Chihaya pushes her fingertip into the doorbell, investing a substantial amount of force only to receive a meager return in actual movement. The cold is biting, sharp, and she's gloveless today. After ringing the doorbell, she hurriedly shoves her hands into her pockets, giving her body one big shake and trying to supress a weak little shivering noise, which forces itself out anyway. The cold, dry air grazes her cheeks and, looking around as she waits to be received, her lips part to release a cloud almost thick enough to be smoke. The frosted pavement shines like silver, and the multicolored lights taint her misty breath, making it blue, green, red, like cast magic. Chihaya smiles. It's so undeniably Haruka to love Christmas as much as she does; there's nothing brighter or more beautiful.
A fumble, a clearing of the throat. "Hello?"
Chihaya spins around, her smile receding into a pleasant enough but visibly reserved expression of greeting. She pulls her hands out of her pockets, thrusts them by her sides stiff as boards, and bows for the woman at the door.
"Hello," she says, straightening up and offering her hand, "I'm Kisaragi Chihaya, pleased to meet you. I–"
The woman gasps loudly. By this time, it's not a reaction Chihaya is unused to, but it briefly crosses her mind how little sense it makes. Surely when your own daughter is an idol, you would hardly be surprised at meeting her idol friends. Nevertheless, the taller, older, less blindingly altruistic version of Haruka seems to assume a bewildered twinkle in her eyes as she assures Chihaya she needn't be so formal.
"Come in, Chihaya-chan! Make yourself comfortable!"
Chihaya's smile wavers nervously, but she doesn't allow it to fall into a frown. She can feel her own brow tense up in concern, and no matter how much she tries to will the expression away, it won't work. Her smile looks fake, which it is, and she looks incredibly nervous, which she kind of is, too. Chihaya takes off her shoes and hears the door click shut behind her, followed quickly by a frantic cluttering of metal, some hushed whispering, and some quaint chatter at about ten times its volume. It might be rude of her not to be making much of an effort with Haruka's mother, but Chihaya has come here with a purpose. She's only just mustered up the courage to come here at all, so she may as well use it while she can.
She has to wonder, though. No mention of Haruka? No "you must be here to see Haruka," or "Haruka talks about you all the time, it's so nice to finally meet you"? Chihaya glances briefly at the woman in the kitchen. It hits her harder than ever before that she doesn't really know Haruka that well at all.
"I'm sorry to intrude," she breaks in at last, her voice soft and amiable as always, "I'm here to see Haruka."
The woman ceases her scrambling. Chihaya can't see her face; it's turned away from her, towards the pantry.
"Oh," she says, "yes, of course!"
She turns around, then, and offers Chihaya a smile that seems at once significantly less exuberant than before. "Her room is upstairs on the left, dear."
Chihaya nods, albeit feeling a little guilty. As she makes her way up the stairs, which creak a little under her feet at first but fade into silence once they recognise her slightness, she wonders if Haruka's mother is unaware that anything is wrong with her daughter other than physical sickness. Whether or not she knows that the effervescent little ball of sunshine that is her daughter has set, vanished behind the horizon, and that none of them know when she will rise again. She wonders if Haruka's mother has any conception of what it's like to be an idol when it stops being fun.
Of course she doesn't. How could she? But Chihaya's spent so long singing out of obligation she thinks she understands Haruka's feelings perfectly.
In truth, Kisaragi Chihaya is as sweet a girl as any. She's the kind of girl who falls in love easily, no matter her attempts to harden her own heart; the kind of girl who loves with every fibre of her being, but never shows it. She has a lot of love in in her heart, and no idea what to do with it; the idea of playing her cards, letting it show, scares her to death. She's not the only girl in the world who's afraid of her own feelings, but she does happen to be famous.
And then there's Haruka. Amami Haruka is a simple girl, if ever there was one. It's a mistake to think she's simple because all she does is smile and laugh and wish others well, simply because that's not possible. She gets angry. She gets sad. Once in a while, a pessimistic notion or a pang of lonliness will sneak its way into her thoughts. So she's not necessarily what she seems – she is human after all – but she is simple, in a way. All she wants is to have a good time with the people she loves. That's all. She brings people together, makes them stick, like glue. It's simple, being the glue, when you like it as much as Haruka does. And Haruka may not know any of this herself, but Chihaya does. She knows it very well.
