two ships, in the night

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/52100929.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/F
Fandoms: 少女☆歌劇 レヴュー・スタァライト | Shoujo Kageki Revue
Starlight (Anime), 少女☆歌劇 レヴュースタァライト -Re LIVE- |
Shoujo Kageki Revue Starlight -Re LIVE- (Video Game)
Relationships: Aijou Karen/Hoshimi Junna, Aijou Karen/Kagura Hikari, Daiba
Nana/Hoshimi Junna
Characters: Aijou Karen, Hoshimi Junna, Tsuyuzaki Mahiru, Kagura Hikari, Daiba
Nana, last two are only present in characters' actions and subtext
Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, References to Depression, if you want you can view this
as a non-poto poto au, Post-Canon
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-12-13 Words: 8,113 Chapters: 1/1
 two ships, in the night
by hoshimijunna

Summary

Rather than a murderer or a late-night religious proselyte, Junna peers through the peephole
and opens her door to a glimpse of her high school days gone by: this time, the reminder, the
gut punch takes the form of one desolate, blotchy-faced Aijo Karen.

Disbelieving her own vision, especially at this time of night, Junna swipes her glasses off of
her face and feverishly rubs at her eyes. Slipping her glasses back onto her face, she blinks
again, "Karen?"

Notes

I've felt a lot of different things while writing this and partly, I hope it shows. This is
supposed to be an agglomeration of tiny particles pressed together like kinetic sand.

See the end of the work for more notes

A trill disturbs her reading, the sudden noise causing her to jolt and send her pen flying off of
her notebook page, with a half written word scribbled and hastily abandoned in its wake. So
much for finishing her neatly annotated notes for her classic literature class early.

Exhaling a shiver, she glances down at her roommate, Gertrude. With a wry expression,
Junna inquires, "are you expecting anyone?"

When greeted with silence rather than a response indicating either yes or no or a variation of
a response between, Junna shrugs before she stands and slips her slipper on her left foot,
pausing before working her right foot into her right slipper. She made the mistake of
switching her slippers a week ago as she was getting ready, left foot adorning the right shaped
slipper and the right foot bearing the left shaped slipper and she almost tripped over herself.
It won't happen again, as long as she can help it.

Junna uses her capped pen as a bookmark of sorts for her to remember what page she was
writing in, closing the pages and slipping the notebook safely on the middle of the coffee
table. Gertrude doesn't move from her spot on the couch, but her gaze does trail imploringly
after Junna as she makes her way over to the door.

Dread bubbles up in her gut the closer she inches to the door. What if it's one of those
murderers who are door-to-door salesmen and try to sell you things, but instead stabs you? Or
shoots you? Or stabs you and shoots you? She heard about that incident on the subway the
other day; there's no way she's not entering that inescapable vehicle of the pinnacle of
American insanity without donning a bulletproof hazmat suit and totting her new sword.

Junna gathers her courage close to her chest and steels herself. Go for the groin and eyeballs
first. Maybe she should have swiped a knife from the kitchen.

Rather than a serial killer with a penchant for torturing victims alive or a late-night religious
proselyte, Junna peers through the peephole and opens her door to a glimpse of her high
school days gone by: this time, the reminder, the gut punch takes the form of one desolate,
blotchy-faced Aijo Karen.

Disbelieving her own vision, especially at this time of night, Junna swipes her glasses off of
her face and feverishly rubs at her eyes. Slipping her glasses back onto her face, she blinks
again, "Karen?"

"I," Karen glances back and forth, unaffected by Junna's apparent shock and still loitering out
on the walkway, her voice squeaks out, "I didn't know who else to turn to," the brunette peers
up at her, eyes glistening with tears. It can only be assumed from the color in Karen's face
that she's been doing an awful lot of that recently.

"Of course," as though Karen or any of her other friends ever need an excuse to visit for the
night, no matter how late or exhausted they are, "come in," Junna opens the door wider,
ushering Karen inside and closing the door behind them; she doesn't need any flies distracting
her from her guest.
Junna slips Karen's coat off and stores it in the closet beside the door on a hanger as the other
woman works her white and teal striped sneakers off in exchange for the house slippers that
rest neatly inside the doorway.

Guiding her to the couch in a manner the exact opposite of hurried, Junna shoos her
roommate for Karen to sit. If it were another day and time, she would have been able to feel
Gertrude roll her eyes, but her roommate understands and instead simply complies. The
brunette slumps against the furniture, head tilted back against the cushions. Her eyes are
unfocused, mentally whisked away to a far off land rather than grounded in the present here
and now. Junna can't decide which would be best. Karen's rarely been like this, only this
distraught when the terms surround her, Kagura-san and the black haired girl leaving her.

Minutes slip by of Karen vacantly staring in any direction that lacks indications of biological
lifeforms. Nausea is climbing up the chamber of her throat due to the mounting unease, but
Junna quells it. Karen needs time and she'll get time.

Quietly, in a tone and volume Junna hasn't heard from her since the first time Kagura Hikari
arbitrarily and suddenly disappeared from their everyday high school lives for seven months,
Karen informs her, "Hikari has a girlfriend."

Junna suppresses expressing the shock on her face, of raising her eyebrows or parting her
lips, regardless of the fact that Karen is staring at the chipped edge of her coffee table rather
than Junna herself. Tempering her voice to be perfectly even, in order to not betray her
emotions and inevitably lead Karen to spiral further, "she does?"

