Chiaroscuro: Of Light and Shadows
Chapter Two: The Nature of Commitment
By Gabi-hime (pinkfluffynet@yahoo.com)
A/N: Rijichou is Akio's official title – Chairman of the Board. Here it is meant sarcastically. Ouji-sama means prince, as I'm sure you all know.
Three months into their relationship, he unceremoniously asked her to move in with him over an omelet in the slick black metal and frosted glass of his kitchen. She mulled over it for a few moments, kicking her feet like a child against the steel barstool that stood as one of the three primary dividers between the kitchen and the sparse living room before agreeing she said, not only out of convenience, but because it would be "good for him." He was of his own opinion on how exactly it was supposed to be good for him, but kept this to himself and helped her move in a few assorted boxes of junk.
Her impact on the apartment became obvious after only a few weeks of their new living arrangement. When she had moved in, he'd claimed that he would somehow organize her personal chaos into something that could be contained on his precise art neuveau shelves. She'd jokingly responded that it wasn't possible and had been proven true, as the few boxes labeled only as "stuff" expanded like a gas to fill up all available space.
While his small glass coffee table had previously been graced by a only few exceedingly technical journals, it now had a scraggly potted geranium on it, which Utena only rarely remembered to water. The plant's salvation rested in Nemuro's hands alone, for he was organized enough to water it regularly. Still, he had to admit, her presence did make his apartment seem more like a home, and not by any stretch of the imagination was it through domesticity. She made his apartment look lived in, when it had previously only looked occupied. It was true that she made him actually enjoy spending time there, clad only in slacks and loafers, reading whatever technical journal stirred him that day, when previously he had spent all his time at his office, coming home to his sterile apartment only to sleep.
Conversely, he not only improved the health of her pet geranium immensely, but he was also instrumental in introducing her to a number of authors that she would later swear herself by. He kept her on schedule and was always available for a moral or philosophical debate at any hour of the day or night. He was also always quick to point out when something was a singularly bad idea, before her enthusiasm got the better of her and she ended up in situations that she did not particularly want to be in at a later date. He was still not on call often enough to prevent all her impulse buys, however, and his apartment was now currently graced with several truly hideous lamps that she'd picked up at a second hand store for "a really good price." Privately he was just waiting for her to forget they were around so he could dispose of them in a humane fashion.
They really were suited to one another: the brilliant lecturer who looked as if he might still be in high school despite being at least thirty, and the athletic women's basketball coach who many swore was still a teenager. People asked for her identification so often when she ordered drinks out that she was used to flashing the card that verified that she was indeed twenty four. The University's intellectual proletariat might have started to talk about the strange sense of eternity that pervaded them had the Professor's admirer's not policed the school so thoroughly. Whatever thoughts there were concerning the youthfulness of the Professor and his companion remained private and little changed in the politics at the University despite their by no means private relationship, except for the occasional tussles Utena had with his "fan club."
And so, life settled into routine. They woke up, went about their daily business, returned home to some measured entertainment, and generally enjoyed each other's company. If one had asked the Professor what he saw as the greatest obstacle in their relationship, he would have identified it as both her incredible naiveté and her sometimes unpredictable temper. If one had asked her, she would have had no difficulty volunteering his cynicism and sharp, glassy wit. Neither of them would have expected it to turn out to be the thing that it was, and neither of them would have expected it to knock on their door one crisp March day.
It happened early in the morning. Nemuro had just gotten out of the shower when he heard the knock on the door. Utena, he was sure, was still asleep in a tangle of blankets on the floor, where she'd fallen after a particularly active dream. He'd given up on doing anything about her active dreamlife and it's consequences some time ago, and he was used to waking up and finding her, and all the bedclothes, on a pile in the floor.
As she was still asleep, he seriously doubted she would be answering the door any time soon, so he quickly threw on some clothes, leaving his glasses, which he normally did not venture a step without, lying forgotten on the counter of the sink.
He had no idea who it could be, as his visitors were very few and generally came in the form of repairmen or bible salesmen that he turned away at the door. He sincerely hoped it wasn't one of the latter, as he was in no mood to deal with one this early in the morning, before he'd had anything resembling his morning tea.
