Disclaimer: Be-Papas, I wish you joy of Shoujo Kakumei Utena, the show which does not belong to me.
Author's Note: Shiori's POV. *...* indicates italics.
Title: Falling Petals (Part One, Sub Rosa)
Rating: G
Category: Drama/Angst
Pairings: Really, nothing that isn't implied by the show.
Summary: What can Shiori do as a dream friendship starts to crumble?
Warnings: None I can think of.
Spoilers: Through Episode 7 ("Unfulfilled Jury").
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Sub Rosa
Part One: Falling Petals
When did you first begin to wear it?
I *know* when it was I first saw it.
Eighth grade--the day after my first "date" with him. For once, the two of us have gone out alone, without you. I have high hopes for the evening, cherish illusions. *He* comes with other expectations.
So we sit side by side, never touching, in the teashop, while he pours out his feelings for you; and I sip and smile and feel my heart deflate. Yes, I say, I'll see if I can sound out how she feels. And he thanks me warmly and looks into my eyes.
It's a slow walk back to my dorm in the twilight, and a long evening spent staring at the ceiling. Jealousy has never been a stranger to me, but now it fills the air, infecting my every thought.
Yet the next morning is a golden one, exceptionally lovely even for Ohtori. "I'll make the best of this," I tell myself as I cross the campus; "boys may come and go, but friendship is forever." A shiver of unease runs down my back even as I murmur these words, for haven't you grown withdrawn lately, less open and affectionate with me?
"Snap out of it," I instruct myself. By way of distraction, I glance around me.
My stroll toward the fencing hall, where I've arranged to meet you after practice, has brought me abreast of the greenhouse. I halt abruptly.
The gardener (there was a male gardener then, an old man who must long since have retired) is cutting some long-stemmed, flame-colored blossoms. And I remember--
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*Our first day at Ohtori, and we have just run hand in hand through the boxwood maze and the poppy field, explored the woods. Windswept and sun-warmed, we come at last to this very place. You flop down on a bench; I curl on the flagstones, folding my arms on the seat and resting my chin on them as I gaze up at you.
*Your eyes are closed, tumbling hair half-hiding your face. Without realizing it perhaps, you've sat down in front of a whole bank of roseblooms the exact shade of your hair. Glorious. It's as though you're enveloped by a great orange cloud.
*And as I watch, two perfect petals come drifting from above you. Reaching my hand up, I catch them both in a single gesture. You don't stir.
*"Look, here are your sisters."
*Your eyes pop open, you whip your head both ways in almost comical horror. "Where?"
*I hadn't meant to trick you, but I can't help giggling. You immediately level a narrow-eyed look at me. The glare of the twelve-year-old Juri is already daunting.
*Still laughing, I open my hand. "S-sorry, I was just trying to be a poet! I meant these!"
*Your suspicious gaze drops to my palm, changes to puzzlement. I slide up onto the bench beside you, loop a lock of your hair through the fingers of my cupped hand. "See?"
*Your expression changes again, turns open and soft. You look at me, then abruptly hug me tight. "Shiori, I'm so glad you came to Ohtori too!"
*"I can't imagine staying behind with you here," I reply honestly into your curls.
*You bounce to your feet, tiredness apparently gone. Reaching into a bush, you snap off a velvety-dark bud and present it to me.
*"For Shiori, compliments of Ohtori's rosegarden," you proclaim.
*Suddenly, we hear a clatter at the back of the glasshouse, then a creaky, far-from-friendly voice. "What's going on over there? Young scalawags!"
*Heavy footsteps sound on the flagstones. You and I look at each other, clap hands over our mouths to stifle laughter, and run for it.*
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The gardener standing before me is probably the owner of that voice. In the two years since that day, I haven't dared come in. Yet now, and almost without realizing it, I approach the wheelbarrow on which he's placed the cut roses, and lift one to my nose.
He wheels immediately, his tufty white brows drawn together. "What do you think you're doing? Those are for the incoming members of the Seitokai!"
I bow, then smile boldly up at him. "That's all right then, because the person I'm giving this to is sure to be a member someday. Arigatou!" After bowing again, I scamper away, his grumbles receding behind me.
The fencers are drifting out the doors as I arrive. Most have already showered and changed. I sit between the windows in the front hall, waiting.
You round the corner from the corridor with the lockers, see me and half-smile.
I grin back at you. You are yourself tall and elegant as a long-stemmed rose, even in your detested sailor-fuku.
Silently, I proffer the bloom.
You come to a stop, your smile fades. Your gaze drops to the rose, then returns to mine. There is something odd, urgent, asking in your eyes.
I look down, muster courage and good cheer, then peek up at you again.
"Friends forever, Juri-chan? It's what I want for us. For always."
You take the rose from me and bury your face in it. After a moment, you repeat, "Friends."
That could be taken for agreement, I suppose. I bob my head brightly as though it is.
We fall into step as we leave the building. A flash catches the corner of my eye. Glinting in the hollow of your neck is a pendant in the shape of a rose.
"Juri-chan," I chirp, pleased to find some innocuous topic of conversation. "Is that new?"
You look straight ahead. "Yes."
"It's a locket, isn't it? Can I--"
"Look, there's ______," you interrupt. "Let's see if we can catch up with him--I have a question about French homework." You set off full tilt.
I can barely keep up. In fact, I don't keep up. By the time I get there, the two of you are immersed in discussion.
I've started Spanish this year, and have no part in your conversation. I lag a step behind you both, stare at your backs.
An unwelcome idea takes shape in my mind.
He's talking animatedly, sneaking a glance at your profile every now and then.
You give an almost-laugh at something he's said, and raise your hand--the one curled around the rose-stem--toward your breast. The petals caress your neck, and, faintly, you blush.
A wall breaks inside me, the dark comes rushing in. Viciously, I imagine a thorn pricking you deep on thumb or throat.
The two of you are looking back toward me now, he smiling, you with your usual seriousness.
"Shiori!" he says, and I sparkle a response. His eyes ask me a question.
I start composing the lie I will tell him. "It's not your picture in the locket," I'll say. "She's in love with someone else."