Dernière Danse - Last Dance
The curtain rose (the fog came in).
The witch's barrier bled into the landscape (below the stage, the conductor lifted his hands).
Her heart thumped erratically in her chest (her face was set in a determined scowl). It was cliché (naïve), really. The breathless anticipation of the silent audience found its counterpart in the restless thrumming of blood in her veins (the carnival noises of the familiars were met with explosions from her grenades). She tore her gaze away from them.
'Again.' Could she do it again?
Across the stage from her was Madoka (Walpurgis). The maniacal laughter was impossible to miss, but she focused on the witch's odd gear base (her bright smile was impossible to miss, but what caught her attention was the pinkette's flowing dress). A flowing ball gown to match her own elaborate suit (a manifestation to match her own transformation).
They met in the middle. They fought (they danced). She lost herself in Madoka's warmth (in cold metal). Her head ached. The darkness strained her eyes (the spotlights were too bright). Walpurgis was bellowing (Madoka was talking) but she couldn't, couldn't understand what they were saying.
Graceful, dizzying circles, and Madoka's dress billowed out as Homura raised her arm to spin her (fire billowed from Walpurgis as Homura leapt across buildings to destroy her). The blue-purple blur was all she could focus on—that sadistic grin and her own menacing snarl even though blood ran down her temple and her hands really were heavy (the blur of pink in her arms was all she could see—that delighted grin and her own breathless chuckle even though their hands were sweaty and she really was dizzy).
Walpurgis screeched (Madoka laughed) in response. She mustered a smile. The waltz picked up its pace and they hastened to keep up (the winds picked up and she had to keep up).
Her heart lurched painfully and though she smiled through it, she felt trapped. Madoka looked at her expectantly, beaming widely (Walpurgis hovered, waiting, and cackled at her). She had a role to play. She wanted to break away, to run, to escape and never have to face this again.
'Let them deal with it,' came the insidious thought.
The brisk pace of the music sought to consume her, arms straining as she loaded the dance with as much force as she could muster (dozens of AT-4s lugged over her shoulders, even more lifted by her magic, she was an army of one). She leapt from building to building, avoiding the rubble and debris as Walpurgis spun ever closer, heedless of the wasteland around them (she spun Madoka, they came together, they separated—one moment their breath mingled and then they were at arm's length away).
After all, what would they have done in her place? She could stop anytime she wanted, no one could condemn her for it. Imagine—Madoka's pretty dress in shreds and Walpurgis intact. She herself would be gone and free of inhibitions. This world did not deserve to live, anyway.
She dipped Madoka (she fired missiles at Walpurgis). Her arms labored against the pace of the dance (her eyes squinted against the rain). She could walk away (she could drop her).
But she cared too much.
One-two-three, one-two-three, and somehow they slowed to a stop. (Walpurgis headed towards the shelter.) The decision was not hers in the end. The stage lights made Madoka's ball gown sparkle and shimmer, resplendent (the fog obscured Walpurgis). Familiars were in pandemonium (the audience was clapping, shouting, shouting 'Encore! Encore!').
Sweat gave her face a shine, her heart beat fast, her head throbbed. Yet again? They asked too much of her.
"That was amazing!" Madoka leant in even closer to her when the song ended. They automatically bowed, but then Madoka glanced at her properly and noted Homura's clenched jaw. "Do you want to stop?" she asked, concerned. Always concerned. One gloved hand reached out for Homura—when had she backed up?
She hesitated. Did she truly want to stop? But she could not continue.
Enthusiastic cheers drew her attention. She gaped at the audience. She didn't know what to do. She had made a commitment—'you cannot back out now!'
The conductor returned and she felt her heart clench painfully because she was running out of time, time, that blasted commodity, time. She always took too long to decide.
But she was Akemi Homura, and Akemi Homura was not a failure, not as long as she had any say about it.
Violins picked up again. Madoka looked ready to call it all short, tearing her gaze away from her.
She took a deep breath.
Her eyes shone with determination as she tugged on Madoka's small hands. She smiled resolutely.
Slowly,
almost serenely,
they danced. One last dance.
／人◕‿‿◕人＼
"Homura-chan~!"
Homura's head snapped up, the pounding in her head flaring briefly then receding as her lips twitched in a small smile. She quickly washed her sweaty hands.
A dull ache built up again in her forehead. She ignored it, rapping her knuckles lightly on her forehead before heading out of the kitchen to let her very best friend come in, unsurprised by the pinkette's visit.
Madoka's beaming grin greeted her. "Homura-chan, that apron looks really nice!" Madoka clapped her hands upon seeing the ex-time-traveler's attire. Blushing faintly, Homura looked down at herself: she wore a cream-colored apron decorated with dark purple flowers and tied with an elegant black ribbon over a plain white tee and black jeans.
"It was a present from Tomoe-san," she murmured as she let the pinkette come in. Madoka left her bag and shoes in the hallway, next to Homura's things, and replied, "I'm glad you two are getting along."
Homura shrugged idly, saying, "It was more of a thank-you for bringing Sakura-san back." She absently rubbed her forehead and motioned for the pinkette to follow her back into the kitchen. Spying the restaurant-style bento box lying half-filled on the table, Madoka eagerly interjected, "Ne, Homura-chan, can I help?" At Homura's nod, Madoka washed her hands and happily began scooping up diced vegetables into a container. The taller girl took some apples and began washing them.
As she artfully arranged the vegetables, helping Homura in her bi-weekly ritual, Madoka continued the conversation. "Mami-san is really grateful that you found Kyouko-san before she did something silly. Yuma-chan and Nagisa-chan, too—they're probably going to shower you with thanks on Monday," she laughed, glancing at Homura. When Homura rolled her eyes but smiled faintly, Madoka added, "Homura-chan's so popular now, saving everyone and having so many admirers! Soon you'll have no time for me!" She pouted, though her eyes twinkled with mischief.
Homura immediately shook her head. "I will always have time for you, Madoka," she stated gravely, her purple eyes gazing intently at Madoka, who practically radiated happiness.
Even after a year some things do not change, she mused. Others could be in her company and not be reprimanded or scorned by her. The minutes could pass by and be absently counted, yet not resented, not feared. She could wake up and not fear the imminent arrival of Walpurgisnacht. For all of the changes, however, she would never leave Madoka.
The mere thought was absurd.
One more Saturday morning spent getting ready to visit my grandmother with Madoka. I would not even be here if it were not for her.
