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Admire Vega always seemed to run faster under the cover of night.
Her lungs burned as she pushed herself harder, faster, the counting of her laps blurring together. The moon hung high in the sky, now, over Tracen Academy’s empty practice track.
One more. Ayabe ran like she was chasing something, someone, the ghost of her that she couldn’t see anymore.
Her legs screamed, and each inhale felt like fire in her lungs. But her head was as quiet as the night around her.
Her body begged to give out and she pushed harder, searching for that star in the endless sky, each time coming up empty.
If she kept running until dawn, would it be enough?
Ayabe didn’t get a chance to ponder this. A loud voice from the bleachers shattered her flow state.
“Brava, Ayabe-san! Such dedication!”
Ayabe’s stride came to an abrupt halt. All the adrenaline from before came crashing down, and she doubled over, out of breath.
Her hair had come loose from its long ponytail, hanging over her face, and she looked through it pointlessly, as if that insufferable tone could belong to anyone but one woman.
T.M. Opera O stood like a beacon in the dark, casting her incessant light onto everything around her. Her characteristic boisterous smile lit her face, glowing impossibly brighter, shedding her light down from the bleachers onto Ayabe.
Ayabe’s ragged breathing evened out, slowly but surely, and she raised her head, glaring daggers at the woman above her.
“If you came here just to disturb my peace,” she spat, “I’m not in the mood today.”
Opera laughed, a resounding thing that soothed the suffocating silence in Ayabe’s head. Her smile stayed pinned to her face as she stepped down the bleachers as if they were her own personal stage.
Everything Opera O did was as dramatic as this.
“But Ayabe-san,” Opera pushed, tone as grand as ever, but without a hint of mocking. “Your performance today was sensational! To stand upon the greatest stage, give your most resplendent performance—all to fall before the audience’s cheers! Truly a masterpiece of tragedy!”
Ayabe’s hand clenched into a fist at her side, casting her eyes downward, away from that blinding light. She itched to lash out and her jaw felt wired shut, the sincerity in Opera’s tone too much, too overwhelming, too… bright.
That star had burned out long ago, and yet a part of Ayabe still clung to its last dying rays. But how could she keep them in her sight if another burned so brilliantly before her?
“Tragedy,” was all she could muster, venom dripping from her voice, not daring to meet Opera’s eyes again. “That’s all this is.”
Ayabe’s legs gave out from exhaustion, weak from running, from chasing that long-dimmed star. She collapsed onto the grass, knees hitting soft earth unceremoniously, bathed pathetically in Opera’s spotlight like a pitiful character in her extravagant show.
Opera’s light never strayed from her, stark against the cold night sky. Ayabe hid in her own shadow, as if it would burn her, hands gripping the fabric of her sweatpants like a lifeline.
Her long ears twitched as Opera finally descended from her pedestal, joining Ayabe in center stage, towering above her feeble form like a benevolent angel. Her silent gaze graced the crown of Ayabe’s head, hanging low, long hair obscuring every last feature to shadow.
The silence hung heavy between them, the weight of notes unsung another burden for Ayabe to bear. As always.
Until Opera, the ever-shining, ever-guiding star, broke it.
“The tragedy,” she spoke, voice low and even, serious, reaching deep into the recesses of Ayabe’s mental fortress, “is the most beautiful performance of them all.”
Ayabe chuckled bitterly at that, gaze still fixed on her hands in her lap, short nails pressing crescents into her palms through fabric, never daring to look upon the other woman.
If she let herself look too hard, perhaps she’d lose sight of this star, too.
But Opera denied her such a selfish protection. She kneeled down almost reverently, no longer out of reach, real, there, next to her—and Ayabe could not stop herself from grasping onto the soft fabric of her tracksuit. She ached to push her away, back into the far off sky, only to chase and never to reach. But her fingers curled tighter around her sleeve, selfish, stupid.
“I lost,” Ayabe hissed, gaze never straying from her lap. “And if I lose, I forget her.”
In a way, denial was easier. Easier than accepting that her star had burned out to allow her to shine, that this was what she wanted.
Ayabe’s star was a black dwarf, and so she yearned to supernova for the both of them.
Opera was uncharacteristically quiet, hands awkwardly at her sides. She did not dare move a single muscle, did not dare disturb the fragile hold Ayabe had on her. She only let Ayabe sit with the words, the openness they both knew was foreign to her.
Finally, Opera spoke.
“The tragic character is never forgotten,” she uttered, soft, as if it were a secret meant only for Ayabe. “Especially when her performance is as radiant as your own.”
Ayabe allowed herself another selfish act. She raised her head, long brown hair now completely loose forming a halo around her face, meeting Opera’s eyes. For just a brief moment, she let her gaze linger, heedless to whatever consequence would follow.
Opera didn’t step away, didn’t fall back, didn’t dim. She burned as brightly as always, eyes a world away from her theatrical mask, sincere and gentle.
Ayabe collapsed hard against her shoulder, hand gripping impossibly tighter at her sleeve, tethering herself to Opera’s orbit. Opera pulled her arm away only to wrap it around her, holding her close, bathing Ayabe in her warmth.
“Why do you bother with me?” Ayabe whispered, recoiling involuntarily as Opera’s hand found the base of her scalp, fingers slotting between strands of her long hair.
“What kind of Overlord would I be,” she murmured, voice soothing, genuine, as she combed through the length of Ayabe’s hair, “if I didn’t care for my princess?”
“Don’t,” Ayabe’s breath hitched, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, “call me that.”
Opera turned her head, pressed a featherlight kiss to the crown of Ayabe’s head. Ayabe crumbled against her completely, no walls left anymore. She buried her face in the crook of the other woman’s neck, silent sobs wracking her body as Opera held her.
“If I look too long,” Ayabe voiced, breathing heavy, uneven, “you’ll disappear.”
Opera smiled into her hair and Ayabe felt it, hands clutching hard onto the back of her tracksuit jacket, now.
“And if I lose,” Ayabe spoke again, quieter, now, “so will I.”
Opera leaned back, careful not to break free from Ayabe’s white-knuckled grip, meeting red-rimmed eyes with resolute purple ones. She held Ayabe’s gaze in an iron grip.
“If your light fades,” she declared, unwavering, “look upon me for guidance. And I promise, I shall never burn out.”
How could Ayabe lose sight of a star which eclipsed all others so brightly?