Rhapsody Theorum

Disclaimers: Revolutionary Girl Utena belongs to Be-papas and Chiho Saitoh.

Warnings: Everybody will be OOC, drug-addicts, and raving lunatics. Lots of rambling and surrealness, half of the fanfic might not make any sense. Rated R for the themes mentioned above, language, as well as... implied sex? I guess so.

Rants: This takes place after Utena 'escapes' from the TV-series Ohtori. What exactly happened after the million-sword-stabbing-her-body incident that Kunihiko Ikuhara effectively blacks out upon? Well... this is one take, and highly unlikely. By the way, this has no relation to my previous RGU fanfic, "Ugh... Men." You might be able to catch the deja-vu similar-names of the 'Real World' characters to the 'Ohtori World' characters...

Radishface

* * *

"I'm sorry."

I'm sorry I couldn't do anything I'm sorry I couldn't be your Prince I'm sorry I couldn't make it I'm sorry I didn't save you sooner I'm sorry I didn't realize I'm sorry I didn't figure it out I'm sorry for not being there I'm sorry you had to go through all of that I'm sorry I didn't rescue you I'm sorry I apologize please understand I'm sorry--

* * *

She blinked, and as her eyes focused, she saw the yellow stucco ceiling which had once been white, faint brown water stains creeping at the corners. Sunlight streaked in from a nearby window, she looked, and had to turn her head slightly to her left. There was a wilting African violet placed on the sill, and dirt streaked the windowpanes. Outside, there was sun, there was the shadow of a tree and she saw a bird perched there, peering at her with interest. Groggy, she sat up, scratching her head while keeping her eye on the bird. Noting with interest that she was awake, it flew away.

"Ah~~ SHIT!!" A male voice came from her right, followed by a loud thump.

She turned around, and her eyes widened considerably. "The hell--"

"Dude, sorry... sorry... ow." A very apologetic male voice sounded, and she blinked again, as she noticed the voice coming from a mass of blankets to the bed at her right on the floor. The muscle under her eye twitched as she shifted her glance to the man on the bed, who looked stonily unapologetic, a piece of linen casually draped over his waist.

"You were supposed to be out for the rest of the day." The male voice laughed from on the floor, and a head poked out of the blankets. She just sort of sat there, unbelieving. "You've been out for three days straight."

"Three days." She commented, keeping a straight face. For some reason, she was compelled to laugh, and then turned away, as the man on the bed rose to help the man on the floor to his feet. When she turned around again, both of them were sitting on the bed, blankets draped over the appropriate spots. Thankfully.

"That's right." The man with red hair laughed. She noted his hair was longish, to his shoulders, and unkempt (although that was probably due to his activities). His blue eyes sparkled with humor, although his face was a bright red, which matched his hair. The man next to him wore a disinterested expression, but he was looking between them with an amused glance through his violet eyes, and shook his head, green hair tangled. His ears were pierced, and judging from the nightstand, which was crowded with gold rings, silver studs, and dangling jewelry, she guessed they were his.

"Right." She breathed. "And what are you doing here?"

"What are we--" The red-head raised an eyebrow. "I think I introduced Syle to you the other day when we were at the club." He ran a hand through his hair, scratching his head, and then cast her a curious glance. "God, you must be really out of it."

"I guess I am." She looked down at her hands, which were grasping the bed sheets with a strange ferocity. "And you are--?"

"Me?" The red-head blinked, a faint smile on his lips. "You really are out of it. How much did you take?" He leaned in. "You know we have finals two days from today. You missed class yesterday, too." He tsked. "Bad girl... you should be more responsible."

It felt as though it was an appropriate time to say "Jesus Motherfucking Christ fuck you," but she refrained. She didn't even remember which classes she was taking.

"And you are--?" She repeated, afraid to make any sudden movements, like she was going to fall off a cliff any moment.

"I guess I'll play along with your..." He paused. He turned to the green-haired man next to him, and she felt an urge to turn away again, afraid they were going to do something-- no, no. Don't think about that. You don't even know what you're doing here right now, why should you be afraid of two goddamned homos--

"Amnesia, you dolt." Syle... that was his name, she remembered, rolled his eyes but leaned in and pecked the red-head on the cheek. "You're an idiot, and you say you've been taking the psychology classes?"

"Hey, a guy can forget, right?" Blue eyes sparkled, and he lightly snubbed his nose. "Especially when he's been screwing around and not doing his homework."

