Our Guessing Game
By Jillian Storm
(Disclaimer: If you've come this far, you know what to expect. I don't accept
blame for anything! Characters—not mine. Reality—quite alternate and
crossed over. Lyrics—products of pure genius, in this case the ever predictable
choice, Catatonia. This particular fic follows Happy Now and the multi-part
Never Too Close, so if you read this and scratch your head, perhaps you might
make sure you've read the others first. Overall, this is fanfiction—don't take the
fun out of sloppy continuity and terrible spelling . . . grin. My only goal in
writing this—to be interesting. One more interesting point—crafted into the
prose is some of Alithea's poetry intended for this story. Make sure to check out
the complete poems themselves.)
***
Approximately half-way through the early spring season show. Kenshin Himura
floated in during the between-acts intermission. He'd seen the show a half-
dozen times, and technically more considering all of the rehearsals he'd
attended. Still, "Never Too Close" was his sophomore script and he was endless
amused to see the characters on the stage—actually breathing and speaking in
the places he had created them to. The desperate terror of watching "Post
Script" in the fall was still a cloudy, blurred memory. He hoped to chisel every
detail of this show into his memory. To enjoy, comfortably, something he had
created when it was done well.
Taking an open seat, he settled his chin over his crossed arms—letting his index
fingers fold over his lips which began mouthing the dialogue along with the
actors on stage.
"And fingers run and skip down the keys, fingers seem to hit each note with ease
and the song that plays I can not ignore, those fingers run down my spine with
more purpose than before."
The woman speaking commanded attention with her stern voice, all other faces
on the stage were turned toward her. Kenshin felt a delighted shiver—
somehow, Juri Arisugawa was stealing the show this evening. Almost as if she
were no longer perfecting the character, but that the character were perfecting
her so that the two were indistinguishable.
Not like the character was so different from her. Watching the actors play
together, speak together, be together between scenes during rehersal—Kenshin
could not help but observe their natural personalities splintering—blossoming
under the pressure of the craft. Acting was an exhausting business, but the
rewards were evident as well from the inner strengths they used to sustain
themselves. Juri's seemed the most obvious to her nature. The way she
appraised a person with a look and organized them with a sentence. Her
affections were earnest, but tumultuous. Nothing could come easily since she
had to reconstruct her entire worldview to correct an error. Each adjustment was
like an altered chord to a familiar song.
Or at least, that was the way it seemed to Kenshin. Watching Ruka standing
statuesque in his checkered suit, arms crossed, as sturdy and as dashing as the
statue of David. And just as deliberate in his difficult lines, "Wander away to a
distant place, lose my way till there are no steps left to trace." The boy had
talent, but nothing to take him toward a leading role while his attentions were so
focused on the leading lady. There were rumors about Ruka, but nothing more
specific than sinister speculations. While the fellow was on the best of terms
with Saitou—who acted like he owned Road Rage—Ruka's contract was
finished by the summer. And it was not unusual for other directors to frequent
Ruka's company.
Besides, the Road Rage's newest sensation had brought a breath of new direction
to the theater. Even Spike had discovered new aspects of his potential playing
off the young roosterhead, Sanosuke Sagara. Having chatted with the young
man, they'd discovered common interest in the path they envisioned for the
small theater. And while Saitou was an obstacle to a number of those ambitious,
the wolfish director provided an undeniable balance and sensibility.
While the cast took final bows, Kenshin heard his name.
"Mr. Himura . . . enjoying the show?"
"Miss Shiori," the writer tucked his head bashfully, half hiding behind his mop-
like hair. "Why are you wandering about?"
"Oh, it's just something I do." Shiori was out of costume and looked strikingly
different. Almost as if the street clothes were a better costume to hide her true
self. "I'm finished so early I can't just wait backstage for the rest of the show. I
like to watch the last scenes from the audience sometimes . . . since we hardly
have a completely full show . . ."
A dozen flags alarmed Kenshin's attentive listening. After writing intentionally
heavy sentences, he certainly could recognize complicated meanings
communicated from others. He spoke carefully, "Wednesday matinees are
rather slow. Although, I would say that "Never too Close" has a better audience
than my other work, overall."
