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By the time the sun disappeared completely, Tracen Academy’s yearly festival had settled into that warm, golden kind of chaos that only existed for a few hours a year. Lanterns swayed overhead in uneven rows, strung between buildings and poles in crooked lines that probably hadn’t been measured properly. Every now and then the wind pushed them together with soft hollow knocks, their light spilling across the courtyard in scattered circles. Between those circles were pockets of shadow where students slipped past each other shoulder-to-shoulder between food stalls and game booths.
An Uma near the stage was giving her absolute all to belt out the high notes of a popular song. She was just slightly off key, but the crowd didn’t seem to mind. A cluster of fans near the front waved glowsticks enthusiastically and shouted encouragement every time the Uma managed to land a note properly. The smell of caramelized sugar drifted through the air, tangled with grilled skewers and something fried in oil that had definitely been reused too many times tonight.
It felt loud, and alive, and terrifyingly overwhelming.
Doto had positioned herself just far enough from the thickest part of the crowd that she didn’t feel surrounded by it. A low wooden fence marked the edge of the courtyard where the grass began, and she leaned lightly against it while watching people drift between stalls.
Opera O had been wrapped up in social gatherings shortly after they arrived together. One student recognized her near the entrance, another joined the conversation, and before long there had been a small gathering of admirers around her like there always was. Doto stayed for a little while, smiling politely while Opera greeted everyone with that effortless charm of hers. But once the conversation turned into something louder and more crowded, she slipped away quietly.
She didn’t want to be a bother.
From here, Doto could still see everything. The lanterns. The stage. The clusters of girls laughing loudly as they tried festival snacks. Vodka and Daiwa Scarlet arguing passionately about whether goldfish scooping required skill or luck.
But she still had space to breathe.
She held a small paper bag in both hands, absentmindedly creasing the folded top as she stared down at what was inside.
A glittery plastic star keychain.
She turns it slowly between her fingers, watching the uneven glitter catch the lantern light.
She had tried the ring toss three times—only to miss spectacularly each time.
The vendor had watched her for a moment with the expression of someone who had seen this situation play out a hundred times before. Eventually he sighed and handed her the prize anyway with a smile that had been far too sympathetic.
The worst part was that she’d thanked him like she’d earned it.
She was still turning the little star over when Opera O’s voice pierced through the noise.
“My dearest Doto, you look as though you’ve been entrusted with a sacred relic.”
Doto glances up immediately.
Opera stood a few steps away, arms loosely folded behind her back, watching her with that bright curiosity she always carried so easily.
“Should I be kneeling?” Opera added, tone and delivery smooth as ever.
Doto flushed.
“Don’t make fun of me, please,” she muttered. “I didn’t even win it properly..”
Opera stepped closer, leaning in to inspect the keychain with exaggerated seriousness.
“Did you not participate?” she asked thoughtfully. “Did you not throw the rings with conviction, even if the rings themselves betrayed you?”
“They didn’t betray me,” Doto mumbled. “I just… I have terrible aim.”
“A tragic flaw,” Opera declared—and proceeded to lift the back of her wrist dramatically to her forehead, leaning slightly as though struck by sudden despair.
“Every heroine must possess one, otherwise the tale would lack tension.”
Doto stared at her.
“…You’re wrong, I am not a heroine…” Doto insisted, holding the keychain out toward her.
Opera straightened immediately. Doto was clearly wrought with genuine doubt, and so now she would see it as her personal mission to correct this. She studied the star again, then her gaze slowly shifted past Doto toward the brightly colored ring toss booth nearby.
“…Where did you acquire this relic?” she asked.
“Oh. The ring toss booth.” Doto pointed vaguely behind her. “Over there.”
“And you won this?”
Doto hesitates.
“…Not exactly.”
Opera’s head slowly turned back toward her.
“Explain?”
“I missed all three throws,” Doto admitted quietly. “The vendor felt bad for me and gave it to me anyway.”
Opera stared at her for a moment—then she turned toward the booth, fists clenching tight.
“This injustice cannot stand.”
Before Doto could react, Opera had already started walking in that direction with determined purpose—Doto now trailing alongside her attempting to stop her.
“Opera— wait—it’s really not that serious—”
“Oh, but it is,” Opera replied smoothly without slowing. “My dearest Doto has been awarded a pity prize. Such a narrative lacks proper dramatic structure.”
They reached the stall a few seconds later. The same vendor stood behind the counter organizing rings into a basket.
He looked up as Opera stepped forward.
“Three throws,” she announced, placing coins she’d hastily removed from her vest pocket on the counter.
The vendor blinked once before sliding three rings toward her.
Doto leaned closer.
“You don’t have to do this..”
Opera picks up the first ring.
“My dearest Doto,” she said solemnly, “I am not just doing this.”
She squared her shoulders.
“I am correcting the story.”
She tossed the ring.
It bounced off the bottle and clattered onto the counter.
There was a pause.
Doto covers her mouth, Opera stared at the bottle, as if it had personally offended her.
“…The bottle moved,” she whispered. “It didn’t,” Doto quietly replied.
Opera slowly lifted her hand and pressed the back of her wrist dramatically to her forehead.
