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kinkfestTitle: Almost Home
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
signalbeam
Rating: R (sexuality)
Word Count: 6,400
Prompt: July 15 - Persona 3, Mitsuru/Yukari: alternate universe, seduction, cross-dressing - Takarazuka theatre.
Summary: Mitsuru feels very, very uncomfortable around Takeba, especially given that Takeba’s idea of bonding seems to be talking about their dead fathers. Meanwhile, the residents of the Iwatodai Hall adopt a dog.
Notes: Hideously late. Unbetaed due to lateness. Oh well.
Liberties taken with locations. Lots of liberties.
The new girl makes Mitsuru feel uncomfortable. She’s not talking about the actual new girl, the girl whose given name Mitsuru cannot quite get a hold of, no matter how hard she tries. Arisato is a wonderful addition to the dorm. She’s an actress in the Takarazuka, gunning for the top male role. From what Mitsuru’s heard of the new girl, she disappears into roles so completely that it’s a miracle the girl has a personality of her own at all. She’s a natural. It’s clear that her future is in the Star Troupe, or maybe even greater things: roles in movies, roles in television. The Revue was lucky to scout Arisato before the talent agencies got her. Someone like this is a rare find. Mei Arisato (or maybe it’s Misaki) will be a top star. She’ll grow into roles outside of the theater, maybe in movies or on television. It will be both a treat and an honor to watch her grow.
Outside of the theater, the girl is a pleasure to interact with, as well. It’s hard to remember a time when Arisato (Mi-something. Minamo, Michiko, Mimi—or maybe Mutsuki or Momoka or Manami) wasn’t a part of Iwatodai Hall. Mitsuru remembers when the building had no one but her and Aragaki and Akihiko, but with Aragaki’s death (too soon; she can’t really believe he’s gone, but of course he is. His room is empty. It will never be open again), she made the building into a dorm and opened it to other young adults looking for cheap, affordable housing in the city. Akihiko barely notices the new people, but he’s hardly ever in the dorms long enough to take notice, anyway. The first person she lets into the dorm is Takeba, and Takeba unsettles her for no logical reason. Takeba is perfectly harmless. She works at an accounting firm as an office lady. It’s a good, steady job with regular promotions. Takeba told Mitsuru that being an OL is boring, but she’ll always have somewhere to work, and more than anything else, she doesn’t want to rely on her mother to help her out—Mitsuru can recall Takeba’s voice and expression so clearly that it makes it all the more unsettling. Takeba has a thing for collars (not collars, chokers) and wears a lot of pink. That isn’t the reason why Takeba—unnerves her so.
How preposterously inane this all is, thinking in circles all over this one girl. The dormitory is, of course, just one of many properties she owns and manages as part of her apprenticeship with her father’s company, and Takeba is just one of the many people who lives in the dormitory and works in the city. She appreciates Takeba’s presence in the same way she appreciates Arisato and Iori and Akihiko. Of course, it is not Takeba’s fault that Mitsuru always needs to leave the room when Takeba enters it. Maybe there’s some deeper connection between them that lends itself so easily to repulsion.
Mitsuru resolves to view Takeba’s files. That will put an end to this foolishness. It will be a thumb in the eye of her needless obsessing over this one girl. It will reveal Takeba to be the person Mitsuru knows she is: harmless, inoffensive, innocuous. Not a threat in any respect. Mitsuru relaxes, and makes a little note in her daily planner. Noon, the next day: T. file.
---
It’s an absolute disaster. The Kirijo company is responsible for Eichiro Takeba’s death. Mitsuru is, of course, appalled. Eichiro Takeba’s death occurred during her grandfather’s reign of the company, shortly before her grandfather committed suicide himself, but the fault—some of it, at least—still is hers. Akihiko will tell her to stop blaming herself, but she can’t; or rather, she thinks it would be irresponsible to forget the past so easily.
She has business to do afterwards, so she sets aside the Takeba matter for later.
---
She gets back to the dorm later than she expects. No, she knew this will make her late. Mitsuru leaves the office tired and hungry and with a briefcase of more work. She parks her motorbike in the lot and walks to the dorms. When she enters, Arisato is sitting with a woman with blonde hair and a sundress.
“Hello, Mitsuru-san,” Arisato says.
“Arisato,” Mitsuru acknowledges. Name, name, she needs a name. Maybe it isn’t Mi-something. Umi, maybe? “Who is our guest?”
“This is Aigis,” Arisato says.
“It’s my pleasure to meet you,” Mitsuru says. Strange name. It must be foreign.
“I am Aigis,” the woman says. “I am her colleague.”
“An actor?” says Mitsuru.
“Yes,” says Aigis. “I also work as an engineer for the Kirijo group in my spare time. You are Mitsuru Kirijo-san. It is nice to meet you.”
“Yes,” Mitsuru says, for lack of better words. “You are quite the accomplished individual.”
“Thank you,” says Aigis, so seriously that Mitsuru’s lip twitches upwards involuntarily. It’s hard to dislike Aigis. She seems like a very honest, very earnest person. “It is necessary to be accomplished in order to survive the competitive modern-day work environment.”
“Yes, I agree as well,” Mitsuru says, except she would have taken care to phrase it with a bit more of a—how did their PR department put it—human touch. “Arisato, do you know if Takeba is in yet?”
“No,” Arisato says. “I saw her in this afternoon when I came in to pick up some clothes, but she just got off of work then. She was heading out for the evening.” Arisato looks over at Aigis, who has a hand on her shoulder in a protective grasp. How nice for them to have such a nice friendship. Mitsuru feels a sharp pang of—longing or jealousy stirring in her. She wants something like that. “Are you looking for her? I can pass the message along, if you’d like.”
“There’s no need for you to go out of your way,” Mitsuru says. “It isn’t urgent.”
“Oh,” Arisato says. “That’s fine, too. Yukari-san asks about you a lot, too.”
“Does she?” Mitsuru says. Her heart skips a beat, and then calms down again. Takeba must have very different motivations for wanting to learn more about Mitsuru. The questions are most likely nothing more than probing, invasive gossip. She wants to know what Takeba asked. No. It will not be worth it.
“She thinks you work too hard,” Arisato says. “And she wants to know your skin care regiment.”
Mitsuru smiles a bit at that. Then she says, “Well, she has a strong work ethic, too.” Takeba isn’t very talented, but she pushes through with conviction and persistence; two things that in combination with competence, can make up for a lack of talent, anyway. “I’ll be in my room if you need me,” she says, and goes up the stairs.
So Takeba is out for the evening. A date, maybe. That is what normal people do; normal people who don’t have endless piles of paper and a company to take over go on dates in the evening, or go shopping, or talk with their friends. Mitsuru can’t remember the last time she went on a date, or if she’s ever thought about a date. There have been various attempts and stabs at arranging a marriage, but she refused her first suitor and her second. After the third, the company seemed to unleash a collective sigh and say, “That’s it, she’s never getting married” and left it at that.
Mitsuru returns to her room and looks into the darkness and thinks to herself that this is exactly how she pictured her life turning out, yet for the life of her, she can’t understand why it is so unsatisfying.
---
Later that night, somewhere between working on spreadsheet number five and spreadsheet number eight, she gets a knock on the door. It’s Takeba. It’s Takeba with two cups of coffee on a tray.
“Thought you might need one,” Takeba says. “I heard from Mucchi that you came in late.”
… Mucchi can’t possibly be Arisato’s real name. “Yes,” Mitsuru says. “You know how things are at the office right now.”
“Don’t I,” Takeba says, pulling a face. She sets the tray on Mitsuru’s desk. “Hey, you don’t mind if I…?”
“Not at all,” Mitsuru says. She makes a little clearing on her desk. “I see you’ve brought some additional refreshments with you.”
“They’re some cookies I got from a coworker,” Takeba says with a little shrug. “I thought it might be a nice time for us to, you know, talk or something.”
“Oh,” Mitsuru says. “Yes, talking is certainly appropriate.”
Takeba pulls out the extra stool from the corner of Mitsuru’s room and sits on it. “This room is hardly any bigger than mine,” she says. “I’m kind of surprised. I thought it’d be huge.”
“I live here, just the same as you do,” Mitsuru says.
“But why?” Takeba says. “I mean, you have to have an apartment of your own somewhere, maybe even a house. A person with your money probably has a vacation home or two.” She looks around the room, not bothering to hide anything: her admiration, her curiosity, her dislike of Mitsuru’s favorite imported French lamp by the bed.
“I still have a way to go before I deserve the privilege,” Mitsuru says. “I have to work, after all.”
“I see,” Takeba says.
Mitsuru picks up the mug of coffee and breathes in. She takes a sip and then blinks in surprise. The coffee is just how she likes it.
“Surprised?” Takeba says. “I asked Mucchi.”