"Better audience?' Shiori laughed gaily, as if she were a classical actress from
the twenties. "Better performances too. I saw "Post Script" you know . . . it was
very, cutting edge . . . with the gender bending. Quite suggestive and got
audiences talking, but the actors lacked . . . shall we say, authenticity."
"I didn't know you were such a theater critic." Kenshin said with a friendly lilt
to his voice, maintaining his neutrality the best he could.
"Oh, I criticize all the things I love—to make sure I'm really getting the best of
what I want." Shiori winked, "And your writing shows such an inclination for
improvement. Want to write something to challenge us again. Of course, the
Road Rage will be the rage—pardon the punning!—if we keep pushing the
envelope."
"I'll keep that in mind, that I will." Kenshin smiled graciously, sensing a layer
of insecurity under Shiori's forward requests. Almost as if the girl were
uncertain about pushing anything . . . but keen on doing it anyway, no matter the
results. She was fortunate that his creativity was not bruised so easily. "But
writing is often quite spontaneous, and the results often are quite different than
what we intend. So it's best to built a trustworthy heart and move forward from
there."
Shiori's bravado slowed visibly, as if she were moving under water and of the
far side of unbreakable glass. Then, almost without missing a beat, she
continued, "Well, I certainly hope I'm part of whatever masterpiece you . . .
discover . . . for us next."
The sun is shining
We should be making hay
But we're dead from the waist down
Like in California
"I'm not one to talk, but have you noticed something different between Ruka and
. . ."
"Faye, are we going to poke our noses into other people's business during the
show?" Spike didn't look down on his prying companion and pulled at his shirt
sleeves, wondering if the clothing had been washed and who he could blame for
the new uncomfortable itching. "Does Utena clean these?"
"God, I hope so!" Faye's nose twitched, "Smelly boy sweat every night."
"Did *you* wash this . . ." Spike's voice shifted to dangerously low tones.
"What ever gave you that idea?" Faye defended herself, inching backwards, her
eyes shifting from side to side looking for a conversation change. "I've finished
with props, I'm an actress!"
Spike snickered, "Doesn't matter. I'm going to ask for a new one anyway. I
don't think my character would want naked wrists."
Faye rolled her eyes to the ceiling in disbelief. Some people, in her opinion,
were too fixated on learning everything about their characters. She crossed her
arms and kept her suspicions to herself as she watched for several minutes as
Juri passed one direction to deposit her props and Ruka crossed the other way
each giving a civil nod. The couple had always been cool during
performances—allowing each other creative space. Still, the rigidity of it all
was new. Almost, an understanding.
"Were you asking me something?" Spike asked, taking a tattered toothpick from
his lips and tossing it into the nearest garbage can.
"Yeah," Faye said, "When's your cast party, and can Shin come?"
Victory is empty
There are lessons in defeat
But we're dead from the waist down
We are sleeping on our feet
Juri wondered at how wonderfully warm the sun could feel even as the car
passed through streets with lingering drifts of snow. The way it warmed her
arms and the tops of her legs. It was almost as comforting as the constant
chattering of her carpooling companion. Sano was making some observation
about the apparent loneliness of one goose flying the seasons by itself.
"Sort of makes you wonder what it did to be left behind. Is he lost? Slow or
old? Or is the perception all backwards?" Sano philosophized, his voice
shifting naturally to sound not unlike a commercial narrator, "Perhaps, just
maybe, the goose has instinctually anticipated the necessity of flight prior to the
others—and sensing the changing seasons first—must follow his individual
premonition long before the others." Sano sighed, "But it's still lonely."
"Why are you thinking about things like that?" Juri asked, wondering how their
roosterhead could be surprisingly contemplative at times. "Something bothering
you? Getting the urge to move on?"
"No, not really." Sano shrugged, shaking his long brown hair and it fell just as
recklessly as it had before, "I dunno what's brought this on . . . perhaps it's the
reluctance of spring to come and remedy this chilly weather. There's still
blasted snow on the ground."
Juri didn't say anything, but rested her hands awkwardly across her lap. Feeling
a tad guilty that her body was so warm . . . and that she had no answers.
Nothing with which to explain the little things that might be observed from the
outside. And how the wind which howled against the small vehicle was
undeniably frigid. And how it waited for her, waited for her to wake up.