"She's," Karen sniffs, turning to face Junna with a wobbly, fake smile, "she's nice." Taking
Junna's slow nod as an encouragement to continue, Karen does so, "they knew each other
back when Hikari originally went to RATA before transferring to Seisho with everyone." A
tear drops down from Karen's tear duct, racing straight past her cheek to fall into her lap and
dampen the fabric of her pants. "They have all these memories and jokes that I don't have
with her." The silence that enshrouds the two of them is deafening, searing Junna's eardrums
before Karen begins suddenly once more, visibly shivering with the onslaught of her
emotions, "she's not me," Karen's voice crescendos in a sob as she launches herself forward,
burying her face into the collar of Junna's nightgown as though it is the last safe place in the
world, "Hikari has a girlfriend that she loves and it's not me!!"

It takes a second, for Junna's instincts to kick in and tell her what to do. Tentatively, Junna
raises her hand and places it atop the crown of Karen's head before she tenderly pulls it
downward. The stroking motion seems to soothe her, just a little, as Karen's sobs begin to
sound less and less as though she's risking hyperventilation.

"I thought that," Karen gulps in air, as though it's suddenly a finite resource, "I thought that
we'd always be connected, through 'Starlight', even after," Karen's head jerks downward,
studying the palms of her hands before flipping them over and studying the backs of them,
"everything. 'Starlight' was our fate. Even after we finished it, I thought we'd still be tied
together. I thought being with Hikari, forever, was my fate."

Resting the brunette safely against the couch cushions, Junna permits herself an exhale,
allowing the emotions to blossom on her face, for her voice to express her sympathy, "I'm
sorry that happened, Karen." She deserves better, the thought comes unbidden, but not
unwarranted, than this.

Junna's visitor allows herself a sheepish, almost self-deprecational sliver of a smile. "I mean,
Hikari did tell me that fate changes. I just didn't think she meant it like that," Karen blearily
rubs at her eyes.

"Then that's Kagura-san's error in judgement." Junna's fingers interlock with their adjoining
partners to form a net made of her own two hands. "That's not your blunder, it's hers." There's
no time for the trite phrases from the back of a cereal box that lack genuine meaning or any
spiel of the sort; as much as this is a swing and strike in the realm of romance, it's also within
the bounds of a lifelong friendship – an area in which Junna is and always has been lacking
behind, watching other silhouetted figures race ahead of her and leave her alone behind them,
gasping for even a droplet of the air they instinctively knew how to breathe.

What exactly is there, to say? Nothing right, it seems.

The days pass, the same as any others, only this time accompanied and punctuated by a
lovesick and brokenhearted brunette making the occasional request for Chinese takeout from
a place down the block or pickled plums from who-knows-where from underneath the cover
of a cheap, quilted blanket on her couch.

Not only is the sight of her withering disheartening, it's also unnerving – the typically
excitable and enthused Aijo Karen brought down to the depths of what may truly be some
form of a depressive episode, spurred on by some form of rejection from the person most
important to her in every way. Junna's heart sinks like a stone to the bottom of her rib cage
and makes friends with her appendix while she's unsure as to how to complete her
coursework and studies. It doesn't feel right to leave Karen alone; she can't bring herself to
scamper off to a library to do her work, but when working in the dining room – which shares
the room with the living room, as it's really just a cheap table with a two chairs – she cannot
keep her mind focused on her assignments for the life of her.

She always keeps looking to Karen, gravitating back ashore to the warm, weeping glow of
the lighthouse.

It's entirely plausible that Karen had asked Kagura-san out, for the two of them to go steady
and commit to all it is that long-distance romantic entanglements entail, that that is how this
situation was borne into being once again; but it's not Junna's place to ask how this drooping
mass of a Karen came to be, to dig her nail into the fresh and simmering bruise in the center
of Karen's heart. It's not her place to solve the problems of others for them, but she really
does want to help in some way, in any way.

As she closes the fridge to make dinner – rather than bestow leftover takeout, as Junna's not
made of money, after all – and catches Karen's shining eyes over the back cushions of the
couch while a program dimly and almost silently warbles on behind the brunette's head,
Junna's resolution hardens into solidified stone.

She can't allow this cycle of despair to perpetuate any longer. It'll kill them both, if so.
Flora and damnation and Flora.

And damnation once more.

She checks her phone, screen searingly bright in the relative darkness of her living room at
nighttime.

No new messages; everything has been read. Tsuyuzaki-san's icon of Suzudaru Cat cheerfully
gripping a baseball and bat whilst sporting a colorful ball cap still remains near the top of the
direct messages screen, preceded only by one other individual.

Where are the stars.

Her gaze lingers over the message bar before she shuts the screen off and darkness swallows
her vision up once more. Instead of allowing it into the bone arena of her skull to whisper,
she sweeps her sights out the window, internalizing the speckled dots of lights shining out
other open windows. The blanket is pulled up around her chest, where her arms lie against
the material. It scratches and chafes uncomfortably against the exposed bare skin despite her
barely moving or shifting. Junna slips the fabric away from her body and folds it on top of
the cushions.

