Work Text:
Weekend. Mami's apartment is quiet as the sun rises slowly, to pour light over the city skyline; but the ticking of the clock, suspended on the kitchen wall, recedes mercifully as she washes the freshly-used dishes.
The running water shuts off just as Homura steps up beside Mami. She takes up a dishtowel to dry the teacups and utensils.
Mami smiles at her. "Thank you," she says. "Have you gotten used to me waking up on time when it's my turn to make breakfast yet, Akemi-san?"
"No," Homura says, and means it. First it was strange that Mami was a habitual oversleeper; now it's the opposite. The dishes clack gently against each other as she lifts them from the drying rack, squeak as she passes the dishrag over them. She passes one to Mami, to be put away. "But I appreciate it."
Mami laughs, takes the saucer, and skirts around Homura to the cabinet. "You're welcome."
When the dishes are done and returned to their places, Mami retires to the living area: her arms folded on the glass table. The TV clicks on. The volume is low enough that Homura can't decipher the program.
With the return of the quiet, the clock's ticking comes into the foreground again. The second hand, like a needle, pricks Homura's ear. She stands a while to listen, in the morning light. The passage of time feels foreign; it moves over her like a lukewarm breeze.
Mami hums to herself in the next room, occasionally reacting to the TV. A gasp, a giggle. Watching her through the doorway, it seems almost possible to Homura that things could stay like this. That every time until now has been a dream, and this is real life, the final loop, the way out.
But, of course, it isn't.