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Miku pressed Teto’s wrists to the soft floor, panting hard in the narrow corridors backstage. The threadbare carpets were already stained and stinking with fresh liquor.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Teto’s voice cracked. A rare, sweet sound after so many years of vocal training.
She was pinned rather like a butterfly, Miku mused, her twin drills spread across the floor like wings. Miku smiled wider at that. Teto was, in every way, mesmerizing.
“Teto, Teto,” Miku laughed between hard breaths, nearing hysterics. She swayed her head slightly. “So spoiled! Do you even need me anymore?”
“Get off of me.”
“And, ha—you never even—” Miku inhaled, her drunken grip tightening, hands beginning to ache, “—never even mentioned me after everything. Never thanked me. Isn’t that right?”
Teto’s eyes were wide. Miku thought this, too, was beautiful.
Her laughter died in her throat when Teto sniffled.
“Please stop,” Teto said. She was crying, now, and that sight alone would have sliced right through Miku had she not been completely wasted. “Please, Miku.”
What a diva.
“Don’t cry. I’m not going anywhere.” Her voice was still ragged, but laced with something new, something softer. Carefully, she let one hand slip free from Teto’s wrist, her fingers hovering, trembling slightly, before settling against Teto’s cheek. Teto desperately shook her head.
Her free hand was still at her side.
“Stop,” she repeated, almost timidly, but Miku couldn’t. No, she was in much too deep, and there was no coming back from whatever was about to happen.
Miku was lost in Teto’s eyes, deep rosy wells that were pooling with tears. Oh, how unfair of Teto to even cry so beautifully. She could’ve been approaching rigor mortis with how stiffly she was lying under Miku.
A lone, shimmering tear rolled down her temple, and Miku bent down and kissed it without a second thought. Teto whimpered.
“We could go back,” Miku said, her hand sliding down Teto’s cheek to her jaw, then to her fluffy white scarf. “Remember how it used to be?”
No, this was not how it used to be, and Miku knew that. Mentor and protégé, idol and copycat, has-been and popstar, sure—but never equals, never a double act, never… this.
What the hell even was this?
Miku’s eyes flickered to Teto’s lips. She had never been drunk enough to find out, she supposed.
Teto must have noticed Miku’s gaze, because her protests came faster now. “No, no, no,” she repeated, her cheeks an impossible pink, a glossy lipstick stain decorating her temple.
Her hand still lay limp at her side.
Miku waited for Teto to quiet down and compose herself. They didn’t have long until the venue’s closing, but Miku wouldn’t let that stop her, not now. She had Teto in her snares. Glittering, lithe, impossibly beautiful Teto…
Her quiet protests, tapering slowly into silence, meant little to Miku. Teto’s unrelenting stardom robbed her of everything Miku once admired—who’s to say she could even think for herself anymore? Seeing Teto’s lack of composure, she was hardly capable of making a sound decision now, of all times.
So Miku didn’t mind taking over. Far from it. In fact, the anticipation was eating her alive.
Miku finally leaned down, tilting her head just so. She watched for Teto’s reaction, drinking it in like it was top-shelf. Her rosy eyes grew wide, still glistening with tears—and they, too, darted to Miku’s parted lips for just a heartbeat.
So, she’s thinking about it, too.
Miku wouldn’t get more invitation than that, so she was going to take it.
Closing her eyes, she pressed her lips against Teto’s, moving against the other woman’s gasps with confidence and envy in equal parts. She kissed deeply and with a slowness unknown to herself before now, savoring every shocked, dirty noise she could elicit from Teto. She kissed like she was taking back what had always belonged to her: the crowds, the lights, the fame, Teto, Teto, oh, Teto…
A flick of the tongue, and Teto moaned into the kiss, low and indecent and completely involuntary. Miku smiled.
It serves her right.