despite the threat of kneejerk reprisal, and vowed to help her heal.
The second time she hurts Madoka is when they are trying to take a walk and a blown muffler spurs her to slam both of them to the pavement; better bruised than missing a limb. After a minute of confusion Madoka laughs it off, ignoring the bloody gashes along her palm and forearm, and leads Homura back home so she can tend to the cut on her face first.
The third time she hurts Madoka is hanging a mirror to light up her abysmally dark house only for a glint of light to bounce around Madoka's hand. And still, while having shards of glass removed from her scalp and stitches sewn beneath shortened crops of hair, she forgives Homura, because Madoka is a saint beyond description.
Madoka's mother is less so. She was so warm when Homura returned, relieved in a way only she can be, but she is furious when she finally learns why Madoka has been coming home so scraped and weary all month. The woman is shrewd, Homura remembers, and no amount of crow's feet buried beneath copious layers of concealer will change that. But Homura is now equally as shrewd, if not decidedly paranoid, so when Junko goes to make a demand Homura has already taken it upon herself to meet it. When she takes Madoka to the hospital for the mirror she does what she can to find a psychologist and the businesswoman is... not pleased, but perhaps relieved that Homura has already recognized the problem, relieved in only a way she can be.
But it is probably best that Madoka plays mediator for them going forward; Junko is protective of her daughter almost to a fault and makes further attempts to connect more than a little difficult.
The psychologist is something that needed to happen eventually, even if Homura denies it to the day she dies. There is a brief consideration of having a psychiatrist instead, but having lived her life before the crash chained from pill bottle to pill bottle, she's adamant that she wants to do this without messing with her brain chemistry. Even then, though, she eventually sees one for some sleeping pills and once or twice she is prescribed anti-anxiety medication. She uses both sparingly and grudgingly.
The sessions are painful, with question after question crystallizing memories that Homura has left purposefully blurred. She is willing though, and the psychologist loves to remark how incredibly cooperative she is compared to other clientele. Homura takes the compliment with a grain of salt, especially when it's said in the same breath with an affirmation of how difficult her particular issues are to tackle, by both the psychologist and Homura herself. Despite this she persists with the sessions, using the tingle at the tips of her fingers where she squeezed as a constant reminder of what she had to lose if she failed to tackle her own mental issues.
She begins counting the weeks. Time has become very important to her since learning how long she’d been away. The years she spent abroad were nauseatingly nebulous, a gelatin made of sand and to be swallowed as air. Her first days home are feverish, of course, that there’s really no accounting for, and she’s thankful that the frantic period is far shorter than the weeks she spent bedridden after the crash in the desert. She’s also thankful that Madoka is there to remember those days for her clearly and give her a reference point as she sets forth to sharpen each week as a glasswork statue in her mind.
Many of these statues are of Madoka, many of mundane objects given more meaning, and others of people scattered along the way. During her third week home she finally meets Mami again, though it is far from pleasant. Why they go there Homura is unsure; Madoka shies away from what few questions Homura feels comfortable making, but she says that having Homura there will make it easier for her. And of course, it had been three years since she saw Mami, wouldn’t it be nice to see an old friend?
And it is nice for a little while. Mami seems as formal as Homura remembers, maybe even more so, though it becomes more than a little apparent that it’s more a product of some unspoken tension between herself and Madoka than it is any kind of decorum. There’s another girl there at the same time, a high school student named Nagisa that Mami befriended in the hospital. Their company is enjoyable enough even though she finds Nagisa’s adoration for Mami’s cheesecake more than a little unsettling, but their time is cut short when Madoka emerges from a room with a bag slung over her shoulder declaring that it’s time to leave. Homura stutters out a proper goodbye and Mami shows them to the door, promising to stay in touch. The hollow look in her eye is not missed but is tactfully ignored.
Sayaka appears in the fifth week with school being her primary belaying factor. She’s just as loud as Homura remembers, though Madoka seems to have explained some of Homura’s sensitivities because she’s more reserved during this initial reconnection. Or maybe, maybe it was something else Homura couldn’t quite pick up on. Regardless, Sayaka’s reticence is easily offset by the companion she brought on their joint shopping trip, a barbarian of a redhead named Kyoko. For as aggravating as Sayaka had been in the past, Kyoko is five times as bombastic, crude, dramatic and snide. Or perhaps she just rubs Homura the wrong way and she seems that way. Both are possible. Still, at one point Homura almost draws her gun on the redhead, which yes she had promised Madoka she left at home, and Madoka has to scramble to both calm her down and explain to Kyoko what is happening.
