Casualties, Berubara fic
Title: Casualties
Author: maleroleactress
Fandom: The Rose of Versailles (Takarazuka 2006 show, Oscar-hen)
Pairing(s)/Characters: Diane/Isabelle, Alain
Summary: War changes everybody, but people are people. They still need to dream. They still need to live and let live. They still need to love. Diane as well.
Author's Notes: Not at all based on the manga or the anime and hardly even on the Zuka play, because I don't speak Japanese, but still, after watching this show the other day, I needed to write something about Diane and Isabelle - and about Alain. This was what came of that craving.
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Isabelle has soft hands. Soft and utterly gentle. When she runs her hands through Diane’s hair, Diane imagines them to be lilies. Petals reacting to the reflected sunlight in the black strands and unfolding little by little until Isabelle’s fingers are tightly entangled in her curls. Diane laughs and mirrors her in the same way, careful to let her movements be as unthreatening and sweet as she buries her own hands in Isabelle’s dark blonde hair. They become a symbiosis right then and there. Two climbers that are slowly but surely aiming to take flight. Together.
“What do you see?” Isabelle asks.
~*~
With every noble head that rolls, Alain grows more and more reserved. Since the battle at the Bastille, Diane has observed his change. They spend half an hour over dinner, Mother, Alain and her, and during those thirty minutes, she can actually see him move from one place to another in his mind. He does a lot of falling. She can tell.
“Pass the porridge,” he commands, unaffected. As if she were one of his soldiers instead of his sister. When she fails to obey and doesn’t respond, he looks up, eyes narrowed. Diane stares down at the thin porridge in front of her, feeling the tears brim dangerously. Blink. Blink. Blink. Mother casts her a quick look out the corner of her eye before passing Alain the pot. Her smile is thin-lipped and emotionless. Alain doesn’t say anything else.
Old Alain would have snapped at her, told her to pay attention and then laughed with her about the entire thing afterwards when Mother had shooed them out of her domain and they found themselves alone in the small living room. She recalls his big, bright smile - the smile telling her that her brother, despite his appearances, was a dreamer on the inside. Just like her.
Now she has to recall it because it’s been months since she’s actually seen it light up his features.
“I’m going,” he tells them when he’s emptied his plate. Mother nods wordlessly. Diane wants to say something to him, but Alain has pulled his jacket on and is out the door before she has the chance to even open her mouth.
Mother and her clear the table, the clinking of pottery the only sound filling the kitchen. Almost as if it’s become a sacred silence.
~*~
“You are such a patient person, Isabelle,” Diane comments. Isabelle is repairing one of her old skirts, her fingertips feeling for the ripped edges of fabric before she pulls the needle through and yanks. A perfect, flourished finish.
“It’s easier to react when you give things time to fall into place first,” Isabelle smiles, her face turned in Diane’s direction even as her fingers tighten and relax around the needle agilely. She works her way up the rip quickly, more quickly than Diane has seen most normal women fix a cut like that. It seems like magic, but it isn’t.
It took Diane a long time to get used to the way Isabelle can look at her while not seeing anything but what she holds between her fingers. Two places at once. It must be magic. Isabelle’s very own form of magic. Hesitantly Diane reaches out, letting her own fingers run up along the skirt, following the fine stitching like a latter, further up to brush against fingertips and follow the curve of a thin wrist. Isabelle’s hands have come to a rest in her lap. Diane spreads her fingers out over the back of Isabelle’s hands. Taking a deep breath, she enlaces their fingers, noticing the difference in temperature. Isabelle’s skin is cool to touch. Dry, too, from too much exposure to the sun. Sun-burned and sun-kissed.
“You are very patient too,” Isabelle says, her chin rising a little as she focuses her far-away, unseeing eyes a little to the right of Diane’s face, to be able to hear her better. To her Diane is only another voice in the masses, isn’t she?
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve waited until now, haven’t you?” Isabelle’s lips curl a little at the corners, her nose wrinkling cutely. It turns her features mischievous.
Ready.
~*~
He is sleeping. Even breaths through slightly parted lips. Diane watches him, sitting on the edge of his bed. She hasn’t changed out of her clothes, even though it’s late. Her lips prickle still. In his sleep, Alain’s brows furrow. Always so serious, her brother. She presses her hand to his cheek. Briefly she wonders if she should really be grateful that she, unlike Isabelle, didn’t lose him to the war. When this is who has returned to her. To their family. The idea only lingers for a second, however, before she promptly regrets it and dutifully leans down to kiss his forehead. He stirs, opening his eyes and roughly pushes her away.
“Get out before I - oh, Diane, it’s you...” The arm that had been reaching for his sable drops again, yet Diane can’t find the strength in herself to not clutch at her hurting chest where her heart is racing. Since when has Alain been someone she needs to fear?
