Midnight. The sky was black, the stars overpowered and invisible with the presence of the city lights. Nemuro shut the blinds and sat down on the edge of his bed, a slight frown on his lips.

That pink-haired woman… he could not shake the woman from his thoughts. Every time he closed his eyes, she was there, in that brief glimpse of her he had seen just when she was turning around to face him. Sometimes her hair was brown in his recollection – which was unusual, because his memory was never faulty. Details, such as the dimensions of the teahouse, stayed with him like photographs, printed for eternity in his brain.

The brown-haired woman must be who she reminded me of, he thought. That's why I recognized her… I mistook her for someone else.

Why a brown-haired woman seemed in his mind to bear any resemblance to a pink-haired one, he could not explain. It was a surreal experience to file away with the strange dreams of Mikage.

Those dreams he would have to face in a few minutes; he could feel fatigue creeping up on him, peeling away his consciousness.

Maybe Mikage will recognize her, he thought to himself as he slipped under the sheets and lay down. Exhaustion swept over him. It seemed like he was in the asylum before he had even lost consciousness. He was sinking into darkness when he heard, dimly, the slam of a door and a hostile shout: "Wake up you motherf-ckers! Rise and shine!"

(in
the
asylum)

Mikage was jolted out of his dream by the slam of the door to the room next to his. His own door followed, along with a repeat of the greeting given by the orderly who was collecting them for their morning shower.

He stood up. He despised the man who had awoken them, and regarded the group shower as the most unpleasant portion of the day; but privacy, as he had known for the past two years as a criminal on trial and then as an asylum inmate, was not a luxury afforded to arsonists or the mentally unbalanced. He endured the daily ritual with indifference. That was something he had managed to cultivate very well – indifference, an utter lack of emotional interest in his own existence or anybody else's. But perhaps that, like the isolation and purposelessness and other aspects of this place that resonated with him, was not something he had learned here but rather, was something he had brought with him from someplace else.

It was amusing to note that Nemuro, in entirely more pleasant circumstances, was equally apathetic.

Despite his general indifference, he was looking forward in some measure to his session with his therapist today. Nemuro had discovered the teahouse. Predictably, he'd been reluctant about it – Nemuro never wanted to give credence to this asylum reality and the other self that had murdered a hundred people. The professor had a life in the real world to preserve, after all, even if that life was just like that of a clockwork machine, wound each day to the same unchanging schedule. It was no surprise that he dismissed the dreams, rather than attempting to understand them. Mikage, on the other hand, trapped in the darker side of his reflected world and stagnating with the monotony of his existence, had nothing better to do than seek out the truth. It at least brought a flicker of interest to his life.

So now he had the teahouse. If his therapist would cooperate in looking up the information for him, he would learn for certain which of him was real, or if perhaps both were. He also had Nemuro's strange meeting with the familiar pink-haired girl to ponder. Nemuro had wondered if Mikage knew her.

Unlike the professor, Mikage was relatively considerate of his dream self's rare questionings, so he answered. No, he thought, I don't recognize her. I've never met her before. Then, as an afterthought, he added, The woman with brown hair… her name might be Tokiko.

After the shower and breakfast he returned to his cell, where he sank down with a scientific journal in his hands. He requested them so that he could search for articles written by his counterpart (he had found none so far), but the material was interesting, in a dry sort of way. He leafed through it to pass the time until therapy.

"You seem cheerful today, sempai."

At the sound of the soft, gentle voice, Mikage lowered the journal and looked up. Mamiya, clad as usual in his magenta uniform, smiled at him from a stool he had pulled up to the edge of the bed.

"I found a teahouse. I think I can finally learn which world is the real one."

"Perhaps they both are," suggested Mamiya.

"I doubt it." Mikage's eyes narrowed at him. "… it's likely the other world is, like my therapist says, an illusion. Like you. I suppose it wouldn't be surprising. Maybe I really am crazy."

"Until a dreamer awakens, the dream is the reality," said Mamiya. "What your therapist sees and what you see may be different, but only your perceptions are real."

"I don't define reality that way," said Mikage.

"What is real then, sempai? Is that journal you're reading real? Would it cease to be real if your therapist said so?"

"She's a fool. Her opinions are meaningless."

"I'm glad you found the teahouse," said the boy.

Mikage leaned forward, giving Mamiya an odd, measuring look, before handing him the journal. "Take this."

Mamiya took it and opened it to the article Mikage had been reading. "… a new species of frog? It has interesting orange spots on it."

"Turn to page seventy-two and read the first three lines to me."