Sayaka is appalled that Homura is carrying an illegal gun. Kyoko is amazed and impressed. They both let their feelings on the matter be known, but both promise not to call the cops and on that note Madoka decides it’s time for them both to go home. Homura is reprimanded and does her best from then onward to resist the urge to arm herself; more often than not she fails, but she slowly begins to make progress when Madoka gifts her a knife she bought online, something to put her mind at ease that’s a little easier to conceal and a little less illegal to carry around, though even then Madoka is uneasy whenever Homura has it.
The next time she sees anyone other than Madoka or her family is when Kyoko arranges a party during week nine, which Madoka is quick to point out as odd. And it most certainly was odd, if not uncomfortably awkward. ‘Party’ is a strong word to describe a six-person gathering around snack food and silly board games. Mami and Nagisa show up as well to fill out that quota and in truth each of the pairs around them seems closer than the last time Homura had seen them. It made sense for Mami and Nagisa, as the two recently became official roommates, but for Sayaka and Kyoko something stranger was afoot, especially with the bags Homura glimpses under her eyes.
This is all but confirmed when she and Kyoko are alone, refilling a chip bowl in Sayaka’s tiny apartment kitchen. Maybe it’s because Homura feels just as much an outsider to this group as Kyoko, but the redhead let’s slip that Sayaka was feeling isolated from her friends, and that’s a feeling she never wanted Sayaka to feel. Once more, like with Sayaka’s eyes, there’s something Kyoko has left unsaid, something else that weighs between only the two of them. Kyoko’s mouth only parts for a second before it closes again and that mystery remains unspoken.
Their return to the party is celebrated and they go back to enjoying their card games. Homura makes some rather poignant observations during this, namely that she herself was rather boring. In fact, during a game geared entirely towards provoking the most perverse side of each player, her dealings were often the most mundane in the group. Next to Mami she was easily the least interesting of the six in terms of her dirty mind, and she was unsure if there wasn’t something she was missing because of her… unique mental state or if she had just been dealt a continuously poor hand for the game itself. Surprisingly, the most distorted plays came from the least expected sources; Nagisa and her very own ‘pure’ Madoka. Then again, like with herself, it could all be dependent upon the more random nature of the game, so there’s a chance Madoka wasn’t quite so twisted… though Homura’s gut is quick to tell her that either option had upsides.
The evening progresses and Sayaka is looking more and more lively. Kyoko is matching it as well, and even the chill surrounding Mami seems to have dwindled. It’s the middle of a rather intense hand when there is a knock on the apartment door. Sayaka excuses herself and goes to answer, leaving the quintet stewing over their choices in the game. Homura is seated on the couch next to Madoka, with the other three sprawled on the floor around the table in an assortment of poses; poised, reclined, antsy.
“Hello there, Miss Miki.”
And then there is the voice. Homura’s head snaps to the speaker in an instant, barely visible around the corner.
“Mister Tsukino?” Sayaka asks.
“Sorry to bother you,” the man begins, stroking his fingers over his silvery wisp of a beard, “but my wife is trying to sleep right now, and you and your friends are being quite loud. She’s sick and really needs her rest, so I hope it wouldn’t be imposing to ask you and your group to lower the volume a bit?”
The cadence, the tone, the way his voice landed on each syllable. Too familiar, far too familiar.
“You’re dead…” Homura whispers, her tongue numb across her teeth. She repeats it, louder, “Y-You’re dead…”
The man’s head turns and his skin molts, pale wrinkled cheeks stripping away to sun kissed leather. He squints, his cloudy grey beard rolls under his lips.
“I’m sorry, have we met?”
Homura drops back against Madoka, shaking, “You died. I saw you die.” An arm loops around her bicep and she knows it is the pinkette besides her. “They shot you… You and they and… They… And…” she withers and her teeth grind to a halt in her head. Breathing becomes difficult, the world desaturates.
“Homura, what the hell are you talking about?” Sayaka blinks, and yet her eyes are a verdant green and her jaw is chiseled and fine. Her words begin to make less sense and the man’s become gibberish.
“You… both…” she sputters, gripping her chest as her heart hammers into her head. It is only when she sees the world beginning to spin that she realizes she’s been crying for the last half minute.
In moments she’s been dragged to her feet. She knows this touch by now, though, and her pounding chest dampens knowing she is by her side.