"Mmhm." They leaned in again, completely forgetting her presence, and she felt as though this should be very familiar to her, but she couldn't exactly place it.

"Ahem." She coughed, not-so-discreetly. The two men refrained from their actions and resumed talking to her.

"Ah, yes, where was I-- I'm the guy who throws the wild parties." He smiled, a dazzling smile, full of white teeth that could be on any toothpaste commercial. "The... um... toga parties."

"You don't throw parties, you dumbass, you sit and you read gay porn in front of the computer all day--"

"Only with you!" An indignant protest.

"Fucking idiot-- oomph."

Knowing she couldn't get an answer out of them, she huffed in annoyance and threw herself down on her bed and buried her head under her pillow, bemoaning her fate as she felt a wave of nausea come over her, which, ironically, made her feel sleepy. At least she didn't feel so sick when she was asleep.

"Mmph-- stop that-- by the way, Utena~~" the 'party-thrower' called to her, stopped every now and then by the affections of the green-haired man, and she deduced that they were talking to her. She hadn't forgotten her own goddamn name, had she? Just how much had she taken at that party? What party? Hell. She covered her poor, poor, virgin ears with the under stuffed pillow, trying to block out the sounds.

"I'll wake you up-- you moron! she's my roommate, you can't while she's-- I'll wake you up for our statistics class, okay?"

She nodded her head, yes, whatever, under the pillow, but he probably didn't see it because he was being distracted at the moment. Groaning at her fate again, she ignored the pangs of hunger that gnawed at her stomach and forced herself to fall back asleep.

* * *

"Utena?" A hand passed in front of her face. "Hello? Dear?"

She didn't pay any attention to the manicured hand that was waving in front of her face, nor did she pay any attention to her books, which slowly started slipping out of her arms and onto the floor. A flash of red hair, and faint cursing, as her roommate started picking up for her. Utena didn't really care.

"I think you're still in your trance." He smiled at her cow-faced expression, and dumped the books back in her arms, which she decided that she'd bother to hold onto this time. Big, thick, 700-page books didn't come cheap, and she didn't want to have to buy new ones after ripping up the ones she had (which seemed to be rather old and torn anyway)... besides, she didn't even know how much money was in her bank account, much less if she had one.

She had yelled at him after Syle left, while she was in the shower and he was making breakfast for the both of them, taking her accusations in stride. She didn't remember the party, didn't remember taking anything, didn't remember being carried back to their dorm, so on and so forth. She'd pulled on a yellow sweater and some blue jeans, not bothering with the socks as she shoved her feet into worn-out flip-flops.

"You fucking homo!" She'd snapped at him. "Why can't you keep your fucking hands to yourself? Do you have to fucking bring home your boy toy? Couldn't you have gone to his place? Do you know how shocking it was to see that, first thing I woke up? I don't even remember seeing anything else!"

"Yes, yes, honey." He'd chimed, as he flipped the eggs in the frying pan, wincing as some of the hot cooking oil splattered onto his face. "I understand."

"And do you have to fucking wear my clothes?" She rambled on. "I look in your closet and that's all I see. Blouses after blouses, flared pants, rose-print summer dresses--"

"Those are actually my clothes, hon'." He'd replied mildly, before flipping the eggs again and then putting them on a plastic plate and setting it on the dinky table which was cluttered with term papers and encyclopedias.

"That's right." She'd gone on, ignoring the reply. "Because you-- you-- you're a fucking queer, you--"

"I like that." He laughed, taking off the apron and shoving it in the cupboard, wincing as he heard a crashing of glass. "Queer-you."

So the name sort of stuck, even though he said his real name was Doug. She might have heard the name somewhere before, because it all seemed like it'd happened before. Doug Queer-you?

She'd taken that stupid statistics test, which actually happened to be today. And she'd probably failed it, since she had no idea what the subject was about. Utena vowed never to touch whatever she had touched at any other party again. Or let herself be talked into going to another one. Despite the fact that he was flamingly annoying and ruffling gay, Doug was still sort of endearing. And his boyfriend was just plain hot, with the I-couldn't-care-less-what-the-fuck-is-going-on-in-the-world-right-now attitude, although she thought the green hair was a bit strange. It turns out that Syle worked on the campus Starbucks and played in the 'Anarchist Revolution' band after classes, hence the dyed green hair.

"And you have an appointment after our government class." Doug told her, patting her books. "You need to re-dye your hair, although I love your natural hair color, too." He sighed. "I always tell Syle that his hair looks fine and he doesn't need to pour that nasty green paint over his head, but he just won't listen..."

