DISCLAIMER: SKIP BEAT! and its associated characters are the creations of Yoshiki Nakamura. This author claims no ownership of Skip Beat or any of its characters. All other rights reserved.
Chapter XXXII: Cardboard Kingdom, Tinsel Crown
Tadao Mori—tall, popular, athletic and rich—was walking to school one September morning when he saw her under the trees. She was wearing his school's uniform. Her back was ramrod straight; her amber eyes were tilted up into a blue sky. Her hair was shorter back then, a shoulder-length style that complemented her heart-shaped face. She was standing still, looking at the crossroads—she looked no older than he was, but there had been a maturity in her stance that marked her as different.
That was the first time he saw Kyoko Mogami.
He wondered if she was lost. "Are you going to Sagano High?" he asked.
She turned towards him. Amber-gold eyes assessed him and then looked away. "Yes," she said.
"It's…this way," he told her, pointing to the right. "I'm a student there too."
She was supposed to smile, and he was supposed to ask if she wanted to walk there with him.
But she didn't.
Instead, she nodded. "Thank you," she told him. She bowed formally, like an elegant ojou-sama from a period film. And then she strode onwards ahead of him with a business-like gait, heading for campus.
There were no sakura on the trees blooming in the background, and no thunderbolts rending the sky. But then, he supposed, not every love story needed to start so dramatically—and she was a mystery too good to give up. He figured she was a transfer student; he hadn't recognized her. He was president of his class, and tried his best to get to know everyone.
She had been perfectly polite, but he felt invisible all the same.
He was a few paces behind her when she got to campus. People paused and then parted in front of her—she had the aura of an ice-queen, cold and hard. Later on, they'd find out that she was the designated heir of Etsuro and Yayoi Fuwa, estranged parents of the disgraced singer Sho Fuwa, and the rumors intensified around her. People couldn't stop speculating—was she engaged to the rock star? Was she his distant relative? No one could tell what school she'd attended right before her transfer, but people somehow knew her transfer exam scores were perfect.
And now, an entire year had passed and he wasn't sure if she even knew he existed.
Though she was front and center in his mind, she was one of those people who seemed to like existing in the periphery. Tadao found that she took her bicycle to school sometimes, and other times she walked. Despite her impressive exam performance, Kyoko Mogami avoided attention whenever possible. She didn't have any close friends, she wasn't part of any clubs. She was decently athletic but not extraordinarily so; she was fastidious with her appearance but never flamboyant. Kyoko was distant, brilliant, self-contained. She did not volunteer anything about her personal life. She did everything that was required of her and not a jot more.
She worked hard but seemed to take no joy in it—and the stillness and resignation in her made him want to ask, what happened? Because he was sure something had happened. There had been times her eyes softened and shone, and he saw the glimmer of her true self underneath the surface. He had a sense that there was someone else inside her, someone alive. There was something about her that hinted at hidden depths—he was sure that somewhere beneath all that ice was a person well worth knowing. But every time he had a chance to speak to her, the responses she gave him were perfectly polite and perfectly perfunctory. Friendly enough, cheerful enough, but never more intimate than, say, a clerk in a shop waiting for you to make a selection. And yet he couldn't take his eyes off of her. He got very good at watching her surreptitiously, getting to know each quirk of her mouth and twitch of her eyebrow. He wanted very much to hear her laugh.
Hana-chan and Yui-chan targeted her from the start. Given that warm welcome, was it any wonder that Kyoko kept to herself? He'd seen them bully plenty of other people before; had even taken it upon himself to speak to them about it. Oh, don't worry, Tadao-kun, Hana would always say. We're just being friendly. He knew that wasn't what they were doing. He knew better. He knew they bullied people anyway, just…out of his sight. He was prepared to call them out on it, perhaps even involve the school's administration this time—but it had quickly become apparent that Kyoko was, perhaps, the only girl in the school who could stand up to Hana and her little clique. Their insults and their tactics fell flat. Kyoko Mogami did not care. They couldn't touch her—she pushed back when they tried to pull her down, and then she left them in the dust.
Summer ended, the first day of the new term arrived. He promised himself that this year would be different. When they returned from summer break, he was determined to get to know her better. This year he was going to get up the courage to speak to her. Perhaps…perhaps he'd even be able to ask her to go out on a date with him, too. He looked for her in the crowd of students entering the grounds. He said hi to everyone, welcomed everyone back, glad-handed the guys and smiled at the girls. He was determined to start off on the right foot this time, waiting by the campus gates.
She arrived just in time. Just as she had when he'd first seen her—she glided through the crowds. He was prepared for that closed, far-off look on her face. But just as he was preparing to greet her and ask Mogami-san, how are you? Or maybe Mogami-san, how was your summer?, he choked. The words died before they could leave his lips, because Kyoko Mogami was smiling and the sight of it was enough to render him deaf, dumb, and blind for a second.
Had she ever smiled like that before?
He wasn't even sure if she knew what she'd done. She didn't greet anyone. Just as she always did, she walked into the gate briskly, holding her bag. But the closed, far-off look—it was gone. The ice-queen was gone. Instead, those amber eyes looked…dreamy. Glowy. She looked as if she'd just woken from a dream full of stars, and part of that dream had come to school with her. If he'd peeked at her from afar before, he couldn't stop staring at her now. Nor could anyone else, apparently. He saw how people's heads turned as she passed them. The way she stood, the way she walked—he found himself holding the entrance door open for her and breathless when she thanked him.
She was different. Deep-down different. Something had changed in her—something big. This wasn't a summer tan she'd picked up on a family trip to Okinawa. He sat next to her in class; they'd always been seated alphabetically. Kyoko Mogami was always the kind of person taking neat, comprehensive notes, quietly listening to the teacher. But now? He watched alongside his classmates as Kyoko Mogami was called down from a daydream—and gave an electrifying reading of Macbeth in perfect English when she should have blushed and stuttered for not paying attention in class.
She followed that performance with another, equally impressive one at lunch. No one could have predicted it—she stared down Hana and made the girl apologize. Tadao hadn't ever seen anything like it, and he'd been Hana's classmate since kindergarten.
He was going to wait until after classes to use the situation as a pretext to talk to her, but then she disappeared. He'd even asked around, but everyone who'd seen her told him she was anxious to get somewhere that afternoon. She'd left the premises as early as she could.
He hadn't even had a chance to speak to her, much less ask her out. Rumor had it that she had a new job, but no one knew what she was doing.
The next few months were a rollercoaster. The next day, that shining girl had disappeared. For most of September, she came to class looking tired, as if she'd barely slept. She was distant; she rarely smiled—she looked as if she was trying to gather enough courage to jump off a cliff. She wasn't the ice queen she once was, but neither did she feel present, the way the rest of his classmates did. He would've attributed it to the stress of preparing for the university entrance exams, but she wasn't attending cram school like the rest of them were, and besides, there was still time. Some time in October, she missed two days of classes and when she came back, something was…wrong.
