Fanfiction: Empty Space (Utena, Miki/Kozue)
I rewatched Revolutionary Girl Utena last year, and for some reason the twins really stuck in my mind. They're my favourite incestuous sibling couple in Utena. I don't know why Utena has so many incestuous sibling couples they can be ranked. But Miki and Kozue are my favourite nonetheless.
Title: Empty Space
Fandom: Revolutionary Girl Utena
Rating: light 15?
Pairing: Miki/Kozue
Wordcount: 1,500
Summary: “I was never the girl you remember,” Kozue says. She’s draped across the piano, her skirt hitched up slightly in a way Miki tries not to notice.
Warnings: Incestuous themes and, er, hmm. I feel I should warn for this, but I don't think there's any easy way to express it. Memory loss relating to events that may or may not have been sexual?
Kozue is here in the music room, standing by the window. Miki freezes in the doorway.
She’s noticed him; she’s watching him in analytic silence. He doesn’t want to get closer. But it feels like it would be worse to leave without a word.
He edges into the room. The door swings shut with far too loud a noise.
Kozue shrugs and goes back to looking out of the window.
And then it’s just the two of them, standing in silence. The two of them, alone, in this strangely empty room.
Miki tries to suppress his breathing; he feels that if it’s too loud he’ll become targeted, somehow. He can’t remember why he came here.
The silence billows out, becoming thicker and heavier, until Miki finally snaps.
“I miss spending time with you,” he blurts out.
Kozue meets his eyes sharply.
It feels like it was a mistake to say it. It’s too vulnerable. She’ll use it as a weapon against him.
“I haven’t died,” Kozue says, after a long moment. “We could still spend time together. The only reason we don’t is because you can barely look at me.”
What?
“That’s not true,” Miki says. It feels like he has to force it around a sudden, strange obstruction in his throat.
“You don’t want to spend time with me. You want that perfect little girl.”
Miki swallows. “You’re still the same person.”
She doesn’t look or act or speak like the Kozue he remembers. But she’s still Kozue; that’s how growing up works.
He sometimes thinks it’d be easier if she really had become someone else.
“I’m not the girl you remember,” Kozue says. She’s sitting at the piano, hands poised over the keys.
The clock on the wall is ticking. It sounds very loud in the near-empty music room. The piano, the chair, the two of them; there’s nothing else here.
“I was never the girl you remember,” Kozue says. She’s draped across the piano, her skirt hitched up slightly in a way Miki tries not to notice.
The clock on the wall is ticking. Every tick echoes off the marble floor. Why isn’t there anything else here? It’s a music room; shouldn’t there be more than one instrument?
“The girl you remember doesn’t exist,” Kozue says. She’s standing behind Miki, her back against his. Her fingers laced through his.
He pulls his hands away and turns, and there’s nobody there.
-
Miki seeks Utena out at lunch. He finds it reassuring to be around her when he’s been speaking to Kozue, somehow. Utena is a direct person; she says what she means and she doesn’t play games.
He doesn’t say that, exactly, when she asks what’s up with him. He wasn’t really prepared to be asked; he’d have been happy to keep listening to Utena talking about duels and maths classes and Anthy’s determination to name all the snails in the greenhouse.
“I’m worried about Kozue,” he says, after taking a moment to search for a response. “It’s so hard to talk to her.”
Utena blows out a breath, her lip jutted out so it ruffles her hair. “Sorry. That sounds rough.” She pauses. “If it helps, I don’t know her that well, but I think she really loves you.”
It doesn’t really help.
“I always thought it’d be nice to have a sibling,” Utena says. “I, uh... no offence, but since coming to Ohtori I’ve started to feel that siblings are just kind of weird.”
Miki laughs quietly down at the table. “I can’t really blame you for that.”
He halts his stopwatch. Glances at it. They’ve been talking for four and a half minutes.
“I think Kozue tried to kiss me, once,” Miki says.