The boy did so obediently.

When he had finished, Mikage took the journal from him and skimmed the lines himself. Mamiya had read them correctly. He frowned and closed the pages, shutting his eyes and sinking back into his pillow. "… it doesn't make sense," he said absently. "No one can see or hear you except me. You are a hallucination. But… you read those lines correctly, and I hadn't seen them yet. How could that be possible? It doesn't make sense."

"Do you expect to be able to rationalize all things in life?" asked Mamiya. "There are many phenomena without logical explanation. Dreams are one. Love is another."

At the feel of warm pressure on his chest, Mikage opened his eyes. Mamiya leaned over him, hands sliding across the fabric of his shirt, up to his shoulders. The boy lowered himself to the bed and snuggled against him.

"Mamiya…" Mikage wrapped his arms around him. The texture of Mamiya's magenta uniform, the warmth of his body, the sound of his gentle breathing, and the faint scent of roses overwhelmed his senses. He curled a lock of pale lavender hair in his fingers. "Which of us is real? Why don't you ever appear in my dreams?"

"You don't want me to appear in them, sempai."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'd like nothing better. For one thing, it would convince Nemuro to take this matter seriously, and that would be useful."

"You would be upset if I were there."

"I? You mean he would." He tilted the boy's chin up and gazed into his green eyes.

"You are both the same," said Mamiya gravely.

"You think so? That I am the same as that dry, soulless machine endlessly ticking away on an unsolvable problem?" Mikage shook his head. "I recognize the futility of life in this prison, but he makes his life a prison by its futility. It is a subtle but important distinction."

"Even so, you won't want to see me in the dream," said Mamiya.

"Why shouldn't I? There is never a time I don't want you with me." He pulled the boy into his embrace and inhaled deeply the rose scent of his hair.

"Nemuro will be upset with you, sempai," said Mamiya, his tone reproachful; but his smile was inviting.

"Let him. I'm a figment of his imagination or vice versa. Either way it's irrelevant." Mikage's slender fingers brushed through the boy's hair, stroked the outline of the youthful face, and lightly touched his lips. Mamiya's beauty shone back at him – pure and devoted beauty, worth seizing eternity for.

It's very clear that he's an illusion. Nothing so vibrant could exist in this asylum, Mikage thought, bending his head to kiss the lips whose warmth and taste proved how delusional he was.

(Balch Hall
a dormitory on the
university campus)

She had restless dreams that night, about a black rose, and something in vibrant red – someone – she could not remember. Nemuro appeared briefly, but he was smirking maliciously. In the dream he was her enemy.

Utena woke feeling tired and grumpy. She also discovered she had overslept, and a frantic sprint for class didn't save her from creeping in late. At least today she had fencing practice to look forward to. After slogging through calculus, she went out to get lunch. She was crossing the arts quad when she glimpsed a familiar figure with short pink hair.

The professor! Now's my chance to apologize for yesterday. She jogged over to him. "Hello! Professor! It's me."

He stopped his quick stride along the walkway and turned to wait for her, albeit with obvious reluctance. "Can I help you with something, Miss?" he asked coldly.

"No, I just wanted to apologize. I'm really sorry I hit you. Did I do any serious damage?" She peered at his face, and winced a little at the puffy black circle behind his tinted glasses.

"Nothing that won't mend in a few days," he said brusquely, resuming his walk.

"Um… Listen, I can understand why you're mad at me," she said, following alongside him. "I feel really bad about it, so… is there anything I could do to make it up to you?"

He glanced at her. "I suppose you could help me move some new equipment into my laboratory."

"Sure! Okay. Right now?"

"Unless you're busy."

"Well, I was about to get lunch—"

"Never mind it, then."

"No – wait! Hey, I didn't say I wouldn't. I'll get lunch afterwards." Utena hurried after him, thinking to herself that this professor was really rude, but then again… she had hit him yesterday. She supposed that gave him some justification for his behavior towards her.

She trailed him across campus to the basement of a building she had never entered before. Inside, he used his ID card to unlock a door, which he opened to what appeared to be a supply room. He pointed to a small stack of boxes.

"These need to come to my laboratory."

"Okay, no problem." Utena flexed her bicep and smiled at him, but only received a cold stare in response. She picked up two of the boxes and said, "Just show me the way."

He lifted a third and set off down the hallway.

Utena followed, bothered less by his rudeness than by the persistent feeling of familiarity. Somehow, she knew him. Some part of her suspected that beneath that impassive mask of his was another face, smirking at her; that behind those cold, calculating eyes was an intellect both incredibly sharp and incredibly warped, capable of infinite maliciousness.