“That was very considerate of you. Thank you.”
“Oh… Sure.”
Neither of them say a thing. Mitsuru feels as though she slipped. Talking with Takeba is difficult sometimes. It’s very difficult. It’s no easier when she recalls her grandfather’s role in the death of Eichiro Takeba.
“Well,” Takeba says, “I have tickets to Mucchi’s next play. She doesn’t have a leading role in it just yet, but she’s one of the villains, I think.”
“This is Takarazuka, is it not?” Mitsuru says.
“Yup.”
“I see,” Mitsuru says. “I’ll think about it.”
“Oh, come on,” Takeba says. “We went to the same high school, senpai. Let me treat you.”
Senpai. That’s a new one. Mitsuru blinks. Her composure is skidding away from her. She’ll have to do without it. Manageably. She says, “Yes, we did. You never called me senpai before.”
“Well,” Takeba says, “I didn’t think you’d remember. And it took me a while to remember where I saw you.”
And in truth, Mitsuru didn’t remember until she was reminded just now.
“It is my fault,” Mitsuru says. “I should have recognized you.”
“Oh, never mind,” Takeba says, flustered and impatient. “It’s no big deal. I mean, I wasn’t part of the student council and we never talked much. And then your father died and…” She goes quiet. She looks to the picture on Mitsuru’s desk. “Your father was a good man,” she says. “I lost my father when I was a little kid, too. It was a long time ago, though, so it’s not like…”
They descend into another flustered silence. Takeba helps herself to another cookie. Mitsuru drinks more coffee and clenches her jaw and hopes that this will be over before they embarrass each other and themselves.
“I’ll take the tray back,” she says. “Thank you for the coffee.”
“No, let me,” Takeba says, nearly springing up from the stool. “You’ll come to see the play with me, won’t you, senpai?”
“Yes,” Mitsuru says. "Of course."
“Okay,” Takeba says. “It’s a date, then.”
Takeba doesn’t mean it, of course, because they’re not really friends and this isn’t really a date. But Mitsuru feels a stirring of hope inside her and she smiles back and says, “Indeed it is.”
---
There is a dog in the dorm.
“Arf,” it says.
“Where have you been?” Akihiko asks.
“I was working,” Mitsuru says. “Who is this?”
“Arf,” says the dog. It wags its tail. It pants. And then it tries to lick her hand.
“I found him by the shrine where I was training,” Akihiko says. “He looked like a good training partner, so I thought I’d take him in.”
Mitsuru wants to tell him, “I’ve fixed that body of yours more times than you have fingers, Akihiko. Don’t throw it to the dogs,” but she isn’t Akihiko’s mother, and the dog will surely be useful for deterring unsavory characters from the dorm.
“I trust that you’ll take good care of him, then,” she says.
“Heh,” Akihiko says. “Of course. He’s going to be my running partner for the next few years, so he’s going to have to stay in good shape. Isn’t that right, Koromaru?”
The dog barks back. Mitsuru sets aside the incredible but unlikely idea that an animal can understand human speech in favor of asking where Akihiko is planning on keeping the dog, because the dog won’t be happy cooped up in his little room. He’ll keep Takeba up all night with his barking if he doesn’t get enough exercise.
“I was thinking we could leave him out in the lobby,” Akihiko says. “I’ll take him out for walks in the evenings and mornings. The rest of the time he’ll probably be asleep, anyway.”
The dog barks.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Akihiko says, looking down fondly at Koromaru. “Yeah.”
He’s been punched one too many times in the head for this to make much sense to anyone except him.
---
The day after they get Koromaru, Fuuka Yamagishi signs the final paperwork and moves into the third floor. Like everyone else, she’s looking for somewhere cheap to stay in Iwatodai as she sweats out through low-paying entry level jobs. Yamagishi is a programmer or an engineer. Mitsuru sees the faint blue-green glow of a computer LCD radiating from the crack beneath Yamagishi’s door late one night when she needs to go to the bathroom, and the next morning she sees Yamagishi shuffling past her in the kitchen with two cups of coffee. Yamagishi is shy but well-spoken, and often mutters quietly to herself in ways that Mitsuru finds intruiging and a little worrying.
Yamagishi and Takeba hit off fairly well. From what Mitsuru can glean, Takeba pushes over Yamagishi’s defenses and made Yamagishi her friend by either force of personality or because of the natural assumption that two women ought to get along. As for Arisato and Yamagishi, it isn’t even a question. Naturally, Arisato gets along with Yamagishi. Yamagishi calls Arisato 'Mucchan'.
This is not helping Mitsuru learn Arisato’s name. She looked at Arisato’s file only to discover that the computer rendered Arisato’s first name as string of characters that look almost like a censor, and the print version of the file is similarly unintelligible. It’s almost comical. It is as though the universe is conspiring against Mitsuru. Mitsuru thinks she should give up.
The worst of it is that Takeba’s presence continues to agitate Mitsuru in ways that she can’t explain or make excuses for. It’s almost unbearable. It’s like a fire—and Mitsuru has always disliked the summer and the heat—set beneath her skin and inflaming everything. Mitsuru can’t understand what it is: a virulent hatred, a determined rejection of Takeba, residual guilt—what is it, she can’t—she can’t understand it. At night she thinks about the walls of the dorms and how thin they are. She owns the building. Some distance between her and her fellow tenants is only natural, is to be expected. That is why she is not upset by her distance from Arisato or Yamagishi or Aigis or Iori. She’s not upset by Takeba, either, just disturbed and bothered and hot over everything. It’s like trying to grab at a fish with her bare hands. (She hasn’t ever tried this, but she imagines that it must feel this way.) When she wakes up in the morning, sometimes she trips over a mug of coffee, made just the way she likes it.
---
Nearing the day of the play’s opening, Arisato invites Mitsuru, Takeba, and Yamagishi to some event the play’s writer is throwing. Mitsuru accepts. She has nothing better to do that night except work, but she believes getting to know the tenants will prove more enjoyable and better for her well-being in the long run. She makes the mistake of overdressing, and doesn’t realize it until she’s in the first floor lobby. Yamagishi is in her usual shawl and skirt, Arisato in her complicated layers of textiles and patterns, and Takeba in her cute, pink clothes. Mitsuru nearly turns back, but Arisato says, “You look fine, senpai” (it turns out that Arisato went to Gekkoukan, too) and they all head out.
“The play is all about Jungian psychology,” Arisato says, pulling out of the parking lot without even looking behind her. They’re taking Arisato’s car because Arisato looks like a reliable driver. She isn’t. “It’s very complicated. I’m playing the main villain. Supposedly, I represent a death-bringing figure that’s alternately something of a Messiah and a mother or something like that.” She smiles a bit. “I die in the end of it,” she says. “Kind of depressing, isn’t it?”
---
The playwright is a Mr. Edogawa, and the party itself is in a dusty brick building with three stages and many blacklights. Mitsuru remembers him as one of her teachers. He foregoes lecturing in favor of having them wear strange, colored masks with numerals on them. This represents something, supposedly: characterization or characters. The total result is that hardly anyone in the room seems comfortable. Takeba is snappish. Edogawa told her that she’s supposed to represent the Lovers, and she’s been in a mood ever since. Takeba whipped off the mask and refused to wear it, and Mitsuru decides that she should take hers off, too, in the spirit of solidarity. Mitsuru makes conversation with the principal actors and some of the staff and the director and then drifts towards Takeba.
“Oh, it’s you,” Takeba says. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“The conversation is fascinating,” Mitsuru says. “And I can’t deny that the party’s theme lends a certain air of… mystique to the event.”
“Yeah,” Takeba says. “Definitely. Do you still want to see the play?”
“It will be good for Arisato.”
“I guess,” Takeba says. “Hey, senpai, what did you get?”
“Hmm? Oh. The Empress.” She winces at the thought. She knows that she is a person in a position of power, but she doesn’t like people calling attention to it. And more than that, the more time she spends in the dorm, the more she realizes how utterly incompetent she is at dealing with seemingly basic things: restaurants and etiquette, manners and politeness.
“The Empress, huh,” Takeba says. She brushed some hair out of her face and said, “Well, I guess it could be worse, right? Edogawa gave Mucchi Death.”
“So he did,” Mitsuru says. Arisato is talking with a young man with a flowing, yellow scarf. A relative, she wonders, or a lover? Well, it’s hardly any of her business. “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“Well, I can’t say this is my scene,” Takeba says. “Maybe I should just put the mask on anyway? Let myself give into the shadow and all that.” She rolls her eyes as she brings her mask to her face. Mitsuru, despite herself, laughs. Takeba does, too.
They say nothing to each other after that. They’ve run out of things to say; or maybe it’s that they like staring at each other better than speaking. Mitsuru no longer feels so bothered by Takeba anymore. Maybe it’s been all those cups of coffee.