Well, speak of the devil. Utena ran her fingers through her hair, noticing the oddly bright pink color. She had dyed hair too. Imagine that.

"I guess so." She said absent-mindedly.

"Tell Michael I said 'hi,' and tell his sister I said 'hi' too." Doug murmured, catching sight of Syle across the campus grassy area and waving to him. "He's your hairdresser, if you can't remember."

"Oh, right."

Why was everything so hazy? It wasn't just the drugs, whatever she took...

"And are you coming to the rave tomorrow night?" Doug smiled brightly at her, patting his shoulder bag contently. "I've got some E right here if you want it, although I'm not sure if you can handle the stuff." He snickered, and picked up his pace, worming his way through the crowded main quad towards the class stairs, where Syle was presumably waiting for him.

This was college? All classes, parties, and drugs? What a disappointment, Utena thought, and then suddenly scowled at herself. No, this was what she had been waiting for, wasn't it? After her parents had kicked her out of the house, gotten themselves killed, and after that stupid breakup with her old boyfriend during middle school, and the whole am-I-gay-or-am-I-not affair with that dark-skinned exchange student--

What was she talking about?

Yes, yes, she was going to the rave. She was going to dance in the primal way everybody danced, she was going to see the world as if spinning through red water. She was going to take E and hash and Coke and a million other things. Utena caught up with Doug, who was breezing along through the crowds without a care in the world, giving Syle a brilliant smile as he approached him. They didn't passionately kiss or do anything disgustingly queer like that, and Utena was half-relieved.

"So she's coming?" Syle looked at her with the usual disinterest, and Utena felt like smacking him. After all she'd witnessed yesterday, this was how he treated her? Not that he had acted as though it was a big deal, though.

"Yes, I am." She huffed, holding her books a bit tighter around her chest.

Syle raised an eyebrow and Doug just gave her a look that signified "I knew it."

"Even after you were stoned for two days?" Syle murmured, under his breath. "It's okay to do it in moderation."

"I don't plan to hash anything out this time." Utena snapped back, feeling particularly irritable. Usually, she felt, she wasn't like this. Or at least, she didn't think so. She wasn't supposed to be some partying college girl who did drugs every now and then. But it didn't matter. Last time she'd went, there was a sort of solace, she knew, in the haze and in the blurs that sort of blocked everything else out, and a quiet feeling of serenity, happiness, maybe, and a multitude of questionable and confusing things that didn't have to do with the smiling faces she saw, the rose petals, that sort of thing, and she could almost remember what had happened before that.

"I think she's slipping away again." Syle's voice came out at her, and she blinked a couple times to rid herself of that annoying grey that always seemed to cloud over her when she wasn't paying attention to keep it away.

"I'm right here." Utena said quietly, bowing her head at the both of them in some unspoken tradition, and they looked at her strangely before shrugging. "Well, I'll go on ahead." She smiled, nervously, without knowing why.

"Sure thing, hon'." Doug replied dismissively.

"'Later." Syle answered.

She pushed open the appropriately worn down to the building, and grimaced as somebody stepped on her foot (after all, she was only wearing flip-flops), and by some miracle, managed to walk up the stairs among all the couples making out in the corners (and it was mostly guys and girls who were publicly displaying their affection), and reached her class, turning the doorknob as she found an empty, deserted desk in the corner which was not being sat on. There was gum on the underside, but that hardly mattered. Throwing the rest of her books on the floor, Utena picked out her government book and started reading about the Cold War. Something about the Soviet Union and the United States-- funny, how their initials, S.U., and U.S., were replicas of each other, but backwards...

"If you'll get seated, we'll start now." The professor clipped at the incoming students, who hurriedly stopped mingling and took their seats. She pushed her antiquated cat-shaped glasses up her nose and used a ruler to point to the whiteboard, which had millions of millions of flow charts and names and dates and rules that Utena just didn't have the time or the energy to comprehend...

Class had barely started before she dozed off again.

She was just tired, Doug noticed, as he sat, three desks to her right. And she looked tired when she was sleeping. You weren't supposed to look tired when you were asleep. You were supposed to look like you were resting. Like you were getting rested. Poor, poor girl.

Well, at least she was catching up on her beauty sleep, right?