Now she tried to be cheerful, dropping smiles the way the trees were dropping their leaves. She'd even had a few almost-meaningful conversations with him. People had begun warming up to her, especially after they figured out how much they could learn from her. He saw his classmates hang onto her every word as she explained concepts they found difficult, smile with sudden comprehension when she explained English phrases or demonstrate how to solve a particularly tricky calculus problem. It was always "Oh, yes, of course, Suzuki-san, just remember that you're trying to find the area between the x-axis and the curve," or perhaps "Oh no, Honda-chan, a prepositional phrase means something that starts with 'of' or 'to.'" But despite the new popularity she enjoyed, he hadn't had the heart to ask her out, because the smiles on her face never touched her eyes. Perhaps other people couldn't tell, but he could. He'd watched her from afar for so very long. Though her face would soften from time to time, there was a darkness in her that she couldn't quite hide. Looking at her smiling was like looking at someone dancing on their own grave and pretending to be happy about it.
Watching it was painful.
=.=.=
(Oh god I miss him.)
She breathed in sharply and then glared at herself in a mirror. The little voice in her head was particularly insistent today, and she couldn't afford any more distractions.
I am going to eat today, she told herself.
(And it was never going to work out.)
She watched as Mirror-Kyoko nodded her head resolutely.
I am going to talk to other people today.
She watched as Mirror-Kyoko pursed her lips into a thin line.
I am going to find something to laugh about today.
Mirror-Kyoko gave herself a wide, care-free smile which didn't quite hit the mark.
She paused, reset, and tried again. She practiced her smile and pretended that her insides weren't in free-fall. She could feel the monstrous ache of his absence still gnawing at her insides—
Silly Kyoko, she told her mirror-self. Wild animals are not eating you. This is Japan, and it is the twenty-first century.
She made herself widen her smile and crinkle her eyes and pretended she was looking at a customer. An American customer, because American customers preferred it when you smiled.
An American like Kuon—
No. Not like Kuon. Any American. She made herself picture the old, retired couple that had taken up residence in Kuon's old room.
No. Not Kuon's old room. Just another room in the ryokan.
The two of you were going to burn out anyway.
But the pain was a constant, an omnipresent hum at the edge of her hearing.
You might as well hurt now so you can be OK later.
She would endure it, and someday he'd simply be a vague memory.
So why did it still hurt so much?
It's only been a few weeks, she told herself. Give it time.
A few weeks, yes, but the leaves had all fallen from the trees. The rain that fell with them stung her skin when the wind blew it sideways underneath her long-suffering umbrella. The temperatures were cooling precipitously. Summer—and the heat of his skin—had never felt so far away.
A few weeks ago, she'd decided to act her way into happiness. She was going to fake it. Perhaps she'd be able to fade into some other character—a normal high-school girl, perhaps, who had yet to experience this kind of torture. She made herself useful. She made herself friendly. She tutored some people and listened to others, she even decided to help Mori-san with his class president duties once in a while. She was going through the motions, because the presence of other people shielded her from his absence—at least during school hours. And for the first time in her life, she found herself part of a group. She wasn't close to anyone in particular, but escaping active persecution was…refreshing. It was nice to be welcomed. It was entirely possible that her classmates only saw her as a resource for help with school and exam prep, but it was something like friendship—and maybe that would be enough to hold onto until she grew inured to his absence.
Or so she thought.
She was surprised when she realized that faking it had turned into something real. It was nice to be greeted with smiles and a spot at the table, and she tried to forget that it was Kuon who'd taught her what it was like to have a friend—to belong somewhere. Kuon, and Corn before him, had shown her what it was like to be with people who simply wanted to spend time with her. She thought back to her mother and to Sho—neither one of them had ever been happy about who she was. But now? Now she found how nice it was just to be greeted in the mornings. The feeling was bittersweet and complicated, painful and yet welcome. Was she so changed? Before, she'd never needed any social interaction. The camaraderie was a small comfort, a tiny ember of warmth. When she realized it, she clung to it in hopes it would fill some of the absence Kuon had left.
It had been the opposite.
It made her miss him more. There was something about being in the company of people that both softened and yet deepened the pain she felt.
All she ever wanted to do at the end of the day was talk to him about everyone else. The more friendly she became to others, the more she missed him. Everything reminded her of him—every time she laughed at something, she remembered laughing with him. Perhaps it was because he'd taught her how to be young, somehow. With him, she'd learned to understand joy, and not just to live life going from one duty to another. She wanted to come home to him and tell him things she'd done, things she knew would make him laugh. She wanted to ask him what he thought, feel him hold her after a long day.
But she'd made a decision, hadn't she? Give yourself time, she told herself again.
She'd tried reasoning with herself. She'd tried imagining her life as Ren Tsuruga's girlfriend, a sparrow in a field of swans—and she told herself she would've been miserable being on his arm. The gap between them was simply too wide.
The experience was entirely different from her break with Sho. Mere weeks after she left Tokyo, she'd shed Sho like a garment. Though his absence had left a hole in her life, she hadn't missed him, not really. Who was Sho to her? Someone to placate. Someone to bend herself into a pretzel for, hoping and working for him but never actually becoming enough for him. She'd never missed talking to Sho, because she and Sho had never really talked. She'd never relied on Sho to be there, to step in just when she needed to reach something on a high shelf—and—oh gods—there had never been a time when she just wanted to see Sho smile. She'd come back numb and cold from her break with Sho, but what he'd left behind was an absence of pain.
Kuon was different.
Kuon left an absence of joy.
Perhaps her break with Kuon would feel different until she found herself numb to his absence, too.
Yes, she told herself. I am going to be OK.
She was lying to herself, and she knew it.
=.=.=
"A themed cafe," she said. "It will be significantly easier than putting a play together."
Tadao watched her stand at her desk, her back as needlessly straight as ever.
The class was abuzz with anticipation—it would be their very last cultural festival, and everyone wanted to do something brilliant. Someone—he wasn't quite sure who—had suggested Romeo and Juliet. The idea was received enthusiastically, and for a while it looked as if everyone in the class was of one mind.
Everyone except for Kyoko Mogami, apparently. Though Mogami-san was, for the most part, known for her reserve, she'd spent the last five minutes trying to convince everyone not to do the play. Tadao had no idea why she was so opposed to the idea—they were going to use a Japanese translation, of course, but she'd been amazing during the readings she'd given in English class. He would have thought she would've jumped on the chance to actually perform on a stage. Or not. Kyoko Mogami never really jumped at anything, did she? No. She would have glided like an elegant ojou-sama onto that stage. Which…wasn't that who Juliet really was?
She was saying something and he'd been so distracted he hadn't noticed that she was still talking.
"Think about it," Kyoko was saying, "With a cafe, everyone can participate equally. But a play would focus all the attention on the main characters and everyone else would fade into the background—"
Someone whistled in the back. "A maid cafe!" It was Sanosuke, the class clown.