“Sayaka, I’m taking Homura to your bedroom, okay?”
Madoka’s voice is soothing, even as an unintelligible, booming voice responds.
Homura blinks and she’s alone with Madoka in a room filled with calming blue hues. No, no… she’s been here for the last few minutes. She feels it in her breathing, in her ragged lungs and raw eyelids. And that whole time, holding her close, is Madoka, creamy blouse stained and damp.
Homura tears up again as it hits her that she’s ruined a wonderful day and Madoka is quick to thread her fingers in the other girl’s hair and shush away her worries.
It has been nine weeks and she has still not explained anything that happened. It has been nine weeks and the one person looking out for her is still making stabs in the dark to try and temper Homura’s broken psyche. It has been nine weeks and Homura cannot tell what that means, if she’s in the past, present or future.
It is finally at nine weeks that Homura finally tells Madoka everything, weeping her soul out in Sayaka’s bedroom.
O/o\O
"He was the one that asked you out?!"
"I kno- hey, why do you sound so surprised!?"
"Kazuko, with how you treat dating I'm surprised there are any fish left in the ocean."
"Hey, don't blame me for the lack of quality men around here, Junko!"
"I'm pretty sure the 'quality men' you were looking for steered clear of you for a reason, which is why you had to settle for a former student too naive to know any better."
Madoka watched as Mrs. Satom- as Kazuko bristled at the comment. She always knew her mother had a playful, teasing side to her, but seeing her interact with Madoka's former homeroom teacher was increasingly surreal. It had been casual knowledge for a while that the two were old friends, but she had never seen them hang out together, let alone while she was hanging out with them.
She often drank with her mother; it was one of the rare contexts where she felt comfortable drinking alcohol and it certainly helped ease her nerves when she needed to discuss something serious. And today she really needed to discuss something serious with her mom. Having Kazuko there complicated the matter.
Madoka took another sip of her drink.
"So there I am, last day of classes before he graduates, and he runs up and freaking demands I go out with him!" Kazuko laughed, rocking back on her barstool. Madoka managed a small smile as the teacher scrambled to right herself against the bar's polished mahogany surface. "And then, get this, he tells me 'Every time you complained about your boyfriends you ended up taking it out on me, so you might as well date someone who's willing to put up with it!' I swear I've never been so flattered and insulted at the same time..."
Junko laughed and waved her glass in the other woman's face, "Probably pretty happy you started tutoring him when you did, aren't you?"
The brunette flushed and shook her own glass in retaliation, "Hey, hey, do not start insinuating things. I would never prey on any of my students like that! Back me up here Madoka!"
Madoka lifted her chin, eyes clearing, "Uh...wh-wha-? I'm sorry, I wasn't really... um..."
"Hey..." Junko smiled, letting her head roll to the side. A perfect manicure crossed Madoka's knuckles and the fog faded just that bit more. "Madoka, you've been out of it all night, is everything okay?"
"Well, uh..."the pinkette's sighed, slumping in time with her groan, "No, actually... Mom? If someone had to do something you hated, something terrible... But you knew that it really wasn't their fault, that they were just pushed that way because they didn't have a choice... How-how do you... Could you stomach it?"
Junko's smile deflated, her lips quirking into a contemplative line, "Is this about Homura?"
"Akemi? You know when you told me she was alive I didn't quite believe you but then I saw her at the admissions office the other day... Is something wrong with her? Other than being taller she didn't quite look right..."
"Oh, yeah," Madoka mumbled sheepishly, "She went back there to ask about how she should approach her education. She wanted to do it on her own because she felt like she depends on me too much..."
"Well, I'm glad to hear sh-"
"We're getting off topic," Junko cut in. The resonance to her voice was like a hot knife through the tangent; quick, decisive and graceful. Were it not for the concern evident on the woman's face, Madoka would have flinched. "Madoka, I'm not entirely sure how to answer your question. I typically find those kinds of situations toxic, but typically those people create their own problems. Homura is a victim of circumstance, so whatever she did I'm sur-"
"She's killed people, mom," Madoka croaked. Quiet hung over them like a sword above a king, even forcing the light buzz of the bar's ambient conversation kneel to the trio's ears.
"Well..." Junko started.
Kazuko nodded in agreement, her sandy brown hair shifting as a dune under roiling winds, "That certainly is quite the... um... extreme?"
"Y-yeah..." Madoka muttered, giving her plastic stirring stick a languid flick. "All of those outbursts she's had, all of the times she can't sleep. She's... seen some horrible things, but she's also done some horrible things too..."