She's not tired. She should sleep. She hovers in the doorway of her bedroom, only able to
watch Karen's fitful slumber as sorrow carves out a home in the cavity of her heart.

The following Tuesday, when her classes end early and she has no tutoring hours scheduled
for the rest of the day, she returns to her cramped apartment and winds her way back to her
bedroom, the part of the apartment furthest from the door aside from the adjoining bathroom
in her bedroom.

"Get dressed," Junna tells the humanoid lump tucked into her bed as she shrugs on a jacket.
She resists the urge to gently nudge the bundle underneath her blankets.

She seems to have interrupted Karen's REM cycle because the brunette blinks at her the same
way Junna blinks in search of her glasses every single morning. "Hm?" She can only hope
Karen wasn't victim to any unfortunate nightmares again.

Taking in the sight of Karen rolling over, Junna almost wants to reach out to physically sit her
up. "Get dressed," she sternly repeats in the voice she had specifically used when enforcing
rules as the class representative and later as class president, riffling through her closet for the
duffel Karen had brought with her from... wherever she had previously been – perhaps
Tokyo? But it sounded like she had visited Kagura-san in person, so then perhaps London is
the correct assumption – to Junna's apartment.

Junna had stored the bag in a corner somewhere, in the bottom of her closet, not quite sure
what to do with it. She ended up being the one to pull out new clothes for and, on the off
chance, lend Karen some of her own. Now she pulls out a clean outfit of a white sweater with
red highlights, pleated khaki shorts with a built-in belt, a red turtleneck, and a wad of grey
socks and lays them neatly on the edge of the bed.

Spying the chosen outfit at her sock-clad feet, Karen inquires, slurring with slumber,
"where're we going?"

"Somewhere fun," is Junna's intentionally cryptic answer, as she scratches an itch on the right
side of her neck.

She cringes internally at the ticket price, but hands over her New York Musical and Drama
Academy student identification card for a discount and slips off her face mask to verify that
she is the individual in the image, though she simply pays the regular admission for Karen,
who trails after her as through still residing in the haze of a not-so-far-off dream.

Thick red drapes restrict the light from the clouded sky in Times Square. She tries not to
think about the last time everything was this suffocatingly scarlet.

The florescent lights overhead are so bright that she can feel the pinpoints of white poking,
prodding, invading the safety of her closed eyelids, breaching the shield and bestowing upon
her the star of tightness around her head that signifies an oncoming headache. Junna pops
open the cap of her aspirin bottle from her pocket and dry swallows two.

Water isn't allowed in the museum, understandably so.

She ignores the pointed look Karen fixes her.

"Junjun," the brunette begins, "not that your getting me out of bed isn't appreciated, but,"
Karen's lips quirk downward and she suppresses what is likely a yawn behind her teeth, "you
know I'm not a fan of museums in the way you are, right?" She takes her own ripped ticket
anyway, sliding it into the pocket of her pants.

"Oh, I'm completely aware. I didn't bring you here for me." Junna leans her back on the
handle to push the door to the first exhibit open, gesturing Karen in first before following
behind her. "There's something I think you should see."

The first room is actually a relief to Junna, dim lighting in favor of drawing attention to the
various different maps projected onto the walls in immersive video projections. They're
different locations throughout the city and she recognizes a few of them from physically
going to the places, such as the map of Times Square and that one time Yukishiro-san insisted
on her being spontaneous and joining the taller woman on a day trip to Union Square.

She doesn't, however, care much about the financial district in comparison to the depictions
of Herald Square.

"You didn't bring me here to look at a bunch of maps," regardless of the implications of her
statement, Karen seems to be interested by the changes detailed in the projection of Times
Square. Junna returns to the brunette's side, standing tall. Shapes churn and swirl on the blank
canvas in front of them, illuminated only by what is shown on the area that acts as a screen.
"I didn't, no." That's not even to say that there are only maps here, not within the rest of the
multi-floored building with numerous different exhibits. She's now pretty sure Karen wasn't
paying attention to anything at all on their subway ride here. Junna doesn't find it in herself to
blame her in any form.

Karen hums, wondering aloud, "was it just to get me out of the house?"

They're not playing 20 Questions here, but she'll entertain her inquires. "Partially," Junna can
give her a sliver of an answer, but she doesn't want to raise her hopes up, "but not entirely."
Though she's pretty sure she's inadvertently raising those hopes, regardless of what she
happens to say or not say.

"I don't like waiting for surprises," she deflates, drawing just a hair closer to her previous,
regular self. It's a relieving step in the hopefully right direction, if only in the slightest bit.

"I know. You'll find out soon enough, though."

The moment where Karen slaps her detective hat on is almost laughably transparent to Junna.
"It's not my birthday," the inspector posits.

Offhandedly, Junna responds, "it's not mine, either."

Karen passes through the door that leads to the following room, holding the door wide open
for Junna, comical frown plastered onto the woman's face. "That's because yours is only three
days after mine."

Junna shrugs.

She comes to a halt in front of the Broadway AIDS quilt, enraptured by the unique square
patches all adding up to signify a horrific tragedy. Thousands of different fragments of
emotions swirl within the cavern of her skull before she nods at nothing in particular – maybe
all of the tens of squares at once – and continues forward.

Together, the two of them meander through the various different displays. Junna's heart
lurches, photograph after photograph that she captures on her phone. The irony is not lost on
her; she almost revels in it.