Arisato drifts over to Mitsuru and Takeba, along with her scarf-wearing friend. “Having fun?” Arisato asks. In the blacklight, Mitsuru notices a strange, faint scar on Arisato’s chest, just barely visible over one of her tanktops. Arisato notices the gaze, and explains, “When I was a kid, I was in an accident. Both my parents died in it, and it messed up my heart pretty badly. Ryoji-kun’s little brother was there, too. He died en route to the hospital. He wound up being my donor.”
“And you and this Ryoji have kept contact ever since?” Mitsuru says. “I admire your dedication.”
“We dated for a bit,” Arisato says. She elbows the man and says, “Go on, introduce yourself.”
“I’m Ryoji Mochizuki,” he ways. “And if I may say so myself, you are quite a—” He stops, suddenly. Most likely because Takeba’s stepped on his foot. “I’m the costume designer,” he says. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Are you the one who made these masks, Ryoji?” Takeba asks, squinting at him suspiciously.
“Well, Edogawa wanted some extras,” Ryoji says with a little shrug. “I have some nicer ones for the actual play. Not here, though. They’re all back at the Revue.”
Mitsuru suddenly has deep misgivings about the play. She’s remembered that Takarazuka plays involve singing and dancing in addition to acting. Now that she knows the identity of the dramaturge, she’s not sure she wants to see what kind of music Edogawa likes.
“It’s not as bad as you think it is,” Arisato says. “Of course, if doth the lady thinketh so little—”
“What’s gotten into you now?” Takeba says, laughing.
“The play is very romantic,” Ryoji says. “Edogawa co-wrote the script with a popular movie director.” He meets Mitsuru’s eyes again and says, “It’s almost as beautiful as you are. If you’d like, I can find a nice place where we can get to know each other better. There’s a hotel near the Chinatown that offers an excellent squid dish, and I’d be honored if you’d join me.”
Arisato is enacting a scene from the play on Takeba. Takeba giggles and bats Arisato away with a, “Stop that, Mucchi, it’s embarrassing me.”
“Hmm?” Mitsuru says. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention.”
“No luck, huh,” Ryoji says with a sigh. “Never mind, then. Well, I’ll be gone now. You ladies enjoy the party.” And he drifts off, presumably to talk with some other women. Aigis is there in the crowd. She makes a beeline for Arisato, and immediately pulls Arisato away from Ryoji. Then it’s just Takeba and Mitsuru again, and neither of them know what to say to each other.
---
The combination of Arisato’s outlandish driving and the bizarre experience of the party (Arisato later suggested that the drinks were spiked with hallucinogens, much to the amusement of no one) leads Mitsuru to a dream where she’s on a stage. The lights are off. She’s wearing a mask and a hoop dress and carrying a ball and chain instead of her preferred epee. There’s a throbbing between her legs that makes her jaw clench and teeth grind. She wants to—she wants so badly. And there is Takeba chained to a cow-shaped throne and doesn’t Mitsuru’s tongue fit so nicely against the lock? Mitsuru sheds her dress and then she’s there crouching between Takeba’s thighs. She’s not even doing anything and Takeba has her arms wrapped around her neck and she wants, so badly, to do something with her mouth, but what is she supposed to do, and then Takeba’s dead father appears over Takeba’s shoulder, but it isn’t Takeba’s dead father, it’s Arisato, Arisato with her serious red eyes and heavy, dark hands—Takeba’s legs around her waist, grinding against Mitsuru’s thigh, her tie swaying before her—
She wakes up before the sun rises bothered by an intense desire to never see Takeba again.
---
She leaves her door open after waking up so early on a suspicion. Her hunch is right: she hears someone padding to her door and leaving something there.
“Come in,” Mitsuru says, and Takeba yelps. “Are you all right?”
“I-I’m fine,” Takeba says. “Just spilled some coffee on my hand.”
Mitsuru opens the door, and lets Takeba in. Takeba’s dressed for work. She accepts the cup of coffee Takeba leaves for her. It’s hot. She sets it on her desk and says, “Is your hand all right?”
“It’s fine,” Takeba says. She licks off a bit of coffee from her finger. “Well, I have to get going now, so—”
“Wait,” Mitsuru says, and Takeba does. “I want to talk to you about something. It’s about your father.”
“My father, huh,” Takeba says. She looks uneasy. Mitsuru feels it, too. “You don’t have to worry about it. I know that his death wasn’t your fault.”
“But it was our company’s fault,” Mitsuru says. “We caused you so much trouble…”
“It doesn’t matter, okay?” Takeba says. “… You know, your father paid for my high school education.”
“Did he?” Mitsuru says. She didn’t know.
“I came to Tatsumi Port Island looking for answers to my father’s death,” Takeba says. “I enrolled to Gekkoukan because it was owned by the Kirijos—actually, everything on this island is. Pretty weird, huh? I looked around, asked so many questions, and one day your father calls me into the principal’s office and tells me everything. About your grandfather, about the accident, just about everything.”
“He never told me,” Mitsuru says.
“He didn’t want you to take that responsibility,” says Takeba. “Anyway, it happened so long ago. It doesn’t matter to me anymore.”
“I see,” Mitsuru says. “I’m glad that you seem to be over it, then.”
Takeba narrows her eyes. “What, you thought all this time I was just—buttering you up so I could get answers?”
“That isn’t it,” Mitsuru says. “Honestly, when I found out about your father, I thought that you didn’t know. And then I thought that maybe it was better if you didn’t.”
Takeba bites her lip, and smiles painfully. She looks up at the ceiling and says, “This can’t be happening. All this time, I thought you actually liked me, but you were just feeling sorry for me?”
“Takeba, wait,” Mitsuru says. Takeba rolls her eyes and makes to leave, but Mitsuru gets a hold of Takeba’s arm. “Wait,” Mitsuru repeats. “I can explain myself, but I can’t do that if you run away.”
“I’m not running,” Takeba says. She looks ready to throw Mitsuru off, but she doesn’t move, just stays there with her cheeks turning pink and her other hand pulling Mitsuru in. “Senpai, let go of me.”
“Takeba—”
“Let go of me,” Takeba says, and then kisses Mitsuru on the mouth. Mitsuru makes a stifled noise of surprise, and then pulls Takeba closer. She’s never paid much attention to her lips before, but now it’s all she can think about. A twinge of pain in her upper arm as Takeba pulls her closer. Her heart jumps into her mouth, and her lips part. Takeba’s hip is right against hers, and Mitsuru grinds into it, a moan right in the back of her throat. She should be stopping this and telling Takeba that they should talk this out like reasonable adults. This isn’t a particularly logical or good way of resolving conflict, except Mitsuru knows that if she doesn’t resolve it this way, she’ll burst apart at the seams, or all her joints will harden or she won’t be able to sleep, ever again.
Takeba’s other hand slips beneath her shirt, slides up and over her bra. Mitsuru sits on her bed and ends up pushed up against the wall, Takeba straddling her and unbuttoning her shirt and she’s not sure if she’s dreaming. Her hands on Takeba’s shoulders certainly feel as though they’re grasping something solid, slip-smooth and bone beneath soft flesh. She kisses Takeba’s bared shoulder, but Takeba shrugs it off and parts Mitsuru’s shirt. Takeba unhooks Mitsuru’s bra, and lets the cups fall away.
There’s a giggly smile on Takeba’s face. “Your skin is so smooth,” Takeba says.
Mitsuru’s face goes red. “Wh—that has…”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Takeba says. Her gaze is—what is it, not a leer, it feels too nice for it to be a leer. It lights Mitsuru up, makes her skin heat and arms shake. She’s terrified, of what might come next, of her vulnerability, of the moment ending. “You’re so pretty, senpai,” she says, half of her words vanishing into Mitsuru’s chest and vibrating on her skin. The alarm on Mitsuru’s cell goes off, and then silences itself with a thump as it slides out of Mitsuru’s pocket and lands on the floor.
---
Takeba goes to work an hour later. She calls Mitsuru at noon to remind her about the play. “Come back to the dorms early,” Takeba says. “We need some time to get ready.”
Mitsuru doesn’t think it’ll take them that long to get ready, but her outfit for the night was chosen by a stylist weeks ago. She checks out of the office early and returns to the dorm. Takeba is sitting in the lounge with Yamagishi and the dog.
“Thank goodness you’re back,” Takeba says. “Fuuka says she wants to cook us dinner.”
“You can cook, Yamagishi?” Mitsuru says.
“Oh,” Yamagishi says. “I’m still learning, but I’ve had lessons.”
“Well, whatever you make, I’m sure it will be wonderful,” Mitsuru says. Yamagishi, instead of looking assured by this, becomes pessimistic and excuses herself to the kitchen.