"I didn't say a maid cafe," she said. "We can do almost anything, with any theme—" She paused, and then proceeded to rattle off ideas. "A spaceport, maybe? An American Wild West saloon? All of those would have really great parts for everyone to play—"
"She just wants to do a maid cafe because that's what she does for work." Tadao turned. It was Hana, of course, with a nasty smirk on her face. The girl was sitting primly at her desk, hands steepled together. "That's what Mogami-san does. She wouldn't be a maid-for-a-day, she's already one for life." Tadao could hear the derision in her voice. He felt as if he ought to say something—he was the class president, after all, and Hana was bullying Kyoko in front of everyone. But he held his tongue. "She just doesn't want to do the play because she's not pretty enough to be Juliet."
Kyoko's lips twisted into a wry smile. Tadao watched her in admiration. She was silent, but her expression spoke volumes. Do you think I care what some bitch says about me? A lesser girl's eyes would have teared up, but he could see Kyoko's spirit rise. She ignored Hana's jabs. Tadao watched the insults fall short of their target like so many birds shot out of the sky. "I assure you, I have no interest in acting," she said. "I just think it's an awful lot of work behind the scenes. Think about the costumes, and the fact that we'd need to build a set—"
"Hana-chan," he heard, "stop being so mean to Kyoko-chan!" It was Sanosuke again. Tadao did a double take. It was the first time anyone had contradicted Hana to her face. Kyoko-chan really had won them over.
"Mogami-san should direct!" said another voice. Tadao heard voices agreeing—he agreed, too. Kyoko Mogami would be an amazing director. No one else was so knowledgeable, precise, responsible—
"I think that would be a bad idea," Kyoko countered. He could tell that Kyoko didn't like where this was going. "I'd rather be a tree, thanks," she added. "Listen, isn't Romeo and Juliet terribly cliche for a cultural festival performance?"
"And a maid cafe isn't?" Yui chimed in.
"Again, I didn't say we should do a maid cafe." Tadao could hear the irritation in her voice, masked under the even tone she spoke in.
"Yui, you should direct," Hana said. She looked livid. "Mogami-san clearly wants nothing to do with it—"
But the rest of the class—and their teacher—had made up their minds. The past few months, Mogami-san had shown them precisely how capable she was. They trusted her. They liked her. They knew she was more than capable of pulling off the best class performance of the entire festival. "No, it should be Mogami-san," Tanabe-sensei interjected. The teacher turned to look at her. "With your leadership and your organizational skills, you'd be a great director." Kyoko gave him an exasperated look, as if to say et tu, Tanabe-sensei? But the teacher ignored her. "And I have no doubt that you know this play better than anyone else in the class—"
"Are we…not going to vote?" Kyoko asked. There was a subtle edge of anxiety in her voice. Tadao almost felt sorry for her. Tanabe-sensei shook his head and then spoke.
"All in favor of the play?" Tanabe-sensei asked.
Every hand but hers went up. The teacher looked around the room, and then back at Kyoko. "Well, Mogami-san," he said, "it looks like you've been outvoted."
For a moment, Tadao swore that she looked like she was about to cry—but only for a moment. Her eyes shuttered and then he blinked, and she was herself again.
Kyoko huffed. "I see." Her voice was resigned. "Of course, I'll help as much as I can."
Tanabe-sensei called for another vote. "Shall we appoint Mogami-san as the director, then?" he asked.
The class cheered. Hana scowled. Tadao swallowed back some disappointment—he'd wanted to see Kyoko as Juliet.
"You have altogether too much faith in me," she told them.
"Well then, Mogami-san…" Tanabe-sensei sounded bemused. "I'll leave you to it. I imagine you'll want to determine casting and then roles for those not performing first."
Kyoko was successful at not looking miserable, though Tadao could see she was faking it from the subtle downward tilt of her mouth.
Tadao, meanwhile, kept a neutral look on his face. Kyoko would have been a wonderful Juliet, but he had a feeling the class would need her as a director. He knew she could be counted upon to keep track of all the moving parts a project like this required…and besides, he could see how hard Hana was campaigning to be Juliet.
"I'll support Mogami-san as our director," he said. "We're doing Romeo and Juliet!"
There were cheers.
And then they were off and running.
=.=.=
Tanabe-sensei had deserted her and left her to get the class in shape. "I have every confidence in you, Mogami-san," he'd said. He walked out the door without a backwards glance, and Kyoko looked into the faces of her peers and wondered how she'd manage.
It was a lot of work.
Between her duties at the ryokan, her schoolwork, and the exams she was preparing for, she had quite enough to do without taking on the class play. It was true that she hadn't wanted to participate at all. She anticipated having to do most of the work, because didn't she always? Since kindergarten, she'd been left to do most of the work by nearly every class group she'd ever had—though now that she thought about it, that might've been Sho's influence on their classmates. Still, she'd argued for the cafe with this thought in-mind. A cafe would've been easy for her, maid-themed or otherwise. It was non-threatening—something she could do in her sleep. She'd thought it would be an easy win. The boys were always campaigning for girls in costumes. The girls liked the idea of playing at a tea party, the way children did at five years old. It was a guaranteed success, a solid choice, a win.
But the perverse game Fate was playing was being played at her expense. Her tutoring and her new approachability had made her popular. She was glad her classmates held her in high esteem, but it was true: the reward for having done good work was…more work. The class apparently thought of her as a leader, and she had been called to lead. It wasn't that she doubted herself. She knew she could do it—and for any other play, she wouldn't have fought against being made director. But the play was Romeo and Juliet, and Romeo and Juliet meant pain.
She didn't trust herself. Japanese translation or not, she dreaded it. The play could only remind her of him, putting the Kuon-shaped hole in her world in sharp relief. Even if she was surrounded by her classmates—even if none of those classmates could deliver a line in a bucket—she would hear his voice, by the stream or on his balcony. She didn't want to admit how much the play meant to her—every line, every word had taken on some magic. She could deride the characters all day—call Juliet a brat and Romeo a playboy—but when push came to shove, hearing those words meant reliving how the world she'd known tilted on its axis as the sky had broken open. Her soul had learned to shapeshift. Her heart had learned how to love. She had given him everything and he'd given her everything in return and all of it had been done to the cadence of iambic pentameter: Juliet on her balcony, Romeo down below.
If she'd known how fixed the class was on the idea, she would've kept her mouth shut. It would have left her off their radar, maybe. She would've watched silently and then volunteered for one of the tech roles—perhaps she could be one of the scenery assistants, dressed in black and moving chairs around on-set. That would have been safe—creeping in the background, acting like an invisible piece of machinery. That would have been painless. She should have volunteered to be a tree before the idea of Kyoko-as-director could take hold—but then Tanabe-sensei had forced the matter.