She marvels at the simple yet evocative costuming from Arrie, snapping a photo of the iconic
dress to send to Saijo-san. Karen, under her breath but still loud enough for Junna to pick up
on, oohs audibly upon latching her gaze onto the West Side Story jacket through the glass
door protecting the garment. The shield protects the jacket while still rendering it visible and
photogenic; Karen is drawn in from the patterns and hipster flowers to the single point in her
focus.

Karen allows – gestures for Junna to do so, actually, upon learning that photography within
the museum is not only permitted but highly encouraged – her to snap a picture of her
smiling, a jolly and genuine flash of teeth and upward curl of her lips, in front of the caged
jacket as the brunette throws a peace sign to Junna's camera. Her heart warms her entire body.
Amused, Junna takes multiple photos of the Ziegfeld Follies room, from the golden cursive
sign with lights embedded in the blue background to the fantastical, the lavishly intricate and
vibrant costumes haloed by golden and silver strung beads and the informational block of text
on the wall. She groups them all together, drafting the photographs in a message to
Yukishiro-san at a later point in time.

The air is tenderly squeezed from her chest when the two of them encounter the backstage
display area, with its brightly lit scenery and otherworldly costumes, most of which are
dresses. Karen's nose wrinkles at the display of concealers in the make-up section of the
room, and in response Junna coughs out a laugh. She's pretty sure Karen caught her, either
way.

She can't bring herself to mind, as long as Karen's enjoying herself, as well.

At one point, after dragging the tips of her fingers against the strings of thousands of crystals
representing each and every performance of the show on Broadway as she steps into the
almost ominously dim room, she feels tempted to simply seat herself in front of the Phantom
of the Opera exhibit and just simply stare.

The Red Death costume stares back at her – skull with the egregiously gaudy hat and all –
unmoved by the unrelenting, almost palpable torrent of her emotions.

Karen ambles up next to her, shifts back and forth from one foot to the next under the dim
lights before she speaks in a way that suits the demeanor of the room. "They don't have a
Raoul costume," she comments lightly, surely knowing Junna's mental state is anything but.

"Nor a Christine one," Junna replies, shrouded by the cover of night. She takes a picture with
steady hands anyway, to send to Karen later tonight.

She's distantly glad there isn't a Christine costume. She doesn't know what she would have
thought, what emotions would have clambered to the surface of her brain and chewed away
at her set plan for the day.

She can't say she's surprised to walk straight into Karen's back when the brunette abruptly
halts upon entering the room for the special exhibit. The brunette is completely unperturbed
by this happening and she instead is rooted into place, stock still. Drenched in a soft purple
light designed to signify the otherworldly setting of a specific festival from a nearby and
distant planet from long ago, in the distant future, the two breathe. Junna at least steers her
away from the doors so that incoming visitors don't have the chance to turn Karen into a
pancake on the glistening floor.

"Junjun," she murmurs, a feather-light whisper, "what is this?" They both know that Karen
knows what she's looking at.

"This," Junna exhales, mapping Karen's shuttered and cryptic expression with her gaze as she
carefully selects her words to formulate a response, "is why I brought you here."
The drop curtain is pulled back from Karen's face, revealing the darkness loitering and
fermenting behind her expression, festering in a way that catapults Junna's stomach to flop
around uselessly in her ankles.

Save a few choice words, Junna's face pales as her thoughts swerve madly from one train of
thought to the next. She's going to pummel me! This was the dumbest decision ever!! Stupid,
stupid; can't you think of anyone else for once? She swallows past the dryness in her throat,
past the lump in her throat, past the boiling self-loathing at the fact that she thought she could
ever help if she never could or did before, but instead of her head snapping back from a
powerful closed fist to the nose, her body rocks, swaying off-kilter from a sudden, surprise
embrace.

Hesitantly, Junna's arms curl around Karen's back to return the gesture. Karen squeezes her.

They spend the most amount of time in the special exhibit for Starlight. Karen is enthralled
and captivated by the displays for the original costumes, most particularly the shoulder
shawls that Flora and Claire wear and how truly different they are from the ones used in the
production in Seisho; apparently their only true similarities lie within Flora wearing a red
cape on her left shoulder and Claire donning a blue cape on her right shoulder. The lengths,
the fabrics, the designs and shapes of the emblems attaching the cape to the dress have all
been significantly altered since their conception and debut, all based upon the choices of the
costume department.

Karen goes on to continue detailing the history of the costuming and the fabric used for the
simple, stately garments that Flora and Claire wear. She gives special attention to how the
original play lacked the bangles and bracelets that the 99th class used, though both
productions did use hair accessories. Junna reads the descriptions of the items on the wall,
occasionally translating a word or phrase to for Karen to allow the other woman to give her a
more in-depth response to the details.

The aura of melancholy saturating the air around Karen simultaneously lightens as well as
deepens in a manner Junna can earnestly comprehend about the stage.

Karen debates on taking a photograph of herself in front of the displayed items, wavering
from do or do not, but ultimately decides against it. They exit through the gift shop and buy
nothing.

She doesn't send the message to Yukishiro-san or the one to Saijo-san, but she does send the
one to Karen. It's as though she's eclipsed by the brunette, monitoring her soundlessly as
Karen swipes through the photographs on her phone.

