A/N: Hi! Random little post thing I wrote. A little silent head canon that Homura resorted to this in at least one timeline or another. There is a hint towards slash but nothing serious. Also, implied underage drinking
-not enough, no matter how you try, ten tries later and it's too late to care. she takes one sip and then takes another, wondering when her endless looping will start to sound like eight-bit shots at ships of starfish. Drabble, Homura-centric
Eternally stuck, she wishes she could say those words aloud. If she tried, it was inevitable though. She would lose because it wouldn't happen and the chains holding her upright would fall clackity-clack to the ground and then there would be a screaming like that little girl Carrie. She was a lie yes, a not real little girl but sometimes she felt like Carrie. Sometimes she felt all burgeoning with power that could make a difference yet it didn't. She was still that sickly little girl, just with a lot more dakka and a helluva harsh swing.
Just like Carrie, she'd be melting down eventually too. Unlike her, she didn't care. Happiness would do her in before madness. Madness was that pretty little friend who talked too much.
She can't say the words but she can steal from the cabinet, by now recognizing the scent of gin and wine and rich, rich vodka. Bartender wouldn't notice a missing bottle or two. Never had since stage four, certainly never would now. Slow old man, good old man. She tossed the liquid down her throat in thanks.
Cheers to the dead.
Even though the living are the ones who drink for them. Cheers to the stepping stone artifices.
She thinks she has repeated so much that they are all the same.
They are. Sometimes they die screaming remember?
They always die crying somehow. Seems a fact of the Eternal Spring to her: to die watering the Earth with tears. A poetic quandary that the aliens must have found satisfying. Is satisfaction something they have? Is that even something that matters to her?
If it does, that's the sign that she's doing this wrong. She tips the glass back for a second time and swallows. It's heavy in her throat, but the thoughts buzz away. She knows better than to get too drunk. Then time would start all over again and… well…
She has had enough bar fights for one lifetime. She could win them, but then they would smell it on her the next day: the addiction.
And what did it matter if they did? She sipped once more, then twice. Soon the bottle was half empty and sitting on the bar, glowering at her with shame.
Her mind asked this with enough venom to make her cringe. Only one person mattered.
She could repeat hell for her. She would do it.
But not tonight. Right now, she wanted to see what it was like to stumble home gloriously drunk and dream of pink frills and ribbons and the girl wearing them with tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips.
She could be allowed one fantasy in her lifetime.
Well, aside from victory. That was always a wonderful thing to imagine.