"And it'd be so much easier if we all simply hibernated, y'know. I mean, I eat
too much and I just want to fall asleep—sort of like when I drive in this kind of
weather." Sano caught her attention as he unknowingly stumbled across her
own thoughts. "So deceptively comfortable with the sun so bright, and the sky
so blue—but honestly, honestly, it's only a delay."
Juri didn't want to philosophize. She wanted to simply fall asleep. Just as Sano
turned into the apartment lot.
"Well, thanks for helping me pick out a gift for Faye-faye, y'know how damn
picky she can be about things . . ." Sano smiled, and twisted the key from the
ignition. "To be honest with you, the show's making it hard to act normal. All
those cryptic double meanings—and trying to keep them all in mind so the
audience knows that you actually *know* what you're saying. That's enough to
make me wonder about all sorts of little things I'd never notice before . . ."
Juri smiled just a little, to show her affection. But all she wanted to do was
sleep. Or stay in the car forever. Even as Sano chatted endlessly in his own
fashion, she wanted nothing other than the simple moments to last forever.
We stole the songs from birds in trees
Bought us time on easy street
Now our paths, they never meet
We chose to court and flatter greed, ego disposability
I caught a glimpse, and it's not me
Not often, but sometimes, Ruka felt guilty. Across from him, Utena was
cheerfully cutting apart her eggs and deliberately breaking pieces of her biscuit
to dip into the black coffee. Who would have thought Utena liked her coffee
black and her bread in bite-size pieces, Ruka wondered.
They were sharing breakfast at the family restaurant located kitty-corner from
the theater. Sharing in the sense that Utena was eating and Ruka was paying—
so far his omelet untouched. The morning sun was high enough that it bathed
their table in sunlight—revealing the multitude of sparkling dust particles
separating him from their acting stage manager.
And as thin as the air between them might have been, Ruka felt as though her
were sitting inside an omelet, tentatively looking out. He glanced toward the
street. So far, no one had been in the Road Rage that day.
He had intercepted Utena on her way to unearth the essential props that never
made it back to their proper homes the night before. Convincing her that two
pairs of hands could do the same work in less time, he had courted her with
breakfast intending to . . . but whatever that had been, Ruka had forgotten. All
that remained was a vague uneasiness and a convinced worry that Utena couldn't
have helped him regardless.
"This place always has super biscuits—but I still like them *with* the coffee.
Funny little quirk I picked up from a roommate back in college . . ." Utena
smiled, easily taking all of the conversation onto herself. "Thanks for asking
me, I seldom get to hang out with you one on one like this—and the Velvet
parties are so chaotic or silly. Nice to discover that we both have awake-in-the-
morning faces, eh?" She chewed the next bite of her biscuit solemnly, glancing
out the window herself.
"You went to college?" Ruka said, sounding interested, but recognizing the
pointlessness of trying conversation. His voice thick, he still felt the disuse of
the evening stealing it's typical abilities.
Utena nodded, "Peculiar little school near my hometown. I tried to major in
fencing, and then took a few sociology classes for a double major—both of
which have been incredibly useful in my present profession."
Ruka nodded, letting his own half-amused smile communicate for his
untrustworthy voice. Utena smiled back, obligingly. She glanced at his meal,
and without changing her disposition whatsoever, continued her conversation
about . . .
But Ruka wasn't listening at that point. Taking in the old brick building and the
corner door of the indy theater, he finally saw what it was he'd forgotten he was
waiting for. "Shiori." He breathed.
"Oh, there's Shiori." Utena said, letting the observation filter into whatever
she'd been speaking about before seamlessly.
"I should . . ." Ruka started, again realizing he wasn't certain what words came
next.
"You should." Utena said calmly, taking up the coffee cup in both hands and
smiling still. The same genuine smile put Ruka to an uncommon ease.
Adopting her intrinsic confidence, Ruka stood and slipped on his coat.
"Here." Ruka set his wallet on the table. "You'll find enough in here, just bring
it back . . . I need to . . ." By this point, Shiori was already inside the theater.
"I'll bring it later." Utena tilted her head to one side, accommodatingly.
"Should I ask for a box?"
"I don't keep leftovers." Ruka said, sadly.
Make hay not war
Make hay not war
Make hay not war
Or else we're done for
And we're d from the w down
"In a hurry?" Spike met Ruka part way to the doors.