He never remembered to look out the spyhole, but perhaps if he had, he might have avoided the scene that occurred later by simply not answering the door. But really, that would have been only delaying the inevitable, and it was not a solution no matter how one might slice it, for you see, when Nemuro opened his front door he was confronted by a ghost.
The lad was young, perhaps fourteen, perhaps twelve, and so lovely and delicate of feature that he looked positively feminine. The light from a high hall window had caught his hair and it glimmered pale lavender silk, rakish and unkempt, as if he had spent the whole day abed, yet still so beautiful, gossamer silver almost, in the light. The eyes were aqua and deep, fathomless. They could catch you in them, spinning infinitely and never let you loose. And suddenly, as he stood there watching this ghost from the past, the fifteen years that he'd lost came screaming back to him, like a heavy rock being tossed to a drowning man.
"Ma-mi . . ." the transfixed professor managed to choke out, staggering backward even as he managed to catch himself on the door.
It was impossible, yet there he stood, clad in a pale peach dress and matching hat, hair down far past his shoulders . . . and here the illusion broke for as she stepped forward, it came to him that the woman standing before him was not Mamiya, as he had previously mistaken, but the witch consort of the fallen prince himself.
"It's you," he managed only a shocked whisper as the hundred thousand ramifications of her presence raced through his now slightly overtaxed brain. He couldn't . . . What was . . . What would . . . Damn it, what would she say?
He anticipated the situation with more clarity that one might have expected, all things considered.
He first became aware that she was actually standing in the room with them when he heard a china teacup shatter on the stone floor of the entry hall behind him. He turned to the sound and it was as if they were caught in a moment of slow time, the nanoseconds stretched out to eternities as he swiveled his head to glance over his shoulder.
Of all the mornings for her to take the initiative and wake up and put the tea on while he was still in the shower . . . her eyes were wide with shock, her mouth slightly agape, but it was clear, even from the way that she stood that she too had found her missing year in that first glance at their visitor. As she stood, he knew that he faced the only person who had ever successfully completed the full system of duels. He faced the Prince, and then, as had happened so briefly in that long ago moment in his own Memorial Hall, and as inevitably happened to all who came to know her princely virtues, he loved her with the focus of a man who has finally come to realize that the great truth that he seeks is standing right in front of him.
For a moment, there was only the silence of a great epiphany, but then the moment was broken by a soft sighed word, for the woman he stared at almost glassily was not looking at him.
"Himemiya," was all she had to say. It was the only thing that it was appropriate to say, and it was also the only thing that it was necessary to say.
The Prince and Princess met across the threshold, a wordless embrace punctuated only by Utena's unrestrained tears. She held Anthy as if unsure of her material substance, squeezing her shoulder and then putting her at arm's length as if to again visually confirm that the other girl was indeed there.
"Himemiya, you're free," Utena choked on the emotion, her voice husky, "You're here, so you must be free. I had no way of knowing if what I did would work, but I had to try. But you're here. You're here and you're free. You made it out."
The depthless aqua eyes softened, and the emotion in them made them seem almost liquid, "Because of you. You were the Victor who became Prince. You set me free and I've come back to you, Utena."
The woman-prince embraced the girl again and then stepped back from her to revel once more in the dark-skinned girl's mere being-ness and then she realized that the other girl's eyes had gone glassy and were staring in a familiar vacant way over her shoulder, at something presumably behind her.
If Nemuro's glance had been slow, hers was lightning fast as she flipped her hair over her shoulder decisively, as if daring all comers to threaten the happiness she'd just discovered. The only thing she found in her field of vision was a man who stood helpless to prevent what he so clearly saw coming.
If, in that moment of epiphany that looking at her had caused him, he had come to truly and singularly love her for all that she was, in both strengths and follies, then she, in that split second of recognition, hated him more than any other person living or dead for what he had done, for what he represented, and for what, she suddenly realized, they had been.
Her eyes narrowed to slivers of jagged lapis glass and her hands balled into fists that shook, the nails biting into the palms and threatening to draw blood. She did not look back at Anthy, but simply threw a command that she obviously expected followed.
