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Under the watchful eyes of a ticking clock, Lou hands over her exam paper, confiscated and dabbed beneath a heap of blood, sweat, and tears over an estimated span of ninety minutes. She passes one last glance at the persistent mass working still in the classroom who are still figuring out how text-book history of art should have worked, before quietly advancing outside for a peace of mind in a tall cup of iced coffee.
For the slightest attempt of clarification, an iced coffee will not give her an A. However, the load of caffeine might perhaps provide her with a confidence boost so insane that her lower back heals in an instant—extra emphasis on might as she belongs not in the study of statistics but art. History will decimate the ever-lingering stain in time that will ever paint Lou without her exhaustion, but the most extreme in numbers will call her a heathen while tied above flames in execution. Perhaps not to that extent of hyperbole and both will call her a dyke above everything else, but she would rather starve in the studio working on some projects and sleep until a demented multimillionaire finds and decides to sponsor her for a lifetime.
“Ah.”
Lou’s mouth remains slightly agape after the recent collision between steps, almost stumbling backwards when a firm extension of one’s arm caught her. Beneath the silencescape provided in her oversized hoodie, her surprises burst from the back of her eyes; it provides her enough light to dibble in sheer disbelief of someone’s presence.
“I take it that the last exam left you so dehydrated that even watered down espresso can’t help stitching your pretty mouth closed, mm?” Madara, into the unassumed encounter, grins and readjusts her stance. A cup of coffee remains undisturbed in her grasp—and even with Lou being enveloped in another of hers, it never appears as if something ever collided in the first place. She fixes her own guise, bespectacled behind tinted glasses as a wake of her smile captures Lou’s cheek in its reach. “How was the test?”
Madara’s fingers came to tug at Lou’s lower jaw for a neat yet gentle attempt to shut the gawking. Lou, however, despite the kind reproach, swallows back the wonders behind how good Madara looks in her coat—her figure completely reprised in muted brown contrasting the snow outside to mingle with the other students and faculty members. Heck—even the tardiest of her looks will never compare to the rest of lousy art students. Madara Mikejima has always been above that, equivalent only to runway models having performed for all their lives.
Lou can genuinely think that she has spent her lifetime’s worth of luck to bag a literal goddess and Madara will brush it off, laughing along with a decrepit brilliance characteristic in her voice.
“It was as is,” completely oblivious to any sort of attention possible to draw in, Lou nuzzles to Madara’s palm, drowning the worn-out undertone of her face in warmth familiar to herself. She stares at the cup of coffee left unattended behind streaks of affection, before asking away quietly, “I don’t think I’d survive if you never prayed for me, Mama. However, is that for me?”
Madara fetches one last look at a label stuck to the cup read only as Lou’s name instead of hers. Brimming with sunshine, she hands over the cup of iced coffee before linking her arm with Lou’s waist, steps distancing themselves apart from the grounds of campus’ cafe.
“The amount of opinion that I had to write down for one question should be a crime! How is it legal that you have to remain in context to explain the history of nude paintings?”
“But it is legal. I think you’d even sing in paragraphs if I start taking these off.”
“Oh, come on—you know I’m always whipped without a decent comeback for that and it’s not fair!”
Walking into the parking lot, it is the only moment ever displaying Madara’s hands off Lou as the latter continues babbling away. Both of them come to enter the car for the frontmost seats, the warmth inside showcasing a parable of home only when Madara starts driving and Lou aims for her favourite in the music player.
Madara Mikejima only has twenty minutes away from her turn to perform onstage yet she appears everything but restless despite the overbearing undernature. She keeps herself looking busy by nagging Ryuseitai’s members through a grin only displayed in a fury-worthy family gathering. With the knowledge of this show purposed for charitable means, she keeps her spirits rich but composed, sometimes exchanging looks with her manager and peeking at the situation outside.
At times excluded from the context of this fundraising show, Madara will return to her dressing room to check if Lou sends her something—and indeed, she does. Albeit being away under the pretence of a project, Lou still sends her reaction pictures and stickers worth of encouragement through the messaging app. It will sometimes derive a giggle out of her, which is neat, but neater is the stainless mark of a kiss she subconsciously plasters in-between the playful exchange.
“It’s almost time,” says her into a voice note, besting the previous attempt not to giggle any longer, “I’ll see you at home. If you don’t feel like reheating the stew I made for you, perhaps opt for a takeout that we both can enjoy.”
At the backstage outside her dressing chamber, Madara starts feeling uneasy out of nowhere. She softly clutches upon her belly, feeling tender just below the layer of muscle and skin. Waving away the shreds of concern Chiaki and Kanata display at her before switching places with the rest of Ra*bits on the stage, she takes in a mouthful of drinking water as she tries to remember whatever she ate wrong prior to this concert.
None, perhaps. Cautious glances exchanged with her manager before rushing back to the dressing room where Lou just sent her a message, telling Madara to check the back of her largest suitcase for an emergency package containing sanitary pad and painkillers. Madara comes to check her schedule before realising something all along and does a top-priority prerequisite before her own career.
“Mike-chan-senpai, is everything good? Seeing you running back and forth, I almost thought we were back at it again for another match here.”