“I need some help deciding what to wear,” Takeba says. “I was planning on asking Mucchi, but she’s busy with dress rehearsal.”
“You called me out of work for this?” Mitsuru says.
“Were you busy?” Takeba says. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I sometimes forget how much you have to work.”
“It’s fine,” Mitsuru says. “I had the afternoon set aside, anyway. This is my first time going to a play with a friend.”
“Oh, really?” Takeba says. Takeba looks over her shoulder with a grin. “Aww, so you were excited and put aside the entire afternoon for that?”
“Takeba,” Mitsuru says, as a warning. She doesn’t find it funny—but it is, isn’t it? She’s only been to the play as a guest to some family or some business or some director who need their egos satiated or their tempers cooled. It’s rare that she even goes to a venue without ulterior motives. She smiles at herself. And then they both smile at each other.
They go into Takeba’s room. Mitsuru stands near the door, arms crossed, as Takeba goes through her drawers, laying one outfit after another on the bed. There’s a magazine open on the desk for consultation. Takeba’s laptop has some outfits displayed on the screen as well. There’s a cow horn set on her desk, parts of the white bone rubbed down into a grey tan. Takeba peels off her shirt and tuts at the clothes that lie before her. Takeba looks over to Mitsuru once or twice, a quick, sliding glance full of apprehension. At last, Mitsuru says, “Would this be any easier if I left the room?”
“Oh, sure,” Takeba responds. “Sorry… I’ll be out in a second.”
Mitsuru makes a grateful retreat. She’s glad for it. She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She must break this off, she decides. She and Takeba worked their issues out, figured their obligations and their dues, and that is all. After this, she will refuse Takeba’s cups of coffee and these little outings. But she doesn’t want to. These things make even waiting on someone pleasant. Life is so much—brighter.
Takeba comes out in loose pants and a men’s blazer and a fedora. “Tada,” she says, spinning around in a circle. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to say,” Mitsuru says. Her voice cracks. She licks her lips, and catches herself a second too late.
“I thought I’d get in the Takarazuka spirit,” Takeba says. “I guess not, right? These aren’t even my clothes. They belonged to my ex.” Takeba adjusts the fedora on her head. It’s an oddly cute gesture. Takeba winks and says, “Maybe you should dress me into something more appropriate?”
Takeba returns to her room and leaves the door open a crack. Mitsuru waits for a minute, maybe two. Then she eases into the room. She feels like a hunter, dangerous and hungry. Takeba’s back is to her. Takeba is going through the drawers again. Mitsuru thinks, shouldn’t this be the other way around, shouldn’t it be the man who does the hunting, and her feet grow still. Then she presses on regardless, catching Takeba from behind. One hand cups a breast, and the other wraps around Takeba’s waist.
“Senpai,” Takeba says, a laugh quivering beneath her surprise. “Geeze, you’re so—”
“Quiet,” Mitsuru says. She bites onto the collar of the blazer and tugs it up. Takeba gasps. “You were taking too long.” She moves her hand roughly along Takeba’s body, and Takeba’s knees buck. The power pounds through Mitsuru’s blood, pulses in her ears, mingles with her uncertainty and excitement. She gets Takeba to hold her arms up and she takes off the blazer. Then she undoes the buttons of Takeba’s pants (why are there so many?), dips her hand down below, and strokes Takeba’s warm thighs beneath the slacks. The words next aren’t coming to her, so she removes the fedora and pulls Takeba’s hair out of the bun and curls her fingers against Takeba’s neck. This is a role, just as protective as the silly masks Edogawa gave them to wear the night before, but Mitsuru is a poor actor. She knows that there are cues and she knows that she must do something, but she doesn’t know what. So she runs her hands along Takeba’s legs, presses harder against Takeba, and takes careful, measured breaths, in case she inadvertently harm herself with her own excitement.
The cue comes when Takeba jerks her leg up and groans, “Senpai, stop being such a tease.”
“Sorry,” Mitsuru says, her relief breaking through the script. She clears her throat and squeezes Takeba’s shoulder. Her other hand kneads the inside of Takeba’s leg, slowly working its way up to Takeba’s thigh. Mitsuru runs her hand on Takeba’s shoulder down to her back, and then pushes the pants down further. She gives a little grope, a little caress, that makes Takeba jump like Mitsuru’s touch is electric. Mitsuru slides her hand down the curve of Takeba’s ass, and then kisses the back of Takeba’s neck. “Do you want this to be over quickly?”
“Why don’t you try your best?” Takeba responds, and brazenly rolls her hips into Mitsuru.
Mitsuru swallows, hard. Then she puts her hand under the elastic of Takeba’s underwear, feels the swollen, hot lips, rubs her finger along the slit. She waits for three beats of her heart to drum past her ears and then curls her lips around her teeth. She takes Takeba’s ear between those lips and says, “You’re going to wish you never said that.”
---
In the end, Yamagishi orders takeout and the three of them eat with the dog and Iori and Akihiko and one of Akihiko’s fellow workout enthusiasts and possible boyfriend (it’s never easy to tell with Akihiko, who never seems to understand who he’s dating unless it is in retrospect), Amada. Mitsuru almost leaves for the Takarazuka in her street clothes, and nearly makes her and Takeba late getting changed.
The play isn’t bad. It isn’t very good, either, but it entertains, and Arisato struts about the stage in a costume that’s mostly feathers and sings and dances and attempts to seduce the lead female. The attempt is laughable, of course, because of the feathers. She and Takeba stay a while to go backstage and talk with Arisato and Aigis for a while. Aigis is with Arisato as always. Arisato’s face is flushed with exertion and damp with sweat and in the end all Arisato has to say is, “It’s all wonderful, all of it.”
Arisato’s euphoria rubs off on Mitsuru. She and Takeba walk back to the subway together, arms linked.
“It was good, wasn’t it?” Takeba says, almost in a sigh. “I liked it a lot.”
“It was rather enjoyable,” Mitsuru says. But she’s looking down at Takeba, and now she’s not sure what she was talking about. The streets of Iwatodai are wide and straight and look faintly blue in the night. The pale lights that catch the planes of Takeba’s face make her features look soft and very beautiful. Arisato’s words catch in her head: it’s all wonderful, all of it and it is. She tightens her grip on Takeba’s hand.
“I’m not sure who I was cheering for in the end,” Takeba says. They’ve been drifting closer to one another, and now Takeba’s almost close enough to lean her head against Mitsuru’s shoulder. Now she is, and now she does so. “Mucchi’s character or the main hero. They all sang so well.”
Of course, when she gets back to the dorm, she’ll tell Takeba that she wants to put an end to all this. That does put a damper on the euphoria.
“Senpai, who did you cheer for?”
“I feel as though the hero of the story put forth the most reasons to win the heroine’s hand in marriage,” Mitsuru says. “Arisato’s character was compelling, but the lack of any definable motivation for wanting the world to end certainly strains his credibility as a believable villain.”
Hmm, Takeba hums. She makes a face. “Yeah, well,” she says, “maybe it’s because it was Mucchi, in the end.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you this for some time, Takeba,” Mitsuru says. “Honestly, I’m not sure how I could have let this situation go on for so long. Do you know Arisato’s given name?”
“Well,” Takeba says, “… no. I met her through a coworker, and the coworker always called her ‘Mucchi,’ so I thought it was short for something like Mutsume. But then someone else was calling her Mitsuki and another person was calling her Rui. I don’t think she cares.”
“I see,” Mitsuru says. It’s almost a relief to know that no one really knows who Arisato really is. Arisato’s stage name is just as forgettable—there are flowers and mountains and maybe the color red—so perhaps it is a problem where a name cannot contain the person; or maybe now she is just making excuses.
Takeba yawns behind her hand, and stares up at the moon. Then she says, “You know my given name, right?”
Mitsuru almost wants to say no. She doesn’t want to say it, not when her family has committed so many gross atrocities that she would surely be jailed in place of her dead father and grandfather for reparations if the public were to ever know the true extent of what happened. But she hasn’t felt guilty in days, and all of her plans have a way of going sour.
“Of course I do,” she says. She gives Yukari’s hand a particularly bold squeeze. “I assume that you want me to use your given name, then.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Yukari says with a laugh and a wink. The entrance to the subway is almost in sight. Yukari looks up at the moon and says, “I can’t believe how big it is.”
Neither can Mitsuru. “My office has a particularly good view of the full moon,” she says.
Yukari makes a strange, pained face and says, “We’re going to have to work on that.”
“Sorry?” Mitsuru says.
“It’s nothing,” Yukari says. “Let’s go home.”
Mitsuru thinks of the dorm and the people and the dog, and the word ‘home’; and smiles. “Yes,” she says. “Let’s.”
Author/Artist:
signalbeamRating: R (sexuality)
Word Count: 6,400
Prompt: July 15 - Persona 3, Mitsuru/Yukari: alternate universe, seduction, cross-dressing - Takarazuka theatre.