Therefore, she settled into the normal routine Madoka provided.
Normal…
Huh. Routine she was used to, but normal? It was funny, really. Sometimes she had to remind herself where she was because the thought of normal was disconcerting to Homura, who had gone a painfully long time—a year, an eternity—without even considering anything beyond a painful month's worth of days in one painful year.
Even now, "normal" did not exist for her (because she still teetered on that fine line between life and death on a daily basis—crippled).
Sometimes she thought it was a dream. On those days, she would not relax until she woke up the next day still in this timeline.
Yet, from an outsider's view, everything is perfectly ordinary. Nothing grand, nothing that merits awe or gratitude.
Everything is
just
perfectly
normal…
She set down the knife, wary of cutting herself, and instead gathered the apples she had sliced into a container, and passed it all to Madoka to make into bunny apples. While the pinkette busied herself with her new task, Homura checked on the rice cooker. Contented humming filled in the empty spaces as Madoka carefully peeled apple slices into bunnies.
The kitchen was very warm. She absently wiped her forehead with her sleeve. I should have waited for the rice to cool a little longer, but it is fine. A little steam cannot hurt me.
Eyes half-closed, Homura focused on regulating her breathing to settle down. Slow, deliberate—but inaudible—breaths took all of her concentration as her hands automatically worked from muscle memory to make rice balls.
But her blood was throbbing in her temples again, and while pain flared in her head, her measured breathing lulled her even deeper into a dizzy haze. Very… warm in here, isn't it? Too… warm. My hands are sticky. She shifted uncomfortably.
Vaguely, a faint terror stirred in the back of her mind, the back of her heart. Her eyes saw not the onigiri she was shaping, but rather blurry, distant worlds where Anthonys scurried around wreaking havoc and where stifling heat was the aftermath of massive explosions. Her heart raced.
Everything faded to grey, skewed for a moment, the world frozen, and Madoka's humming warped impossibly into despairing moans and groans of pain, compounding exacerbating inexorable pain.
Nooooo—
Distant shouts rang in her ears now, a cacophony of sound, of maddened laughter they ran and dodged desperate their chests constricted wheezing desperate broken recordsroaringwrecked but that wasn't right because look—Madoka was stealing a bite of rice, having finished with the apples when she wasn't paying attention.
Alive and normal.
Homura laughed softly, something fluttering painfully in her chest, and shook her head at Madoka's inquiring glance.
I am fine and she is safe. Everything else is superfluous.
"Homura-chan? Are you okay?" Madoka disregarded Homura's dismissive gesture and moved closer, scanning her face for any signs of distress. "Your face is red, and you're sweating a lot," she noted fretfully.
Ohhh—"I forgot to take the medications again," she confessed, appearing slightly contrite. It irked her, of course, that she had to rely on medication even though her hospital years were in the past and had magic at her disposal (well, not really, which was why the medications were at all necessary. Stupid malfunctioning magic).
Her throat constricted, but Madoka's eyes had widened and she began fussing. "So that's why you kept rubbing your forehead… did you have any episodes? Are you feeling—"
"Madoka, Madoka," Homura interrupted, placing her hands on the worried pinkette's shoulders. Her lips twitched, trying to be reassuring (how does one reassure someone else?) and apparently succeeding, for Madoka fell silent and waited wide-eyed for her very best friend to explain. At least she had inadvertently drawn Homura out of her thoughts.
"Ah, yes, yes I did have a couple of episodes"—Madoka frowned at that—"though I am not unwell. I should be fine once I take the dose," Homura explained.
Knowing Homura's habit of downplaying anything related to herself, Madoka insistently tugged her towards a chair and firmly declared, "Okay, but sit here while I get a glass of water and your medications."
Sighing in acquiescence, Homura sat down, letting Madoka take care of her.
Wait—how does she know where the medicine is? She frowned, wracking her mind for an explanation. When she remembered, she was not pleased. Grumbling to herself about Incubators and "no respect for privacy," Homura crossed her arms and slumped further into the chair.
Only moments later, Madoka bounded back into the kitchen with two pill bottles in hand. Homura shifted her glare to the offending items.
Noticing, Madoka shook her head, saying, "You have to take your medicine, Homura-chan. Here, take these and—wait, let me get a glass for you—take one of each." The mahou shoujo dutifully followed the instructions, though she muttered petulantly, "I am not a child, Madoka."
The pinkette leveled her with an amused look. "You were pouting when I came back," she pointed out.
Indignant, Homura huffed and stood again, flipping her hair behind her. Madoka giggled.
"I am glad you find me so amusing, Madoka," Homura said dryly, "but we have to finish the bento for obaasan."
"There's only putting it all together and cleaning up," Madoka replied as Homura gulped down water and a couple of pills.
She nodded, swallowing forcefully. "I will put these away—can you finish the rest for me?" she asked after washing down the medicine with more water.
"Of course, Homura-chan!" Madoka beamed, already flitting about. The ex-time-traveler watched her briefly, stoic mask instinctively in place again.
Upon noticing, Madoka took a bunny apple, popped it into her mouth, and winked at Homura. Homura-chan deserves to be happy. Her grin widened when Homura blushed and left, ostensibly to put away her medicine but probably to hide her own small smile. Seeing her so fragile is wrong. Well, what do I know of what Homura-chan has gone through? Of course Homura-chan has every right to be sad.
When Homura returned, Madoka was waiting in the hallway with the packed bento. Pausing, Homura stared at her smiling face for a few seconds.
Concerned, the pinkette asked, "Are you feeling sick again, Homura-chan?" Though "sick" wasn't quite what she meant.
"I—yes, Madoka," Homura reassured her, but she remained rooted to her spot a few feet away. Madoka's brow crinkled, once again not fully believing her friend, and looked at Homura expectantly. She did not always let her very best friend get away with hiding things.
Realizing that Madoka was probably getting uncomfortable by now (she did not look uncomfortable but one could never trust Homura's judgment on these things), Homura blurted out, "Madoka!" Her cheeks flushed but she hastily amended, "Thank you, Madoka."
Madoka frowned adorably in confusion, but no explanation was forthcoming. She closed the distance between them and gently reached out for Homura's shoulder, fingers just barely felt, but sending thrills through a suddenly hypersensitive Homura nonetheless.
"I know—" Homura tried to continue, but sometimes she spoke in fits and starts, her cheeks flushed red and lips pressed into a tight line.
