Chapter Ten - Touch

Homura's first year of university ended as discreetly as it began. She often found herself somewhat obsessed with the passage of time; certain milestones made this difficult to avoid. Yet she resisted phasing into bouts of self reflection or nostalgia. It was hard to explain, but she felt it was for the same reason she was a Murakami contrarian.

She didn't have any particular plans for that summer. One of her economics professors offered her a paid research position that she accepted; the money was nice, and it looked good on a resume. Most of the work was from home though, so she had little reason to leave the apartment once classes ended.

Summer in the city felt different than in the small middle of nowhere town where she grew up. Back then she would often fall into a deep sense of isolation through June and July. Afternoons spent hiding in the endless fields of grass on the way home from school, nights spent in the old traditional home of her childhood.

Distracted by thoughts of the past, Homura sat at her desk to do some writing. She had the window propped open by her elbow. Her eyes traced the black wires between the telephone poles on her street. They criss-crossed the sky like a massive fishnet marking the borders of her world.

Toby was expecting an update from her later that week. Homura stared at the screen of her computer but could not bring herself to begin. It felt like she was staring at the end of her story through a pane of bulletproof glass. The odd strangling feeling in her chest was invisible, but impenetrable.

Suddenly she felt sick, and had to close out of her word processor.

After breathing deeply for a few minutes, she drafted an email to Toby saying she needed more time.


Homura could count the number of times she had touched her mother and father on one hand.

Middle school graduation. One of the other parents, whose daughter was also the type to stick her nose in someone else's business, offered to take a family photo for them. Homura, her mother, and her father stood awkwardly by the gate of the school she had attended for three years.

The nosy parent laughed and urged them to hold each other. Homura's father did not move an inch, but she felt a soft rustle against the back of her uniform, as her mother's bony hand came to rest on her shoulder. It was a startling realization to her at the time, that her mother was made of flesh and blood just as she was.

The photo came out as awkward as it felt. Three sorry looking figures standing beneath the shade of a cherry tree. Her father, in the boxy suit he had worn for what felt like a hundred years, his face stone cold and unreadable. Her mother, thinner than a reed and so silent she was not unlike a ghost, yet impenetrable in her own way.

And between them Homura, her hair even longer and more unkempt than in college. Looking back she was glad she was holding her diploma in her hands for the photo. Back then she never knew what to do with her hands. She still didn't.

She didn't know where that photo was anymore. From what she remembered it might have been the only photo of all three of them to ever exist. It was strange; she had only seen it once, yet it was burned permanently into her memory.

Physical intimacy remained a grand mystery as she grew older. Perhaps due to her lack of experience, she didn't know how to touch people; didn't know the proper way to express herself without words. Goodbye hugs at graduation were always a great ordeal for her. Not that she got many to begin with.

She always thought this was why she became obsessed with reading at a young age. It was a way to simulate the sensations of life she ought to have had by then. Homura was never much interested in fantasy or science fiction, even at a young age. Because of this she didn't fit in even amongst the bookworms. She spent her days reading dramas, mysteries, and romances. What she lacked in experience, she tried to make up for in study.

Her high school was a thirty minute bike ride away from home. On snowy days she would take the bus, though she avoided it because it was always packed with people.

One morning she found herself crushed against an older girl who might have been a third year at her school; she had long chestnut brown hair and nicely manicured nails. Homura felt herself getting lightheaded as the girl's body pressed against hers. She could feel the soft curve of the girl's flank, a soft tickle of hair against her ear. She smelled nice, like a field of dandelions at dawn, and Homura found herself trying to breathe deeper.

When she got off the bus her heart was beating faster than she wanted to admit.

From that day on she developed a mild obsession with her upperclassman with the chestnut brown hair. Occasionally they would pass each other in the hall at school, and though Homura never knew her name she was always acutely aware of the girl's presence, the memory of pressing up against her warm body.

One sunny afternoon she spotted the track team holding their daily practice through the window of her classroom. The her upperclassman was there, sweat pouring down her brow as she sprinted down the length of the track. As she watched Homura felt a tight throbbing in her chest she hadn't known before.

For all the things she didn't understand about her parents, there was even more she didn't understand about herself.


One foggy morning, Homura woke up at the crack of dawn and went for a run. She wasn't really a runner, hated exercise really, but she didn't know how else to wear down the dark cloud plaguing her thoughts. All night she had tossed and turned, weighed down by something she refused to acknowledge.

Madoka was coming over later that evening. Kyouko was going over to Sayaka's place for movie night, and Madoka didn't want to be around. She then hit upon the idea of having their own movie night at Homura's.