Summary: Mitsuru feels very, very uncomfortable around Takeba, especially given that Takeba’s idea of bonding seems to be talking about their dead fathers. Meanwhile, the residents of the Iwatodai Hall adopt a dog.
Notes: Hideously late. Unbetaed due to lateness. Oh well.
Liberties taken with locations. Lots of liberties.
The new girl makes Mitsuru feel uncomfortable. She’s not talking about the actual new girl, the girl whose given name Mitsuru cannot quite get a hold of, no matter how hard she tries. Arisato is a wonderful addition to the dorm. She’s an actress in the Takarazuka, gunning for the top male role. From what Mitsuru’s heard of the new girl, she disappears into roles so completely that it’s a miracle the girl has a personality of her own at all. She’s a natural. It’s clear that her future is in the Star Troupe, or maybe even greater things: roles in movies, roles in television. The Revue was lucky to scout Arisato before the talent agencies got her. Someone like this is a rare find. Mei Arisato (or maybe it’s Misaki) will be a top star. She’ll grow into roles outside of the theater, maybe in movies or on television. It will be both a treat and an honor to watch her grow.
Outside of the theater, the girl is a pleasure to interact with, as well. It’s hard to remember a time when Arisato (Mi-something. Minamo, Michiko, Mimi—or maybe Mutsuki or Momoka or Manami) wasn’t a part of Iwatodai Hall. Mitsuru remembers when the building had no one but her and Aragaki and Akihiko, but with Aragaki’s death (too soon; she can’t really believe he’s gone, but of course he is. His room is empty. It will never be open again), she made the building into a dorm and opened it to other young adults looking for cheap, affordable housing in the city. Akihiko barely notices the new people, but he’s hardly ever in the dorms long enough to take notice, anyway. The first person she lets into the dorm is Takeba, and Takeba unsettles her for no logical reason. Takeba is perfectly harmless. She works at an accounting firm as an office lady. It’s a good, steady job with regular promotions. Takeba told Mitsuru that being an OL is boring, but she’ll always have somewhere to work, and more than anything else, she doesn’t want to rely on her mother to help her out—Mitsuru can recall Takeba’s voice and expression so clearly that it makes it all the more unsettling. Takeba has a thing for collars (not collars, chokers) and wears a lot of pink. That isn’t the reason why Takeba—unnerves her so.
How preposterously inane this all is, thinking in circles all over this one girl. The dormitory is, of course, just one of many properties she owns and manages as part of her apprenticeship with her father’s company, and Takeba is just one of the many people who lives in the dormitory and works in the city. She appreciates Takeba’s presence in the same way she appreciates Arisato and Iori and Akihiko. Of course, it is not Takeba’s fault that Mitsuru always needs to leave the room when Takeba enters it. Maybe there’s some deeper connection between them that lends itself so easily to repulsion.
Mitsuru resolves to view Takeba’s files. That will put an end to this foolishness. It will be a thumb in the eye of her needless obsessing over this one girl. It will reveal Takeba to be the person Mitsuru knows she is: harmless, inoffensive, innocuous. Not a threat in any respect. Mitsuru relaxes, and makes a little note in her daily planner. Noon, the next day: T. file.
---
It’s an absolute disaster. The Kirijo company is responsible for Eichiro Takeba’s death. Mitsuru is, of course, appalled. Eichiro Takeba’s death occurred during her grandfather’s reign of the company, shortly before her grandfather committed suicide himself, but the fault—some of it, at least—still is hers. Akihiko will tell her to stop blaming herself, but she can’t; or rather, she thinks it would be irresponsible to forget the past so easily.
She has business to do afterwards, so she sets aside the Takeba matter for later.
---
She gets back to the dorm later than she expects. No, she knew this will make her late. Mitsuru leaves the office tired and hungry and with a briefcase of more work. She parks her motorbike in the lot and walks to the dorms. When she enters, Arisato is sitting with a woman with blonde hair and a sundress.
“Hello, Mitsuru-san,” Arisato says.
“Arisato,” Mitsuru acknowledges. Name, name, she needs a name. Maybe it isn’t Mi-something. Umi, maybe? “Who is our guest?”
“This is Aigis,” Arisato says.
“It’s my pleasure to meet you,” Mitsuru says. Strange name. It must be foreign.
“I am Aigis,” the woman says. “I am her colleague.”
“An actor?” says Mitsuru.
“Yes,” says Aigis. “I also work as an engineer for the Kirijo group in my spare time. You are Mitsuru Kirijo-san. It is nice to meet you.”
“Yes,” Mitsuru says, for lack of better words. “You are quite the accomplished individual.”
“Thank you,” says Aigis, so seriously that Mitsuru’s lip twitches upwards involuntarily. It’s hard to dislike Aigis. She seems like a very honest, very earnest person. “It is necessary to be accomplished in order to survive the competitive modern-day work environment.”
“Yes, I agree as well,” Mitsuru says, except she would have taken care to phrase it with a bit more of a—how did their PR department put it—human touch. “Arisato, do you know if Takeba is in yet?”
“No,” Arisato says. “I saw her in this afternoon when I came in to pick up some clothes, but she just got off of work then. She was heading out for the evening.” Arisato looks over at Aigis, who has a hand on her shoulder in a protective grasp. How nice for them to have such a nice friendship. Mitsuru feels a sharp pang of—longing or jealousy stirring in her. She wants something like that. “Are you looking for her? I can pass the message along, if you’d like.”
“There’s no need for you to go out of your way,” Mitsuru says. “It isn’t urgent.”
“Oh,” Arisato says. “That’s fine, too. Yukari-san asks about you a lot, too.”
“Does she?” Mitsuru says. Her heart skips a beat, and then calms down again. Takeba must have very different motivations for wanting to learn more about Mitsuru. The questions are most likely nothing more than probing, invasive gossip. She wants to know what Takeba asked. No. It will not be worth it.
“She thinks you work too hard,” Arisato says. “And she wants to know your skin care regiment.”
Mitsuru smiles a bit at that. Then she says, “Well, she has a strong work ethic, too.” Takeba isn’t very talented, but she pushes through with conviction and persistence; two things that in combination with competence, can make up for a lack of talent, anyway. “I’ll be in my room if you need me,” she says, and goes up the stairs.
So Takeba is out for the evening. A date, maybe. That is what normal people do; normal people who don’t have endless piles of paper and a company to take over go on dates in the evening, or go shopping, or talk with their friends. Mitsuru can’t remember the last time she went on a date, or if she’s ever thought about a date. There have been various attempts and stabs at arranging a marriage, but she refused her first suitor and her second. After the third, the company seemed to unleash a collective sigh and say, “That’s it, she’s never getting married” and left it at that.
Mitsuru returns to her room and looks into the darkness and thinks to herself that this is exactly how she pictured her life turning out, yet for the life of her, she can’t understand why it is so unsatisfying.
---
Later that night, somewhere between working on spreadsheet number five and spreadsheet number eight, she gets a knock on the door. It’s Takeba. It’s Takeba with two cups of coffee on a tray.
“Thought you might need one,” Takeba says. “I heard from Mucchi that you came in late.”
… Mucchi can’t possibly be Arisato’s real name. “Yes,” Mitsuru says. “You know how things are at the office right now.”
“Don’t I,” Takeba says, pulling a face. She sets the tray on Mitsuru’s desk. “Hey, you don’t mind if I…?”
“Not at all,” Mitsuru says. She makes a little clearing on her desk. “I see you’ve brought some additional refreshments with you.”
“They’re some cookies I got from a coworker,” Takeba says with a little shrug. “I thought it might be a nice time for us to, you know, talk or something.”
“Oh,” Mitsuru says. “Yes, talking is certainly appropriate.”
Takeba pulls out the extra stool from the corner of Mitsuru’s room and sits on it. “This room is hardly any bigger than mine,” she says. “I’m kind of surprised. I thought it’d be huge.”
“I live here, just the same as you do,” Mitsuru says.
“But why?” Takeba says. “I mean, you have to have an apartment of your own somewhere, maybe even a house. A person with your money probably has a vacation home or two.” She looks around the room, not bothering to hide anything: her admiration, her curiosity, her dislike of Mitsuru’s favorite imported French lamp by the bed.
“I still have a way to go before I deserve the privilege,” Mitsuru says. “I have to work, after all.”
“I see,” Takeba says.
Mitsuru picks up the mug of coffee and breathes in. She takes a sip and then blinks in surprise. The coffee is just how she likes it.
“Surprised?” Takeba says. “I asked Mucchi.”
“That was very considerate of you. Thank you.”
“Oh… Sure.”