"There isn't one of you," Karen observes aloud after she sets her phone down in the middle of
the table to start on her meal, sporting a dissatisfied expression as she chooses what part to
begin eating first.

Junna nudges the sink handle down to turn the tap off, depositing the water bowl on the floor
for Gertrude to drink. "Hm?" Gertrude taps her tail against the side of Junna's leg in thanks.
"There should be one of you," Karen blithely comments, after chewing and swallowing a
bite, "since there's one of me."

"No," Junna places the food bowl on the floor, watching the way her cat's tail sways as she is
distracted from the water to the food by the act of mercilessly devouring the dinner she is
inhaling, "it's alright with me."

"Why didn't you take one of yourself?" Karen glances up from her plate, limitless stare
boring into Junna's eyes and rooting her into place. "Or have me take one?"

Junna's smile is a facsimile of her real smile. It is still ill-fitting on her countenance,
stretching her lips at what is an odd angle for the rest of her face. "I didn't want one taken."

1 new message.

Warily and with a tinge of hesitation, Junna taps on the notification.

Congratulations! You and your family have just won a surprise trip to the Bahamas for
a 7-day stay at a luxurious, all-inclusive resort! Click here to register!

She closes her eyes; turns her phone off.

Sighs.

This must be what dusk, what spilled ink feels like.

She should probably block that phone number, but doing so simply feels like a task for
another time.

A shuffle disturbs her light slumber. She's always been a light sleeper, but her first thought is:
oh god, what about Karen?

Gertrude, alert and awaiting, slaps Junna's hip with her tail.

There's something indescribable about the fact that it is Karen who appears to stands vigil
over her bed like an angel. She clamps her mouth around a scream, but it does nothing for the
fact that the sight almost sent Junna's blood pressure throttling into a coronary, rather than it
being a faceless stranger with a crimson-drenched knife or donning a balaclava. "Thank you."

"For-for," she stutters, gasps for breath, thought scattering into the wind while briefly
recalling her rescue inhaler is nearby, somewhere, around here, somewhere, "for what?" She
successfully shoves her glasses onto her face, even with her shivering hands.

Karen is visibly unperturbed by Junna's reaction of being woken up to a shadowed figure

bowed over her bed. It just happens, you know. "For taking me to the museum," the sincerity
in her serious tone somewhat mollifies Junna's erratic breathing.
"Y-Yeah," her head spins, eyes flickering about her cramped room. Junna rakes her
fingernails up and down the right side of her neck with the intent to soothe rather than tear
the flesh apart; she shudders, instead. It doesn't help. "You can turn the light on, if you want."

Karen flicks the switch and the room is instantly bathed in brightness; she's in her pajamas,
but her face isn't blotchy or tear-streaked, which Junna counts as an achievement and a
marker of solid improvement. "I didn't mean to scare you." Her voice is quieter than usual.
She's probably cold. "I thought you were still awake. Your chest barely moves when you're
asleep."

"I know," Junna's breathing evens, she gulps in one last breath of air before her lungs resettle,
"I know."

"Junjun," Karen lowers herself onto the edge of the bed, tiptoeing on eggshells as not to
spook her again, too far in the opposite direction of her, too far away and through pixelated
glass, "I'm sorry." Too far.

Karen's hand is warm against her own, fingers brushing against each other. "I know." She
adjusts her glasses and the brunette's expression becomes clear in the focus of her vision.
Shushing her gently, "it's okay."

Gertrude burrows her face against the outline of Junna's leg, swiftly returning to her peaceful
slumber.

No new messages.

She returns to her coursework, outlining the plot of a play they'll be drafting to perform at the
end of the semester for a group project. She's not the best at this kind of writing, but she tries
her hardest. Karen smiles, at her tenuous – but genuine.

No new messages.

She smiles back.

The knots in Karen's long hair are just astounding. She can't help but wonder what lead Karen
to the choice of growing it out as opposed to keeping it short as she had for what Junna can
only assume to be the entirety of her life. Her hair lacks the volume and thickness of Junna's,
thankfully for the brunette, but the extra length seems to make up for it.

"You don't have to do this," Karen's protests fall on Junna's selectively deaf ears as she works
her fingers through a particularly stubborn tangle and coaxing the fibers to unwind from
themselves.

"I don't, no," she hums, picking at the tied strands. "I want to."

"I've been brushing my hair," it's not a pout, but a tenuous statement. Ready to shatter at any
moment, unless specifically and specially reinforced.
"I know." The addition of auburn strands in Junna's own hairbrush attests to that statement.
"You don't have to explain yourself to me, you know."

Karen bobs her head slowly, cognizant of Junna's hands ensnared in her hair. "I know."

Junna works out the last tangle with an upwards quirk of her lips. "There," she gazes into
Karen's hazel eyes in their reflection, marveling at the shine tenderly creeping back into the
shorter woman's stare.

"Yeah," Karen rests her palms on Junna's hands at her shoulders.

The following days lead to Karen perking up both physically as well as mentally. The process
is gradual, but the wait is worth it, in order to see the smiles that were normal return to the
ecosystem after being flushed out from lack of resources.