* * *

"Now he's back home, doing nine-to-fiiiiive~"

Utena cautiously walked into the salon, taking in the old-fashioned red-and-white swirley thing at the door, and the spotless tile floors, the black leather waiting chairs, the piles of magazines on the table, and the bottled water and coffee waiting in a corner for customers such as herself. She sat down next to an balding sleeping man who had a thread of drool hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Laughing to herself at the pathetic sight, she picked up a magazine-- Vogue, it was-- and flipped through the pages absent-mindedly. Look at this house, the woman in the magazine told her. It belongs to a famous movie star and boasts the contemporary Scandinavian look, pure and clean. Not like the sort of 17th-century-palace-of-Versailles look you had back at the college.

What?

She stared at the magazine and at the ad for penthouses in Hollywood, at the bosom woman who was the cover girl. Nobody said anything, except for the faint "Lady Marmalade" coming from the background.

"More... more... mooooooore~"

The hairdresser, which she presumed to be "Michael," was singing at the top of his lungs, his ears behind a pair of immense earphones, shampooing his current customer with in a frantic frenzy. Bubbles rose out of the woman's head with astonishing speed, and the woman herself looked a bit strangled as she struggled to keep her head in the basin.

"Laaa~aaady Marrrr~malaaa~aade!!!" Michael belted, shaking his head to the beat, and whipped his hands out of the mess of bubbles and turned to the girl in the chair, beaming.

"Four minutes and twenty-four seconds. That's my standard shampoo and conditioning time." His hands flitted, taking off the earphones, and he reached for the faucet, turning the water on. "Now it's time to rinse!"

"Make it quick, hon." The woman muttered, bored. "I've got a customer waiting for me in half an hour and I have to be by the curb."

"All righty!" Michael didn't lose the grin, and much more gently, this time, reached to rinse her hair out. The woman in the chair relaxed visibly. "You didn't mind that I didn't use Pantene Pro-V today, did you?"

"No, this one likes the fruity smell." The woman muttered again. Utena wondered if she wasn't capable of anything beyond that. "It's one of those environmentalists."

"Who is it this time?" The hairdresser bounced, finishing up, and Utena rolled her eyes in her seat, focusing her attention on the magazine. She'd heard enough of this, who-slept-with-who on campus, she didn't need to hear it again. Was that all there was to talk about, now?

"Can't tell you, it's confidential." The woman clipped. "I'll give you a clue, though. Wonder Woman."

Michael gasped, although it was so exaggerated Utena couldn't tell if it was mock or not. "I don't believe it! Miss Justice herself?" He exclaimed.

"Tell me about it." The woman winced. "Watch that spot."

"Sorry." Michael apologized, then resumed the conversation. "Does she like you, Shirley?"

"Like me?" The woman snorted. "She's infatuated with me. And don't call me that." She huffed. "Are you done yet?"

"Almost, almost."

"That's the only reason I'm with her." She muttered. "She's completely fucking loaded. Money pouring out of her stupid suits like shit out of an bird's ass."

She? Utena grimaced. Great, a dyke, now.

"Nice analogy, Swirlies." Michael said pleasantly, and then stood up. "Just let me put the dryer on, and you'll be free to go!"

"Thanks." The woman said. "And don't call me that, either."

"Well, then, what should I call you?" Michael asked, amused, as he wrapped her hair in a pink towel embroidered with green leaves.

"What Miss Justice calls me." She smirked. "God."

"God?" Michael's eyes widened in mock-surprise. "I wouldn't have guessed for the world." She didn't answer, and he sighed, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Next!"

Utena put down the magazine, running a hand through her dry hair, which was coarse, stiff, and not pleasant at all. The woman sitting under the dryer-- Shirley, Swirlies, or God, whatever her name was, looked up at her with a cold gleam in her heavily-made-up eyes and snatched a magazine off the counter to read herself while her hair was drying. She wore a simple black choker, a maroon tube top and cleavage that boasted cosmetic surgery, and a black leather skirt with ties on the side, and boots that reached to her knees, the heels five inches tall. Utena's eyes widened just slightly and looked at her own flip-flop sandals, and wondered how much practice it took to walk in those.

"Ahhh~ 'Tena, how are you?" Michael glimmered, almost shoving her down into the chair, tying an apron-bib-sort of thing around her neck, and she let herself be led into the crazy dance of hairdresser and customer. She was spun around in the seat, while Michael pulled at her hair, making 'tsk' noises. She felt vaguely annoyed, but didn't say anything. She barely even remembered him.

"I heard you had a run-in with some opium." Michael bubbled, as he proceeded to shove her head down in the basin, and she heard the glop glop as shampoo was being squeezed into his hands. "Did you see any colors?"