"I know I'm early . . ." Ruka said, "I met Utena for lunch and just came over.
I'll be giving her a hand with things."
"I left some stuff here I need to get sorted out." Spike explained, "My shirt . . .
well, if I want a new one I have to find it myself and Saitou clammed up tighter
than an oyster when I asked for reimbursement. He's all about keeping his
actors happy—until it comes to money. Does he think we act here for the
luxurious paychecks. Now we're buying our own costumes . . . " Spike paused,
"You don't think this will become mandatory?"
Ruka felt an unexplainable, cold sweat under his own shirt. "I dunno, Spike-o."
Ruka said with a tight grin, pulling to his ears like a grimace. The air suddenly
seemed considerably colder and numbing, pressing into his skull like forceful
fingers.
"Ruka?" Spike asked, narrowing his eyes and holding out a hand to steady his
friend. "Are you . . ."
"Not good. Give me a moment." Ruka tried to concentrate on the symptoms, in
turn acknowledging them and rejecting their obvious indications. If only he
could keep his legs from shaking.
"Inside." Spike spoke with authority. He pulled forward on Ruka's elbow,
pulling open the door and propping it open with his other arm. "Sit." He
commanded next, letting Ruka bend to rest on the foyer desk. Concealing his
concern, Spike pulled out a toothpick from the tired looking box nearby. He
flipped the stick between his fingers for a moment, watching it intently. Then
perching it between his lips, Spike looked at Ruka again.
The other man's hands were placed on each knew for balance, his
characteristically pale skin betraying no flush, but ribbons of sweat were
beginning along his brow.
"Is this what happens?" Spike asked.
"It's happened before, always something like this." Ruka answered, his voice
still reluctant. "I hate it."
"You do have control issues." Spike said coolly, but letting his sarcasm come as
a comfort. "Always made you a more reliable actor in the end."
"And it's . . . ending." Ruka sighed, resigned. "I only wanted to make it through
this show, and perhaps go off some place else. Without making a fuss, it might
seem like I were testing out other theaters."
"And Juri?" While the other was sharing, Spike felt obliged to ask. He had
invested interests.
Ruka gave a breathy laugh, "Out of my hands." He looked up at Spike seeking
understanding. "Just like you said—only if not one way, then the other. So
much is unfinished--until I feel as if I've failed somewhat. Or completely."
"Don't we all." Spike laughed, just as bitterly.
There's no contracts binding
No bad scene beyond repair
But when you're dead from the waist down
You're too far gone to even care
"I didn't see you there."
Mikage Souji continued to lean against the back stage wall while Shiori
continued to meet his eyes, unflinching. She spoke again, "Are you always
here? Don't you have other ambitions besides the theater?"
"Why are you here?" Mikage asked without emphasis or interest in the answer,
but the point was not lost on the young woman.
She blinked as her face distorted a little by the guileless confrontation. Then,
composing herself, Shiori shrugged innocently. "Does it matter? I'm one of the
actresses here, and I can come and go as I please."
"I can't help but notice that you are quite a creature of habit." Mikage
commented, again with the toneless texture smoothing his voice of implications.
"Habit?" Shiori asked, puzzled. "Routine, maybe." She perked up at the
thought. "Yes, routine. I'm quite predictable with my disciplined routine."
"Technicalities." Mikage waved one hand, letting his head lean back against the
wall—observing Shiori through his tinted glasses. The theater was still dark,
and the glasses served to disrupt their eye contact at that angle. "They are all
symptoms of the past unresolved."
"I don't believe I've ever heard you speak so many words at one time." Shiori
spoke lightly. "Anyway, I'm so new to the theater, I like to come and be
comfortable here—on stage, without the audience to complicate things."
Shiori stood still while Mikage sat without comment. She felt a growing
tension, but sensed none of it reciprocated by the solemn, ever-present phantom.
"Well, I've answered *your* question," Shiori spoke again, her voice just loud
enough to get caught in the stage lights for a moment. "Will you answer mine?"
"I come to sit with the ghosts."
Shiori blinked again, trying to calculate the man's answers and not
understanding.
"You've pushed just enough." Mikage's voice seemed to come from everywhere
and nowhere—dictated by honesty. "But not too hard.
"If you've come to find your ghosts—be prepared to meet them, as they are."