Karen accompanies her on walks in the evening and to the grocery store in the morning,
every couple of weeks. She attempts to play with Gertrude, foiled only by the fact that
Gertrude is just lazy and prefers quality time to exercise time. The second-hand view of Aijo
Karen's roller coaster of turmoil and fleeting emotions simmers down and allows the dust to
settle to reveal who she's most familiar with.

It's a habitat restoration.

A human rebirth.

Karen peers close as though trying to ascertain something about Junna's appearance – if her
intense scrutiny is anything to go by – before she asks out of the blue, "does your neck hurt?"

This is what Junna gets for her nervous tick, huh. Damn her. "No," comes her instinctive
answer, guarded yet not defensive as her hand draws closer to her neck. It rests above the
pink line – noticeable to only to Junna and her reflection in the mirror, as she has found out –
in case Karen were to try something funny to seriously investigate. But it's clear to Junna that
she's not like that now; Karen is more mellow than when she was infatuated with 'Starlight,'
but being too cautious never hurt anyone... other than Junna.

Karen leans back, shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet as she raises an eyebrow and
crooks her head to the side, fixating Junna with a disbelieving look. "Really?" Her hazel eyes
twinkle with stardust harnessed and smuggled from across the farthest edges of the galaxy,
even here and now, threatening to draw out all of Junna's secrets one by one and lay them
bare.

She can't look.

"There's nothing you need to worry about," Junna's fingernails curl into the flesh where her
shoulder and neck join together as one indistinguishable entity. The act will probably going to
leave crescent shaped indents in the pale flesh for half an hour or so, "it's already," she
swallows, throat constricting as she does her best to force breath through the constriction of
it, "scarred over."

"Oh," is Karen's hollow response, almost an apology of sorts. Then, without any prior
warning, she struggles with her hands fluttering over her shirt. Karen finally decides
something in her head, gripping at the hem of her pale yellow t-shirt before pulling it over her
head and depositing it next to her on the floor.

With Karen sitting in front of her bearing her pale chest, somehow this moment feels more
intimate or invasive then the multitude of times they all changed clothes in front of each other
or bathed together back in Seisho. Karen takes Junna's hand and draws it close to her chest,
she doesn't know what she's looking for until Karen holds her hand hovering over a pink T-
shaped scar in the middle of her chest, where her sternum resides. "I understand." Their eyes
hold contact, unyielding. "Mahiru-chan told me about what happened," guiltily, Karen
droops, "between you and Banana."

Junna draws her hand away at that, skin prickling as though her nerves are trying to strike in
a revolt and poke through the skin to walk on their own to a new stage, "Tsuyuzaki-san did?"
She offers Karen her shirt back, clutching it with a white-knuckle grip to prevent her hand
from shaking.

"More or less, with your," Karen's gaze fixates on her shirt in Junna's hand as she takes it
back and holds it herself, "revue. Something about hunting."

"Something about hunting indeed," murmurs Junna, expression sinking as her mind spins
corkscrews into the oblivion of her imagination.

Popping her head out from the hole of her shirt, Karen continues. "But." The brunette's
eyebrows draw together, and she crosses her arms over her chest after she pulls them through
the arm holes, "from what she told me, nothing like that," is Karen talking about her neck? Or
just stabbing her? Whichever Karen means, she doesn't clarify, "happened there. Did
something happen before?"

Half amused, Junna sighs, as though it will rid her face of the aching expression she knows
she's adorning. Quirking her lips up in an attempt to not revisit those memories, Junna
replies, "there's always a 'before,' Karen." Upon noticing the brunette's blank, slightly
confused expression, Junna hesitantly continues, "when we were going to the New National
theater, the eight of us." The words catch in her throat, as though she hasn't retold this story to
herself dozens of times. Saijo-san materializes beside her on the seats in her mind's eye, the
blonde slinging her arm around Junna's shoulder in an well-intentioned attempt to get a rise
out of her and chip away at the emotional dam she had painstakingly formed. "We don't know
where you went, but Nana thoroughly annihilated us in a revue. It was after that," Junna's
hand falls to her lap, resisting the urge to scrub at the nonexistent 'blood' staining her hands.

It's not as though it's real. She knows that. It's enough to look and see that the only thing
underneath her fingernails is her own flesh. She's real.

"Anyway," Junna raises her voice, in a bid to extinguish, exsanguinate those thoughts from
her mind before the weeds can continue to sprout and infest her psyche, "all's well that ends
well."

"Junjun," hurt cracks through Karen's voice, striking an aching bolt of frost down Junna's
spine. There's nothing more Karen needs to say, nor is there anything Junna wants to say.

She can only scorn herself.

"It shouldn't be so raw," Junna spits the word out as though it's a poison coating her mouth;
dripping down the tube of her throat; her hair dusting against the sides of her neck, "still. It
all happened months ago. So," her hands furl at the edge of her shirt, "why?"

"It's the same for me, too." Sympathy floods Karen's eyes, coloring them from hazel into a
thousand different shimmering shades that lack the fitting, appropriate words in any human
language. "But I don't think you need me to tell you the answer to that."

Defeated, Junna intones, "no," she inspects her fingernails and cuticles; resists the urge to
scratch her neck, "I don't."

What happened with Nana was disastrously bad enough, feverish cold sweats and eggshells
between the suspended eternity of the train and their revue. Even if Nana revealed all of her
poison-tipped words of rudeness in the manner that she did, she knows who she is, who she's
always been. And it makes her sick, flushed with a rose tint and tint-less glasses. She's going
to succumb to her idiotic emophiliac self again, after so long of simply holding steady and
being somewhere near the realm of not-too-weird.