That's why the two of them go so well together. Haruka's the glue, and Chihaya is broken. Haruka is the one who cares enough to put Chihaya back together, and keep her together, and that means the world to her. But there's a problem; Chihaya is the kind of girl who loves one thing with all her heart and soul, and Haruka is simple. Haruka is the glue. Haruka loves everyone.
Chihaya takes a deep breath. She likes to think it was her train of thought that stopped her, that she's still standing in front of Haruka's door with her coat on and her hands in her pockets because she zoned out a bit. Truth is, she feels tiny, scared; she knows in her heart that there's nothing in the world she wants more than to help Haruka the way Haruka helped her, but she doesn't know if she can do it. She doesn't know how.
Nevertheless, Chihaya clenches her fists to force a brief surge of determination through her own body, and steps towards Haruka's bedroom door. Her knuckles tremble a little as they hit the door, and her knocks come out shakily, like the rattling of an unopened birthday present.
There isn't an answer. It feels a little nostalgic, a little bit like a role switch, and Chihaya's not sure if that makes her more or less determined to continue.
"Haruka," she calls, "it's me."
There isn't any response for another moment, and Chihaya almost expects Haruka to ignore her completely, when a strange voice shatters the silence.
"Chihaya-chan?"
The voice is Haruka's, obviously. But it's doing something that Chihaya doesn't understand at first; something she never thought she'd hear it do.
"Please," she says suddenly, her worry dispelling any memory of her fear, "can I come in, Haruka? Please!"
Another moment flies away, Chihaya's chest throbbing more and more violently as it does. She's on edge, her toes poised towards the door, her fingertips grazing the door handle. Her brow has reclined from a nervousness to a still tense but inherently sympathetic look. She appears pained, almost, in her apparent inability to help.
"Of course," the voice chokes out, "of course you can."
It barely takes a second. Chihaya's hand is on the door, her feet are through, her eyes are on the heap of blankets curled up and shaking on Haruka's bed. She's approaching at lightning speed, giving the best performance of her life, when suddenly she chokes. She halts, as though she's hit a wall, run out of battery, fallen in quicksand. That's it. And she was doing so well, too.
"Chihaya-chan?"
The voice is getting quieter, the sheets stiller, but these aren't the symptoms of a good thing. She thinks she sees Haruka try to move, maybe peek over the covers at her, then give up uncharacteristically quickly. But that – the assurance that Haruka is afraid, too, perhaps of letting Chihaya see that she's capable of sadness – is all she needs to break through that wall, replenish those batteries, crawl out of that quicksand.
"I'm here, Haruka."
And she knows that Haruka can sense the closeness of her voice, and knows that it's true. She knows that Haruka can feel her arms through the layers of her blanket, her reassurance, without seeing her face. Haruka starts crying again, in long, powerful sobs, and Chihaya just holds her. She doesn't think she ever realised before that helping someone – loving someone – could be as simple as that. Maybe Haruka, who's crawling out of the blanket to throw her arms around Chihaya and cry into her coat, is confused as well; maybe she knows not what it is she wants, or fears, or whether or not she's right, or anything at all. And in a weird way, that's simple, too.
"Chihaya-chan…"
Haruka grips Chihaya's jumper with iron firsts, and weeps into her shoulder with less and less intensity by the minute. Chihaya's hands are in her hair, her lips against her ear, her heart god knows where. When Haruka looks up, Chihaya brushes her tears away with a thumb, looks into her tired eyes, and smiles. She smiles because she thinks she's managed to scrub away at a little bit of that mist in Haruka's eyes; she thinks she can see a little glisten of their usual, stunning emerald, and that her exhaustion is curable now.
"Chihaya-chan," Haruka mumbles, "thank you."
She plants a long, sweet kiss on Chihaya's cheek, and smiles back. Chihaya can feel a little party starting in her chest, and she knows she's done it. It's not the solution to Haruka's problem, but it's the first step; it's the first step towards saving Haruka the way Haruka saved her. And maybe she's still broken, and maybe she still needs Haruka to be her glue, but even glue runs out, and when Haruka's empty, Chihaya will make her whole again.
She promises she will.