She absently reached for a braid to fiddle with—oh, that is right. Everything keeps mixing up in my mind, so her hands fell uselessly to her sides. Madoka's fingers remained just barely grazing Homura's right shoulder (Madoka's fingers so close I can feel their warmth). Her face reddened even further.
A painful pause, then Homura ground out, "Thank you for coming w-with me, Madoka, to visit my sobo. I-it's difficult for me, you know, to…." She trailed off, scowling at her shoes. I cannot even hold a decent conversation with her. Self-hatred twisted in her heart.
(Sometimes, thoughts escaped their cage and taunted her—all her failures and insecurities became phobias and crippling beliefs.)
Warm, loving hands grasped her own; startled, she met Madoka's pink gaze. "Don't worry; I'll never leave my Homura-chan!" Her infectious grin tugged a corresponding smile from Homura, though she tried to quell the hope that welled up in her heart at the words "my Homura-chan."
Hers.
A dream she wanted to pursue (but again, crippling phobias and insecurity, not to mention her mental health).
"C'mon, Homura-chan, or we'll be late for the train!" Madoka slipped from her grasp and skipped cheerfully away, bento and bags already in hand. But she turned back suddenly, asking, "You have your doses for the rest of today and tomorrow packed in here, right?"
The ex-time-traveler sighed. "Yes, I made sure last night. I did not forget."
Madoka looked at her appraisingly, then replied, "Just making sure, Homura-chan. I'll wait for you outside, okay?" Homura nodded.
I have to take care of myself better. She ducked into the kitchen to wash her hands one more time before following Madoka out.
Unable to muster up any interest for the book she had brought along, Homura found herself gazing mindlessly out the train windows. If they had been alone, she would have pulled out her soul gem to account energy, but there were a couple of other passengers a few seats back, so she left well enough alone.
Glancing at Madoka beside her, the pinkette did not seem to suffer the same boredom: she was completely absorbed in her doodles and blissfully unaware of her friend's dilemma. Huffing internally, Homura returned her gaze to the scenery.
When she could not stand the ennui, Homura spoke up. "Madoka."
The other girl turned to her, briefly looking startled before she beamed at her (Homura liked to think it was a special smile, just for her). "Yes, Homura-chan?"
"Do you want something to eat?" Please say yes.
Concerned pink eyes looked at her questioningly. "Um… no, I ate enough at breakfast." Madoka suddenly laughed. "Are you bored, Homura-chan?" she asked teasingly.
A scowl was her answer. Madoka hummed pensively, still smiling. Homura watched her, her face softening as she watched Madoka's eyes light up and the pinkette rummaged through her school bag. Some things truly never change, she thought fondly.
"Ah-ha!" Madoka exclaimed. She waved a slim notebook at Homura, who blinked and leant back. "I couldn't remember where I left it," Madoka admitted sheepishly, "but anyway, I found my math notebook. Maybe you could help me with Friday's homework?" Her hopeful expression had Homura immediately agreeing.
"You should be a little more organized," Homura chastised her as she pulled out a couple of pencils from her own bag. "Though, you have improved significantly. Miki-san should follow your example," she added, frowning at the thought of the blue-haired rebel. She snorted. Miki Sayaka is more of a rebel than Sakura Kyouko.
Beside her, Madoka sighed exasperatedly but did not comment. She scooted a little closer to Homura, smiling secretly to herself.
The taller girl looked through the math problems they had been assigned. "It looks like you have already finished?" she began, glancing at Madoka and internally freezing when she noticed their proximity.
"Yeah, it's just that I got stuck on the last one and just couldn't figure it out," Madoka pointed to said problem, frowning as she remembered her frustration the night before.
Okay, breathe, Homura. She is asking for your help, so pull yourself together. She glanced back at the homework, though it took her a few moments to focus and understand what she was looking at.
"Ah. Conic sections, yes. I have not done these in a while,"—she immersed herself in the math, recalling what she knew as her eyes analyzed Madoka's work—"Hm. You flipped a sigh by accident." She handed the notebook with the mistake circled back to Madoka, who studied it intently.
"Oh!" Madoka shook her head, smiling. "I don't know how I overlooked that." Her pencil scratched away as Madoka reworked the problem. Homura observed her work, making sure that the pinkette had no more issues.
Just minutes later, Madoka returned the pencil to Homura and put away her notebook. "Thanks, Homura-chan!" she said, turning back to her companion.
Homura shrugged, looking back out the train's windows. "I took pre-calculus last year, Madoka," she reminded her. The time loops at least helped in that respect, she inwardly acknowledged.
Madoka pouted as she went back to her sketch pad. Bored again, Homura let her eyes close and she was slowly lulled to sleep by the faint hum of the train (blasted medications had better be doing their work, she grumbled).
The pinkette did not notice Homura fall asleep, her entire focus being on her drawing of a happy little home. Almost done, just need to add in me and Homura-chan~
Tongue in cheek, she let her mind wander as she drew.
Happily ever after, with a nice little house somewhere, and we'll wake up every day next to each other and fall asleep together and—and Homura-chan will work and I'll be the perfect housewife for her…
When she finished, she eagerly straightened to show her best friend. She paused, lovingly noting that Homura was slumped in her seat, asleep. She carefully brushed a lock of Homura's hair off her face.
"Sleep well, Homura-chan," she whispered.
／人◕‿‿◕人＼
When she woke up, pink dominated her line of sight and she bolted upright, banging her head against another head.
"Ah!" Madoka yelped, scrambling back to and rubbing her forehead.
"M-Madoka?" Homura clutched her head, staring befuddled at Madoka. Her heart rate, a part of her noted, was elevated even though she had just woken up. She took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled.
Across from her, Madoka also held her aching head, though her face was an odd mixture of concern and embarrassment. "G-gomen, Homura-chan. Are you okay?" she apologetically asked.
"It's okay, I am fine, Madoka," Homura automatically replied before shaking her head forcefully.
Instinctively scrutinizing the area as she calmed, she noted that the other occupants of their carriage had left while she was asleep, leaving her all alone with Madoka. She frowned. She had not meant to fall asleep, especially not with her contacts on, which she would have to remove immediately. "I will be back, Madoka. I am going to take out my contacts," she said, resisting the urge to rub her uncomfortable eyes.
"Oh, do you need your glasses?" Madoka asked, already reaching for Homura's bag.
"Yes. They are in the left side pocket. Your left, not mine." Taking the case, Homura nodded to Madoka and quickly left.