Neither of them say a thing. Mitsuru feels as though she slipped. Talking with Takeba is difficult sometimes. It’s very difficult. It’s no easier when she recalls her grandfather’s role in the death of Eichiro Takeba.
“Well,” Takeba says, “I have tickets to Mucchi’s next play. She doesn’t have a leading role in it just yet, but she’s one of the villains, I think.”
“This is Takarazuka, is it not?” Mitsuru says.
“Yup.”
“I see,” Mitsuru says. “I’ll think about it.”
“Oh, come on,” Takeba says. “We went to the same high school, senpai. Let me treat you.”
Senpai. That’s a new one. Mitsuru blinks. Her composure is skidding away from her. She’ll have to do without it. Manageably. She says, “Yes, we did. You never called me senpai before.”
“Well,” Takeba says, “I didn’t think you’d remember. And it took me a while to remember where I saw you.”
And in truth, Mitsuru didn’t remember until she was reminded just now.
“It is my fault,” Mitsuru says. “I should have recognized you.”
“Oh, never mind,” Takeba says, flustered and impatient. “It’s no big deal. I mean, I wasn’t part of the student council and we never talked much. And then your father died and…” She goes quiet. She looks to the picture on Mitsuru’s desk. “Your father was a good man,” she says. “I lost my father when I was a little kid, too. It was a long time ago, though, so it’s not like…”
They descend into another flustered silence. Takeba helps herself to another cookie. Mitsuru drinks more coffee and clenches her jaw and hopes that this will be over before they embarrass each other and themselves.
“I’ll take the tray back,” she says. “Thank you for the coffee.”
“No, let me,” Takeba says, nearly springing up from the stool. “You’ll come to see the play with me, won’t you, senpai?”
“Yes,” Mitsuru says. "Of course."
“Okay,” Takeba says. “It’s a date, then.”
Takeba doesn’t mean it, of course, because they’re not really friends and this isn’t really a date. But Mitsuru feels a stirring of hope inside her and she smiles back and says, “Indeed it is.”
---
There is a dog in the dorm.
“Arf,” it says.
“Where have you been?” Akihiko asks.
“I was working,” Mitsuru says. “Who is this?”
“Arf,” says the dog. It wags its tail. It pants. And then it tries to lick her hand.
“I found him by the shrine where I was training,” Akihiko says. “He looked like a good training partner, so I thought I’d take him in.”
Mitsuru wants to tell him, “I’ve fixed that body of yours more times than you have fingers, Akihiko. Don’t throw it to the dogs,” but she isn’t Akihiko’s mother, and the dog will surely be useful for deterring unsavory characters from the dorm.
“I trust that you’ll take good care of him, then,” she says.
“Heh,” Akihiko says. “Of course. He’s going to be my running partner for the next few years, so he’s going to have to stay in good shape. Isn’t that right, Koromaru?”
The dog barks back. Mitsuru sets aside the incredible but unlikely idea that an animal can understand human speech in favor of asking where Akihiko is planning on keeping the dog, because the dog won’t be happy cooped up in his little room. He’ll keep Takeba up all night with his barking if he doesn’t get enough exercise.
“I was thinking we could leave him out in the lobby,” Akihiko says. “I’ll take him out for walks in the evenings and mornings. The rest of the time he’ll probably be asleep, anyway.”
The dog barks.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Akihiko says, looking down fondly at Koromaru. “Yeah.”
He’s been punched one too many times in the head for this to make much sense to anyone except him.
---
The day after they get Koromaru, Fuuka Yamagishi signs the final paperwork and moves into the third floor. Like everyone else, she’s looking for somewhere cheap to stay in Iwatodai as she sweats out through low-paying entry level jobs. Yamagishi is a programmer or an engineer. Mitsuru sees the faint blue-green glow of a computer LCD radiating from the crack beneath Yamagishi’s door late one night when she needs to go to the bathroom, and the next morning she sees Yamagishi shuffling past her in the kitchen with two cups of coffee. Yamagishi is shy but well-spoken, and often mutters quietly to herself in ways that Mitsuru finds intruiging and a little worrying.
Yamagishi and Takeba hit off fairly well. From what Mitsuru can glean, Takeba pushes over Yamagishi’s defenses and made Yamagishi her friend by either force of personality or because of the natural assumption that two women ought to get along. As for Arisato and Yamagishi, it isn’t even a question. Naturally, Arisato gets along with Yamagishi. Yamagishi calls Arisato 'Mucchan'.
This is not helping Mitsuru learn Arisato’s name. She looked at Arisato’s file only to discover that the computer rendered Arisato’s first name as string of characters that look almost like a censor, and the print version of the file is similarly unintelligible. It’s almost comical. It is as though the universe is conspiring against Mitsuru. Mitsuru thinks she should give up.
The worst of it is that Takeba’s presence continues to agitate Mitsuru in ways that she can’t explain or make excuses for. It’s almost unbearable. It’s like a fire—and Mitsuru has always disliked the summer and the heat—set beneath her skin and inflaming everything. Mitsuru can’t understand what it is: a virulent hatred, a determined rejection of Takeba, residual guilt—what is it, she can’t—she can’t understand it. At night she thinks about the walls of the dorms and how thin they are. She owns the building. Some distance between her and her fellow tenants is only natural, is to be expected. That is why she is not upset by her distance from Arisato or Yamagishi or Aigis or Iori. She’s not upset by Takeba, either, just disturbed and bothered and hot over everything. It’s like trying to grab at a fish with her bare hands. (She hasn’t ever tried this, but she imagines that it must feel this way.) When she wakes up in the morning, sometimes she trips over a mug of coffee, made just the way she likes it.
---
Nearing the day of the play’s opening, Arisato invites Mitsuru, Takeba, and Yamagishi to some event the play’s writer is throwing. Mitsuru accepts. She has nothing better to do that night except work, but she believes getting to know the tenants will prove more enjoyable and better for her well-being in the long run. She makes the mistake of overdressing, and doesn’t realize it until she’s in the first floor lobby. Yamagishi is in her usual shawl and skirt, Arisato in her complicated layers of textiles and patterns, and Takeba in her cute, pink clothes. Mitsuru nearly turns back, but Arisato says, “You look fine, senpai” (it turns out that Arisato went to Gekkoukan, too) and they all head out.
“The play is all about Jungian psychology,” Arisato says, pulling out of the parking lot without even looking behind her. They’re taking Arisato’s car because Arisato looks like a reliable driver. She isn’t. “It’s very complicated. I’m playing the main villain. Supposedly, I represent a death-bringing figure that’s alternately something of a Messiah and a mother or something like that.” She smiles a bit. “I die in the end of it,” she says. “Kind of depressing, isn’t it?”
---
The playwright is a Mr. Edogawa, and the party itself is in a dusty brick building with three stages and many blacklights. Mitsuru remembers him as one of her teachers. He foregoes lecturing in favor of having them wear strange, colored masks with numerals on them. This represents something, supposedly: characterization or characters. The total result is that hardly anyone in the room seems comfortable. Takeba is snappish. Edogawa told her that she’s supposed to represent the Lovers, and she’s been in a mood ever since. Takeba whipped off the mask and refused to wear it, and Mitsuru decides that she should take hers off, too, in the spirit of solidarity. Mitsuru makes conversation with the principal actors and some of the staff and the director and then drifts towards Takeba.
“Oh, it’s you,” Takeba says. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“The conversation is fascinating,” Mitsuru says. “And I can’t deny that the party’s theme lends a certain air of… mystique to the event.”
“Yeah,” Takeba says. “Definitely. Do you still want to see the play?”
“It will be good for Arisato.”
“I guess,” Takeba says. “Hey, senpai, what did you get?”
“Hmm? Oh. The Empress.” She winces at the thought. She knows that she is a person in a position of power, but she doesn’t like people calling attention to it. And more than that, the more time she spends in the dorm, the more she realizes how utterly incompetent she is at dealing with seemingly basic things: restaurants and etiquette, manners and politeness.
“The Empress, huh,” Takeba says. She brushed some hair out of her face and said, “Well, I guess it could be worse, right? Edogawa gave Mucchi Death.”
“So he did,” Mitsuru says. Arisato is talking with a young man with a flowing, yellow scarf. A relative, she wonders, or a lover? Well, it’s hardly any of her business. “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“Well, I can’t say this is my scene,” Takeba says. “Maybe I should just put the mask on anyway? Let myself give into the shadow and all that.” She rolls her eyes as she brings her mask to her face. Mitsuru, despite herself, laughs. Takeba does, too.
They say nothing to each other after that. They’ve run out of things to say; or maybe it’s that they like staring at each other better than speaking. Mitsuru no longer feels so bothered by Takeba anymore. Maybe it’s been all those cups of coffee.