Swallowing back a trail of sighs, Madara chuckles along the proposition, playfully pushing Mitsuru over the path back to backstage grounds. She brushes off any wrinkles, dust, and lint off her dress, therefore free from panic despite the initial commotion of herself finally succumbing to restlessness. Fingers fixing the position of Mitsuru’s hair, she comments, “Sure! Just a period coming along. Speaking of which, if you’re getting that orange juice from the staff, do you mind fetching some for me too?”
Whenever Madara says it’s always hard for women to remain in the entertainment industry or work in general even though having been purposed for entertaining and serving somebody all their lives, a comparison is not what she exactly has in mind. Through years, there would be instances of hers just drawing herself back from the lively ground to recompose herself. One period is not that painful, she believes; despite sometimes struggling with ailments related to menstrual cycle, it never truly snaps the overall sunshine in her visage until she breaks away in her room.
Madara gazes at the glass of orange juice handed by Mitsuru as she sits in silence unfamiliar to others despite the providence of comfort. It is six minutes away from her own turn up the stage, yet she quietly broods under the emotional imbalance; her looks gradually turning up by a pair of arms thrown around her figure, finding Lou sheltering her away from the fit of chaos within herself.
“Menstruating just by yourself, beautiful?” down under the cheesiest of questions possible, Madara finds herself snuggling back despite the differing stature. Her fingers, once quivering, find home over Lou’s figure. Lou herself holds back from throwing more unwanted concern, hugging both Mama and Madara Mikejima close with a glass of orange juice watching intently by the sidelines. “I came here as soon as I could. The traffic was a mess, though—glad to arrive in one piece, at least. Did you take the painkiller I sent along the pads?”
Madara softly shakes her head, nuzzling further against Lou’s belly in front of her face. Amidst Lou’s struggles to yank herself away for the fear of ruining Madara’s looks for that, Madara remains just as staunch; both immovable as an object and unstoppable as a force seeking heaven that is Lou.
“You might ruin your makeup with that, Mama.”
“If you told me you’d come, I might as well reserve a VIP ticket just for you.”
“But I wanted to make it a surprise. When else could I sneak away after school for my goddess like a mad man?” Lou’s fingers ghost over Madara’s hair, having been careful not to ruin the hairdo already kept up by hairsprays. “Besides, it’s more fun this way. Backstage’s escapade—oh, how very dangerous, my mistr—ouch!”
Lou yelps by a flash of Madara’s pinch over her waist, gulping the rest in uncontrollable laughter.
Through the last four minutes before her turn, she manages to obtain the most of heaven possible before the eyes and ears outside the backstage start to devour her performance. Heaven only recognisable to herself, with no simpler strain of innocence than their gentle sin.
“Lou.”
“Mm?”
Encased underneath Lou’s embracing figure on top of her, Madara’s eyes interlock their attention with the ongoing television programme.
Lou is everything but a roach in terms of being a big spoon (despite how close she looks like to a set of gaze belonging to a stranger as familiar as her own manager). She is of a relatively smaller stature and sluggish composition and Madara is exactly her opposite despite not being drastically different. On most days, Madara can be nimble—light-footed, even—given her work attitude displays an attention span equal to someone who has been in a warzone for years. This time, given the predicament, she lets herself be pampered—tentatively, just as how Lou appears she might as well pass out atop Madara—or as she pretends to.
“Look at those piglets,” Madara comes to tap her fingers over Lou’s shoulder, and the latter redirects her gaze towards the TV where it shows three plump piglets bouncing against each other over mud. “I think I’m turning into one of them. Round and generally muddy.”
Madara tends to keep the bone of her contentions to herself, either only musing in private or stitching her mouth unusually quiet. Her bouts of period only prove more challenging to it—yet the remaining code of conduct to counter the rest for her would be to stay quiet above everything else.
The only thing more humiliating than a losing fight is a silent opponent and Madara knows best. But this is neither a losing fight or solitary confinement, thus nuzzled away by Lou over her chest, “I think you might turn into my personal piglet, though. Plump and generally pink like your tits.”
Madara separates Lou’s face from her bosom with her forearm. It is as if it was a bombshell; rude awakening admixed with personal dolour, staggering between her personally private spaces.
“You don’t know when to stop, do you?”
“Nor how to, baby girl—or as the popular kids over the internet say, breastie. I still prefer Mama, though. That one has a slightly perverted ring to it whenever on bed—hey! Not my asscheeks!”
It takes Madara one year and five months to get used to Lou’s strange taste of humour and it will take even more to adjust herself from neither getting so flustered nor fed up with every jest pretending to her breasts. Albeit for most cases, Lou is good at cuddling so it makes up for the rest. Yet Madara still has to hold back the secondhand embarrassment from eating Lou alive.
“You are very insufferable, princess.”
Ducking away from Madara’s arm, Lou finally gets back to the throne her face deserves—Madara’s holier-than-almost-everything chest. Despite the perverted context and subtext, Lou displays an inexhaustible grin known only to the both of them before slithering up to press her smile against Madara’s lips.
“And yet you love me. I’d say it’s an equivalent exchange if not for the pool of blood currently ongoing but we can save it for another time when you can sit on my face.”
Through one last sigh, Madara cannot say she willingly succumbs to these barren—if not the driest humour known to mankind. But she can agree to the first premise without having to battle anyone for it.