It hits him as he’s saying it that it’s too much. This isn’t the sort of thing you share with a friend; this isn’t the sort of thing you share with anyone. If your sister tries to kiss you on the mouth, you lock that knowledge in your gut and you hope that one day you’ll forget.
But he’ll never forget, not really. Because he’ll always be wondering, on some level, whether she remembers. And he can’t ask her; it would destroy them both.
Utena is staring at him. He has to break eye contact.
“I’m not sure what happened,” he says to his hands. “She was acting strangely. She...”
The memories are flooding his lungs like water. It feels like he can’t breathe properly, he can’t get the words out. Maybe that’s for the best.
She tried to kiss him. He backed away, he thinks.
He doesn’t remember what happened after that.
He remembers pain. He thinks there was a duel. He can’t remember if he was watching or participating.
But most of that day is a haze, a blank in his mind. She tried to kiss him; he remembers that much. But anything could have happened after that.
Maybe forgetting isn’t the blessing it seems. The questions hanging over the aftermath are almost more frightening than the part he remembers.
“Sorry.” He pushes his chair away from the table. “Um, sorry. That didn’t happen. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Miki, are you okay?” Utena asks.
He knows she’s trying to catch his eye. He can’t look at her. “I’m fine.”
-
Kozue catches him in the covered walkway by the greenhouse, a few days later.
She doesn’t pin him to the wall, exactly. Not physically. But she looks at him, and he finds himself skewered in place.
“You said you missed spending time with me,” Kozue says, her eyes cool and distant. “And then you went back to avoiding me. Just like before.”
He thought that conversation might have been a dream. It felt like a dream. It was real?
He hasn’t been avoiding her. He’s been - he’s been getting to their room late, waking up early, so they haven’t really been crossing paths. It’s just something that happens sometimes. He hasn’t been avoiding her.
“I meant what I said,” Miki says. “I want us to talk more. I want to hear you play the piano again.”
“And I want you to fuck me,” Kozue says.
Time stops. Miki tries to swallow and can’t. He tries to blink and can’t.
Kozue shrugs. “I guess neither of us is getting what we want.”
He’s trying to wake up. He’s already awake.
“You can stop staring,” Kozue says. “It’s a joke.”
Miki tries to find his voice. It takes a few efforts. “That’s not - why would you joke about that? That’s - that’s not a normal joke!”
“I guess that’s one more thing that’s wrong with me,” Kozue says, stretching lazily. “Just another reason I’ll never be your perfect sister.”
“Do-” Miki starts. His throat closes up around the words, and he has to try again. “Do you remember...”
He doesn’t want to ask. It’ll make things strange between them.
But he has to know, and Kozue’s just made things as strange as possible. If he’s ever going to ask, now is the opportunity.
“We were in the music room,” he says. “You were wearing... a rose signet, I think. But black.” He’s surprised to find that detail in his memory. He’s never consciously thought about it; there were always other things to worry about, when he thinks back to that day.
Something darkens in Kozue’s eyes.
This is a bad idea; he knows it as he’s saying it, and yet he can’t stop. “I think you tried to kiss me.”
He’s expecting her to deny it, to say she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Or... maybe it’s more a hope than an expectation. It’ll be awkward, but it’s hard to imagine a better alternative.
She just shrugs. “And?”
It wrenches his gut. She’s saying it really happened?
“I don’t remember what happened after that,” Miki says, his fingers at his lips. “What did I do to you?”
Kozue laughs. A strange sound; it’s hard to judge whether it’s delighted or bitter. “What did you do to me? If you think you could be the one to corrupt me, you really are still picturing that perfect little girl.”
He doesn’t say anything. Waiting for answers. Terrified of answers actually coming.
“You’ll have to keep wondering,” Kozue says. “I don’t remember either.”
He doesn’t know if she’s telling the truth. Maybe something terrible happened between them, and she’s lying to spare him that knowledge. Maybe nothing happened between them at all, and she’s lying because she wants the idea to keep haunting him.
He’s not sure which possibility unsettles him more.
“So it’s like nothing happened, right?” Kozue asks, tilting her head. “If neither of us remembers.”