She was not gone long, returning only a few minutes later with her glasses on.
Scanning their compartment again, Homura reaffirmed that they were indeed completely alone. She blushed but mustered the courage to sit directly next to Madoka, who glanced up and smiled at her before going back to coloring her drawing.
Cheeks still flushed by her small boldness, Homura abashedly turned to watch the scenery.
In the windows, the fields of green and yellow had given way to the outlying suburbs of Niigata—grey concrete buildings, the occasional painted house, trees swaying in the breeze. If she tilted her head a certain way, she could see her own reflection. But her reflection was not interesting, so she focused again on the outside world, realizing that they were close to arriving.
I could strike up a conversation with Madoka—but no, she is busy and probably wants to finish before we arrive at Niigata.
Her thoughts drifted.
Niigata. It's not home, but obaasan lives there. The only family I have left.
Aside from distant relations, Homura had only one family member left—sickness of the heart ran in the Soma line while the Akemi family had a propensity for death, thus leaving only her maternal grandmother by the time Homura turned six.
She was perfectly fine while I was in the hospital the first time, but the moment I needed her she was suddenly on the brink of dying.
However, she knew she was not being fair. Despite the old woman's resilience against her illness, it had struck with a vengeance just before Homura had been released from the hospital for the first time. Looking back, she knew that the loss of two more loved ones and the stress of having an orphaned granddaughter had likely triggered the heart attack that had hospitalized her grandmother.
Of course, Kaufmann Erika (born Soma, married to Kaufmann Axel), overly familiar with death, had had plans in place. She had reluctantly entrusted her little granddaughter to a reputable Catholic institution for the duration of her hospitalization, which had ended up spanning several years. The orphanage had dutifully taken Homura to visit Kaufmann weekly at the hospital, but the visits had tapered off when Homura's own health began to decline once again.
When she could finally take care of me and herself I collapsed again and had to go back to the hospital. If only I had not been so negligent of my health…
She had not learned her lesson about taking care of herself, however. Two hospital internships had not made her realize how her own actions derailed her health; it had taken a third hospitalization and Kyubey, of all things, to open her eyes.
Homura glared at her reflection in the glass, one hand unconsciously curling as if to strangle an Incubator—or herself for being an idiot.
Guilt churned uncomfortably in her stomach, but visiting her grandmother every other Saturday for the past two years had actually worked as informal therapy. First to Tokyo, then to Kyoto, and finally to Niigata as of the last month (was she searching for something, just as Homura was?), Homura made sure to follow her grandmother's progress and appreciate the only family she had left.
"Homura-chan?" The ex-time-traveler jolted out of her thoughts, though this time her knee-jerk reaction did not injure anyone.
Madoka had learned to pay attention to people's expressions, a lesson from a wary mother to her optimistic daughter. Sometimes, she would let Homura return from whatever thoughts plagued her on her own, knowing that it was necessary, but she preferred to intervene when she could.
Homura silently waited for Madoka to continue, head tilted towards her. The pinkette simply leant against Homura, who started slightly but soon relaxed.
Perhaps, without knowing, Madoka was trying to make up for her role in Homura's suffering—perhaps her subconscious collected lost memories of lost debts in lost timelines and reproached her. Something twinged in her, pulling at her heartstrings (not just around Homura, but also around her other mahou shoujo friends).
Guilt. An emotion all too familiar to her; it muddied everything else.
Do I love her? Yes, yes, of course she did (but what did a sixteen-year-old girl know of love, anyway?).
I'll spend the rest of my life dedicated to making her happy because it's not just guilt (because she was guilty of something, even if Homura refused to blame the cracks on her); it's love and that has to count for something, right?
Right? True love and happily-ever-after like Sayaka-chan desperately believed…?
Besides—if blame was to be laid, it would be on everyone and then they would never get anywhere (or was she simply worming out of it? Still, she'd make right by Homura somehow). She shook her head, because there was no point in beating a dead horse.
Humming slightly, Madoka drew away from Homura again, drawing her (meandering) attention. She smiled reassuringly. "So, I got another love letter in my locker yesterday," she began, pulling out a slightly crumpled note from her pocket. Homura blinked and shifted slightly beside her, suddenly alert. "Hitomi-chan insists that it's probably Nakazawa-kun… what do you think, Homura-chan?"
Homura mumbled, "W-why would she think of Nakazawa-san?" Her hands clutched each other tightly in her lap, her face twitching.
"Weeelll," Madoka drew out the word, a different smile tugging at her lips as she solidified her resolution, "she says she saw him lingering around my locker the other day after school…."
Purple eyes suddenly peered at her, a familiar frown hiding whatever Homura truly felt. Madoka remained silent, looking expectantly at her.
Homura relented, "D-do you think…," but her voice faded. Red stained her pale cheeks even though she tried to cover it with a scowl.
"Do I think what, Homura-chan?" Madoka waited expectantly, her expression lighting up eagerly like a child's. Her friend, however, only turned her head away and scowled to herself. Madoka pouted. Being subtle had never really been her forte and Homura-chan always hesitated, so Madoka gently cupped Homura's jaw in her hand, turning Homura towards her.
"M-Madoka?"
Madoka smiled at her very best friend, tenderness practically radiating from her expressive face.
Homura, however, was very, very red as her eyes squeezed shut. Her heart sped up, beating wildly in her chest. Madoka murmured against her lips but she could not hear her over the roaring in her ears. She did not dare move.
Then—a tentative brush of lips. Madoka lent forward, one hand resting on Homura's thigh and the other holding Homura's chin in place.
"Homura-chan?" Madoka pulled away, letting the now wide-eyed Homura process the chaste kiss. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach and her face grew redder and redder the longer Homura stayed quiet, but Madoka refused to let her smile waver.
Actually, it looks like she's going to faint on me—Madoka took Homura's face in both her hands, hastily interjecting, "Breathe, Homura-chan!"
Red cheeks welcomed the slightly cooler hands, but embarrassment and heady thrill kept them burning and honestly she felt rather light-headed; she saw Madoka's lips move but the words took a few seconds to process.
(I'm
not
dreaming).
"M-Madoka," Homura managed to stutter, but the giddy dizziness in her head had her reluctantly pressing two fingers to her temple instead of continuing her sentence. She wanted to grab Madoka's face and kiss her senseless as her heart careened towards "happily ever after," though she felt a warning twinge in her heart that reminded her of the need to remain calm.