Her mother swallowed, downing her glass in its entirety shortly thereafter. She let the burn sink in and brushed her sleeve across her lips, "So are you worried about how much that might have changed Homura? Or...?"
"Sh-she did it for me," the pinkette stuttered, "The Homura I know wouldn't hurt anyone, the person I said goodbye to wouldn't ever... But... How well did I really know her? And... If she's... She killed people just to make her way back home, to me. It feels like all those people dying is my fault now and I just..." Madoka gasped and rested her elbows on the bar, cradling her forehead with the same hand holding her glass. Junko reached out and patted her daughter's back. "I don't know what to think... I don't want to hate her, but part of me does, but that part of me can't blame her either and I'm just..." She hiccupped, "I just wanted Homura back but now I'm wondering if I was being too selfish with that wish if it means all this..."
Wordlessly Junko reached over and did what she could to pull Madoka into a one-armed hug without dragging them both off their stools. Her daughter leaned into the hold, nuzzling into the older woman's blazer. She actually expected Madoka to cry at this point; it wouldn't be the first time the night ended with an outlet of the girl's emotional insecurities. But to her gradual surprised the onslaught didn't come.
Madoka pushed off her mom and sniffed, using her creamy Cardigan sleeve to clean her nose. She flashed a drippy smile and took another hefty sip of her drink.
"Look, honey..." Junko plumbed the depths of her mind for some kind of wisdom. For the first time in many years she came back empty. The following silence was deafening.
"Own it."
Both Madoka and Junko blinked as Kazuko bopped into the conversation.
"Um... What?" Junko asked.
"Madoka, if you feel guilty about that, you need to own it. You need to face the fact that you're almost too nice and some people are going to do things for you that you can't control," the brunette explained. She took a pointed interest in the liquor shelves behind the bar as she scratched her neck, "I've had some experience with that. Trust me when I tell you that breakup was messy... But you need to accept it, own it, and if you want to stay with Homura you need to make sure she knows that it is absolutely not okay to hurt people because of you. You can take care of yourself."
Junko stared at her friend.
"Did... Holy crap, you should get married more often..." she sputtered, "You sound way smarter than the last time we drank like this!"
Kazuko threw a punch into the business woman's arm, huffing, "Don't act like you're so perfect Junko. I used to live by your advice and that ended one of my best relationships."
"I keep telling you, that had to be user error!"
"Mom, Mis-Kazuko, please..." Madoka sniffed. "I don't need you guys fighting over this..."
Junko relented, sighing as Kazuko scooted forward.
"Right, sorry," the teacher nodded, "But my point stands. If you want to still have Homura in your life you need to take the reins in your relationship. Put your foot down and let her know you're more than capable on your own."
Madoka downed the last few flecks of her drink while Kazuko spoke, the words and the burn mixing together as they trilled up to her mind."I-I don't know. That... might hurt her more than anything..." she lamented. Her fingers gripped the bar as she slid off her barstool, eyes a mist of unsorted thoughts. "I'm going to go home and think this over. I've got a lot of things to consider. Thanks mom, Kazuko. This gave me a little perspective."
Junko frowned and watched her daughter leave, slipping out the bar's door in what felt like only a second.
"She's really grown up, hasn't she," Kazuko observed."I think you should be proud of her."
"She has... I just hope she finds the answer she's looking for," Junko sighed, rolling her elbows against the bar.
Her friend gave a supportive, affirmative grunt and returned to nursing her glass.
Then she stopped.
"Wait, wasn't she going to pay for her part of the tab...?"
Junko blinked, teeth beginning to bare as she downed another glass and slammed it to the bar, "Oh, that is so coming out of her rent this month!"
O/o\O
Months
She has time.
There’s plenty of time, there’s no rush.
Homura glares at the unfinished document, a veritable storm of emotions crackling against the static of the computer screen.
Curses to Tomohisa. His suggestions are always nice to hear, but actually doing them is more difficult than their simple nature lets on. But he is Madoka’s father and she can’t just brush him off, especially when she notices it’s becoming easier to focus after putting her story down on paper. That’s especially nice since Madoka has been distant the last two or three days; it begins as an exercise of distraction and proves to be an outlet she never knew she needed.
She regrets confessing everything at Sayaka’s party (Kyoko’s party?). There was a reason she’d cooped all that up inside herself; she knows how sensitive Madoka is, even all these years later. Having it all down on paper will help clear the air, she hopes, something that she can reflect upon. As she works though the distance between her and Madoka only widens and after a week of unease she suffers a breakdown alone in her room.