His entire body feels numb. “It’s like nothing happened,” he agrees.
The blank space in his memory is just that. Nothing but blank space. Nothing to worry about.
He doesn’t sleep that night.
-
Kozue isn’t the girl he remembers. The past is gone; he knows that. He knows there’s no point in chasing after it.
But, if he lets the past go, that means he has to think about the future of his relationship with Kozue. And, if he’s honest, he’s terrified of what that might look like.
He needs a separate room. He needs a room with a lock on the door.
He doesn’t know if he’s more afraid of her or himself.
Title: Empty Space
Fandom: Revolutionary Girl Utena
Rating: light 15?
Pairing: Miki/Kozue
Wordcount: 1,500
Summary: “I was never the girl you remember,” Kozue says. She’s draped across the piano, her skirt hitched up slightly in a way Miki tries not to notice.
Warnings: Incestuous themes and, er, hmm. I feel I should warn for this, but I don't think there's any easy way to express it. Memory loss relating to events that may or may not have been sexual?
Kozue is here in the music room, standing by the window. Miki freezes in the doorway.
She’s noticed him; she’s watching him in analytic silence. He doesn’t want to get closer. But it feels like it would be worse to leave without a word.
He edges into the room. The door swings shut with far too loud a noise.
Kozue shrugs and goes back to looking out of the window.
And then it’s just the two of them, standing in silence. The two of them, alone, in this strangely empty room.
Miki tries to suppress his breathing; he feels that if it’s too loud he’ll become targeted, somehow. He can’t remember why he came here.
The silence billows out, becoming thicker and heavier, until Miki finally snaps.
“I miss spending time with you,” he blurts out.
Kozue meets his eyes sharply.
It feels like it was a mistake to say it. It’s too vulnerable. She’ll use it as a weapon against him.
“I haven’t died,” Kozue says, after a long moment. “We could still spend time together. The only reason we don’t is because you can barely look at me.”
What?
“That’s not true,” Miki says. It feels like he has to force it around a sudden, strange obstruction in his throat.
“You don’t want to spend time with me. You want that perfect little girl.”
Miki swallows. “You’re still the same person.”
She doesn’t look or act or speak like the Kozue he remembers. But she’s still Kozue; that’s how growing up works.
He sometimes thinks it’d be easier if she really had become someone else.
“I’m not the girl you remember,” Kozue says. She’s sitting at the piano, hands poised over the keys.
The clock on the wall is ticking. It sounds very loud in the near-empty music room. The piano, the chair, the two of them; there’s nothing else here.
“I was never the girl you remember,” Kozue says. She’s draped across the piano, her skirt hitched up slightly in a way Miki tries not to notice.
The clock on the wall is ticking. Every tick echoes off the marble floor. Why isn’t there anything else here? It’s a music room; shouldn’t there be more than one instrument?
“The girl you remember doesn’t exist,” Kozue says. She’s standing behind Miki, her back against his. Her fingers laced through his.
He pulls his hands away and turns, and there’s nobody there.
-
Miki seeks Utena out at lunch. He finds it reassuring to be around her when he’s been speaking to Kozue, somehow. Utena is a direct person; she says what she means and she doesn’t play games.
He doesn’t say that, exactly, when she asks what’s up with him. He wasn’t really prepared to be asked; he’d have been happy to keep listening to Utena talking about duels and maths classes and Anthy’s determination to name all the snails in the greenhouse.
“I’m worried about Kozue,” he says, after taking a moment to search for a response. “It’s so hard to talk to her.”
Utena blows out a breath, her lip jutted out so it ruffles her hair. “Sorry. That sounds rough.” She pauses. “If it helps, I don’t know her that well, but I think she really loves you.”
It doesn’t really help.
“I always thought it’d be nice to have a sibling,” Utena says. “I, uh... no offence, but since coming to Ohtori I’ve started to feel that siblings are just kind of weird.”
Miki laughs quietly down at the table. “I can’t really blame you for that.”