Well, she supposed, at least I know the play will be well-planned out. In the end, she trusted herself to do a competent job, even if she had to do that job alone.
The casting had been irritating but relatively painless, going off exactly as she'd predicted. She'd taken a proactive approach, taking charge immediately after she'd been appointed. The time to protest her appointment as director was over—at this point, it was easier to just get things done than to quibble. And she'd spent most of her life as some kind of manager of sorts, hadn't she? No one protested when she went up to the chalkboard and began writing down roles. The Montagues, she wrote on one panel, and then on the other, The Capulets. Besides those columns, she wrote down other categories: Tech, Scenery/Props, Costumes. She was surprised when Tadao Mori helped in calling the class to order.
She was surprised anyone had helped at all, but she was grateful to him. It was rare to have a classmate be so helpful, and she appreciated it. She smiled as their eyes met and then looked at the class that would form her cast for the production. With someone like Tadao-kun moving things along, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.
None of the boys were brave enough to come to the board to volunteer and audition as Romeo, but Tadao Mori was nominated in the same way she'd been—by class consensus. He blushed and accepted the role of Romeo with the same reluctance Kyoko felt. Though his appointment as Romeo wasn't at all surprising. Kyoko would have predicted he would have won the role anyway—it only made sense. After all, he was the reigning class prince. Last year he'd had so many chocolates on Valentine's, they'd fallen to the floor in front of his getabako. She was surprised to find him approachable, even friendly, despite the fact that boys like him were generally as arrogant as Sho had been. But Tadao was nice enough—he'd never said a mean word to her, and had almost looked as if he wanted to intervene between her and Hana during their little cold war. He was decent as a student, too. And, she supposed, he looked the part. Or at least the girls swooning over him thought so.
As for Hana…Hana, of course, wanted to be Juliet. Kyoko narrowed her eyes as the girl sashayed up to the chalkboard to write her name down. After that, no one else volunteered to audition for the role. Kyoko had no fear of her, but she knew how intimidating it could be to stand up to the school bully. Kyoko knew that Hana would win out or intimidate anyone else seeking Juliet's role—and besides, there was something unsavory in the smile Hana gave to everyone.
Kyoko had a bad feeling about it. She suspected that Hana had never gotten over the little incident in the cafeteria. Bullies never enjoyed challenges to their authority. Kyoko's intent hadn't been to challenge her, exactly. She'd only sought to remove herself from the pecking order. In the end, the effect had been the same: Hana's seething was barely concealed. She suspected the bully wasn't quite done with her yet. As far as Kyoko was concerned, Hana was only waiting for the right time to cause mayhem.
Kyoko huffed. Whatever Hana had planned, she'd simply have to build in countermeasures.
A week and a half into the endeavor, the rehearsals were going as well as they could have. Kyoko tried to keep herself from worrying too much or too hard about the quality of the play. It was nowhere near as good as Kuon would have insisted on, but then…these kids weren't Kuon. They weren't her, either. And so some allowance needed to be made. The lines were going to be terrible. The famous monologues were going to be terrible. The balcony scene was going to inspire people to throw themselves off of one. But at least they would have a play, complete from start to finish. In this way, she really didn't have a choice. She threw herself into the cultural-festival headlong, without any hesitation at all. She taught them the lessons she herself had been taught, however imperfectly she might mimic Kuon's lessons. She gave them small warm-up exercises. Taught them how to stand, how to move, how to fight. She taught them what being 'in-character' meant. She remembered Kuon's explanations on the differences between acting live on stage and acting in front of the camera and taught her classmates how to project their voices outwards. Besides Hana, Yui, and a selected handful of their clique, the rest of the class was dutiful in following her directions. People stayed after school willingly to practice their sword fight choreography. In a way, it was rewarding.
=.=.=
Kyoko had thanked him for helping and then she'd smiled.
At him.
And now he was never going to get over it. It reminded him of a Jacob's Ladder—all clouds obscuring the sun and then a sudden sunburst to stop you dead in your tracks. He'd thought his heart would pound out of his chest—and all he'd done was help out. Nothing big. Helped carry things. Coordinated rentals with the costume group. Typed up a rehearsal schedule. And yet she'd looked so brilliant and yet so soft and…and loving. Like she cared. Perhaps almost…as if he could win her over. Right? Wasn't that what that look meant? He would be her abject slave just to see that smile on her face again. He couldn't tell if it meant anything had changed between them—was she more inclined to think of him as a friend now? Was he more than just another classmate? He wasn't so delusional as to hope she reciprocated his feelings. Perhaps, for now, it was enough for her to know he existed. If his heart had been fixed before, it was even more certain now. Watching her work made him feel as if he needed to do better, work harder, think smarter. He needed to be more to deserve her. After all, Kyoko had always seemed more than the average high school girl.
Just like everything else, she'd done a great job in making sure anyone who'd wanted a part got one. Everyone agreed that the casting was perfect, and Kyoko scheduled rehearsals the very next day. Tadao found himself swept along in that enthusiasm—of course they would be perfect! Of course everything would go wonderfully right away! Of course learning all of those lines would be possible! And no, of course the large audience wouldn't affect things at all.
Tadao had the sinking feeling that he'd spend far more time with Hana than with Kyoko, but he couldn't very well wave a magic wand to make Kyoko suddenly notice him. Tadao watched Hana flounce about, always saying something about her 'role' and her commitment to it as an actress. He sighed as she grabbed his hand. "I'm looking forward to working with you, Tadao-kun," she told him. She was batting her eyes as if she had something stuck in them.
He nodded, unphased by her familiarity, but looked behind her as Kyoko discussed stage design with another classmate. Absent-mindedly, he responded to Hana. "I look forward to working with you too," he said. He watched Kyoko dazedly and then nearly jumped when Hana took his hand. "I knew it would be us," she said. She looked down at the rehearsal schedule Kyoko had put together, groaning. "Do we need all of these rehearsals?"
Her petulant tone brought his gaze back to her. "I…am not sure I can memorize all the lines without the rehearsals, Hana-chan," he told her. "I think Mogami-san just wants to make sure we have adequate time to learn them."
"Ugh." Hana crossed her arms and turned to glare at Kyoko, who was smiling quietly over a drawing of the balcony set and talking to Kaede, who was holding paint swatches up to the wall.
She was not quite the director everyone had expected. They knew, of course, that Kyoko would do a good job. But no one knew exactly how much she knew about acting…or staging a play. It surprised everyone. There were times she spoke and acted less like a student in highschool and more like a show-biz veteran, as if she'd truly acted on a professional level. He could never tell what she'd ask them to do next. All he knew, though, was that the improv made everyone laugh and, inexplicably, actually helped people act. Tadao wasn't the kind of guy to malign anyone, but even he had to admit some people sounded…distinctly like poorly calibrated androids reading grocery lists.
He was trying his best to do better than that.
"How are your lines coming along, Mori-san?"