"Go and wait downstairs. I'll come and take you home in a few minutes."
Nemuro watched the other woman leave soundlessly, quietly pulling the door closed behind her, and felt, in that matter-of-fact click, the harbinger of his own doom.
Utena was in a fury, looking as if she might slay him if he said something that would give her probable cause. He had to attempt and explain himself to her more concisely than he'd managed to during their last confrontation and he had to do so carefully.
He stepped forward, desperately wishing for his glasses that would identify him as an ally and not an enemy. He offered both hands palm up, finger spread wanly in an attempt to negotiate a ceasefire before the bloodshed began, "Utena, listen to me. I know that you --"
Here she cut him off, swinging a dangerous left hook that he only barely managed to dodge and screaming, "Get away from me! Don't touch me! You can't fool me with your lies anymore!"
He responded the only way he could, the only way he knew how: with logic.
He spoke softly and calmly, "Lies? Which lies are these? Perhaps you would like to refresh my memory because I don't recall ever lying to you."
"This," she waved her hand to indicate the meticulous and lived-in apartment, "You. Us. Everything that's happened is a lie."
"I have never been anything other than honest with you. You know that. Right now you're just looking for someone to blame."
"Honest? How can you even use a word like that?" she was furious, "How can you live with yourself, Mikage?"
"Don't call me that," his response was a little sharper, a little harsher than he'd intended, and she took this as a sign of guilt.
"What, are you so spineless you can't take responsibility for your own actions?" she sneered, turning away from him as if disgusted.
"That's not who I am any more. I would prefer you not confuse yourself," he was slipping back from their intimacy, becoming cold and condescending again. He realized this and shook his head slightly, as if to clear it, "I'm sorry, that's not what I meant."
"Don't you dare try and play to me, you goddamned manipulator. We're through. I don't want to ever see you again."
"You find me surprisingly disposable. I should have known I was just a substitute until she came back into the game," he sounded bitter.
She seemed to snap, bringing her fist down so hard on the counter that he momentarily worried that she would break something, either her hand, or the table.
"Don't you dare even try to bring Himemiya into this. You're not fit to speak of her."
He chuckled bitterly, "Your hypocrisy is heartwarming, my dear. I'm glad you find it so easy to gloss over the number of times she manipulated others, including me. I wouldn't want to complicate your little witch trial."
"You have no right to talk about her that way. She was being used . . ."
"We were all being used."
"No one ever cared about her except when she was useful to them," she seemed near hysterical with anger, "It's not the same!"
"Oh, it's not? I hate to cue the violins, but when did anyone care about me, other than to use me? Tokiko tolerated my presence in hopes that I might find a cure for her brother. The Eternity project used my brilliance without care for my soul. The Rijichou used me to open the way to the revolution, dirtying my hands so he wouldn't have to dirty his own. Every single duelist who came to my seminar came knowing that they could use me to get the power to protect their memories. None of them cared about me in the least. None of them wanted me when I wasn't a direct use to them. Like your Rose Bride, I was used, squeezed until I didn't have anything to give any more. The Rijichou found pleasure in my torment and when he had no other use for me, he made me into a scapegoat, his whipping boy. He made you see all his sins as my own. He destroyed everything I had left, and then he threw me away. No prince ever bothered with me."
She had never seen him like this; he shook from the effort of repressing something, his iceman exterior broken. Suddenly her fury was just no longer there.
"It's not the same," she whispered, as if repetition would make it more believable, "You never needed a prince . . . "
"Why? I am not a prince. Look at me. You know me. How many times have you called me 'the Professor?' I am no prince. I am a scientist."
"It's not the same," she was struggling to maintain the moral high ground.
"Because I am not a princess? I never thought I would hear such narrow-mindedness from you, Ouji-sama," he sounded bitter again, "If a certain set of genitalia is the defining characteristic of a princess, then you my dear, are no prince."
"But all those people. You hurt all those people. You burned a hundred boys alive," with the bitterness set again in his voice, she could exercise more righteousness.
"I am not Mikage!" the force of this statement shook her, because she had never heard him raise his voice, "I am Nemuro. I am 'the Professor;' you named me yourself. I no longer walk the path of shadows. He threw me away and I chose my own path."