"I've never been to your place. It'll be fun!" Madoka said over the phone.

After her run Homura took a long shower and did her best to tidy up her room. She didn't think she was a slob, but she also wasn't the type to make her bed (she was going to sleep it in again later anyway, what was the point?). No one typically came in here except her. Maybe there was a smell she wasn't aware of? On the way home she bought a plug-in air freshener and shoved it into her wall outlet. Soft lavender, a purple-pink color.

Her laptop stared judgmentally at her as she cleaned up. It had been more than a week since she last wrote a single word. She was aware that she was falling behind. The thought yawned before her like a giant chasm. Yet she could not bring herself to cross the void.

She had experienced writer's block before. This was different. It was deeper. Writer's block was painful because one wants to write but can't; now the very act of writing brought her pain.

Toby was getting impatient. He had sent her emails throughout the week, some encouraging, others stern. She knew her editor was in a difficult position. She knew she was causing trouble for him. She couldn't avoid responding to him for much longer.

Madoka arrived at the apartment at five o'clock sharp. Homura's pulse leapt when her buzzer made a noise. The floor had been swept; even the shoes were neatly lined up against the wall. She buzzed Madoka in and took a seat on the couch, not knowing what else to do with herself. Cleaning the whole apartment seemed disingenuous somehow, like she was trying to hide something.

A knock came from the door, and Homura admitted Madoka into the apartment. The girl stepped inside and kicked off her shoes, then caught herself and lined them up neatly next to the others.

"Wow, your place is so clean! Not what I expected," she laughed.

Homura rolled her eyes. "Did you think I lived in a pigsty?"

"No, but I don't take you for a clean freak either. You're like…organized chaos."

"That's an oxymoron."

"A true one," Madoka smiled, tapping Homura's chin with her finger.

They made popcorn and retreated into Homura's room. Madoka fell onto the bed face first, the bedspring creaking gently beneath her weight.

She inhaled. "It smells like you."

"I'd hope so. It would be odd if it didn't."

Madoka grinned, grabbing the blanket and spinning around until she was wrapped up in a cocoon. Her eyes scanned the worn pile of books stacked next to the bed, the rickety desk and the assortment of clothes visible through a small opening in the closet. "I really like your room, Homura."

"Why? It's cramped, and old."

"I know. But it's just so you."

A vein in Homura's neck twitched, and she looked away. Her laptop was stuffed inside her book bag, which had in turn been thrown deep inside her closet. Asami's letter was similarly shoved as far back into her desk drawer as it could go.

Finally she forced a smile and threw one of her pillows at Madoka. "So you think I'm cramped and old?"

Her friend grinned. "In a good way."

They turned off the lights and put on the movie, using a laptop Madoka had brought. The film was a Hong Kong product called In the Mood For Love. It was apparently rather famous, though Homura was no expert.

Homura sat up against her headboard with the laptop balanced on her lap. Madoka threw the covers over both of them and laid her head on Homura's chest, her hand resting on her stomach. It rose and fell in tandem with her breathing. Homura was acutely aware of her heart throbbing in her chest throughout the duration of the film.

The movie followed a man and woman who lived with their respective spouses. The two couples were neighbors in the same apartment building, and over time the man and woman became suspicious that their respective spouses were seeing each other. It was a compelling, if not somber tale.

The man and woman hinted at entering into an affair of their own several times, but in the end it seemed they never really did anything. It was an open ended conclusion that tore at her soul. As the credits rolled, she wasn't quite sure if she had enjoyed the movie.

Homura closed the laptop and set it aside. Madoka tugged Homura down onto her back and laid her head on the girl's chest, sharing a wordless darkness between them.

"What do you want do now?" Madoka asked, her hand gently stroking Homura's collarbone.

Homura didn't know what to say. Her heart hammered insistently against her ribcage. She wondered if Madoka could hear it, and if she could what she would think.

"We can do whatever you want."

They shared no further words. A few minutes later Madoka closed her eyes and fell asleep on top of her. Homura gingerly wrapped an arm around the girl's body and tried to calm her wild pulse, and some time later she too managed to fall asleep.

They slept for an hour or two; it was difficult to tell in the darkness. She wasn't sure who woke first. One of them shifted slightly and roused the other. Madoka propped herself on her elbows and hovered over Homura, the ends of her hair tickling Homura's cheeks and chin.

The soft scent of sleep and intimacy clung to their skin. Homura could feel all of Madoka, her touch, her breathing, the softness of the girl's legs against hers beneath the covers. She felt her pulse reignite as Madoka lowered her head, running her nose along Homura's exposed neck.