She closed her eyes. Deliberate breaths filled the silence. When Homura's eyes opened and the strain in her expression eased, Madoka likewise relaxed.
They stared at each other. Then, tentatively, Madoka lent forward again, but they both dissolved into helpless giggles when their noses bumped against each other, so they had to try again.
First, breathless anticipation had Homura closing her eyes again. Then, exhilaration shot through her, leading her to smile against Madoka's lips. She laughed again, because this was Madoka she was kissing—Madoka, for whom she had sacrificed her very existence—Madoka, her own personal savior. Kami, it was such a dream come true—I am not dream—
Pain lanced through her chest, down her arms, up her jaw.
She broke away from the chaste kiss, gasping and instinctively clutching at her chest. Embarrassment surged from a small, irrational part of her mind, but she knew she had graver things to worry about. Namely, the precarious magic and medicine that kept her alive.
I have to…
Homura turned forward, away from Madoka, shrugging off the concerned hand on her shoulder; she did not want to see Madoka's expression when she used a grief seed.
Stupid, utterly stupid of me—skip one dose and the consequences!
The beginnings of desperation licked at her inner arms as one sweaty hand yanked off her ring to summon her soul gem. The next moment she was siphoning darkness away from her soul. Her eyes unconsciously closed in relief as her rigid shoulders sagged.
Madoka grimaced but cautiously placed her hand on Homura's shoulder again when she de-transformed. Homura slumped against her without protest, letting Madoka wrap her arm around her to cradle her close.
Small shudders wracked Homura; Madoka discovered that her shoulder was growing damp.
"Oh, Homura-chan, it's okay, it's okay," Madoka said against Homura's head, her breath ruffling black hair. Homura shook her head but her balled fists clutched Madoka's cardigan in a distressed manner.
Madoka shifted, wrapping her arms around Homura's waist and pulling her onto her lap. Homura pulled away, reddened eyes wide. Her lips pressed into a thin line and she frowned, but Madoka tightened her embrace.
"It's okay to cry, Homura-chan," Madoka reiterated, rocking back and forth slightly.
Tears welled up in Homura's eyes, as if Madoka's words had opened the floodgate again, and the ex-time-traveler burrowed her face in the crook of Madoka's shoulder. The pinkette nuzzled her head with her cheek and continued chanting softly, "You'll be okay, Homura-chan. It'll be okay."
／人◕‿‿◕人＼
When their train pulled into Niigata Station, Homura disentangled herself from Madoka silently. Madoka hastily offered her tissues from her bag, to which Homura murmured a hoarse "thanks."
"D-do you want to talk about it, Homura-chan?" Madoka's eyes beseeched Homura, who hesitated but ultimately shook her head.
"Obaasan is waiting, Madoka," she explained, "and we cannot have such a discussion out in the open, you know."
Madoka nodded resignedly, hastily packing her sketchpad and colored pencils into her bag as Homura took the bento and her own bag.
Forehead crinkling, Madoka said, "Let me take the bento, Homura-chan." Said magical girl frowned disapprovingly but conceded without fuss.
They exited the train silently.
A cab was waiting for them, sent by Homura's grandmother, as usual; Homura simply nodded silently at the driver while Madoka cheerfully smiled and thanked him.
Madoka jerked slightly when she felt someone grab her hand, but Homura did not meet her gaze, preferring instead to stare out the window in an attempt to hide her embarrassment. The pinkette immediately perked up, holding Homura's hand in both of her own and resisting the urge to squeal at Homura's dorkiness. She did, however, indulge in a brighter-than-usual grin (their talk could wait now that she was sure that Homura was not drowning in despair).
We're going to have to work on not collapsing whenever we kiss—because there will definitely be more kisses in the future~~
A while later, the taxi pulled up at Soma Erika's current home. Homura absently paid him, knowing her grandmother would repay her in her allowance. Madoka followed, once again insisting on carrying the bento and claiming Homura's hand as soon as she could.
Homura blushed, though it faded as she took several deep breaths to calm down while Madoka tugged her up the short walkway.
She let Madoka knock, since the bright white (heh—last time the door had been thin lines of brown with curls of greyed paint sticking out; she wondered when her grandmother had done it over) made her head ache.
They did not wait long.
The tea was bitter, but Homura did not reach for sugar like Madoka had. (Honey. She kept reminding herself to tell her grandmother to buy honey but there was never a good time to mention it.) She also ignored the biscuits and cookies arranged on a platter.
I can eat later. There is no urgency. I really have to remember to ask obaasan to buy honey.
They drank their tea silently. Cups clinked every so often. Madoka alternated between staring into her drink and glancing to Homura beside her. The mahou shoujo drank her tea with her eyes half closed—she probably felt drained, Madoka mused, even if her magic levels and emotional barriers had been replenished. Should she intervene? Homura-chan had a bad habit of downplaying her own maladies.
She sighed fondly into her drink. Homura-chan and her grandmother glanced at her, but she shook her head; Homura-chan needed more reassurance in the form of a smile in order to be satisfied.
What am I going to do with you, Homura-chan? Warmth suffused her words, straight from where her very best friend resided in her heart. But just because you're cute, she added, doesn't mean you can land yourself in the hospital again. A frown tugged at her lips then. That had been painful.
"Homura." Kaufmann Erika's soft voice broke the silence suddenly. Both girls jerked towards her. Homura floundered briefly (her thoughts were stuck on honey) before replying, "Yes, obaasan?"
"Your teachers tell me you have done exceedingly well this past semester." Homura nodded slowly, knowing without looking that Madoka was beaming proudly. Widow Kaufmann finished her tea and set the cup down with a final clink. Homura hurried to gulp down the rest of her bitter share and Madoka decided against eating another cookie, neither wanting to keep the elderly woman waiting.
As soon as the young girls were sitting with their hands clasped in their laps, Homura's grandmother reached for her cane. Homura stood as well, hands hovering uncertainly—do I offer help? Should I wait for her to ask?
Madoka, meanwhile, took the cups and the tray back to the kitchen. They knew the routine, but Widow Kaufmann's prolonged periods of silence often lulled them into a stillness from which the old woman's abruptness startled them anew each time. Madoka personally thought Homura's grandmother took secret pleasure in surprising them; Homura simply wished her grandmother (everyone, really) were easy to understand.