However, with her thoughts free of some of the cobwebs the moment does not last long. She calls upon a moment in the mountains, with ice dusting her cheeks and only a meager fire inside a dilapidated shack to keep her warm. It is still so easy to get lost in those feelings; the numb shake in her knuckles, wisps of hot breath slipping through her teeth, the daggering chill that eeked through rotting structure. There are many memories like it, exotic in locale and each one equally as bitter. It is in these moments that she finds what she is looking for, the very drive that kept her going after three years of suffering. A photograph of her friends, ragged and ripped, a badge of adoration turned wear.
For so long she's focused so desperately on Madoka, pinned over the warmth she exuded, but in doing she had forgotten that her warmth was merely the most comfortable, not the only one. Others, some more caustic, some too gentle, all revolved around her to keep her alight, and while her eye is trained on that single great flame she manages to remember the other tongues glowing against her skin.
That night, after soaking her pillows in tears, she renews her approach to life and vows to repair those abandoned bridges, decrepit in age but she hopes still stable enough to cross.
First, though, she must talk with Madoka.
It's much harder to squeeze out the words than when she had initially bolstered her resolve. Having the pink girl in front of her is almost always somehow intimidating and it takes every pound of willpower to broach the subject during a particularly quiet lunch. Staring down terrorists is infinitely easier.
But when she show's Madoka what she's written and talks about her plans to reconnect with the people she's grown so apart from, the pinkette's elation is practically palpable and makes Homura's heart skip. There is a brief heart attack scare because of that, but it's worth it to see that beaming smile after a week of worry.
Things are better after that, but Madoka still struggles with some of the passages, sometimes because they’re too graphic, sometimes because they’re too emotional and sometimes because they’re too embarrassing. After the latter happens for the third time Homura agrees to tone down some of the purple prose she heaps around Madoka and her role in Homura's motivations. It's fitting anyway she figures, considering that Homura's trying to focus on more than just her in the present.
Madoka is surprised when she asks for Hitomi’s phone number, the one old classmate between them that Homura had failed to reconnect with. But the kindly girl is more than willing to help Homura get in touch.
Hitomi is, understandably, surprised. Homura still tries to piece together what happened to cause such a falling out between Hitomi and the rest of their quintet of friends, but it is nice to know the grunette is safe and healthy. Well, mostly healthy. She has lost her sense of poise, Homura observes, and is possibly even more riddled with anxiety than Madoka, though no more than Homura. No one can match Homura. Homura frowns.
Mami and Sayaka are different bridges to cross. They are among the first to welcome Homura home, but like Madoka are quick to drift away. In fact, it is easier to get to know them as they are from those that cling to them, the young Nagisa and the brash Kyoko, and she quite quickly learns that those bonds will not be so swift to build.
And that is where she sits, after months of work, still staring at blank pages and pages preceding those layered in unprinted ink, chiseling piece by piece at rebuilding the friendships left rotting in the wastes.
“Homura?”
Homura lifts her head, pulling of her glasses to rub her weary eyes.
“Madoka? Are you home?”
A cotton candy ball of fluff, reaching down to the base of Madoka’s neck now, appeared around the corner, “Y-yeah, I called out and you didn’t answer.”
“Oh, sorry. Writing. I think I’m getting close…” she replies. This is far from the first and is far from the last time Madoka will catch Homura engrossed in writing. They joke that Homura was lost in the desert only to make it home and get lost in her stories. In some ways the joke rubs her poorly, but she can appreciate the irony.
“That’s fine. Um, could you come out here, to the living room? I kinda wanted to talk with you about something.”
Homura reviews the last few lines of her texts, a section describing life inside the shipping container from Hong Kong, and nods to no one in particular, “Yeah, I think I can take a break. I’ll be right out.”
She saves the piece and stands, wobbling a bit as she did. She gives the snowy cabin one more glance before heading through the door, ready to cross whatever threshold she may need to make it home.
O/o\O
Warm, wispy tongues of steam caressed Madoka's cheek as she brought the teacup to her lips, a chapped crack in the corner allowing a small dribble to strike out around its bell. She wiped her chin with the back of her hand and rested it down on its saucer, scant traces of the hazel liquid pooling where the indent and the cup met. A soft grin managed to escape her composure as Homura lumbered through the door and she let it stay for just a while, something genuine to put the damaged girl at ease. She offered another cup as her friend sat, leading to a comfortable silence littered with sips of tea.