"Madoka?" She breathed, softly clenching her fists. The girl's hand reached up to grab Homura's wrist, thumb caressing the delicate tendon that lay beneath the skin.

Madoka bit her lip. Even in the darkness, Homura could see that she was blushing crimson. "Homura, do you…do you dislike this?"

Her other hand came up to caress Homura's face. The girl's touch sent a shiver down her spine, and suddenly memories from the past were dredged up, raw and powerful. Madoka's warmth, her weight; it roared Homura back to a different time, when she was younger and more vulnerable, naive and stupid beyond belief.

Madoka brought her face closer to Homura's, but paused when she saw tears clinging to the girl's eyes. She drew back in shock, her hand leaving Homura's face.

"Homura? What's wrong?"

A strangled noise leaked from her throat. Pulling her arm free, Homura slowly pushed Madoka away and slipped out of the bed. She stood and took a deep shuddering breath, glad for the presence of darkness to hide her face.

"I-I'm sorry. You didn't do anything wrong. I just…need a moment."

She slipped out of the room and shut the door behind her. Madoka was left sitting alone on the bed, shrouded in darkness.


As soon as she left the room Homura went into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. She ran cold water in the sink and dunked her face under the stream, trying to calm the firestorm raging in her head.

Afterwards she stared at herself in the mirror, breathing slowly through her nose. An eerie visage of her own face stared back, dripping with water. Suddenly she was back on that bus in high school, too afraid even to breathe.

After a few minutes she felt a little better. She left the bathroom and went into the kitchen to prepare some drinks; it felt strange to return with nothing.

As she grabbed two cups from the cupboard and poured out some fruit juice. The raw feeling in her chest simmered quietly. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, but it would not subside, like a sickness she could not quite shake.


After Homura left, Madoka sat on the edge of the bed and stared sightlessly out the window.

What is wrong with me?

She didn't know what had come over her. Maybe it was the mood created by the movie? A film about love…maybe it was connected to Sayaka somehow? Her mother? She didn't know. Maybe it was all of those things. She couldn't piece it together. She sat hunched on the edge of the bed, holding her face in the hands, swamped by a mix of shame and regret.

But she was sure of one thing: in that moment she had wanted nothing more than to be closer to Homura. She wanted to hold her, caress her, to an extent that suggested possession. A raw emotion stronger than anything she had ever known, it pulsed in her veins even now.

I don't get it. I don't do things like this. It's not me. Why did I do that? She must hate me now. I have to apologize. I don't want to lose her. Not Homura.

She was startled from her thoughts when a piercing noise cut through the darkness. Homura's phone was ringing where it had been left on the bedside table. Flinching badly, Madoka stared at it for a moment before letting it ring. Eventually it stopped, and she returned to her tumultuous thoughts.

A moment later the phone rang again. She let it ring a second time, though she checked the caller ID. Someone named Toby. A friend from school perhaps? Family?

It occurred to her suddenly that she knew next to nothing about Homura. She didn't think the girl had many other friends at school, but she could be wrong. And family, Homura never mentioned. But everyone had a family at some point, whether they liked it or not.

I don't know the first thing about her, do I?

The phone ceased its ringing, but it quickly started a third time, vibrating so hard it was slowly rumbling towards the edge of the table.

She glanced at the door. This Toby person was obviously calling about something important to be this insistent. But she wasn't about to take the phone to Homura. Not now. She ought to just leave it be.

Even as she thought this, her hand reached out and picked up the phone. It was cold in her fingers as she answered it.

"Hello?"

"Sunako? It's about time! I've been trying to get a hold of you all week. What's going on with you? Are you sick again?"

"Huh?" Madoka furrowed her brow. "Who's Sunako?"

The voice on the other end paused. "Who is this?"

"This is Homura's phone. Do you have the wrong number by chance?"

The man made a knowing noise. "Oh. A pen name, huh? She's always had a dramatic flair…listen, is Homura a young lady in college? Long dark hair, acid tongue?"

"…Yes?"

"Okay, just making sure. Can you pass the phone to her, please?"

"Um…" Madoka glanced at the door a second time. "She's out at the moment. Can I pass a message along?"

"Sure. Tell, uh, 'Homura' that her editor called. Her manuscript still needs a lot of work and we have deadlines to meet. I understand one's muse does not always cooperate, but that's part of being a professional. I need an update by this weekend, no matter what."

"I'm sorry, what?" Madoka said. "What manuscript? What are you talking about?"

"She hasn't told you? Your friend's going to be a published author, young lady. A mighty difficult one to work with, mind you, but she's got talent. I'll give her that. Why don't you ask her for a signed copy? If she makes it big, it'll be a collector's item. Just kidding. Unless…"

"I see," Madoka said. Her head was spinning. "You said your name was Toby?"