He turned away from a pile of fabric and looked at her. "Fine, Mogami-san…I think. I've been working hard on memorizing all the lines—"
She looked disappointed, and Tadao understood why. The cultural festival—and their first performance—was coming on fast. "Memorization is just the first hurdle, Mori-san," she told him. "Think about who you want to portray. Acting is more than reading lines, you know. You'll have to get to a point where you're thinking about what your character wants to do, and you can't get there until you're comfortable with the text."
"So harsh, Mogami-san," he said. He tried for a disarming smile, but she was having none of it.
"I know we're just students, Mori-san," she said. "...but I'm still committed to making sure we do a great job…"
"Of course, Mogami-san," he said. "Shachou." He was gratified to see a corner of her mouth quirk upwards. "No one would ever question your dedication."
"Given the fact that I was railroaded into being director, Mori-kun, I should certainly hope not," she mused. "I would hope everyone remains as committed as they were when they insisted on doing the play."
"Yes."
She raised an eyebrow at him. "I'll have you and Hana-chan in rehearsals for your scenes this afternoon," she told him. "I can prompt you a bit with the lines, but we don't have that long before our performance. I'm afraid I'll have to be quite strict with you."
Tadao was mortified. "Of course, Mogami-san," he said instead. "It's just…it's just that it's difficult."
The gold eyes glinted at him. "Well, I did say we should do a cafe." She shook her head. "I know it can be quite difficult for the leads who have so many lines, Mori-san—but perhaps if you think about where your character is in the story, it'll help."
Tadao was at a loss—it had been his lack of preparation that was delaying them. "I'm sorry, Mogami-san," he said, "I've been so focused on memorizing that I haven't had a chance "
"Just remember, Mori-san," Kyoko said. "It won't be me on that stage in front of hundreds of people."
"I know—"
"Whether or not you give a good performance or a bad one, it'll be up to you and the effort you put into learning your role—"
"Tadao-kun and I will practice together." Hana strode up to them, linking her arm into his. She smirked at Kyoko, who looked on blandly. "Right, Tadao-kun?"
"Um…" She dragged him off. Tadao took one last look over his shoulder, hoping to catch Kyoko's eyes one last time, but she was already looking away, checking over her notebook.
It was then that he realized he was going to have to try harder.
=.=.=
"Put more feeling into it, Hana-san," Kyoko called out. "You're going to have to marry someone you don't want to! And what's worse, you're already married!"
Kyoko was watching, exasperated, as Hana bludgeoned her way through the scene with Juliet's father and nurse informing her she was to be married the next day. Kyoko wasn't sure why she was surprised that this was so difficult. Hana was going to be Hana. There was no reason to expect the leopard to change its spots. Hana learned her lines—learned them by rote, even. It was all Kyoko could hope for. She was pretty, but the girl could not act. No window-dressing could hide that fact, though Hana-san's father had paid plenty for the beautiful Italian Renaissance-style gown she was using as a costume. Kyoko knew from the start that Hana had never been interested in the character she was playing, but in the prestige of being the class's leading lady. Kyoko comforted herself by telling herself that Hana was popular enough to bring the rest of the classes into the auditorium. And perhaps she'd also bring her father through for some last-minute publicity.
Kyoko sighed. Hana's one-sided war against her manifested itself in a hundred small, petty gestures. Didn't Hana know that Kyoko wasn't doing any of this for her own self-aggrandizement? It wasn't the Kyoko production of Romeo and Juliet, it was their class's. Kyoko knew Hana resented her, but Kyoko would receive no reward for the work she was doing—so why was she being so difficult?
Kyoko felt a surprising amount of anger about it. It wasn't that she wanted to be Juliet—she suffered no jealousy or envy over the fact. If she'd had to take on an acting role, she wouldn't have cared one way or another if she were Juliet or Romeo or Tybalt. Or even the Nurse—these were the things she'd learned under Kuon's patient and loving tutelage. A good actor could play any part—that was what acting was about. Hana infuriated her because Hana didn't—couldn't—take acting seriously. What Kyoko understood, now, to be a difficult and delicate craft had been reduced to a petty bit of clout-chasing by a girl as shallow as a puddle. Over the course of the class's rehearsals, Kyoko found herself biting her tongue as Hana opined on how she deserved the role, or that she was only using it to make so-and-so jealous.
It brought her own motivations from her own LME audition into sharp relief. Had she truly thought to use acting just as a means of revenge? How petty. How small. How…insulting to anyone who worked hard at their craft. How…disrespectful to the audience. Now that she'd had a taste of acting—however small—she understood. No wonder Kuon had thrown her out of the building. These days, she suffered similar urges to throw Hana off of the stage. She had to remind herself—and often—that her classmates were not professional actors. More than that, she questioned whether any of them had ever even considered acting as a viable career path. Viewed in this light, she had to hold her tongue. She'd spent the prior month working with an acclaimed director, but this was not a movie. This is a high school production, Kyoko, she'd tell herself, and you're helping out at a cultural festival.
=.=.=
"See how she leans her cheek upon her hand.
O, that I were a glove upon that hand
That I might touch that cheek!"
Tadao read his lines and was gratified when Kyoko didn't correct him. It was an odd feeling, seeking so much approval from someone. He'd never had to before. Things fell into his lap with little effort on his part, and girls had been no exception. He'd thought his time rehearsing with Kyoko would be easy, and nothing could have been further from the truth. He found himself working harder than he'd ever had to before, staying up late hours into the night saying his lines out loud to a mirror—and all to see that light in her eyes that told him he'd done well.
"Don't forget, Tadao-kun—" Kyoko was calling out to him from the wings. "You act with your body as well as your voice. You should be looking at Juliet—"
Hana simpered at him across the stage.
"—and acting like you can't take your eyes away from her!"
Tadao tried to look as intently as he could over at Hana but found his eyes wandering towards Kyoko instead.
She didn't notice. "Alright, everyone, let's take it from the start of the ball!" she called out.
The ball of the Capulets was the most involved scene in the play. Much of the class was taking part in it, even people who had otherwise decided to participate by making costumes or constructing the set. Kyoko had asked for volunteer choreographers, and a few people had raised their hands. The resulting dance was intended to be simple, but somehow everyone was in a jumbled mess on the stage.
Kyoko nodded at Tanabe-sensei, who was manning the recorded music on a stereo system. Tadao took up his pose—
"Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
As a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear…!"
—and was rewarded when Kyoko smiled.
Afterwards, she took him aside and he felt his heart race. He was afraid he was blushing—and did he have goosebumps? "I thought you did a great job today, Tadao-kun," Kyoko said. "I wanted to talk to you about your scene with Tybalt—perhaps you and Sanosuke-kun could stay a few minutes after rehearsal—we need to talk about combat."
He nodded dumbly, like a cow who'd been struck on the forehead. "Good," she said. She smiled at him and turned away, not knowing how she'd made him tremble.