“A cruel twist of fate.”
“You just missed.”
Opera lowered her arm.
“The first act often contains hardship.”
She picked up the second ring.
This throw was slower, clearly showing Opera was taking her time to calculate precise movements.
The ring lands just short of the bottle and tipped sideways.
Doto lost the fight with her laughter.
Opera stood very still.
“…The audience grows restless,” she murmured.
“You’re losing,” Doto said between laughs.
“Patience.”
Opera picked up the final ring.
A couple of nearby students paused to watch, even the vendor leaned forward slightly.
Opera rolled the ring between her fingers.
“The finale,” she declares, tossing without hesitation.
The ring spun—and dropped neatly over the neck of a bottle with a soft clink. Opera casually turns around and proudly crosses her arms.
“As foretold.”
Doto stared.
“…Were you missing on purpose?”
Opera gives a cheeky grin but shakes her head to say 'no' and turns toward the vendor.
“A prize, if you please.”
The man chuckles and hands over a small plush star.
Opera accepted it before turning back to Doto.
“For you.”
Doto blinked. “You literally fought fate over a carnival game?"
“Correction,” Opera replied smoothly. “I resolved a narrative imbalance."
Doto looked down at the plush star, only to start laughing again. “You're ridiculous..!"
"And yet,” Opera spoke cool as a cucumber, “victorious.”
By the time they had drifted away from the ring toss stall, the crowd’s chatter seemed to soften around them, folding itself into the background like the fading hum of a distant tide. Doto adjusted the strap of her bag, nudging the plush star gently so that it nestled against the glittery keychain as if they were meant to be together, and she found herself staring at the little duo more intently than she cared to admit.
Opera walked beside her with her usual composure, but there was a subtle relaxation in her shoulders. Doto chewed the inside of her cheek, suddenly self-conscious about how small and ordinary she felt next to the effortless poise of Opera O, yet at the same time she couldn’t bring herself to pull away.
Opera, ever observant, glanced down at the plush star for a moment, her expression softening just enough for Doto to notice. “You seem fond of it.” she says, her voice low but carrying that familiar theatrical lilt that could make even the smallest of observations feel like the opening of an aria.
Doto shrugged, poking the tiny points of the plush carefully. “It’s cute,” she admitted, and then, quieter, “Plus… it has a better backstory now.” Opera’s lips curved into a faint, but proud smile. “A worthy relic,” she agreed, and Doto could have sworn the word carried both weight and a slight playful exaggeration, as though the plush star itself were an artifact of immense importance in a grand epic—such was the Opera O way.
Doto rolled her eyes, but a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips, and she realized that despite herself, she was enjoying this moment far more than she realized. There was no cheering crowd, no expectations to meet, no performance to be flawless—just the two of them, the soft sway of lanterns, and the muted warmth of the festival night wrapping around them. It was so much easier to be herself around Opera when social anxiety wasn't threatening to tear her apart. As they continued walking, the conversation shifted naturally into pauses, small talk about the evening, the smell of fried food lingering faintly on the breeze, the occasional clink of a bottle from a distant game stall, the echoing laughter that rolled in waves over the courtyard.
Doto found herself speaking more freely than she had in hours, pointing out a student struggling with a stack of cotton candy, muttering something about “serious dedication for something that’s basically sugar and air,” and Opera responded with mock outrage, one hand pressed to her chest as though the insult had struck her to the core.
“How dare you,” she said dramatically while feigning offense, eyes wide. “Sugar is not merely air—it is alchemy! A confection worthy of a queen!” Doto couldn’t help the snort that escaped, and Opera gave a slow, exaggerated bow, just enough to make the gesture comical without ever losing her theatrical dignity. The interplay made Doto feel lighter somehow, as if all the anxieties of the earlier crowd, all the tiny, invisible weights of being overlooked, had been suspended by their shared absurdity.
And then, as if the moment had been waiting, the tone shifted again into something more intimate. Doto found herself hesitating before speaking, because the words she was trying to find carried fear, uncertainty, and longing that had nothing to do with the festival and everything to do with Opera herself.
“Does it ever get exhausting?” Doto finally asks, not looking up immediately, letting the question roll out in a way that felt almost fragile in the open air.
Opera, attentive as ever, tilted her head slightly. “Being admired?”
Doto shakes her head just barely. “Being… visible,” she clarified. And then, slowly, her voice fell almost to a whisper as she continued,
“Everywhere. People notice. They straighten up. They get excited. When I walk through a crowd… nothing happens. Nobody bats an eye. And when I’m standing next to you, I feel like I disappear. Like I’m just… orbiting around you...” She looked down, twisting the keychain and plush in her hands, feeling suddenly small against the sweeping presence of Opera O.
Opera stopped walking, her eyes steady on Doto, her expression remaining calm but eyes piercingly firm. “You do not orbit me,” her response was instant, and the words carried with them an absolute sincerity that made Doto’s chest ache in relief and disbelief all at once. “That feeling is not reality. You are not a satellite to my ego.”
Doto winced faintly. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she muttered, almost apologetically.