“What are you doing here?” he inquires of her, running a lazy hand through his hair, eyes already about to fall shut once more. “Go to bed.”
“I can’t sleep,” she lies, her hands finally finding their rest in the folds of her dress again. “Can I sleep in here with you tonight?”
They look at each other in the dark. A long moment ticks by, then he sighs and rolls his eyes at her. “You’re getting too old for this, Diane,” he mutters, but still pulls his covers aside to let her climb down into the bed as well. She nestles her face in against the crook between his neck and shoulder. He is warm.
That night she experiences a glimpse of the brother she remembers from before. As his arm draws her closer to his body, she almost tells him that she’s met someone she really, really likes a lot and who makes her happy. The words dry out on her lips, though, and she lies awake and listens to the never calm rhythm of his heartbeat.
~*~
Diane takes Isabelle to the marketplace. The revolution has eaten healthy chunks of the daily supplies and all they can afford is a big lump of bread and some bean sprouts, but Isabelle is satisfied anyway and hides the small treasures away in her basket, humming.
“I still have some fresh butter at home,” she says. Optimistically as always, her hand on Diane’s arm as Diane steers them through the streets. Not once does Isabelle stumble. She’s become accustomed to the length of Diane’s legs and the pace with which she walks. They fall easily and naturally into step next to each other.
Diane wonders if this is what it would mean if they lived together, Isabelle and her, like sisters. As so much more than sisters.
Isabelle puts her head on Diane’s shoulder. Quickly, the weight gone before it can make Diane slow down. Before anyone sees them and guesses the state of affairs. Diane puts a restless arm around Isabelle’s waist. For support, of course. And for comfort.
“Thank you.” A whisper. Neither of them are fully aware who speaks the words first.
~*~
“I’m in love,” Diane says, Alain stopping abruptly, his fingers still on the button he was about to undo before she spoke. In the mirror she can clearly follow the storm of emotions passing over his face at her announcement. An almost comical portrayal. Surprise, panic, suspicion, irritation, resignation and finally whatever feeling the hint of a smile on his lips is a cover for. He looks at her over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
“You are nearing the age of marriage,” he replies simply. Old Alain would have shaken her by her shoulders until she’d revealed the reason as to why he hasn’t been informed about this earlier. Diane finds herself only being half-way relieved that he doesn’t.
“I can’t marry the person I’m in love with,” she admits. At this Alain’s eyes cloud over and his mouth forms into a tight, unmoving line of pure rage.
“He’s married already?” he questions, harshly. His voice is vibrating from piled up anger. Diane smiles, looking down at her hands. She can recognise him like this. Right now. Her brother, hot-headed and too proud for his own good. Her beloved, grumpy Alain. He notices her smile and interprets it as a confirmation. The explosion is over-whelming and the tears that have been brimming her eyes for weeks now escape her lashes and run down her cheeks. It’s relieving.
“I’ll kill the bastard,” he snarls. Rising, rising, rising. Diane’s eyes widen. “Laying hand on my sister like that. I swear, I’ll kill him!” It’s Alain. It’s really her Alain.
Running up to him, Diane hugs him from behind. She presses against his back, not sure whether she’s trying to hold him or herself back. Tearful chuckles squeeze themselves out through her lips. Impulsive Alain. Her Alain. Her big brother.
“Please don’t,” she mumbles, her words muffled against his uniform. She tightens her hold on him. “It’s nothing like that. It really isn’t. Please trust me.”
“Then why can’t he make an honourable woman of you?” Alain’s voice is still too loud and too harsh, but his hands are on hers and he’s not letting go. They stand together, as they would have a year ago.
“He just can’t.”
Diane is so close to reveal the truth to him, but suddenly faced with the Alain she’s been searching for since Oscar died, she panics. Oh, Diane the coward. The thought of seeing that face, those eyes, the familiar irritated but invested smile disappear out of reach once more... She can’t bear it.
She can’t afford it.
~*~
“What do you see?” Isabelle asks.
Her smile is warm. Her hands make soothing, stroking motions across Diane’s scalp. It’s easy to relax, like this. With Isabelle. Taking a deep, calming breath - and a mental leap of faith - Diane presses her lips to the corner of Isabelle’s smiling mouth.
“I know Alain will be happy for us,” she answers as she draws back. She could have chosen to say that in Isabelle she sees her future, but in the complexity of the sentence she did choose she knows Isabelle will recognise the meaning in its entirety. All of it. Also the things which are written between the lines only.
Nothing has been simple or black and white since the revolution hit them all, but people are the same, Diane thinks. People are people. They still dream. They still live and love. They have to. Diane as well. Alain will come to understand this too, eventually.
Luckily Isabelle is patient.