A/N: I wrote this a while ago as some serious stress venting, so it might be a little sloppy/stream-of-consciousness.

In case it isn't clear, the first part is set during the original timeline, and the second part is set during the main series timeline.

Proximity

(The Illustrious Crackpot)

Homura couldn't bear sitting next to Madoka.

Every moment was a torture of unbearable agony, with the assorted morsels of real joy in the experience only serving to salt her wounds. Madoka's proximity, Madoka's smile, Madoka's scent, the trill of Madoka's laugh, all of it just focused Homura's thoughts on how perfect Madoka was and how badly she wanted her, with no room for distractions. She knew she would never do it, was certain that she would never do it, but every time she became terrified that she might grab Madoka's hand, kiss Madoka's lips, wrestle Madoka to the floor, and so she sat rigidly still with her fists clenched in her lap and her teeth digging into her lower lip, and it was a miracle that she ever managed to hear anything of the conversations happening around her.

Madoka was cute. Madoka was so cute. This was what Homura would repeat to herself over and over whenever she walked home afterward, her heart pounding and her palms covered in red marks from her fingernails digging into them. By the time she got there, she invariably collapsed on her bed, sometimes in tears, sometimes too overwhelmed to cry, and there was no way to think of anything but Madoka.

She tried to get around it. For a while she'd made excuses, or purposefully lagged behind, so that the space next to Madoka would be taken by Sayaka or Mami or Hitomi. But that was almost worse. She wanted to kill the girl who got to breathe in Madoka's air, or brush shoulders with Madoka. She would rather hate herself than hate one of Madoka's friends...because that might make Madoka hate her.

Every time Madoka touched her, it felt like fire.

She'd never really had a friend before. She'd always spent too much time in and out of the hospital to form many lasting bonds. But she was pretty sure that this wasn't what it felt like to have a friend, because if it was, how could anyone cope with that? How could Madoka smile and chat genuinely with so many different people if she felt the same kind of overwhelming obsessive desire towards each of them?

Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe because it was her first time...maybe her feelings weren't quite in line yet. She was overcompensating with affection because she'd never had someone to direct it at before. Maybe it wasn't...

If it wasn't love, she was forced to realize, then she wouldn't spend this much time thinking about what was underneath Madoka's school uniform.

She tried to block it out, to change it. She really did. She bit her lip until it bled. But there was no escaping it, no means for distraction. Everything was about Madoka. Characters in TV shows were Madoka. Math problems were Madoka. Madoka's friends were Madoka.

Worst of all, Madoka was Madoka.

"Homura-chaaaaan!" Madoka trilled in a sing-song voice, and Homura had to remind herself that it was the same tone she used for everyone and wasn't special to her because Homura wasn't special to her. Madoka beamed at her, and Homura had to remind herself that her smile was at the exact same level of intensity that she directed towards everyone, including strangers. Madoka asked her if she wanted to stop by their favorite café after school, and Homura had to remind herself that everyone else would be there too, and that this question was merely a matter of routine, because if she allowed herself even the briefest second to equate this moment with being asked on a date, she would never be satisfied.

She tried not to think along that line, and sometimes she succeeded. But late at night when she was tired and the world was dark and there didn't seem to be any consequences to any actions, she would imagine Madoka hovering over her, placing a coy finger to her lips. She would imagine the two of them fervently embraced in an empty classroom, or in the nurse's office. She would think back to that situation yesterday when that thing happened or that thing was said where, if real life ever really worked along those lines, it would have been completely fitting for the situation to have taken a romantic turn. She would imagine Madoka moaning her name in just the kind of satisfied tone she used when eating her favorite ice cream.

Madoka could never know.

All of Homura was wrapped up in Madoka now. If Madoka thought she was a freak, or became scared of her, Homura didn't think she'd be able to go on living. She felt her atoms would simply fly apart if Madoka turned so much as a displeased gaze on her. Only because Madoka seemed to like her (but not love, never love, don't think about love) was she able to keep on going as it was.

And even if disgust and fear wasn't the automatic response (which it probably was), it would still be futile. Madoka was adorable, Madoka was charismatic, Madoka was popular, Madoka was a magical girl fighting evil by moonlight and saving the world with a smile. Homura was just...sickly...scrawny...plain, if not outright ugly...no good at anything. She always said the wrong words. She always did the wrong thing. Whether or not Madoka ever thought so, she probably really was a freak.

She would never deserve Madoka...but...

...but...

Sometimes, she thought...

...Maybe if she made a contract, too. If she became a magical girl just like Madoka, maybe...maybe then, it wouldn't...

She couldn't allow herself to hope like that. Becoming a magical girl wouldn't put her on the same level as Madoka. Nothing could. Madoka would still be better at being a magical girl, she would still be talented, and kind, and beautiful, and Homura would just be Homura in a poofy skirt. It would be the same. She couldn't think down that line, either. No matter what the outcome, she would never be with Madoka. Not like that.

Madoka wouldn't want that.

She was sure of it.

Because if she were Madoka, she wouldn't want someone like Homura either.

Madoka couldn't bear sitting this far from Homura.

She could see her at the front of the classroom, back rigid, fists clenched in her lap. Was it some kind of morbid fascination that made her so intrigued by this new transfer student? Obsessing because of all the slightly ominous things Homura had done and said to her in so short a time?

Maybe simple curiosity or fear would explain that, but this...

Homura was so mysterious, so detached, so calm and confident. How could one person be so strong? What was under there? Was there anything?

Madoka wanted to be close to her. She wanted to experience Homura's strength for herself, to understand her conviction. Whether standing at her side or standing across from her, she wanted to feel Homura's self-possession, and maybe that proximity would allow some of Homura's strength to bleed over into her.

She never had any untoward thoughts about Homura. She was not someone who tended to think about those kinds of things, whether consciously or not. She acknowledged that Homura's long hair was beautiful, and that her piercing gaze was like fire, but she never thought about touching her. If she did, then that would at least offer more clarity, give her a real and understandable reason for wanting to be near Homura the way she did.

She often thought about marching over there, demanding she explain why she hated Kyuubey, why she was so tense with Mami, why she cared so much about whether or not Madoka became a magical girl. She knew she wouldn't, but she still gripped the seat of her chair and clenched her teeth to make sure. She wanted to ask why Homura seemed so sad even when she looked angry. She wanted to stop her from feeling sad, but given their unfamiliarity, that might make her seem like a freak or a busybody.

All she could think about was Homura. She knew nothing of her, spent no time with her, and so everything was a buzzing answerless question. Movie characters were Homura. Science problems were Homura. Homura's incomprehensible actions were Homura.

Homura was Homura.

Homura was so strong and beautiful and she was a magical girl. Why did she care about someone as plain and talentless as Madoka? Did she even care? There was no way to decipher Homura's feelings. She was an enigma. She was unreachable.

She was far away, at the front of the classroom, atop a platform, across a bridge.

And if Madoka ever tried to get next to her...she would just stand up and walk away.