"I expect a package to come in the mail today," Widow Kaufmann mentioned on her way to the door. Homura offered her arm to support her grandmother as she slipped her shoes on. Madoka reached for an overcoat, but she waved her away. "None of that. The two of you will be doing some weeding for me. Bring the bento, Homura."
The brighter light outdoors had them all squinting slightly as Widow Kaufmann led them to a small side garden overrun with weeds.
"The space here does not allow for many plants to grow; there is no need to use up any more precious room on weeds that only suffocate and steal from the flowers. That is your task." She gestured to a box with two pairs of gloves and shears, then settled herself into a patio chair with the bento.
Madoka, being used to helping in her father's own garden, readily set to work on her knees. Homura, on the other hand, glanced skeptically at her thick pair of gloves and the weeds (the things I must do for obaasan -sigh-) before joining Madoka.
／人◕‿‿◕人＼
"'…someone to protect?' his father asked. He did not understand, not then…"
Homura stared at the plant in her hands. Her grandmother kept talking, but her mind zeroed in on something in particular.
'Do you have someone to protect?'
'Protect the one thing you want to protect until the very end.'
'I am not alone anymore!'
She tossed the weed aside with a small smile, for burgeoning bud of hope flourished just a little bit more at the unexpected reminder.
Widow Kaufmann stood then, shuffling closer to examine the girls' progress. Homura took that as a sign to stop and stretch her stiff legs. Madoka also stopped; she leant back, wiping sweat off her forehead with her sore hands but still smiling cheerfully. When she passed by Homura to return the gloves and shears, her hand brushed against Homura's; their fingers tangled together all too fleetingly.
(Okay, maybe they were a little sappy.)
Upon finishing her inspection, Homura's grandmother gestured them back into the little house.
"Ah, obaasan, may I go wash up?" Homura hesitantly asked, directing her question to a point next to her grandmother's ear. The widow Kaufmann waved her off and did not stop Madoka when she followed Homura.
In the bathroom, Homura graciously let Madoka use the sink first, even though she itched to rid herself if the dirt.
Madoka finished quickly. Homura had her hands under the running water before Madoka had even reached for the towel. Neither spoke, some minutes passing away in comfortable silence as Homura washed up and Madoka wiped away sweat with a damp towel.
Refreshed, Madoka turned to her very best friend—"Homura-chan, stop!"
She grabbed Homura's hands, pulling them apart. Homura stared at their entwined hands; her skin was red, bordering on raw at her fingers.
"O-oh." When had she…?
Her fingers twitched. Madoka shut off the faucet, making the sudden silence ring in Homura's ears. Arms enveloped her once again, pulling her into Madoka's warm embrace. Her throat tightened, because even years later she still slipped and did stupid things. Just as she thought she was moving on she had to mess up something.
But Madoka certainly did not care: she rocked her gently back and forth, nuzzling her, reassuring her. She regulated her breathing, taking in Madoka's familiar strawberry scent, before pulling away.
"I… will be fine, Madoka," she murmured. Someday. Eventually. Time healed all wounds, yes? So what if she slipped up sometimes—Madoka was enough incentive to keep going, even if her own thoughts turned against her.
She had someone to protect; she was not alone.
"Do you need another grief seed?" Madoka remained apprehensive.
Homura shook her head. She summoned her soul gem, showing its barely diminished brightness to Madoka.
Madoka sighed in relief. "Let me dry my hands and we can go back, Madoka," Homura murmured. She gave her a small but genuine smile, the frown on her face softening as she took the towel Madoka held out.
Slipping past her, Homura patted Madoka's shoulder soothingly. Without turning, she knew Madoka was smiling again.
I may fall, but I will get up again.
They found Homura's grandmother in front of the shrine with her head bowed. Just as Homura hesitantly opened her mouth to announce their presence, Kaufmann Erika straightened and turned towards them. She waved their unspoken concern away and gestured for them to sit. Homura sat beside Madoka.
"A present," was all her grandmother said before settling back into her chair. She sipped at her tea, hiding her smile when Madoka chimed eagerly, "Open it, Homura-chan!"
Homura thanked her grandmother politely (she would hug her but contact with anyone other than Madoka still made her uncomfortable) and curiously examined the small, rectangular package in her hands.
Careful hands meticulously removed the brown paper around the object. Homura soon had a stack of photos messily held together by a couple of rubber bands in her lap. Their edges were worn, cracked by time. Her breath hitched. There, in full color, was her mother.
Kaufmann Soma Miyako, named for her dark hair.
Wide eyes remained fixated on her mother's face. Her mother.
Madoka began to lean in for a closer look, but caught Widow Kaufmann's intent gaze. When she had Madoka's attention, she jerked her head slightly in the direction of the kitchen. The pinkette hesitated, but Homura's grandmother stood fully and motioned for Madoka to follow. Reluctantly, Madoka followed her, glancing back.
Homura was hunched over, so she could not tell what was going on in Homura's mind, but the brief glimpse of wonderment she had seen eased her.
Curiosity could wait.
／人◕‿‿◕人＼
"How is my granddaughter doing, truly?" Kaufmann Erika paused, setting aside various sliced vegetables before continuing, "I read the report the doctors at Mitakihara Regional sent, but what about her magic?"
Madoka flinched, fingers rubbing at the wood of the table. "Well… she hasn't improved, but she hasn't worsened, either. Kyubey says that's the best we can hope for at this point, since tampering with Homura-chan's magic further could damage her soul or mind…
"Still, she's gotten better about taking care of herself. Like, she'll tell Mami-chan and Kyouko-chan when she's tired instead of hiding it, and she eats more now, has more of an appetite." Madoka brightened, looking at Widow Kaufmann. "That's the best part of all, I think. Even though Homura-chan's not as healthy, even though she has bad days, she hasn't given up—her depression isn't holding her back anymore!"
"My granddaughter," Widow Kaufmann declared as she seared eggplant and pumpkin, "is resilient, even if she struggles to be flexible." She briskly set up another pan, gesturing for Madoka to bring over the sliced garlic and beef.
Pink eyes attentively watched Homura's grandmother expertly handle both pans at once as Madoka absorbed the old woman's words.
'Even if she struggles to be flexible.'
"She's come a long way," Madoka mused aloud, "in the two years I've known her. There's a noticeable difference between Homura-chan in middle school and Homura-chan now."
She gazed towards the door, behind which Homura was probably immersed in the photos of her dearly-missed parents.
Oh, Homura-chan.