He was looking forward to the combat session. It gave him chills to watch her pose with a sword.
=.=.=
The days turned into hours. The hours turned to minutes.
They were as ready as they'd ever be. Thirty minutes before curtain, Kyoko was flitting from group to group. Everything was whizzing by in barely controlled chaos—she found herself doing everything from calming a panicked Sanosuke to sewing a costume's tattered hems. She was just going over the crew's lighting cues when Yui pulled her aside.
"What do you mean 'she isn't coming'?" Kyoko asked. Yui was standing in front of her, clearly attempting to suppress a grin.
"She is feeling unwell, Mogami-san," said the girl. "She asked me to convey her apologies to you."
"Well—I—" Kyoko paused. "She was feeling fine just last night." They'd held a full rehearsal, and Hana had been in attendance. The girl had looked the part of Juliet in her fancy custom costume, which was so expertly made it put all the other costumes to shame. Still. Fine clothes did not make a good actress—it was as true in high school as it was in Hollywood.
"Are you kidding, Kyoko-chan? Are you calling her a liar? Hana-chan is so upset—" Kyoko fought back the urge to roll her eyes. "Why would she miss her chance to be Tadao-kun's Juliet?"
Kyoko bit back a biting retort and merely smiled a tight smile. "Well if she's ill, then we simply must make do, then," she answered. She straightened her shoulders, wondering whether anything was left in the costume bin to throw together a costume for a new Juliet.
"Make do?" Yui asked. "Well, we'll have to cancel the play, won't we?"
Ah, so there it is, Kyoko thought. Hana's master plan. Did Hana seriously think they would cancel the entire play if she just…didn't show? Kyoko blinked in mock distress and then looked at Yui with eyes wide in feigned shock. "Cancel the play?" she asked, "Why would we do that?"
"Well…" Yui continued, oblivious to Kyoko's sarcasm, "...we don't have a Juliet, do we? How can we have Romeo and Juliet if there's no Juliet?"
Ugh. As fun as it would've been to entertain Yui, they were running out of time. Kyoko dropped the pretense."Who says we don't have a Juliet?" she asked. Her voice sounded cold.
Yui gave a little start and then gave a little shiver as she looked into Kyoko's eyes. Those eyes were boring into her, looking as if they knew all her secrets. I know what you and Hana are doing, those eyes said. I've known all along. This conversation wasn't going the way she expected at all. She'd expected a bit of panic from Mogami-san, some small hint of despair. All during the preparation for the festival, Hana had railed against the way the class had rallied around Kyoko. She and Yui had mocked the exercises and the schedules and all the little things that they'd done to put the play together. But not once had Kyoko complained. In fact, they couldn't tell whether Kyoko had been bothered—not even a little bit.
"Then…who?" Yui watched as Kyoko shook her head. "We don't have understudies for roles—and no one has all of Juliet's lines except for Hana…"
"Yui, for your sake I'm going to pretend I don't actually know that you and Hana had this planned all along," Kyoko said. "But please don't bother acting as if you're sorry."
"Acting? I—"
"Yes, acting." She gave Yui a long, cold stare. "Honestly, if you and Hana had made even half of the effort you've clearly put into this entire…" Kyoko gestured, flinging her arm wide in a circle "...little scene, both of you would've been far better actresses at the roles you were supposed to be playing."
Yui looked at her and lowered her eyes. Kyoko Mogami had famously withstood a veritable gauntlet of pranks and bullying when she'd transferred into their school—but on more than one occasion, she'd gone toe-to-toe with Hana and won handily. "Now if you're quite done, you should get in costume and take your place in the chorus," Kyoko said. "Or you can leave, too, it's quite alright. We don't really need you in the production."
To say that she was mortified didn't quite capture it. Yui had followed Hana's lead since they were children. Hana was pretty, rich, and clever—there were very few people that could stand in her way. With Kyoko's disdain bearing down on her, though, Yui began to think, for the first time, that perhaps following Hana had not been the wise decision. "No—" she said, haltingly. "I'll get dressed." She was stammering, ashamed. "But—how?" How would they continue the play? With no Juliet?
"In case you're wondering, Yui-san," Kyoko said, turning to her again. "I know Juliet's part fairly well. And I'm sure I can find something to wear."
Had Hana heard what Kyoko had just said, there was little doubt in Yui's mind that she would have come back from the dead if need be. Of course Kyoko knew Juliet's part. Kyoko knew everyone's part. For Hana to assume that there would be no one else to play Juliet had been the miscalculation of her entire high school career—the girl they'd sought to humiliate had simply been handed the starring role.
Kyoko watched as the realization dawned on Yui's face and inwardly sighed. That she should still be dealing with the gossip and the petty politics of these children was ridiculous. It was Kimiko and Mimori all over again. Still, Hana hadn't hurt anyone but herself. Wasn't she ashamed to let her class down like this?
Kyoko looked down at her uniform and then looked at the rack of costumes. Something would have to do—she'd probably be able to put something together quickly from the stack of clothes meant for recalcitrant Capulets during the Act I party. She found a simple dress and a length of ribbon. Plaiting her hair in a braid, she wound it around her head like a crown. A contrite Yui offered her corset; another classmate offered her their brocade skirt. Someone took flowers from a neighboring class's booth to put in her hair.
It would have to be good enough.
Costumes were only one part of a character.
She could be a Juliet in rags if she needed to be. It was the actress that made the role, not her clothing, the way a rose was always a rose even if one called it a cabbage.
=.=.=
"For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo!"
The last two lines boomed across the auditorium, bouncing off the back wall and echoing back to the cast, assembled on the stage for the last scene.
The applause was deafening.
Everyone in class took their curtain call with a smile and a grateful bow. There was a shared sense of relief and elation—it was just like the relay race during the sports festival, each and every one of them coming together and pushing across the finish line—except, somehow, they all felt as if they'd run further and worked harder than they had before.
Tadao looked out past the blinding lights, all the way out into the shadow of the audience beyond and grinned, hand-in-hand with Kyoko as the thunder of the applause crested over them. He would remember tonight for years to come, he knew it. Tadao had never felt anything like it—-there was a current of electricity, a zap and pop when they had joined hands to take their bow. It had been his first time acting across from Kyoko, and words couldn't describe how he felt. It was as if she'd disappeared—he found himself following her, compelled to say his lines, compelled to be Romeo in a way that he'd never managed with Hana-chan. There were times he felt like a puppet, unable to control the way he was acting. There were times, even, when he wasn't sure if he was acting at all.
Even now his heart hadn't stopped racing—he'd rehearsed the balcony scene a hundred times with Hana before today and yet with Kyoko it had been entirely different. It gave him goosebumps.
"What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?" she'd asked. She was incandescent in the stage lights.