That's ridiculous. I'd never even met him until yesterday! It must be that stupid dream I had.

In two trips, they managed to get everything to his laboratory. Utena lingered, looking around the room as if it might give her some clue to the identity of this man who pretended not to know her, yet who she felt certain she had met before.

"Thank you for your assistance," said the professor.

"Sure, it was no problem. Wow, what is all this stuff?" She peered into one of the boxes at magnets, metal parts, and some special type of glass.

"It's for the current project I'm working on."

"What project is that?"

"I've been commissioned to design a perpetual motion machine."

"Is that possible?" Utena's knowledge of science was limited, but she recalled having heard theories about perpetual motion in high school. She examined the mathematical equations he had written across his chalkboard, unable to make sense of them.

"Most people don't think so," Nemuro answered her, "but the idea intrigued me, so I accepted the project. The work has been nothing but a series of repetitive failures, however. To be quite honest, I've lately come to be convinced that it is impossible; but I am paid to work on it, so that is what I do."

Utena's eyebrows knit. "Professor… don't you think that's a little dishonest, working on a project that you know can't succeed?"

"Perhaps, but I could be wrong about it. I invest the requisite number of hours, because there are people who believe in the possibility and want me to seek it for them. As long as I do my job, what I think of the project is unimportant."

Utena sat down on the edge of a table and looked thoughtfully at the boxes as he began to unpack them. "What's the point in working on a project you have no interest in?"

"I didn't say I find it uninteresting. On the contrary, the concept intrigues me. I simply said I think it's impossible."

"But that amounts to the same thing. What's the point in doing work you believe is futile? You'll never succeed if you don't have any faith in it to begin with."

Her barrage of questions seemed to annoy him. He stopped unpacking momentarily to look at her, perhaps wondering why she had not left yet. Utena waited. She wanted to hear his reply; if he had no good reason then he should not be doing the work – that was a simple truth.

The professor went back to unpacking. "At one point, I believed in this work. I've passed that point, but the work remains."

"I see…" Utena mulled that over. She was silent for several minutes, looking at the scribblings on the chalkboard.

Gradually, she became aware of a profound stillness that had settled over the room. Nemuro had stopped unpacking. She glanced his way to find him staring fixedly at her, his expression so intense that she was reminded instantly of her dream, and her feelings of mistrust came flooding back.

The professor swiftly averted his gaze.

But it was too late; she saw that he had recognized her, despite his efforts now to pretend otherwise.

"Professor?"

"What is it?"

"Have we met before?"

"I don't think so."

"Oh." She scratched her head and stared at him. He's lying. I know he felt something, just like I did. He's the same as Wakaba.

But whereas Wakaba had immediately acknowledged their mutual feeling of recognition, the professor flatly denied it.

After a few minutes, Utena pressured him: "The reason I ask is that… This is going to sound bizarre, but I'm looking for something." He did not reply or otherwise acknowledge her words, so she continued, "I'm not sure what it is. It's something important. It's like… I can't really describe it. It's something really precious to me. I don't have any idea where to find it, but I get these flashes of recollection. A kind of déjà vu, like I felt around you when I attacked you yesterday, which is why I brought it up. You're the only person, except Wakaba, who I've felt that around. Weird, huh?"

From the slight lifting of his head and the silent stare he gave the wall, as if he were lost in deep contemplation, she judged her words had made an impression on him. When he spoke, however, she was disappointed:

"These 'flashes of recollection' led you to mistake me for your friend's tall, dark-haired boyfriend, in broad daylight, at a distance of five feet? Either you're off your medication, or you've concocted the most elaborate ruse I've ever heard of to get close to me."

"What?" Her expression darkened. "Why would I do that? Don't flatter yourself! I don't take medication, and I'm perfectly sane. I just think you look a little familiar, that's all. I thought maybe you could help me."

He looked at her then, his eyes unreadable behind the gleam of his tinted glasses.

"Are you going to be honest with me?" asked Utena. "Or do you really think I'm crazy? I guess I might be, but… I get the feeling we might have that much in common."

From the slight downturn of his lips, she knew she had guessed correctly. The professor definitely had recognized her, and had simply chosen to conceal it.

Eventually, he pulled out a chair and sat down to face her. "… I never caught your name."

"Eh?" Realizing that she had never told him, she laughed sheepishly and bowed her head. "Utena Tenjou. Sorry about that!"