"It's not that simple!"
"I am very aware that it's not that simple, Utena. It's you who have difficulty grasping the concept."
He was sharp again, hard as glass. Then she watched him put his head in his hands. He was silent for some minutes before speaking.
"Why is it," he began softly, his voice shaking, "That you can forgive her for betrayal but you can't forgive me because I contradict your idealistic picture of the world?"
She had no answer for this.
"Why am I denied even repentance?" he was shaking again visibly, despite his attempts to control it. He focused on the ceiling and then whispered softly, "How can he control my life even now?"
She couldn't speak, couldn't answer him, so after a long silence, he continued.
"I'm sorry I've complicated your value system. A shadow, as you would call me, is difficult to classify when the only categories are white and black. Some things are not that simple."
He turned to face her again and she realized with shock that he had been crying silently, "Have you ever considered that Black is not White's opposition, but rather, its complement?
The silence was long and deafening, and she refused to look at him.
"Do you have any idea what it's like to find your perfect complement and then have her cast you down, the same way everyone else has cast you down? Ohtori played with me, tormented me. He showed me things that he would never allow me to have. He made sure I was aware of every thing he did to me. Do you honestly think he didn't plan this all out? It's happening again, just as he engineered it to. It's almost a pity that he isn't here to watch it this time," he sounded defeated, as if he had given up all hope and had resigned himself to this conclusion.
He walked quietly over to the door and opened it, and then turned his back to her and spoke softly, "Go on. I have no power over you."
He waited for what ironically, seemed to be an eternity, until he heard the door softly close and click shut. Well, at least she'd left his life as she had entered. He covered his face in his hands. He needed something, a shower, a logic problem, something, to distract him from this.
Then he felt her hands on his back, and she was leaning against him, whispering, "I'm so sorry, Nemuro."
He let out his breath in a sob of sorrowful laughter, both joy and pain still apparent in his voice, "It's all right. It's easy to fall back into the patterns that he gave to us. It's very difficult," and these words were expensive for him, "to break out of them."
He took a deep breath and then continued, "But I want to make sure that you're not here just because you want to defy Ohtori. The answer to a problem isn't always it's exact opposite. I want you to be here because you want to be here, Tenjou Utena. It should have nothing to do with anything else."
Her answer, when it came, was soft and thoughtful, not reckless, as her assertions usually were.
"I am here because you are Nemuro, and we," she took a deep, rattling breath, "are the same."
He hadn't known he'd been holding his breath until he exhaled it, slow and shaking. Although not one to favor hard liquor he found that now he desperately needed a drink, something to ground him after this almost pharmaceutical experience. But she would grant him even this much boon, because she continued speaking thoughtfully.
"But I do think we need to start over after this, and go slow. So much has happened, you know. We're almost like different people. And with Himemiya here now . . ."
And there she choked on a realization.
"What are we going to do about Himemiya!?"
The question seemed to be rhetorical and she seemed to be wondering aloud to herself, but he knew that if he wanted to keep any hold on her then he had to grasp at straws now.
"Bring her back here," his voice was soft, barely audible, and only the practice of years kept it steady and even. The words cost him, but he couldn't let her know it, because he knew what she would think. He was grateful for the simple blessing of not having to look at her as he spoke, as she was still standing behind him, "There's a spare bedroom. I think it would be the best thing for all of us. We'll all have time to adjust to this."
She paused at this, thoughtful once again, and then she answered quietly, "I suppose you're right. I'm glad you're here to think things through, Professor."
He grunted a half-hearted affirmative, trying to make the best of what was a victory of salvaged waste and unwilling to let her see the signs of his reluctance to invite the other woman into his own personal sanctuary.
The silence between them was awkward, no longer comfortable, as it had been. She spoke after a spare second of painfully idle time.
"I'll go get her then."
She left, fleeing his company, but she blessedly was not leaving permanently. That at least, he had.
He stared at his hands for a moment, long slender fingers splayed helplessly, emptily in the air, and then he left to find his rose colored glasses.
To Be Continued – Oh, no way is that the ending. Don't worry. Things get even more complicated in chapter three, where the actual plot is introduced.