She doesn't stop cold sweating that night until she showers at maximum speed, spending the
rest of her allocated minutes seated against the cool wall of the stall, relentless sigh crawling
up from her chest.

1 new message.

She ignores it.

Stupid telemarketers.

"Why me?"

Karen places her chopsticks down and redirects her attention from the takeout food to Junna.
"What do you mean?"

She doesn't meet Karen's gaze, instead resorting to aimlessly picking at her noodles. "You
could have gone to Saijo-san or anyone else; why did you choose to come to me?"

"You're Junjun," she answers, as though it means anything in particular. Sensing Junna's
internal sigh, Karen elaborates, "Clau-chan and Banana, they're," her eyebrows draw in,
reaching out for each other before snapping away, "too close." To Kagura-san, no elaboration
needed on that front.

"And Mahiru-chan is still living with Futaba-chan and Tendo-san and they only have enough
room for the three of them. Kaoruko-chan is," Junna politely withholds her comments
regarding Hanayagi-san, waiting instead for Karen to speak, "too busy with the school." She
levels her with a stare. "So I chose Junjun, you."

Junna bites back a snicker dripping with contempt for herself. "You really just make it sound
like it was a process of elimination rather than an actual choice," she carries onward through
Karen's sputtered disagreements, "but it doesn't matter, even if it's true. I'm glad, that you
chose to rely on me. You don't have to be alone in this. You have me here, with you," in
whatever darkness that roils their way.

"Yeah." Karen's smile is shaky, verging on watery, "and besides, at the very least, I thought
you could relate... to me, even if our situations were different."

Junna's throat dries up. "Ah." She itches at the side of her neck, more instinctual than
compulsive, though she felt no need to sate an annoying sensation. Of course that's why, her
thought is so fond that it borders on the precipice of bitter.

"I-I didn't mean," the brunette quiets when Junna's head swivels from side to side.

"It's fine." Junna chews the inside of her cheek. Her lips quirk up. "Really." It's not a smile.

3 new messages.

Have you heard from Karen-chan? She went to London to see Hikari-chan, but I
haven't heard from her since then. I'm a little worried.

Junna-chan, are you okay?

Did something happen?

Oh. Junna scratches her neck, stops as she realizes what she's doing, and starts again – this
time in a more gentle manner, almost tracing her nails over the skin rather than digging into
the flesh in attempt to gouge herself out of herself. It won't matter much in the end, as there
will still be horizontal pink lines nonetheless.

Karen's here with me. We're fine. I'll tell her to contact you.

Junna's phone pings in response almost instantly after sending the message. She'll give credit
to Tsuyuzaki-san – she never gives up. Resentment curdles in her chest at the thought of
never giving up, persistent and dedicated determination. That doesn't apply to the flailing her.

Thank goodness! I'm glad you're both okay.

She can feel the near palpable hesitance in the next message that arrives, Do you know if
something happened with Hikari-chan?
Junna's mind shifts back to glassy-eyed Karen standing on her doorstep, red and shivering. It
doesn't matter if it ever was, but it is definitely not her place to say anything, here and now.
Whatever occurred is a story of Karen's to tell, not Junna.

I think you should ask her. It would be good for her to talk to you. Now of course she has
no solid idea as to whether that would be true or not for Karen, but she figures it can't hurt...
much too badly. Hopefully.

Besides, Karen does need to talk to someone else other than Junna and her roommate, her cat.
Gertrude rarely talks back, anyway. It's been too long. She deserves better.

Karen's phone – shockingly still alive somehow, despite the fact that Junna has never seen it
charging even once in her apartment – trills in a series of rings signifying an incoming call, a
couple of seconds later. She wouldn't doubt that Karen has chosen different ringtones for all
of her contacts.

"Hello," answers the brunette, greeting stilted and hesitant as she's visibly uncertain as to how
to act in the face of Tsuyuzaki-san and what she must know is pure and unadulterated fear
and worry for Karen's well-being.

Junna leaves the room and leaves her to it; infringing and eavesdropping on the call would be
rude. She has lines to read over, anyway.

1 new message.

She ignores it.

She isn't going to be fooled twice – that would be her own blunder.

Junna has seen this production at least five times before, so she thinks she knows the plot
quite well by this point. Not that she's disinterested in the events transpiring on screen by any
means, as there is always something new to discover upon every watch, but she allows
herself the chance for her mind to wander. Or, more so, her gaze to wander.

Junna finds herself studying Karen's face in the bright flashes on the television where white
and brighter colors dominate the screen, lifting the darkness from shrouding Karen's ever-
changing reactions from her.

"Karen," a blast of bright color erupts from the television screen, dousing the room in light. It
catches both of their faces and Junna can see the hue from her peripheral. It's now or never, a
voice rings through her head, perhaps her own. Junna's left shoulder bumps up against
Karen's right shoulder, forming a sort of right angle from the way Junna leans against her.
Nerves searing with courage, Junna places her hand atop Karen's thigh. She watches Karen's
gaze flicker from Junna's hand to Junna's eyes that fixate onto her own.

Daiba Nana doesn't matter.