The sun is shining
By Jillian Storm
(Disclaimer: If you've come this far, you know what to expect. I don't accept
blame for anything! Characters—not mine. Reality—quite alternate and
crossed over. Lyrics—products of pure genius, in this case the ever predictable
choice, Catatonia. This particular fic follows Happy Now and the multi-part
Never Too Close, so if you read this and scratch your head, perhaps you might
make sure you've read the others first. Overall, this is fanfiction—don't take the
fun out of sloppy continuity and terrible spelling . . . grin. My only goal in
writing this—to be interesting. One more interesting point—crafted into the
prose is some of Alithea's poetry intended for this story. Make sure to check out
the complete poems themselves.)
***
Approximately half-way through the early spring season show. Kenshin Himura
floated in during the between-acts intermission. He'd seen the show a half-
dozen times, and technically more considering all of the rehearsals he'd
attended. Still, "Never Too Close" was his sophomore script and he was endless
amused to see the characters on the stage—actually breathing and speaking in
the places he had created them to. The desperate terror of watching "Post
Script" in the fall was still a cloudy, blurred memory. He hoped to chisel every
detail of this show into his memory. To enjoy, comfortably, something he had
created when it was done well.
Taking an open seat, he settled his chin over his crossed arms—letting his index
fingers fold over his lips which began mouthing the dialogue along with the
actors on stage.
"And fingers run and skip down the keys, fingers seem to hit each note with ease
and the song that plays I can not ignore, those fingers run down my spine with
more purpose than before."
The woman speaking commanded attention with her stern voice, all other faces
on the stage were turned toward her. Kenshin felt a delighted shiver—
somehow, Juri Arisugawa was stealing the show this evening. Almost as if she
were no longer perfecting the character, but that the character were perfecting
her so that the two were indistinguishable.
Not like the character was so different from her. Watching the actors play
together, speak together, be together between scenes during rehersal—Kenshin
could not help but observe their natural personalities splintering—blossoming
under the pressure of the craft. Acting was an exhausting business, but the
rewards were evident as well from the inner strengths they used to sustain
themselves. Juri's seemed the most obvious to her nature. The way she
appraised a person with a look and organized them with a sentence. Her
affections were earnest, but tumultuous. Nothing could come easily since she
had to reconstruct her entire worldview to correct an error. Each adjustment was
like an altered chord to a familiar song.
Or at least, that was the way it seemed to Kenshin. Watching Ruka standing
statuesque in his checkered suit, arms crossed, as sturdy and as dashing as the
statue of David. And just as deliberate in his difficult lines, "Wander away to a
distant place, lose my way till there are no steps left to trace." The boy had
talent, but nothing to take him toward a leading role while his attentions were so
focused on the leading lady. There were rumors about Ruka, but nothing more
specific than sinister speculations. While the fellow was on the best of terms
with Saitou—who acted like he owned Road Rage—Ruka's contract was
finished by the summer. And it was not unusual for other directors to frequent
Ruka's company.
Besides, the Road Rage's newest sensation had brought a breath of new direction
to the theater. Even Spike had discovered new aspects of his potential playing
off the young roosterhead, Sanosuke Sagara. Having chatted with the young
man, they'd discovered common interest in the path they envisioned for the
small theater. And while Saitou was an obstacle to a number of those ambitious,
the wolfish director provided an undeniable balance and sensibility.
While the cast took final bows, Kenshin heard his name.
"Mr. Himura . . . enjoying the show?"
"Miss Shiori," the writer tucked his head bashfully, half hiding behind his mop-
like hair. "Why are you wandering about?"
"Oh, it's just something I do." Shiori was out of costume and looked strikingly
different. Almost as if the street clothes were a better costume to hide her true
self. "I'm finished so early I can't just wait backstage for the rest of the show. I
like to watch the last scenes from the audience sometimes . . . since we hardly
have a completely full show . . ."
A dozen flags alarmed Kenshin's attentive listening. After writing intentionally
heavy sentences, he certainly could recognize complicated meanings
communicated from others. He spoke carefully, "Wednesday matinees are
rather slow. Although, I would say that "Never too Close" has a better audience
than my other work, overall."