"Is that what she has me saved under? For crying out loud…tell her Nakagawa Tobio from Toshoukan Publishing wants an update by Saturday, or so help me. Pretty please."

"Um, sure. I'll do that."

"Thank you."

Nakagawa Tobio ended the call. Madoka put the phone back on the bedside table. She sat in silence until Homura knocked on the door to her own room before entering, carrying two glasses of fruit juice.

"I thought you might be thirsty," she said softly, placing the drinks on her desk.

Madoka chewed the inside of her cheek. They remained at opposite ends of the room, separated by the city lights trickling through the window. Her heart thudded in her chest, choked by the pervasive darkness.

"So, um…" Homura scratched her nails against the desk. She never knew what to do with her hands. "What should we do now?"

Madoka gazed at the two lonely glasses of juice on the desk. She had hoped to stay the night, but to attempt that now would be folly.

"It's getting late. I should…I should head back."

Homura nodded. It hurt Madoka that the girl seemed relieved. "I'll walk you home."


They stood on opposite sides of the elevator down. Madoka kept her eyes trained on the little blinking light that said which floor they were on, if only to avoid looking at Homura.

As they sank to the lobby level, Madoka switched her gaze to her shoes, clutching her bag in her hands. "Homura…I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. It was wrong of me."

Homura shook her head, but their eyes did not meet. "It's fine. You're fine. It's not you. I just…have some things I haven't worked out yet."

What things? What happened? What is it that's really bothering you? Such questions lingered and ultimately died on the tip of Madoka's tongue. She could not bring herself to pry, not after what she had just done. As the two of them left the building and entered the warm summer night, she felt further from Homura than ever.

Homura walked ahead, staying a few paces in front of Madoka. She wasn't used to watching her friend from behind.

As they walked in silence, Madoka suddenly became very afraid that she had pushed Homura away forever. She thought about her apartment with a roommate she didn't want to see, her home with a mother who wasn't what she seemed, and suddenly felt extremely alone. For the last few months it felt like everyone was drifting further away. In desperation she had clung to Homura, but in a single foolish moment she might have ruined everything.

Please, don't leave me. I need you.

"Your editor called," she said, breaking the silence.

Homura froze in place. "What?"

"Your editor. Someone named Nakagawa Tobio?" Madoka continued, continuing her pace. "He called while you were out. I picked up because he wouldn't stop calling…I normally wouldn't have, but it seemed important."

Homura turned and watched as Madoka approached her. "I see. What did he have to say?"

"That he needs an update by this Saturday. I guess you've been avoiding his calls? He seemed a little upset."

Homura averted her gaze. "Toby's always upset about something."

They were standing by a small stream that ran alongside the road. There were no streetlights here, and so the soft gurgling of water was the only proof that the stream lay nearby.

"He said you're going to be an author. That you're working on a manuscript," Madoka said. "Is it true, Homura? Are you really going to be published?"

Homura did not respond immediately. In the darkness her expression was inscrutable.

"Yes. It's true," she said finally.

She turned and started walking again. Madoka trotted to keep up with her.

"That's amazing, Homura! It's your dream to be published, isn't it? I'm really happy for you!"

Homura gave her a wan smile. "Thank you."

"But I had no idea. I guess there's restrictions on that sort of thing? Like you're supposed to keep it secret till it's done?"

"No, not particularly…there's no rule like that."

"Oh. Did you tell anyone else about your manuscript?"

"No. I don't have anyone to tell, to begin with."

"…What about me?"

Another long pause.

"I just didn't want to tell anyone."

"…Oh."

They turned onto a main road. Here the lights were brighter; their surroundings were awash in whites, reds and greens. Like a small piece of Christmas at a glance.

They waited at a crosswalk for the light to change, their hair waving back and forth whenever a car swept by. Homura looked like her gaze was fixed across the street, but in reality she was looking somewhere very far away.

"So, what is the story about?" Madoka asked. "You don't seem like the type to write fantasy or adventure…I bet it's a mystery! A crime thriller maybe? You're smart, I bet you could write a good one."

Homura smiled tightly. "No, it's not quite like that."

"A political drama then? Oh, or a romance! I'd like to read your take on love. Now that I think about it, I've never read your writing, have I? You should send me something you're proud of! I might not be smart enough to appreciate it though…or how about what you're writing now? If you want I could-"

"Sorry," Homura interrupted. "But I'd rather not talk about it. Okay?"

Madoka blinked. "Oh…okay."

The lights blinked and changed. Homura shoved her hands in her pockets and started walking.

"Come on. Let's go."