"She used to be so… so bleak about everything. As if she was on the brink of giving up. I didn't know. She looked so cool, so put-together and amazing and she wanted to be my friend. That's all I thought about. Then, everything moved so quickly and Mami-chan almost died, Sayaka-chan, too—everything was so new and it was so easy to just, just get caught up in yourself and give up…"
Sizzling started up again when Mrs Kaufmann added carrots and potatoes to the beef. Madoka hastily handed her a casserole to transfer the seared eggplant and pumpkin.
"Kami, we were so lost," she continued, "even though we fervently denied it. We're still dealing with the aftermath. There's a lot of… jumbled-up feelings that weren't taken care of properly then, so they interfere in the now. But time heals all wounds, doesn't it? We're not stuck in an endless cycle anymore. Sure, it's an uphill battle, and we might not be able to change the world, but we've got each other.
"We have hope."
The widow Kaufmann sat down across Madoka, setting a timer to twenty minutes.
Neither spoke, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. For a while, the only sound was the simmering of the beef and the barely-audible tick tock of the clock, which eventually drew Madoka's attention.
Her contemplative gaze shifted to worry. Nearly half an hour had passed since she had left Homura alone; she could not help but fret.
I mean, she needs time to take it all in and I shouldn't smother her, but still.
Vague trepidations lingered in her mind. She tracked the clock's traitorously slow progression, willing the second hand to go faster.
Ding! went the timer, prompting Homura's grandmother to add onions; she reset the dial after stirring the beef and vegetable mixture. She then rummaged around a cupboard for a pack of curry blocks, pushing aside the spicier ones in favor of a milder flavor. Wouldn't want to give Homura heartburn, after all.
"Obaasan," Madoka spoke up suddenly, tearing her eyes away from the clock. Widow Kaufmann turned to face her.
The blush on the pinkette's face intrigued her, so she waved her hand, silently prompting Madoka to continue.
Her fingers pressed tightly against her skirt but she resisted the urge to fidget. After all, she was Kaname Junko's daughter in every way possible; she would live up to her mother's example.
"I intend to pursue a long-term relationship with Homura-chan," Madoka pronounced clearly, meeting the elder's gaze despite the red staining her cheeks. "I'm not asking for her hand in m-marriage," she added hastily.
Even though I'm already thinking about it, she wryly thought. But there will be plenty of time for that, no matter what obstacles stand in our way!
Kaufmann Erika considered Madoka.
She had soft pink hair that fell in loose waves to her shoulders, wide reddish-pink eyes that shone, and an earnest yet guarded round face. Dressed in a stylish white cardigan and dark blue plaid skirt, Madoka was the epitome of girlish beauty. Her personality was complex—airhead, timid, determined—but her hopeful heart remained constant.
Madoka was, in short, a good compliment for Homura's moodier nature.
"You have my blessing," Widow Kaufmann finally replied, "so long as you agree to accept responsibility for all the consequences of your actions.
Delight and relief instantly relaxed Madoka's demeanor. She nodded vigorously, promising, "I will!"
"Good." She turned back to the stove, anticipating the notice of the timer. Neat little cubes of sweet curry were mixed into the beef base. "Twenty minutes until the meal is ready."
Startled, the pinkette looked at the clock. "Oh!"
Nearly an hour had passed, making it six o' clock in the evening. The day felt as if it had flown by quickly. They would stay the night and eat an early breakfast here before returning to Mitakihara by noon. Homura-chan would stop at her apartment for another change of clothes and her uniform before joining Madoka at the Kaname home. Mama had the day off, so they'd probably go out to the park.
I still have to finish that essay, though. She pouted at the thought of the homework waiting for her at home. At least I have most of it done… blah.
While Homura's grandmother kept an eye on the food, Madoka went to the adjoining room to set the table. The dining room was reduced but had enough room to fit a four-person square table. A large window showcased a view of the garden, though it was little more than sowed soil. Would obaasan make a flower garden, like the window boxes she had had in her previous home, or would she plant vegetables instead?
Entering the kitchen again, Madoka waited impatiently for the curry to be ready so that she could call Homura in. Her fingers drummed relentlessly against her leg; she resisted the urge to kick her legs like a petulant child.
The moment Widow Kaufmann turned off the stove, Madoka jumped up, saying, "I'll get Homura-chan!"
She was out the door before the other could reply.
Shaking her head, she told the empty air, "Remember when we were young, Axel?"
Emotions were not her forte.
Dealing with emotions even less so.
Holed up in a hospital, on the brink of dying and pumped full of drugs, her lack of social interaction had not mattered. All she had had were books and awkward conversations with well-meaning but distant medical personnel.
No one could have taken the place of her mother and father. Not the sisters at the orphanage, not her ill grandmother, not the nurses who took care of her when all she wanted was to die.
But she had forgotten. She, a fundamentally passive person, had forgone the past and tried to fight destiny.
It sounded poetic.
The reality was grislier than she allowed herself to remember.
As in the saying, "out of the frying pan and into the fire," Homura had gone from one turbulent existence to another just as harrowing.
The result was a girl lacking in emotional competency. She managed by transforming into the "cool," aloof persona that everyone in this timeline was familiar with, but that façade had not held up well after defeating Walpurgisnacht.
Madoka had helped her—was still helping her—become a functioning person. It helped that strong vestiges of the original Homura remained; her desire to fit in and be accepted had survived just enough to be a healthy goal instead of the obsessive self-loathing that it had been when she was at the hospital the second time.
That did not guarantee that she would handle emotions well at any given time.
So she sat there, clutching photographs of her late parents and steadfastly glaring at some vague point to her left.
I was not dreaming when they told me you were gone*.
Salt touched her lips. Oh, she was crying. A perfectly reasonable response, not to mention healthy, but she did not want to damage the precious photos so she hastily wiped her face with a handkerchief (a present from Madoka).
Grimacing, Homura twisted the handkerchief between the fingers of her left hand.
It felt like an eternity ago. Her parents were practically strangers—they had little presence in her mind.
That hurt. Forgetting okasan and otousan had happened naturally, quietly, unconsciously, but consciously realizing that she had forgotten them felt like a betrayal. Her world had not always consisted of only Madoka.
Clutched in her hand were tangible reminders of what were only fuzzy memories in her head.
She sighed, her scowl taking on a resentful tinge. They would not have to bemere fuzzy memories if they had just stayed alive.