"Better audience?' Shiori laughed gaily, as if she were a classical actress from
the twenties. "Better performances too. I saw "Post Script" you know . . . it was
very, cutting edge . . . with the gender bending. Quite suggestive and got
audiences talking, but the actors lacked . . . shall we say, authenticity."
"I didn't know you were such a theater critic." Kenshin said with a friendly lilt
to his voice, maintaining his neutrality the best he could.
"Oh, I criticize all the things I love—to make sure I'm really getting the best of
what I want." Shiori winked, "And your writing shows such an inclination for
improvement. Want to write something to challenge us again. Of course, the
Road Rage will be the rage—pardon the punning!—if we keep pushing the
envelope."
"I'll keep that in mind, that I will." Kenshin smiled graciously, sensing a layer
of insecurity under Shiori's forward requests. Almost as if the girl were
uncertain about pushing anything . . . but keen on doing it anyway, no matter the
results. She was fortunate that his creativity was not bruised so easily. "But
writing is often quite spontaneous, and the results often are quite different than
what we intend. So it's best to built a trustworthy heart and move forward from
there."
Shiori's bravado slowed visibly, as if she were moving under water and of the
far side of unbreakable glass. Then, almost without missing a beat, she
continued, "Well, I certainly hope I'm part of whatever masterpiece you . . .
discover . . . for us next."
The sun is shining
We should be making hay
But we're dead from the waist down
Like in California
"I'm not one to talk, but have you noticed something different between Ruka and
. . ."
"Faye, are we going to poke our noses into other people's business during the
show?" Spike didn't look down on his prying companion and pulled at his shirt
sleeves, wondering if the clothing had been washed and who he could blame for
the new uncomfortable itching. "Does Utena clean these?"
"God, I hope so!" Faye's nose twitched, "Smelly boy sweat every night."
"Did *you* wash this . . ." Spike's voice shifted to dangerously low tones.
"What ever gave you that idea?" Faye defended herself, inching backwards, her
eyes shifting from side to side looking for a conversation change. "I've finished
with props, I'm an actress!"
Spike snickered, "Doesn't matter. I'm going to ask for a new one anyway. I
don't think my character would want naked wrists."
Faye rolled her eyes to the ceiling in disbelief. Some people, in her opinion,
were too fixated on learning everything about their characters. She crossed her
arms and kept her suspicions to herself as she watched for several minutes as
Juri passed one direction to deposit her props and Ruka crossed the other way
each giving a civil nod. The couple had always been cool during
performances—allowing each other creative space. Still, the rigidity of it all
was new. Almost, an understanding.
"Were you asking me something?" Spike asked, taking a tattered toothpick from
his lips and tossing it into the nearest garbage can.
"Yeah," Faye said, "When's your cast party, and can Shin come?"
Victory is empty
There are lessons in defeat
But we're dead from the waist down
We are sleeping on our feet
Juri wondered at how wonderfully warm the sun could feel even as the car
passed through streets with lingering drifts of snow. The way it warmed her
arms and the tops of her legs. It was almost as comforting as the constant
chattering of her carpooling companion. Sano was making some observation
about the apparent loneliness of one goose flying the seasons by itself.
"Sort of makes you wonder what it did to be left behind. Is he lost? Slow or
old? Or is the perception all backwards?" Sano philosophized, his voice
shifting naturally to sound not unlike a commercial narrator, "Perhaps, just
maybe, the goose has instinctually anticipated the necessity of flight prior to the
others—and sensing the changing seasons first—must follow his individual
premonition long before the others." Sano sighed, "But it's still lonely."
"Why are you thinking about things like that?" Juri asked, wondering how their
roosterhead could be surprisingly contemplative at times. "Something bothering
you? Getting the urge to move on?"
"No, not really." Sano shrugged, shaking his long brown hair and it fell just as
recklessly as it had before, "I dunno what's brought this on . . . perhaps it's the
reluctance of spring to come and remedy this chilly weather. There's still
blasted snow on the ground."
Juri didn't say anything, but rested her hands awkwardly across her lap. Feeling
a tad guilty that her body was so warm . . . and that she had no answers.
Nothing with which to explain the little things that might be observed from the
outside. And how the wind which howled against the small vehicle was
undeniably frigid. And how it waited for her, waited for her to wake up.
