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Sayaka Maizono adores being an idol.
Her cheeks are round, yet slim. Silk is woven from her fingers, eyes, and cultivated smile. Sayaka is no amateur at walking the fine line between refined and mysterious.
A million and one devotees call out to her, but there’s only one voice that truly sings to her heart.
There’s a woman with headphones on. She wears brazen bands that kiss and worship tanned skin. Sayaka notices a freckle, then a mole by her right ear. Against the dreary bus stop, her emanation shines like a diamond.
She hums an awkward tune. It misses every other beat. Even so, Maizono feels it’s sugar rolling over her tongue. How strange it is to be on the other side for once. Idolatry reverses when it’s just the two of them; The ultimate pop sensation is her biggest fan.
Sayaka Maizono adores being an idol– and girls– as much as she dares.
Turned on its head, the beauty of hope's peak had fallen.
Walls were battered, and the floor had been a pleasant feast for termites. Under a black and white guidance, everything was ugly.
All but one thing: a song.
Tanned skin, half-baked beats. Sayaka finds herself drifting to a better day.
She rounds a corner, fingers gingerly pressed on top the threshold’s thickness. Maizono doesn’t presume, doesn’t venture into the room, afraid that she may disturb the regal tune. It wafts like cinnamon in her nose.
Sakura Ogami.
Rustic as she is delicate, her voice fills the entire room. Sayaka’s chest swells with each lilted note. Her hands are strong, hard as they lift, fold, and repeat from a small pile of clothes. Stagelife plays out much the same: practice, perform, repeat. There’s a comfort, a whole world she’s longing for, found within that mouth. Sayaka steps into the laundromat before she can stop herself.
Ogami notices.
Sayaka freezes with the rest of the room. Silver eyes widen, then fall at Maizono’s arrival.
A fond wave draws her closer, and before she knows it, Sayaka is flush against a plump hip.
“I hope my singing didn’t trouble you”
Never. Never, Never, Never.
“Oh no, not at all,” Sayaka finds strength behind a gentle palm, “you sing really well, Ogami!”
Sakura is shocked, then relaxes into a soft smile. She snorts and Maizono longs to put a microphone in her hand. Everyone should hear this voice. Everyone should be blessed if they can.
Sayaka is so used to bringing others happiness that she nearly forgot what it felt like to be on the other side of that TV, small fists roughing up loose threads. Child-like wonder comes back, ten-fold. Such a mature face keeps Maizono young.
“I was wondering…” Sayaka speaks, twirling a lock of hair over and over and over until it knots and falls limp on her shoulder. “Can I sing with you?”
There’s a nod, and then– oh, how wonderful. Charming is the voice that sinks and brings warmth to her cheeks– Sayaka hums with Sakura.
Sayaka Maizono had only dared in silence: to love her career, she was forced to give up loving girls. To love girls, she would be forced to give up her career. Though, in secret, she had never stopped wanting both. However, now, with this melody, a woman reaches out to her, and beckons for a dance.
Face red, Maizono takes her hand. She’s whisked away from the table. A strong, reliable hold swathes her back, grounding her to this moment, this place.
What an insipid work Hope's Peak was. Churning out student after lifeless student. This place honed so much on one thing that wanting more was a death sentence– an execution.
Though morality will not fail her. Not while Sakura is here, holding onto her so, so tight.
The dance gives life to Sayaka’s soul: her shoulders rise with a thumping chest, and her feet prance with newfound lightness. She follows Sakura’s lead, her eyes drawn to wisps of white hair.
Spiral and twirling, Maizono is entranced by the way they move. She thinks, for the briefest of moments, that they are wings. They frame Sakura’s every scar, every dent in her knuckles, like she’s the most beautiful woman to ever exist.
Her partner continues to hum, so Sayaka thinks that she is.
Together, they sway against time itself. Maizono pulls her weight onto one shoulder, to steer their tune while Sakura ushers them to adjoin bodies.
But then some time later, it happens. A certain tape reveals itself.
Sayaka must once again choose between loving her career and loving girls.
She lets go of Sakura’s hand. The warmth leaves behind a residue, something she can’t wash off.
It’s the coldness of death, of despair. Sayaka calls out to a fan, the song in her heart diverges towards violence.
Maizono continues to waltz, but the pattern is too unfocused, alongside the hand at her throat– strangling, not leading– being rough.
To love Sakura Ogami would be holy.
Sayaka Maizono now dances with the devil.
Fate can be challenging.
Static crinkles in her ears. A painful roar unearths her body.
She’s floating, floating with nothing nor anyone to hear her final song.
Will she ever perform again? Will she even have the right? Not with the thoughts that squeeze inside to prick her brain, she reasons. Evil, malicious, cruel! Sayaka was all these things and so much more, because the bear had wished it so.
Will they understand why Sayaka Maizono did it?
Will she?
Wings, beautiful wings. High above her head to expose glistening, wet eyes.
A strong face blisters in red, hot patches. Sakura’s tears betray her, flowing as the ocean swaddles Maizono’s shoulders. Sayaka can not feel them, can not experience the warmth of that embrace. Out of everything, she finds this most regrettable.
Oh, what she’d give to experience that girl all over again…
Sayaka Maizono is dead on the bathroom floor, her ghost not far off.
During the investigation, Sakura Ogami stands over to protect Maizono’s body. Tousled hair, heart and bones: Sayaka’s spirit falls to her knees, hands clasped in prayer.
No more hiding. She pushes herself from red fingernails, falling back onto something warm.
Cherishing that girl was pure. Maybe if Sayaka whispered repentance into those lips, she’d find heaven. She’s sorry that she ever let go.
Sayaka Maizono is hoping— yearning— to feel too much, too late.
To love her guardian angel, if only for one more dance.