Was that a theme? Everyone she wanted alive inevitably ended up doing the exact opposite.
I needed you.
They had to be wrong—how could you leave me when you had said you would come back? All I had were broken promises and emptiness where you used to be.
She sighed, running her fingers over her ring. They had left a yawning void in her heart, true, but had been a ragged void in her heart had long since softened into a dull ache. At least, that's how it had been, before her soul had been shoved into a new container and threw her equilibrium off balance.
A few breathing exercises would help, then. She counted down from a hundred, pairing each inhale and exhale with a number in a steady beat.
Bored at sixty, Homura deemed herself relaxed enough to continue—that is, to actually look at the photos in her hands instead of pouncing on every distraction that presented itself.
One deep breath later, she looked at the top picture. Her mother smiled back at her. A small, contented smile. She was young, judging by the fullness of her face and long hair, her face not worn shallow and hair not limp with exhaustion. Her jaw clenched. She wore glasses—a frame similar to her old one.
Tousan had once told her that her mother had stopped wearing glasses because baby Homura had liked to grab and play with them. They had the same eyes, he had said fondly. Everyone used to say that—now she had proof.
The next was also of her mother, though not a headshot. Kaufmann Miyako was hunched over some papers—work? University studies? Her hair reached her waist, much like Homura's did, though without the part created by braids.
Kami, she missed her mother so much.
Subsequent photos included her grandfather, and later still her father came in. Akemi Kenshin—Homura remembered him better. She remembered waking up in his arms after operations. He was more affectionate than most men—being a policeman and having his wife die had likely heightened his awareness of life's brevity.
Homesickness heavily lodged in her throat, Homura lovingly fixed the stack of photos and replaced the rubber band. She let her hands shake.
She cleared her throat and wiped her face with her handkerchief.
I am picking up the pieces of my life, okasan, otousan. I am learning, living. Even if fate tries to take my life away, I won't give up.
One last dance.
／人◕‿‿◕人＼
"Homura-chan!" Madoka threw herself at a startled Homura, making them both topple.
"Hng," Homura grunted, completely winded but also keenly aware of how Madoka was practically lying on top of her. Drawing breath almost sent her into sensory overload. "M-Madoka… y-you're squishing me…."
Face red, Madoka scrambled off Homura and apologetically helped her up. "Gomen, Homura-chan. It's been an hour—guess I got carried away," she giggled nervously as she straightened Homura's clothes.
Eyebrows shot up in response. "Really," she murmured, letting Madoka fuss over her.
"Mhm. Dinner's ready!" Madoka said. She stepped back, realizing how hungry she was now that she was not worrying.
Homura had other ideas in mind. "I'm sorry about earlier," she said softly, shoulders slumping as she peered guiltily at Madoka from beneath her bangs.
"E-eh?" The pinkette's thoughts immediately jumped to their kiss on the train, but she waited for Homura to clarify. She did not want to pressure her into anything—Homura's health came first (a gnawing worry of hers).
But instead of answering directly, the ex-time-traveler affectionately reached for her with lithe hands, drawing her close. Tenderly, their lips met briefly and separated.
Madoka looked like she had stars in her eyes. Smirking slightly at the pinkette's boundless bubbliness, Homura let her go and continued making her way to the kitchen. Just before entering, she glanced back purposefully and haughtily flipped her hair, chuckling quietly.
Pouting, Madoka hastily followed her through the kitchen and into the dining room.
Widow Kaufmann was waiting patiently at the table, one eyebrow cocked questioningly. Two other bowls were set out on either side of her.
Madoka and Homura hastily bowed. Upon straightening, Homura said in her normal low voice, "Gomen nasai, obaasan." When she offered no explanation, Madoka opened her mouth account for their tardiness, but the widow simply waved the apology away and gestured for them to sit.
The old woman waited until Homura was eating before replying. "Yes, 'gomen, obaasan—I decided to eat my girlfriend instead of the dinner you so graciously prepared.' Humph! Children these days, so disrespectful," she grumbled, ignoring Homura's choked sputtering. She studiously turned away, though she winked at an equally embarrassed Madoka.
Mortified, Homura reached for a glass of water. Madoka hid her own red face behind the steaming curry and rice.
Homura gulped down half the glass as she glared at her grandmother, who merely chuckled in response.
Peaceful silence reigned once more.
Relaxing, Homura glanced at Madoka across from her; she wrinkled her nose when she realized that the pinkette had added pepper flakes to her curry. She had a surprising taste for spicy food, whereas Homura refrained from anything above very mild piquancy. A second glass of water rested beside her plate for just that reason.
"Did you enjoy your present?" her grandmother spoke suddenly.
Madoka looked up, interest clearly written on her face.
Wiping her mouth carefully with a napkin, Homura nodded, not quite knowing what to say.
It made me very emotional, but I did enjoy seeing my parents again.
"…I had forgotten what okasan looked like," she admitted. I never looked at the pictures you have up.
Her grandmother tapped her chopsticks against her bowl. "Almost thirteen years," she replied. Madoka shifted in her seat, a rare frown on her face, not pacified by the reassuring smile Homura sent her way.
"Time softens the blow," she said. Widow Kaufmann nodded in agreement; Madoka watched them silently. "Would you… would you like to see them, Madoka?" she tentatively asked.
Surprised, Madoka agreed, "If you want, Homura-chan." Homura had never mentioned her parents other than curtly telling her once that they had died when she was little; Kaufmann Erika was the only family Madoka knew Homura had. She respected Homura's boundaries, though.
"Fleeting," Homura murmured, "ephemeral lives…."
Madoka hummed.
"There's a lot of pain," she continued, "but we make it count… we move forward and we make it count. At least to ourselves."
Because they may not change world but they could change themselves.
And that would have to be enough, for this was their last dance.
/\
A/N: Embedded lyrics and chapter title translated and paraphrased from Indila's "Dernière Danse."
* Borrowed and rephrased lyrics from RWBY's "Red Like Roses Part II."
Wow I spent so long on this. I should work on the next chapter of "The Bodyguard and the Client," huh? You know, I'd write more if I read less, lol. Also, formatting in FF is kinda messed up -grumbles.- Did I confuse you guys with the dream sequence thing in the beginning?
I'm tired, you know that? Then there's the whole of the world - Gaza, Ukraine/Russia, Ferguson.
Constructive criticism, anyone? Next installment will feature Mami and Kyouko!
Also, shout out to madoka-daily! -Teddy.