"And it'd be so much easier if we all simply hibernated, y'know. I mean, I eat
too much and I just want to fall asleep—sort of like when I drive in this kind of
weather." Sano caught her attention as he unknowingly stumbled across her
own thoughts. "So deceptively comfortable with the sun so bright, and the sky
so blue—but honestly, honestly, it's only a delay."
Juri didn't want to philosophize. She wanted to simply fall asleep. Just as Sano
turned into the apartment lot.
"Well, thanks for helping me pick out a gift for Faye-faye, y'know how damn
picky she can be about things . . ." Sano smiled, and twisted the key from the
ignition. "To be honest with you, the show's making it hard to act normal. All
those cryptic double meanings—and trying to keep them all in mind so the
audience knows that you actually *know* what you're saying. That's enough to
make me wonder about all sorts of little things I'd never notice before . . ."
Juri smiled just a little, to show her affection. But all she wanted to do was
sleep. Or stay in the car forever. Even as Sano chatted endlessly in his own
fashion, she wanted nothing other than the simple moments to last forever.
We stole the songs from birds in trees
Bought us time on easy street
Now our paths, they never meet
We chose to court and flatter greed, ego disposability
I caught a glimpse, and it's not me
Not often, but sometimes, Ruka felt guilty. Across from him, Utena was
cheerfully cutting apart her eggs and deliberately breaking pieces of her biscuit
to dip into the black coffee. Who would have thought Utena liked her coffee
black and her bread in bite-size pieces, Ruka wondered.
They were sharing breakfast at the family restaurant located kitty-corner from
the theater. Sharing in the sense that Utena was eating and Ruka was paying—
so far his omelet untouched. The morning sun was high enough that it bathed
their table in sunlight—revealing the multitude of sparkling dust particles
separating him from their acting stage manager.
And as thin as the air between them might have been, Ruka felt as though her
were sitting inside an omelet, tentatively looking out. He glanced toward the
street. So far, no one had been in the Road Rage that day.
He had intercepted Utena on her way to unearth the essential props that never
made it back to their proper homes the night before. Convincing her that two
pairs of hands could do the same work in less time, he had courted her with
breakfast intending to . . . but whatever that had been, Ruka had forgotten. All
that remained was a vague uneasiness and a convinced worry that Utena couldn't
have helped him regardless.
"This place always has super biscuits—but I still like them *with* the coffee.
Funny little quirk I picked up from a roommate back in college . . ." Utena
smiled, easily taking all of the conversation onto herself. "Thanks for asking
me, I seldom get to hang out with you one on one like this—and the Velvet
parties are so chaotic or silly. Nice to discover that we both have awake-in-the-
morning faces, eh?" She chewed the next bite of her biscuit solemnly, glancing
out the window herself.
"You went to college?" Ruka said, sounding interested, but recognizing the
pointlessness of trying conversation. His voice thick, he still felt the disuse of
the evening stealing it's typical abilities.
Utena nodded, "Peculiar little school near my hometown. I tried to major in
fencing, and then took a few sociology classes for a double major—both of
which have been incredibly useful in my present profession."
Ruka nodded, letting his own half-amused smile communicate for his
untrustworthy voice. Utena smiled back, obligingly. She glanced at his meal,
and without changing her disposition whatsoever, continued her conversation
about . . .
But Ruka wasn't listening at that point. Taking in the old brick building and the
corner door of the indy theater, he finally saw what it was he'd forgotten he was
waiting for. "Shiori." He breathed.
"Oh, there's Shiori." Utena said, letting the observation filter into whatever
she'd been speaking about before seamlessly.
"I should . . ." Ruka started, again realizing he wasn't certain what words came
next.
"You should." Utena said calmly, taking up the coffee cup in both hands and
smiling still. The same genuine smile put Ruka to an uncommon ease.
Adopting her intrinsic confidence, Ruka stood and slipped on his coat.
"Here." Ruka set his wallet on the table. "You'll find enough in here, just bring
it back . . . I need to . . ." By this point, Shiori was already inside the theater.
"I'll bring it later." Utena tilted her head to one side, accommodatingly.
"Should I ask for a box?"
"I don't keep leftovers." Ruka said, sadly.
Make hay not war
Make hay not war
Make hay not war
Or else we're done for
And we're d from the w down
"In a hurry?" Spike met Ruka part way to the doors.