"The name sounds familiar, but I can't recall where I've heard it." He intertwined his gloved fingers and fixed his shrewd gaze on her, seeming to debate with himself about how much to tell her. "… You described something precious you're searching for. I used to feel something similar. I suppose you could liken it to this perpetual motion project. At the time I believed I had once possessed something vital, something indescribably important, only I had somehow lost it and was desperate to retrieve it. Later, I came to realize that the thing I thought I had lost was something I had never had to begin with. It was illusory – like the goal of this project. The project goes on, empty, without meaning – not because the meaning is lost, but because it never had any to begin with."

Utena frowned at this melancholy parallel to her own situation. "But surely… someone thinks it has meaning, to fund it."

"What other people think has no bearing on my own perception of the matter."

"But… if you don't believe in it, then of course you won't find it. You have to believe that you will! You have to want to."

He gave her an odd look. "In any case, I can't help you in this search of yours; however I am curious to know why we both think there is something familiar about each other. The person you remind me of has brown hair and is several years older than you. I doubt you've ever met her."

"That could describe a lot of people."

"I know. As I said, I don't think you've met her. Where is it you think you've seen me before?"

"I'm… not sure," she confessed, peering thoughtfully into his face. "I think…" Her eyes narrowed. "Take off your glasses for a minute."

He complied, removing them and setting them on the counter.

Her mouth dropped open. "Mik…" She strained to grasp the rest of the thought, but it was gone before she finished the word.

"What?"

"I don't know… a name, I think. You remind me of someone named Miki – no, that's not right. Mik… ah…"

"Mikage," Nemuro supplied.

"Yes!" Utena snapped her fingers. "Mikage, that's right! How did you know, professor?"

"Miss Tenjou, this Mikage, where have you met him? What can you recall about him?"

"Nothing, except the name seems right and he looks like you," said Utena, somewhat disturbed at the sudden intensity in the professor's scrutinizing gaze. He reminded her now, more than ever, of the manipulative presence in her dream.

"But you remember him. Where have you met him? Have you ever been in a mental institution?"

"What?" She was indignant. "Okay, granted my questions are a little weird, but now you're accusing me of being insane? Look, the answer is no, I'm perfectly healthy and I've never been in a mental hospital!"

"That's not what I meant," said Nemuro. "Mikage Souji is in an asylum. He burned down a school building, killing the hundred students inside. Perhaps you visited him, or attended class with him?"

Utena's eyes widened. "Killed a hundred students?" she echoed. "I think I would remember something like that! No, I've never been in an asylum, and I'm positive I don't know anything about a fire killing that many people."

"I see. Perhaps we're thinking of two different people," said Nemuro, with a slight frown.

"I guess we must be…" Utena's frown mirrored his. The name is right, but I'd remember something as major as a fire like that. Anyway, why is the professor so interested in a guy who murdered a hundred people? … I don't think I want to know about it.

"In that case, I think there's very little we can do to help each other. I can remember nothing about you except… Tokiko," he said, abruptly. "I believe that was the name of the woman you remind me of."

Utena shook her head. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"I see. Then we cannot help each other. I think we can safely assume that it's simple coincidence that we each resemble someone whom the other has met someplace. Miss Tenjou, thank you for carrying these boxes over."

"You're welcome." Recognizing that as a dismissal, she moved to the door. She paused as she was leaving, and glanced back at him. "Professor, I hope you find the solution to that perpetual motion device."

"Thank you."

His voice was an emotionless monotone. He had no faith in the project at all, and her words of encouragement were hollow to him. She closed the door softly, a gentle feeling of pity welling up in her. There was something tragic, and pathetically hopeless, in the brilliance of that young man wasted on work without meaning. He was like a computer ticking away at a problem someone had entered and forgotten about.

I am not like that. I am going to find what I lost.

She gave the door one more long look before she turned away, leaving the computer to follow his programmed routines, silently, efficiently, and purposelessly.

(Author's note: Thank you, Utena Himemiya, Hofftailing, and Saionji's Rose Bride, for the reviews and encouragement! Thanks also for the recommendations. I will definitely have a look at those fics.

It's been a few years since I've seen anything from Utena except the Black Rose arc; I'll have to have my sister bring me the rest of the series when she comes to visit, so that I can review it.

This story has a slow beginning, but I promise it picks up the pace within the next two chapters. To anyone reading it, thank you, I hope you find it interesting, and if you leave me a review you will manage to attain something eternal - my gratitude. Har har. In all seriousness, though, reviews are very encouraging, so thank you for them. Ciao!)