"What is it you wanted to discuss," Homura asks, pulling the China away from her lips. Even now, with all of the progress she's made in the last few months Madoka can't help but catch how her hand wobbles while holding her dish.
Madoka let her smile fall though tried to not let it dip below a neutral slant. It might not have been pleasant to address, but she wanted to avoid emotionally harming Homura before she got to more pleasant topics.
"It's about... all the things you did to get home," Madoka winced, pushing her shoulders as far into her torso as they'd go. "The things you said you did to get back to me..." She set her saucer down on the table in the center of the living room, "I'm... Thanks for waiting for me to take it all in. I know there's more about it you want to discuss, especially after reading those drafts you wrote..."
"I knew you might need some time to reflect on it," Homura nodded, frowning. "After going through all of that I was scared of losing you because you were sensitive to people getting hurt... I'm actually still scared, if I'm being honest..."
Madoka twisted in her seat and grasped Homura's hands, "I'd never just abandon you Homura... But you're right that it isn’t easy to hear that people have... Aren't here anymore because of me... And I'm not okay with that. I'm never going to be okay with that."
Homura deflated, but the pinkette's was quick to squeeze her hand.
"But... I don't have to. Neither of us can change the past Homura, and you were put in such a bad place... Even with all of your issues I can see the old you shining through underneath..." Madoka breathed. She perked and leaned forward, "And you keep getting better and better. I can see how hard you're trying, and I feel proud every time you make it over another hurdle..."
Homura recoiled from the proximity, more from surprise than discomfort.
Madoka took note and leaned back, a sheepish smile feinting only briefly over her lips before her face hardened once more, "But, I want to make something absolutely clear; no more."
The raven girl blinked, "What do you mean?"
The question was shaky, and already Madoka could feel the palm under her fingers trembling.
"No more hurting people because of me. I don't want that, I never want that, and sometimes, especially when I read parts of your book, I know it might have been necessary to protect yourself, but the way you talked about going out and hurting people to get supplies... Supplies you could have gotten easier later down the road without hurting people... I don't want more people hurt than there needs to be. The world already has enough bad in it, I don't want to lose you to that..."
Homura paused, watching as Madoka's carefully measured façade fell. "Madoka... I... It's a lot more complicated than-..."
"I know," Madoka chewed, grabbing Homura's shirt, "I know it is... But I needed to say something... I just need closure on this, so promise me... Please?"
The survivor hesitated only for a minute to pull her friend into a hug, "...Even if it means it takes me forever to get home...?"
Madoka nuzzled into her shoulder, "Yep, because now I know I can wait forever and you'll always make it back to me..."
"You know all of this will probably never happen again..."
A chuckle broke from both of them, though Madoka spoke through her own, "But if it does now I can be confident that I can be your conscience..."
Homura smiled and squeezed tighter, "...Okay then... I promise."
"Good," Madoka sighed, pulling away gently, "Because that’s the only bad thing I wanted to cover."
"There are good things?" Homura quirked her brow. Madoka flashed a massive cheeky grin when she nodded, pulling up a few papers for display. She reached out and leafed through the files, squinting, "You're changing your major to Psychology?" Madoka nodded again. "But what about Social Work?"
"Well, I'll have to take a few more credits then I'd planned, but I can still use a Psychology degree to get jobs in social work. I want to be a counselor so I can help people work through their issues... Like you," Madoka explained. "I'm doing this because I want to help you. Because I..." she sucked in her breath and let it escape slowly to ease her nerves, "I love you Homura, and I want you to be happy."
The word 'love' between them was a strangled term, all at once suffocating in its presence but impossible to speak. To use it would mark a change between them that neither of them was quite sure they were ready for. And yet, Madoka felt confident enough to say it.
Homura swallowed.
"...I love you too."
Madoka tepidly shunted forward, her face becoming distractingly close to Homura's, so much so that she didn't even registered her own chin curving up to match. They both paused, sharing uneasy, half-lidded glances before finally committing and meeting in the middle. The kiss was brief, but pleasant, and something intimately different than the fervor they'd found themselves in some months ago after meeting again.
They pulled apart but their fingers kept them locked together by a thread.
"...Counselor Kaname? I think that has a nice ring to it..." Homura licked her lips. "Thank you. For everything."
"Hehehe..." Madoka smiled, "You're welcome."
And with that they pull into one more embrace as time stopped around them.
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