"I know I'm early . . ." Ruka said, "I met Utena for lunch and just came over.
I'll be giving her a hand with things."
"I left some stuff here I need to get sorted out." Spike explained, "My shirt . . .
well, if I want a new one I have to find it myself and Saitou clammed up tighter
than an oyster when I asked for reimbursement. He's all about keeping his
actors happy—until it comes to money. Does he think we act here for the
luxurious paychecks. Now we're buying our own costumes . . . " Spike paused,
"You don't think this will become mandatory?"
Ruka felt an unexplainable, cold sweat under his own shirt. "I dunno, Spike-o."
Ruka said with a tight grin, pulling to his ears like a grimace. The air suddenly
seemed considerably colder and numbing, pressing into his skull like forceful
fingers.
"Ruka?" Spike asked, narrowing his eyes and holding out a hand to steady his
friend. "Are you . . ."
"Not good. Give me a moment." Ruka tried to concentrate on the symptoms, in
turn acknowledging them and rejecting their obvious indications. If only he
could keep his legs from shaking.
"Inside." Spike spoke with authority. He pulled forward on Ruka's elbow,
pulling open the door and propping it open with his other arm. "Sit." He
commanded next, letting Ruka bend to rest on the foyer desk. Concealing his
concern, Spike pulled out a toothpick from the tired looking box nearby. He
flipped the stick between his fingers for a moment, watching it intently. Then
perching it between his lips, Spike looked at Ruka again.
The other man's hands were placed on each knew for balance, his
characteristically pale skin betraying no flush, but ribbons of sweat were
beginning along his brow.
"Is this what happens?" Spike asked.
"It's happened before, always something like this." Ruka answered, his voice
still reluctant. "I hate it."
"You do have control issues." Spike said coolly, but letting his sarcasm come as
a comfort. "Always made you a more reliable actor in the end."
"And it's . . . ending." Ruka sighed, resigned. "I only wanted to make it through
this show, and perhaps go off some place else. Without making a fuss, it might
seem like I were testing out other theaters."
"And Juri?" While the other was sharing, Spike felt obliged to ask. He had
invested interests.
Ruka gave a breathy laugh, "Out of my hands." He looked up at Spike seeking
understanding. "Just like you said—only if not one way, then the other. So
much is unfinished--until I feel as if I've failed somewhat. Or completely."
"Don't we all." Spike laughed, just as bitterly.
There's no contracts binding
No bad scene beyond repair
But when you're dead from the waist down
You're too far gone to even care
"I didn't see you there."
Mikage Souji continued to lean against the back stage wall while Shiori
continued to meet his eyes, unflinching. She spoke again, "Are you always
here? Don't you have other ambitions besides the theater?"
"Why are you here?" Mikage asked without emphasis or interest in the answer,
but the point was not lost on the young woman.
She blinked as her face distorted a little by the guileless confrontation. Then,
composing herself, Shiori shrugged innocently. "Does it matter? I'm one of the
actresses here, and I can come and go as I please."
"I can't help but notice that you are quite a creature of habit." Mikage
commented, again with the toneless texture smoothing his voice of implications.
"Habit?" Shiori asked, puzzled. "Routine, maybe." She perked up at the
thought. "Yes, routine. I'm quite predictable with my disciplined routine."
"Technicalities." Mikage waved one hand, letting his head lean back against the
wall—observing Shiori through his tinted glasses. The theater was still dark,
and the glasses served to disrupt their eye contact at that angle. "They are all
symptoms of the past unresolved."
"I don't believe I've ever heard you speak so many words at one time." Shiori
spoke lightly. "Anyway, I'm so new to the theater, I like to come and be
comfortable here—on stage, without the audience to complicate things."
Shiori stood still while Mikage sat without comment. She felt a growing
tension, but sensed none of it reciprocated by the solemn, ever-present phantom.
"Well, I've answered *your* question," Shiori spoke again, her voice just loud
enough to get caught in the stage lights for a moment. "Will you answer mine?"
"I come to sit with the ghosts."
Shiori blinked again, trying to calculate the man's answers and not
understanding.
"You've pushed just enough." Mikage's voice seemed to come from everywhere
and nowhere—dictated by honesty. "But not too hard.
"If you've come to find your ghosts—be prepared to meet them, as they are."
The sun is shining