He'd almost choked, his heart was in his throat. The world fell away. The audience fell away. He answered her without thinking, only realizing how all the rehearsals had prepared him once the scene was over. "Th'exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine…" he said, and oh, he could see how her breath quickened, the pulse of her heartbeat in her veins. He was close enough to see how the blush on her cheek was not makeup.
And her eyes were luminous and golden and she was all he could see as she leaned down on a balcony that was rickety and hastily made—but he could see how close, how kissable her lips were when she said "I gave thee mine before thou didst request it…And yet I would it were to give again." She bent her head low over his, not touching him. But the mere brush of her breath on his lips had been enough to set him aflame. He'd been close enough to the smell the scent rising off of her body, strawberries and pine and the warm musk of her skin underneath. And later—there had been real tears when she'd taken her poison. He'd felt them fall on his face. How could she act like that? Act with her entire body? It was impossible, wasn't it? Surely she felt these things for real. He'd thought she was impervious to him, but the way she'd looked at him during the balcony scene—how could she look at him like that and not feel the same way for him as he did for her?
For a moment he closed his eyes, letting the moment wash over him. The audience's approval gave him the courage to do what he had to do. He was going to confess—perhaps while they watched the fireworks, out by the bonfire. It would be romantic. He'd ask her to take a walk, get them away from the rest of their classmates…and then, just when the fireworks were lighting up the sky, he'd tell her. It would be just like a manga. Maybe he would reach out and take her hand. Maybe he'd be brave enough to kiss her. Oh, he'd started off fascinated by the ice queen but now—now he was in love with the Juliet. Beautiful, smart, fierce Juliet, so capable and so knowledgeable…and so patient.
=.=.=
Her classmates had gone out to enjoy the festival and the bonfire; she was backstage sorting costumes and props. She didn't know how to feel. Part of her was soaring, part of her was sobbing. The roar of the crowd had done something to her. Made her feel alive, for one brief, shining moment. She'd loved it. She'd loved all of it—the costumes, the lights, the frenetic energy of moving from one scene to the other backstage. She'd sunk herself fully into her role and come out the other side unable to deny that there was nothing in the world she enjoyed so much as acting.
But after the applause had died down, her euphoria had died along with it. Now, there was nothing left but a feeling of emptiness—a loneliness so deep she couldn't see through to the other side. It wasn't that she loved the acting any less—it's just that he was missing. He was such an integral part of how she maneuvered stage and character. With him gone, part of her joy was gone as well. And though she'd been satisfied—no, happy—about how she'd played Juliet, there was an undercurrent of bitterness she couldn't shake. How could she feel so elated and yet so grieved at the same time? She didn't feel like pretending she was fine—and she'd been doing a lot of that lately.
She'd left the class outside as quietly and as discreetly as she could. She felt as if she'd been pouring herself out to fill other people's vessels—it had worked, for a while. Her new-found friendships were like drops of water in a desert. But their friendship wasn't enough. And now, having given her all during this accidental performance, she felt as empty as a starless sky.
The play hadn't been a novelty to her the way it was to so many of her classmates. To them, this might have been a singular experience, part of their precious youth—seishun. But to her…it was a reminder. An artifact of something she ought to consider dead, though it still lived in her, pulsing and aching like an open wound. After she left the stage, all she could think of was him. She wondered if he would have watched their play, even if she hadn't been Juliet. She wondered if he would have enjoyed it—if he'd remembered how he'd held her and said the same words as Romeo. She'd used those memories to give her Juliet power. It had been him she was speaking to on that rickety balcony. Not Tadao-kun.
Tadao-kun was a nice boy, but he was a boy.
For the hundredth time, she wondered what he was doing right then. Kuon had told her that his next movie after Ring Doh's sequel would be a project named Tragic Marker—that he'd be playing a soulless, murdering demon. She also knew he'd be on-set overseas for much of that time. Would he even have been able to come to Kyoto for this play? Why would she importune him in such a way? Besides, wandering around in a crowd was one thing. Here, even as Kuon, he'd draw attention like a torch in the night. Why would such a foreigner sit in their high school audience? Sitting still for so long would also give people ample opportunity to study him…and if they studied him, they might very well realize that he bore a striking resemblance to Ren Tsuruga.
She shook her head back and forth, willing the thoughts away. Why was she wondering how Kuon would have fared in this crowd? It was irrelevant. He had as little reason to be at her high school as she had to be on the Moon.
She was supposed to be working on forgetting him.
And yet.
She sighed. The stage felt haunted and empty. The room felt discarded, as if it were already a pocket of some past dimension. And it was a mess—she knew no one would think to help her clean it. She filled a box with discarded props—swords from Romeo and Tybalt; the vial of 'poison,' the Nurse's handkerchief. A dagger. Romeo and Juliet didn't really need much in the way of props—just swords, really, and even then she supposed they could have engaged in hand-to-hand combat instead.
She had no interest in the fireworks that were to go up soon—she might as well put some things away. No doubt everyone in the class would be pairing up with their respective crushes. Everyone left would want to make small talk—or worse: ask questions she didn't want to answer. She didn't want to dance folk dances around the bonfire. She didn't want to make empty conversation. Squaring her shoulders, she picked the box up. She'd take it to the classroom, where they would likely determine where its contents would go on the next school day.
She trudged up the stairs. The air was chilly now, and so were the empty schoolrooms. She reached their classroom and put the box in a corner, taking care to ensure the other boxes were stacked properly around it.
And then the fireworks started.
Kyoko Mogami watched as the night sky bloomed, remembering another night, another sky ablaze.
The flood of emotions she'd been holding back crested over the dam; there was a sharp pain where her heart should have been, a pricking of the eyes. The sob rose in her throat and then she was helpless against the tide. She'd made a mistake. A horrible, terrible, fatal mistake—she'd hurt him, she'd hurt herself. She'd thrown away something more precious than life itself. Nothing else mattered. None of her hundred thousand arguments that he'd already countered. None of her so-called duties or obligations. Not his job, not his origins. She stood in the dark and wondered whether it was too late. She should call—she needed to call him. She wanted to hear his voice. She would tell him everything—how she missed him. How she loved him. How she'd been wrong.
=.=.=
Tadao ran through the darkened halls. Nearly everyone was out on the grounds—the fireworks had just started. Having resolved to confess, he wasn't going to stop until he'd found her and told her how he felt. He didn't know whether she felt the same about him, but all he needed was a chance.
He rounded the corner and there she was, silhouetted against the classroom's wide windows. He saw some of the props they'd used in a box by the door. Of course. Mogami-san, always responsible, always so thoughtful—no one else was even thinking about the mess they'd made downstairs, but she was here already beginning the clean-up. She was still dressed as Juliet, but she was more beautiful as herself. For a second he simply stood still and watched her watching fireworks—he saw how her large, dreamy eyes affixed themselves to the sky. He was surprised, then, to see a tear fall…and then another.
"Mogami-san?" He crept into the room softly, feeling like an intruder. "Are you ok?"