Madoka did not know quite how to feel as she followed Homura back to her apartment. She had discovered something new she hadn't known before, but it raised more questions than answers. And the truth was she had not even the slightest idea how to answer those questions. That was what scared her; the realization that she might not really understand Homura at all, that they weren't as close as she had thought. It was a heartbreaking revelation, embarrassing, exposing her for everything she wasn't.

She didn't know what to do. Panic consumed her with no apparent solution. She found herself on the verge of tears the whole way back, though she hid it to avoid causing Homura any more trouble.

They reached her apartment and stood awkwardly by the lobby entrance. She wanted to hug Homura goodbye like usual, but she couldn't bring herself to do it, and Homura wasn't going to initiate. Maybe that was the truth. Maybe if she didn't chase, there was nothing between them.

In the end Homura just waved goodbye and disappeared around the corner.


Madoka made her way up to her apartment mostly on autopilot. When she tried shoving her key in the lock it wouldn't fit, and she looked up to find she was standing in front of the wrong door.

Wobbling about, she made her way to the correct one. As she approached, she heard muffled laughs and gasps from the other side. She paused with her hand on the knob, suddenly filled with dread. She had forgotten about Sayaka and Kyouko. Yet another reason she had wanted to spend the night with Homura.

Biting her lip, she considered knocking but caught herself. Why should she have to knock before entering her own apartment? There was no need for her to be so considerate. An obstinate anger rose within her. Sayaka was the inconsiderate one, not her.

She shoved the key in the lock and abruptly pushed the door aside.

Sayaka and Kyouko were laying on the couch, wrestling and playing with each other. The lights were off and the television was on, playing some movie neither of them were paying attention to.

They both started and looked up at the noise, locking eyes with Madoka. She was glad to find she hadn't walked in on anything inappropriate, but then again if she caught Sayaka doing that in the living room she would have been beyond livid.

"Madoka! You're back? How late is it?" Sayaka said, shoving Kyouko off her. The redhead flew off the couch with a painful oof. "Weren't you at Homura's place?"

Madoka stared at her roommate. Kyouko sat up straight, eyes darting between the two of them.

"I was," Madoka said finally. "I'm back now."

"Oh." Sayaka grabbed the strap of her tank top and pulled it back over her shoulder, covering herself a bit more modestly. Madoka averted her gaze. "Well, did you have a good time?"

"It was fine." Madoka brushed past the couch, nodding briefly at Kyouko before disappearing inside her room.

She could hear the two girls whispering nervously to each other through the door, but she didn't care. She fell face first into her bed, body going limp, and inhaled. It didn't smell like anything in particular.

After a moment she got up to change into her pajamas. Halfway through shrugging an oversized shirt over her head, she lapsed into staring sightlessly at the wall. Her mind replayed her conversation with Homura over and over, and the phone call before that…

It was an eerily familiar sensation that accompanied her as she sat down at her desk and opened her laptop. It was the same feeling she had when she stole her mother's work schedule, all those months ago. The insatiable curiosity that drove her to do things she shouldn't.

Her fingers moved deftly through the search engine.

Nakagawa Tobio.

Sparse results. Nothing that seemed relevant. Clicking back, she added more terms to her search.

Nakagawa Tobio Toshoukan Publishing.

There. A work profile from a company website. He was indeed a lead editor at a publishing company based in the city. Madoka spent the next few minutes clicking around their website, scrolling through their catalogue of works to get an idea of what they liked to put out. In the end though it told her nothing about Homura's story.

She devolved into clicking on random links, jumping around the site in search of a clue, anything, to key her in. It was desperate and she felt sick for it, but she didn't know what else to do. She could not bear the reality where her best friend was a stranger.

A contact page. Investor reports. Finally, Madoka clicked on the last link she had yet to visit. A list detailing the company's executive leadership. Scrolling down, her tired eyes scanned the doctored portraits on display.

Her gaze came to rest on one picture in particular.

She had only seen his face once, but once was enough. It was seared into her memory, deep and vivid like blood pouring from a wound. Before it had been just a face, without name or identity.

That all changed in one single moment. The room spun in circles as she grappled with the revelation, tried and failed to deny it. But now there was a name to the face.

Sasaki Arata.

Looking back, that was the beginning of the end.


A/N

Well, this chapter was certainly a long time coming (then again, I think I say that every time I update). Without getting into specifics, I am perhaps the most busy I have ever been in my entire life at the moment, and the current situation is likely to persist for some time. Regardless, I will do my best to keep writing and update when I can.

The plot continues to thicken! Any thoughts or feedback are greatly appreciated.

Thanks for reading!

-Banshee