"Colors?" She asked, confused. What the hell was she supposed to see colors for?

As if reading her mind, Michael began massaging her scalp-- quite a different treatment than what he'd given that other woman. "Some people see colors when they smoke it." He whispered this, almost confidentially, and it was understandable, since it wasn't exactly legal to be taking everything she was. "I was just wondering what you saw."

But I didn't smoke anything. Utena thought, suddenly frantic. I was drinking something. It tasted like tea. And cookies, for some reason. But I haven't had cookies for years. Cookies and tea, like in some sort of a dollhouse party. And they tasted like poison, sweet, bitter, poison, for ten years--

Her mind suddenly blanked on the image, the taste of it in her mouth vanished. "I think I saw purple waves." She murmured, closing her eyes as he started to soap her hair. It felt good, like that. She deserved a head-massage, after being knocked out for three days and still waking up feeling like she had a hangover from the night before.

"Purple waves?" Michael smiled back in response, and Utena felt that he'd make one hell of a great psychologist, the way he handled his customers, or a bartender at one of those old-people bars, where the old farts with their marriage problems would come in and groan and mumble about their fates and their husbands or wives and how they didn't want to be stuck with them forever, and how they wanted to be free of everything. That's why, Utena though, she had to savor her freedom while she still had it. Before she had to marry or something horrible like that, and have children, because that's the way that everybody. Eventually. Went.

Because they were normal.

She had a feeling she wasn't normal, not before, not now, not forever.

Purple waves. She thought. Purple waves. Like hair, sort of. Fell through my fingers. Not coarse and thick and dry like mine, but wonderfully heavy, thick, beautiful hair. Like water.

"That's interesting, though." Michael thought out loud. "You know what I see?" He leaned in, and Utena unconsciously strained up to hear the words, as if they were some wonderful secret.

"What?"

"I see purple, too." He laughed. "Although I wouldn't describe it as purple. Lavender, maybe. More periwinkle than anything else. And they're like smoke, fingers, reaching out towards me." He thought for a second, his fingers pausing in their work, in the bubbles, in her hair. "And sometimes, they play the piano with me."

"The piano?" Utena murmured. It was a rich, deep purple.

"My sister's a concert pianist, I told you before." He said, shaking his head, as if to clear his thoughts. "She's in New York right now, Carnegie Hall."

"I see," Utena said, even though she didn't see. What was Carnegie Hall? Fuck, she felt stupid.

"Rachmaninoff's second concerto." Michael's voice dimmed a bit, as if reminiscing something. "It's really pretty, you know? Have you heard it?"

"I don't think so." Utena said, shaking her head under the bubbles. "I've never been a Classical-music person."

"I forgot, you like trance and rave and metallic..." Her hairdresser pursed his lips, fingers going to work again. "Oh, by the way, he also told me about your slight amnesia."

"Who?" Those fingers really were amazing, kneading her scalp like that. She wanted to go to sleep again, like she had in class. Nobody would yell at her here. She closed her eyes.

"Touga."

Utena's eyes snapped open. "What?" She screamed sitting up abruptly.

"Oh, shit!" Michael backed away from the basin, and stared at her, a worried expression creeping across his features. "Did I do something? I'm sorry--"

"No, no--" She stammered, looking about wildly, looking at him, then looking at herself in the mirror.

Something different--

"Okay." He smiled, a bit nervously, approaching Utena again as she sunk back into the chair. "Don't scare me like that."

"I'm sorry." She murmured, and couldn't resist laughing, although it almost sounded hysterical. "I looked pretty funny in the mirror just then."

"You had bubbles all over your head." He said, amused, and resumed washing her hair, although those fingers were more tense, now.

They were silent, and Utena was aware the lady that had sat beside her, the one with the 'appointment,' had left. She wondered how long ago.

"Who'd you said told you I had a bit of a problem?"

"Doug." Michael replied. "He sounded worried."

"Oh." She breathed. "Right."

Silence again.

"Do you want me to re-do the pink today?" Michael asked, a bit timidly.

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead." She said, and was aware of a strange tightening in her throat, a sharp stinging in the back of her eyes. "And watch the soap."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." She said, aware of the tears in her eyes, and didn't bother to wipe them away. "It's fine, Michael."

"You can call me Mike." He reprimanded, gently, as if speaking to a child. "Did you forget?"

"Mike." She whispered, to herself.

Miki.

* * *