“I know you didn’t,” Opera replied softly, and then more intensely, leaning slightly closer (in these moments Opera was reminded that she was shorter than Doto) without breaking the space that allowed Doto to breathe, “—but listen to yourself. You assume that because I command attention, you must therefore lack it. You withdraw before anyone has the opportunity to notice you. You decide you are smaller, and then behave as if that belief is truth.”
Doto’s gaze dropped to the ground. “It’s easier,” she admitted quietly. “If I expect nothing, I won’t feel dumb when nothing happens.”
Opera’s expression seems to soften again, but her voice retains its firmness. “Do you truly believe I remain beside you out of obligation?”
“No! Not at all! That’s not what I meant.” Doto’s hands fidgeted, clutching the plush and keychain as if it were her lifeline. “I don’t want people thinking I’m only with you because you’re impressive. Or popular. Or… larger than life. I don’t want it to look like I attached myself to something brighter because I couldn’t shine on my own. I don’t… want to bring you down.”
The pause that followed was long enough for a few distant shouts and laughter to echo around them before Opera’s hand found her wrist, fingers warm and steady.
“My dearest Doto,” she speaks slowly so that Doto truly understands and listens to her words, “do you believe I am unaware of how others perceive me?”
Doto’s lips parted to respond but no words came to fruition.
“I tolerate what they see,” Opera continued, “not because it pleases me, but because it is part of the performance they expect. Attention is pleasant in moderation. In excess, it becomes expectation. Expectation can be awfully heavy.” Opera lets out a soft sigh—but doesn't miss a beat in order to pick her words right back up. "What matters… is what I see. And I see you. You never fail to notice what others overlook. You always remind me to breathe, to feel, to care. You are my North Star when darkness threatens to consume my gaze.”
Doto blinked rapidly, trying to process the gravity in Opera’s voice, the deliberate warmth in her fingers, and the way the night seemed to completely silence itself around them—almost as if the festival had folded away to leave just the two of them. Her heart thudded in a rhythm she couldn’t name, a mix of relief, fear, and something dangerously close to awe. She wanted to look away, to retreat into the familiar habit of shrinking, but something about the steadiness in Opera’s gaze held her in place, tethered without restraint.
The plush star and glitter keychain pressed lightly against her chest, almost as though they were conduits for the courage she hadn’t realized she carried, and yet they felt insufficient in the presence of such unwavering attention. For a long moment, she simply let herself breathe, noticing the way Opera’s hand lingered. The realization presses against her ribs like a gentle weight, grounding and terrifying all at once, and she inhaled sharply, the cool night air filling her lungs and mingling with the unsteady thrum of her own heartbeat—until she found herself capable of looking forward, of seeing Opera not as an untouchable spectacle, but as someone who had chosen to notice her, fully, completely. For someone who has been with Opera for around three years, it was only now settling in that Opera really did choose her.
They walked slowly through the thinning paths of the festival, the lanterns swaying faintly in the breeze and throwing small pools of golden light across the cobblestones. The sounds of laughter and music fading further and further behind them, leaving only the soft echo of their footsteps and the faint jingle of the plush star and glitter keychain swinging in Doto’s hands. Opera’s gaze shifted from the distant horizon to Doto’s face, her expression softening—it was as though she were painting Doto's features into memory.
Doto felt her chest tighten again, and this time it wasn’t fear—it was something braver, something she had almost forgotten she was capable of feeling. She realized that she didn’t want the night to end, that she didn’t want to return to the spaces where her presence went unnoticed, or where the brilliance of others swallowed her whole. She wanted this. She wanted Opera exactly like this—at her side, noticing her. Finally, they came to a quiet corner, a stretch of path where only a few lanterns lit the way and the festival felt far away. Doto paused, letting the stars in her bag jingle softly as she turned to face Opera fully. Opera’s theatrical mask settled into something more personal, a rarity that seemed exclusively for Doto.
Doto’s hands shook slightly as she held the plush and keychain against her chest. She swallowed hard, letting the words she had been rehearsing for weeks spill out, trembling but genuine.
“I-love you,” she said, voice low and stuttering only once despite the insane fluttering of her heart.
Opera’s eyes widened for the shortest second, then softened entirely, and a smile curves its way up her lips—not the dramatic, performative smile of the stage, but one filled with all the gravity and delight. She stepped closer, pressing her hand up to Doto’s cheek.
“And I, you,” Opera whispered, her voice carrying the certainty and flair that made even the smallest words feel monumental. With her other hand, Opera brings Doto’s opposing hand to her lips and gently presses them against her knuckles. "From here to eternity, my dearest Doto."
For a long moment, they simply stood there, hands intertwined, the glow of the lanterns surrounding them like a halo. Doto exhaled slowly, letting the warmth settle into her chest, and for the first time that evening, she felt completely, undeniably seen. Opera squeezed her hand once, the gesture making Doto’s chest ache only the purest form of affection.
"Come,” Opera said at last, her voice lighter and teasing once again, “if you’re going to stand in the light, I would be honored to bask in it with you." Doto's smile was bright enough to light up the night sky, and they continued along the lantern-lit path, hand-in-hand.