Kagura Hikari doesn't matter.

All she can see now is Aijo Karen, dazzling in her focal point of technicolor tunnel vision.

"Kiss me."

Karen's hazel eyes blink once, twice, before the television retreats to a scene with more
muted colors playing on the screen. The brunette swallows, but doesn't look away. "Huh?"

In her mind's eye, Junna watches the little Hoshimi Junna inside her head kick herself in the
leg and yeah, her too, but she can't cower away now. So Junna clears her throat and repeats
herself, "I said kiss me."

"Junna," she murmurs, barely above the register of a whisper. Karen doesn't move, locked
stock still in place like a sun.

Junna orbits around her, pushing herself to stand and flickering her gaze anywhere but her
roommate. "A-Ah, never mind." Idiot, idiot, idiot, IDIOT! Why did I have to go and open my
big mouth!? I just had to go and put my foot in it! "Forget I said anything," she quips bitterly,
teeth grit in the way her dentist recommended her not to do.

Before she can hastily retreat out of range, Karen's hand encircles her wrist, a snare; a
bracelet; a bangle.

"I don't think this can last," she confesses, selfishness slicing through the silence, forlorn
expression highlighted in the glow of the light of the paused television. "But we should try,"
her hand slips from Junna's wrist to clasp their hands together, "shouldn't we?"

"No," Junna feels herself shaking her head by how her hair tickles her chin and her vision
shifts. She closes her lips around a corralled, caged sigh. The fight seeps out of her, rolling
away like the waters of ebbing tide sliding back out to sea. This isn't fate, not for either of
them. Left behind tangent lines warp to become gravitating asymptote lines. "We both
deserve better than this, don't we?" She slides back onto the couch, into the still-warm spot
she had just vacated. The lack of fight transmutes into anxiety. She rakes her fingernails up
and down her neck. It doesn't help. "Just because I love you doesn't mean I should be your
rebound. I'm sorry. It wasn't right of me." You deserve better than that.

In a tone that harbors no judgement, nor doubt, Karen bluntly inquires: "You love Banana,
too, don't you?"

"I love you both," she confesses, moral dirt and grime coating her skin at even daring to utter
something as disgusting like that aloud, but she doesn't allow the darkness to swallow her up
and tie her tongue, "for different reasons." She can't talk about this. Not to anyone. Shift
gears. "We should focus on being Stage Girls, rather than anything else." Love blinds.

"That's how we got here in the first place, the stage," Karen reflects and honestly, truer words
have never been spoken. Without Karen; without Nana; without the stage; where would she
be? Where would any of them be, without each other? "But you're right, as always." Karen
exhales, unreadable expression upon her face cracking to reveal the deepest form of all-
encompassing love. "This is... what we've chosen to dedicate our lives to."

She agrees, words piling and clumping together to form an unbreakable knot in her throat,
constricting and thickening. She forces her lips to straighten out and remain unmoving.
"There's always next time."

"There's still right now, you know," Karen returns, in a tone almost akin to chastising her, but
doesn't leave a moment for Junna to be surprised or to mull over what she means. The
brunette releases Junna's hand and draws in closer, bows over Junna's body with her hands
braced on her cheeks to place her lips against the skin of Junna's forehead in a point of
contact.

Junna doesn't know how much time passes in the vacuum of charged silence between them,
rigid and unyielding even to their own intermingling breaths and tears.

Maybe it doesn't end.

Maybe it's forever.

Maybe it's a loop.

2 new messages.

Junna can't say she's at all surprised in any way when she wakes up the next morning and
feels a nonexistent frigid draft swoop down over her from the ceiling above her head, fanning
outwards from her chest to her the tips of her toes. It doesn't matter if the sensation is merely
in her head or a result of her faulty thermostat. It still impacts her. Junna plucks her sweater
from the top of her dresser and shrugs it on over her nightgown, curling the body tightly
around her torso to fend off the chill.

Running mostly on autopilot, she refills Gertrude's food bowl before cleaning her water bowl
and giving her fresh water.

Only her cat greets her, requesting breakfast and quality time as she hops down from her
position curled up on the couch, and a note on the dining room table. She gravitates over to it,
a meteor wrangled into orbit.

Junjun, the long yellow sticky note from the drawer beside her refrigerator begins,

Thank you, for pulling me back up to my feet. You held onto my hand even when I let go of
everything, of you. Hikari is right. Fate changes. And you're right, too. There's always next
time. But right now is now. I have to find my own stage, again and again. The stage is remade
and so are we.

Isn't there a saying about two ships at night? I read one of your quote books in the living
room. It helped pass the time. You're more than just a ship. You're Junjun.
Fatefully,

Aijo Karen

Junna rubs underneath her glasses frames at the sleep coagulated in the edges of her eyes. In
her peripheral, Gertrude stares up at her from the floor, imploringly. Despite her eyebrows
scrunching inwards, an ember of a smile flickers on her face, warmth echoing through her
body.

When did Karen become this, so wise?

3 new messages.
End Notes

I've never been to The Museum of Broadway and only discovered its existence while
researching for this fic, so don't evaporate me if I got some things wrong. Artistic liberty and
whatnot. However, I did use various articles from the Internet for them, which you can find:
here, here as well, also here, the official Museum website and lastly: the Museum's official
Instagram account.

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