She turned away from him, using her palms to fling away the tears falling down her face.
She shook her head back and forth and drew in a breath. A particularly gorgeous firework exploded, blazed red, and then descended back to earth in a haze of gold.
"I'm fine," she said, and then she smiled.
Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. He walked closer to her and held a hand out, wanting to comfort her. He froze when she flinched at his proximity.
"You don't…you don't look fine," he said. "I—I'm sorry—I should have come earlier to help you—"
"No, Tadao-kun. I'm fine." She motioned at the sky, with the show well underway. "You should be out there enjoying the fireworks."
"How could I? No one knew where you were."
"I'm surprised they even noticed."
"You're our Director. Our Juliet," he said helplessly. "Of course we noticed." He paused. "I noticed."
She avoided his eyes, turning away again towards the windows. He could hear laughter in the courtyard below, rising up to the second floor in the silences between each shell.
"I'm…here for you," he added awkwardly. "Is it—was it Hana?"
"No." She brushed the suggestion away almost as if it were an insult. "I thought she'd do something like this."
"You should've been Juliet in the first place," he said loyally. "You do so much—" The closeness he'd felt during the play was crumbling away, and in its place was a gulf between them.
"Tadao-kun, why are you here?" she interrupted.
He felt the gulf between them widen. She was on some far-off shore, somewhere he couldn't reach.
His resolve was slipping away, but would not, could not let the moment go by. "I'm…in love with you, Mogami-san," he said. There. He'd done it.
He held his breath and watched as she turned around. Her lips opened and just for a second he had hope.
He saw her eyes widen as she looked at him, almost as if he'd appeared from nowhere. And with a sinking feeling, he realized that she was seeing him—really seeing him—for the first time.
=.=.=
Tadao's arrival had been an intrusion, an unwelcome pull back to the real world. She couldn't help it—she was ashamed, she was annoyed. She supposed she ought to feel more for him-at least, perhaps, some surprise. She supposed she could manage that. At the very least, Kyoko Mogami did not cry in front of people—her mother had taught her not to. Only one person had ever seen her cry, and she'd cut that person out of her life like an idiot.
She hadn't wanted to be rude to him. She'd only wanted to be alone with her memories.
The confession had been a jarring and unexpected surprise. He stood in front of her, hopeful. He looked exactly how he ought to look. His hair was tousled just so. There was a faint flush on his cheek and a determined look in his eye.
Oh no, she thought.
She could only have one answer for him.
She did not want to wound him, and yet it was inevitable. Part of her felt sorry for him—he was a nice guy, a dependable and decent person. If she had never met Kuon, perhaps he would have had a chance. Perhaps there would have been a tepid romance, even—he came from a good family, was a decent student. He was even reasonably good looking. If this had been someone else's story, she'd…probably be blushing right now, looking up at him with shimmering eyes and closing in for a kiss. Wasn't that what shoujo heroines did?
But her heart was soaring past where he could reach—bursting out of the box she'd locked it in, screaming to the sky and bursting in a supernova so bright the fireworks could not compare. Somewhere between the dizzying feeling of acting again and the overwhelming ache of Kuon's absence, she'd come to know herself. She'd been a fool, and it had taken this sorry enterprise for her to know it. She'd needed to stand across another Romeo and hear his heart-felt confession to see the difference between a boy's infatuation and true love.
Apotheosis.
The fireworks glittered and fell, one new volley rocketing skywards as another faded into black. One strobing flash laid her heart and soul bare. In one unflinching glance she saw one true thing: that she belonged to Kuon and Kuon belonged to her.
All anyone else could offer her was a cardboard kingdom and a tinsel crown.
"I'm sorry," she told him softly. "Very sorry."
"It's…fine." His eyes were downcast, his shoulders slumped. He fidgeted and then looked back at her. "Was it…is it…Sho Fuwa?"
She looked at him with some surprise. Being with Kuon had wiped Sho from her thoughts so completely. Still, Tadao looked at her expectantly. "No," she replied. "It isn't."
Tadao gave one resolute nod and then straightened up. He'd been leaning against a desk. He gave her a small bow and then turned to leave. Kyoko stayed rooted to her spot by the window.
She didn't belabor the point. She had no intention of drawing things out unnecessarily.
Ruefully, he smiled at her. She gave him a small smile in return.
"I hope he deserves you," he said.
He gave her a last, lingering glance and then walked away.
=.=.=
Hours later she was home. She'd removed the costume, preparing to launder it for return back to the rental company. She'd taken a bath, too, using the time to think up the things she'd say. She knew what she had to do—she was only gathering up the courage to do it.
She held the phone he'd bought her in her hand. She'd asked Yayoi to keep it for her; tonight, she'd grabbed it from the filing cabinet where it had been stored. She charged it and then turned it on, gulping at the deluge of texts and messages that were from him.
She didn't check them. She didn't want to waste any more time.
Her was racing. What would she say? How could she tell him how wrong she was? How could he possibly forgive her when she'd hurt him so much?
But she closed her eyes, conjuring him in front of her. She thought of his smile, his scent. She remembered the million and one ways he'd told her how much she meant to him.
She would make this up to him, if he let her.
She quieted the little voice inside that doubted, and then she hit 'send.'
The phone rang and rang and rang.
Of course, she thought to herself. He must be on-set.
She was going to leave a voicemail and maybe send a text when she heard a voice on the line. "Kuon—" she began.
But it wasn't Kuon.
"He's busy, so stop calling him," a voice said.
It was…the voice of a woman. A girl.
Pain bloomed unexpectedly in her gut and she dropped the phone. She felt her vision constrict into a tunnel, her lungs gasped for air. There was only one reason why anyone besides him would answer his phone.
The screen blinked. Call ended.
Whoever had answered had already hung up.
=.=.=.=.=
Author's Note: Please let me know what you think. I'm so sorry I'm behind on responding to reviews, but they really do keep me going and I do hope you'll leave me one and tell me whether this chapter has been a COLOSSAL FAILURE.
I have no excuses on how or why this took me five whole months to write. Work played a huge part in the delay. I'm earning every penny of my wage these days. This is my sixth version, and honestly I'm still not happy with it. Somehow, these things never turn out as nice in real life as the version in one's head. I really wanted to get it out, though, because it's been so long. Also, it was keeping me from writing everything else. Almost every single night for these past few months, I've tortured myself with this chapter. Yes, even when I was writing something else. Even when I was traveling, or eating, or busy. Enough. I say it's enough. I'm sorry if it sucks. I hope it doesn't? But also I've been staring at it for so long I can't tell if it stinks anymore? I still hope you enjoy it, though.
Poor Tadao Mori was based in no small part on Shota Kazehaya from Kimi no Todoke. I really, really wanted to write a cultural festival chapter.
And now, I go full-bore on fics for RenKyo Week.
Thank you so much for reading.
-Parkerbear, 23May2023