Arisato drifts over to Mitsuru and Takeba, along with her scarf-wearing friend. “Having fun?” Arisato asks. In the blacklight, Mitsuru notices a strange, faint scar on Arisato’s chest, just barely visible over one of her tanktops. Arisato notices the gaze, and explains, “When I was a kid, I was in an accident. Both my parents died in it, and it messed up my heart pretty badly. Ryoji-kun’s little brother was there, too. He died en route to the hospital. He wound up being my donor.”
“And you and this Ryoji have kept contact ever since?” Mitsuru says. “I admire your dedication.”
“We dated for a bit,” Arisato says. She elbows the man and says, “Go on, introduce yourself.”
“I’m Ryoji Mochizuki,” he ways. “And if I may say so myself, you are quite a—” He stops, suddenly. Most likely because Takeba’s stepped on his foot. “I’m the costume designer,” he says. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Are you the one who made these masks, Ryoji?” Takeba asks, squinting at him suspiciously.
“Well, Edogawa wanted some extras,” Ryoji says with a little shrug. “I have some nicer ones for the actual play. Not here, though. They’re all back at the Revue.”
Mitsuru suddenly has deep misgivings about the play. She’s remembered that Takarazuka plays involve singing and dancing in addition to acting. Now that she knows the identity of the dramaturge, she’s not sure she wants to see what kind of music Edogawa likes.
“It’s not as bad as you think it is,” Arisato says. “Of course, if doth the lady thinketh so little—”
“What’s gotten into you now?” Takeba says, laughing.
“The play is very romantic,” Ryoji says. “Edogawa co-wrote the script with a popular movie director.” He meets Mitsuru’s eyes again and says, “It’s almost as beautiful as you are. If you’d like, I can find a nice place where we can get to know each other better. There’s a hotel near the Chinatown that offers an excellent squid dish, and I’d be honored if you’d join me.”
Arisato is enacting a scene from the play on Takeba. Takeba giggles and bats Arisato away with a, “Stop that, Mucchi, it’s embarrassing me.”
“Hmm?” Mitsuru says. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention.”
“No luck, huh,” Ryoji says with a sigh. “Never mind, then. Well, I’ll be gone now. You ladies enjoy the party.” And he drifts off, presumably to talk with some other women. Aigis is there in the crowd. She makes a beeline for Arisato, and immediately pulls Arisato away from Ryoji. Then it’s just Takeba and Mitsuru again, and neither of them know what to say to each other.
---
The combination of Arisato’s outlandish driving and the bizarre experience of the party (Arisato later suggested that the drinks were spiked with hallucinogens, much to the amusement of no one) leads Mitsuru to a dream where she’s on a stage. The lights are off. She’s wearing a mask and a hoop dress and carrying a ball and chain instead of her preferred epee. There’s a throbbing between her legs that makes her jaw clench and teeth grind. She wants to—she wants so badly. And there is Takeba chained to a cow-shaped throne and doesn’t Mitsuru’s tongue fit so nicely against the lock? Mitsuru sheds her dress and then she’s there crouching between Takeba’s thighs. She’s not even doing anything and Takeba has her arms wrapped around her neck and she wants, so badly, to do something with her mouth, but what is she supposed to do, and then Takeba’s dead father appears over Takeba’s shoulder, but it isn’t Takeba’s dead father, it’s Arisato, Arisato with her serious red eyes and heavy, dark hands—Takeba’s legs around her waist, grinding against Mitsuru’s thigh, her tie swaying before her—
She wakes up before the sun rises bothered by an intense desire to never see Takeba again.
---
She leaves her door open after waking up so early on a suspicion. Her hunch is right: she hears someone padding to her door and leaving something there.
“Come in,” Mitsuru says, and Takeba yelps. “Are you all right?”
“I-I’m fine,” Takeba says. “Just spilled some coffee on my hand.”
Mitsuru opens the door, and lets Takeba in. Takeba’s dressed for work. She accepts the cup of coffee Takeba leaves for her. It’s hot. She sets it on her desk and says, “Is your hand all right?”
“It’s fine,” Takeba says. She licks off a bit of coffee from her finger. “Well, I have to get going now, so—”
“Wait,” Mitsuru says, and Takeba does. “I want to talk to you about something. It’s about your father.”
“My father, huh,” Takeba says. She looks uneasy. Mitsuru feels it, too. “You don’t have to worry about it. I know that his death wasn’t your fault.”
“But it was our company’s fault,” Mitsuru says. “We caused you so much trouble…”
“It doesn’t matter, okay?” Takeba says. “… You know, your father paid for my high school education.”
“Did he?” Mitsuru says. She didn’t know.
“I came to Tatsumi Port Island looking for answers to my father’s death,” Takeba says. “I enrolled to Gekkoukan because it was owned by the Kirijos—actually, everything on this island is. Pretty weird, huh? I looked around, asked so many questions, and one day your father calls me into the principal’s office and tells me everything. About your grandfather, about the accident, just about everything.”
“He never told me,” Mitsuru says.
“He didn’t want you to take that responsibility,” says Takeba. “Anyway, it happened so long ago. It doesn’t matter to me anymore.”
“I see,” Mitsuru says. “I’m glad that you seem to be over it, then.”
Takeba narrows her eyes. “What, you thought all this time I was just—buttering you up so I could get answers?”
“That isn’t it,” Mitsuru says. “Honestly, when I found out about your father, I thought that you didn’t know. And then I thought that maybe it was better if you didn’t.”
Takeba bites her lip, and smiles painfully. She looks up at the ceiling and says, “This can’t be happening. All this time, I thought you actually liked me, but you were just feeling sorry for me?”
“Takeba, wait,” Mitsuru says. Takeba rolls her eyes and makes to leave, but Mitsuru gets a hold of Takeba’s arm. “Wait,” Mitsuru repeats. “I can explain myself, but I can’t do that if you run away.”
“I’m not running,” Takeba says. She looks ready to throw Mitsuru off, but she doesn’t move, just stays there with her cheeks turning pink and her other hand pulling Mitsuru in. “Senpai, let go of me.”
“Takeba—”
“Let go of me,” Takeba says, and then kisses Mitsuru on the mouth. Mitsuru makes a stifled noise of surprise, and then pulls Takeba closer. She’s never paid much attention to her lips before, but now it’s all she can think about. A twinge of pain in her upper arm as Takeba pulls her closer. Her heart jumps into her mouth, and her lips part. Takeba’s hip is right against hers, and Mitsuru grinds into it, a moan right in the back of her throat. She should be stopping this and telling Takeba that they should talk this out like reasonable adults. This isn’t a particularly logical or good way of resolving conflict, except Mitsuru knows that if she doesn’t resolve it this way, she’ll burst apart at the seams, or all her joints will harden or she won’t be able to sleep, ever again.
Takeba’s other hand slips beneath her shirt, slides up and over her bra. Mitsuru sits on her bed and ends up pushed up against the wall, Takeba straddling her and unbuttoning her shirt and she’s not sure if she’s dreaming. Her hands on Takeba’s shoulders certainly feel as though they’re grasping something solid, slip-smooth and bone beneath soft flesh. She kisses Takeba’s bared shoulder, but Takeba shrugs it off and parts Mitsuru’s shirt. Takeba unhooks Mitsuru’s bra, and lets the cups fall away.
There’s a giggly smile on Takeba’s face. “Your skin is so smooth,” Takeba says.
Mitsuru’s face goes red. “Wh—that has…”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Takeba says. Her gaze is—what is it, not a leer, it feels too nice for it to be a leer. It lights Mitsuru up, makes her skin heat and arms shake. She’s terrified, of what might come next, of her vulnerability, of the moment ending. “You’re so pretty, senpai,” she says, half of her words vanishing into Mitsuru’s chest and vibrating on her skin. The alarm on Mitsuru’s cell goes off, and then silences itself with a thump as it slides out of Mitsuru’s pocket and lands on the floor.
---
Takeba goes to work an hour later. She calls Mitsuru at noon to remind her about the play. “Come back to the dorms early,” Takeba says. “We need some time to get ready.”
Mitsuru doesn’t think it’ll take them that long to get ready, but her outfit for the night was chosen by a stylist weeks ago. She checks out of the office early and returns to the dorm. Takeba is sitting in the lounge with Yamagishi and the dog.
“Thank goodness you’re back,” Takeba says. “Fuuka says she wants to cook us dinner.”
“You can cook, Yamagishi?” Mitsuru says.
“Oh,” Yamagishi says. “I’m still learning, but I’ve had lessons.”
“Well, whatever you make, I’m sure it will be wonderful,” Mitsuru says. Yamagishi, instead of looking assured by this, becomes pessimistic and excuses herself to the kitchen.
“I need some help deciding what to wear,” Takeba says. “I was planning on asking Mucchi, but she’s busy with dress rehearsal.”
“You called me out of work for this?” Mitsuru says.
“Were you busy?” Takeba says. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I sometimes forget how much you have to work.”
“It’s fine,” Mitsuru says. “I had the afternoon set aside, anyway. This is my first time going to a play with a friend.”
“Oh, really?” Takeba says. Takeba looks over her shoulder with a grin. “Aww, so you were excited and put aside the entire afternoon for that?”
“Takeba,” Mitsuru says, as a warning. She doesn’t find it funny—but it is, isn’t it? She’s only been to the play as a guest to some family or some business or some director who need their egos satiated or their tempers cooled. It’s rare that she even goes to a venue without ulterior motives. She smiles at herself. And then they both smile at each other.
They go into Takeba’s room. Mitsuru stands near the door, arms crossed, as Takeba goes through her drawers, laying one outfit after another on the bed. There’s a magazine open on the desk for consultation. Takeba’s laptop has some outfits displayed on the screen as well. There’s a cow horn set on her desk, parts of the white bone rubbed down into a grey tan. Takeba peels off her shirt and tuts at the clothes that lie before her. Takeba looks over to Mitsuru once or twice, a quick, sliding glance full of apprehension. At last, Mitsuru says, “Would this be any easier if I left the room?”
“Oh, sure,” Takeba responds. “Sorry… I’ll be out in a second.”
Mitsuru makes a grateful retreat. She’s glad for it. She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She must break this off, she decides. She and Takeba worked their issues out, figured their obligations and their dues, and that is all. After this, she will refuse Takeba’s cups of coffee and these little outings. But she doesn’t want to. These things make even waiting on someone pleasant. Life is so much—brighter.
Takeba comes out in loose pants and a men’s blazer and a fedora. “Tada,” she says, spinning around in a circle. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to say,” Mitsuru says. Her voice cracks. She licks her lips, and catches herself a second too late.
“I thought I’d get in the Takarazuka spirit,” Takeba says. “I guess not, right? These aren’t even my clothes. They belonged to my ex.” Takeba adjusts the fedora on her head. It’s an oddly cute gesture. Takeba winks and says, “Maybe you should dress me into something more appropriate?”
Takeba returns to her room and leaves the door open a crack. Mitsuru waits for a minute, maybe two. Then she eases into the room. She feels like a hunter, dangerous and hungry. Takeba’s back is to her. Takeba is going through the drawers again. Mitsuru thinks, shouldn’t this be the other way around, shouldn’t it be the man who does the hunting, and her feet grow still. Then she presses on regardless, catching Takeba from behind. One hand cups a breast, and the other wraps around Takeba’s waist.
“Senpai,” Takeba says, a laugh quivering beneath her surprise. “Geeze, you’re so—”
“Quiet,” Mitsuru says. She bites onto the collar of the blazer and tugs it up. Takeba gasps. “You were taking too long.” She moves her hand roughly along Takeba’s body, and Takeba’s knees buck. The power pounds through Mitsuru’s blood, pulses in her ears, mingles with her uncertainty and excitement. She gets Takeba to hold her arms up and she takes off the blazer. Then she undoes the buttons of Takeba’s pants (why are there so many?), dips her hand down below, and strokes Takeba’s warm thighs beneath the slacks. The words next aren’t coming to her, so she removes the fedora and pulls Takeba’s hair out of the bun and curls her fingers against Takeba’s neck. This is a role, just as protective as the silly masks Edogawa gave them to wear the night before, but Mitsuru is a poor actor. She knows that there are cues and she knows that she must do something, but she doesn’t know what. So she runs her hands along Takeba’s legs, presses harder against Takeba, and takes careful, measured breaths, in case she inadvertently harm herself with her own excitement.
The cue comes when Takeba jerks her leg up and groans, “Senpai, stop being such a tease.”
“Sorry,” Mitsuru says, her relief breaking through the script. She clears her throat and squeezes Takeba’s shoulder. Her other hand kneads the inside of Takeba’s leg, slowly working its way up to Takeba’s thigh. Mitsuru runs her hand on Takeba’s shoulder down to her back, and then pushes the pants down further. She gives a little grope, a little caress, that makes Takeba jump like Mitsuru’s touch is electric. Mitsuru slides her hand down the curve of Takeba’s ass, and then kisses the back of Takeba’s neck. “Do you want this to be over quickly?”
“Why don’t you try your best?” Takeba responds, and brazenly rolls her hips into Mitsuru.
Mitsuru swallows, hard. Then she puts her hand under the elastic of Takeba’s underwear, feels the swollen, hot lips, rubs her finger along the slit. She waits for three beats of her heart to drum past her ears and then curls her lips around her teeth. She takes Takeba’s ear between those lips and says, “You’re going to wish you never said that.”
---
In the end, Yamagishi orders takeout and the three of them eat with the dog and Iori and Akihiko and one of Akihiko’s fellow workout enthusiasts and possible boyfriend (it’s never easy to tell with Akihiko, who never seems to understand who he’s dating unless it is in retrospect), Amada. Mitsuru almost leaves for the Takarazuka in her street clothes, and nearly makes her and Takeba late getting changed.
The play isn’t bad. It isn’t very good, either, but it entertains, and Arisato struts about the stage in a costume that’s mostly feathers and sings and dances and attempts to seduce the lead female. The attempt is laughable, of course, because of the feathers. She and Takeba stay a while to go backstage and talk with Arisato and Aigis for a while. Aigis is with Arisato as always. Arisato’s face is flushed with exertion and damp with sweat and in the end all Arisato has to say is, “It’s all wonderful, all of it.”
Arisato’s euphoria rubs off on Mitsuru. She and Takeba walk back to the subway together, arms linked.
“It was good, wasn’t it?” Takeba says, almost in a sigh. “I liked it a lot.”
“It was rather enjoyable,” Mitsuru says. But she’s looking down at Takeba, and now she’s not sure what she was talking about. The streets of Iwatodai are wide and straight and look faintly blue in the night. The pale lights that catch the planes of Takeba’s face make her features look soft and very beautiful. Arisato’s words catch in her head: it’s all wonderful, all of it and it is. She tightens her grip on Takeba’s hand.
“I’m not sure who I was cheering for in the end,” Takeba says. They’ve been drifting closer to one another, and now Takeba’s almost close enough to lean her head against Mitsuru’s shoulder. Now she is, and now she does so. “Mucchi’s character or the main hero. They all sang so well.”
Of course, when she gets back to the dorm, she’ll tell Takeba that she wants to put an end to all this. That does put a damper on the euphoria.
“Senpai, who did you cheer for?”
“I feel as though the hero of the story put forth the most reasons to win the heroine’s hand in marriage,” Mitsuru says. “Arisato’s character was compelling, but the lack of any definable motivation for wanting the world to end certainly strains his credibility as a believable villain.”
Hmm, Takeba hums. She makes a face. “Yeah, well,” she says, “maybe it’s because it was Mucchi, in the end.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you this for some time, Takeba,” Mitsuru says. “Honestly, I’m not sure how I could have let this situation go on for so long. Do you know Arisato’s given name?”
“Well,” Takeba says, “… no. I met her through a coworker, and the coworker always called her ‘Mucchi,’ so I thought it was short for something like Mutsume. But then someone else was calling her Mitsuki and another person was calling her Rui. I don’t think she cares.”
“I see,” Mitsuru says. It’s almost a relief to know that no one really knows who Arisato really is. Arisato’s stage name is just as forgettable—there are flowers and mountains and maybe the color red—so perhaps it is a problem where a name cannot contain the person; or maybe now she is just making excuses.
Takeba yawns behind her hand, and stares up at the moon. Then she says, “You know my given name, right?”
Mitsuru almost wants to say no. She doesn’t want to say it, not when her family has committed so many gross atrocities that she would surely be jailed in place of her dead father and grandfather for reparations if the public were to ever know the true extent of what happened. But she hasn’t felt guilty in days, and all of her plans have a way of going sour.
“Of course I do,” she says. She gives Yukari’s hand a particularly bold squeeze. “I assume that you want me to use your given name, then.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Yukari says with a laugh and a wink. The entrance to the subway is almost in sight. Yukari looks up at the moon and says, “I can’t believe how big it is.”
Neither can Mitsuru. “My office has a particularly good view of the full moon,” she says.
Yukari makes a strange, pained face and says, “We’re going to have to work on that.”
“Sorry?” Mitsuru says.
“It’s nothing,” Yukari says. “Let’s go home.”
Mitsuru thinks of the dorm and the people and the dog, and the word ‘home’; and smiles. “Yes,” she says. “Let’s.”
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Date: 2010-07-23 07:30 pm (UTC)I just... I can't properly express how right the whole thing felt. It's a fabulous AU, and the wonderful thing is I can really believe in it. I'm definitely bookmarking this.
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Date: 2010-07-24 12:34 am (UTC)Thanks for commenting. :3