He halts his stopwatch. Glances at it. They’ve been talking for four and a half minutes.
“I think Kozue tried to kiss me, once,” Miki says.
It hits him as he’s saying it that it’s too much. This isn’t the sort of thing you share with a friend; this isn’t the sort of thing you share with anyone. If your sister tries to kiss you on the mouth, you lock that knowledge in your gut and you hope that one day you’ll forget.
But he’ll never forget, not really. Because he’ll always be wondering, on some level, whether she remembers. And he can’t ask her; it would destroy them both.
Utena is staring at him. He has to break eye contact.
“I’m not sure what happened,” he says to his hands. “She was acting strangely. She...”
The memories are flooding his lungs like water. It feels like he can’t breathe properly, he can’t get the words out. Maybe that’s for the best.
She tried to kiss him. He backed away, he thinks.
He doesn’t remember what happened after that.
He remembers pain. He thinks there was a duel. He can’t remember if he was watching or participating.
But most of that day is a haze, a blank in his mind. She tried to kiss him; he remembers that much. But anything could have happened after that.
Maybe forgetting isn’t the blessing it seems. The questions hanging over the aftermath are almost more frightening than the part he remembers.
“Sorry.” He pushes his chair away from the table. “Um, sorry. That didn’t happen. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Miki, are you okay?” Utena asks.
He knows she’s trying to catch his eye. He can’t look at her. “I’m fine.”
-
Kozue catches him in the covered walkway by the greenhouse, a few days later.
She doesn’t pin him to the wall, exactly. Not physically. But she looks at him, and he finds himself skewered in place.
“You said you missed spending time with me,” Kozue says, her eyes cool and distant. “And then you went back to avoiding me. Just like before.”
He thought that conversation might have been a dream. It felt like a dream. It was real?
He hasn’t been avoiding her. He’s been - he’s been getting to their room late, waking up early, so they haven’t really been crossing paths. It’s just something that happens sometimes. He hasn’t been avoiding her.
“I meant what I said,” Miki says. “I want us to talk more. I want to hear you play the piano again.”
“And I want you to fuck me,” Kozue says.
Time stops. Miki tries to swallow and can’t. He tries to blink and can’t.
Kozue shrugs. “I guess neither of us is getting what we want.”
He’s trying to wake up. He’s already awake.
“You can stop staring,” Kozue says. “It’s a joke.”
Miki tries to find his voice. It takes a few efforts. “That’s not - why would you joke about that? That’s - that’s not a normal joke!”
“I guess that’s one more thing that’s wrong with me,” Kozue says, stretching lazily. “Just another reason I’ll never be your perfect sister.”
“Do-” Miki starts. His throat closes up around the words, and he has to try again. “Do you remember...”
He doesn’t want to ask. It’ll make things strange between them.
But he has to know, and Kozue’s just made things as strange as possible. If he’s ever going to ask, now is the opportunity.
“We were in the music room,” he says. “You were wearing... a rose signet, I think. But black.” He’s surprised to find that detail in his memory. He’s never consciously thought about it; there were always other things to worry about, when he thinks back to that day.
Something darkens in Kozue’s eyes.
This is a bad idea; he knows it as he’s saying it, and yet he can’t stop. “I think you tried to kiss me.”
He’s expecting her to deny it, to say she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Or... maybe it’s more a hope than an expectation. It’ll be awkward, but it’s hard to imagine a better alternative.
She just shrugs. “And?”
It wrenches his gut. She’s saying it really happened?
“I don’t remember what happened after that,” Miki says, his fingers at his lips. “What did I do to you?”
Kozue laughs. A strange sound; it’s hard to judge whether it’s delighted or bitter. “What did you do to me? If you think you could be the one to corrupt me, you really are still picturing that perfect little girl.”
He doesn’t say anything. Waiting for answers. Terrified of answers actually coming.
“You’ll have to keep wondering,” Kozue says. “I don’t remember either.”
He doesn’t know if she’s telling the truth. Maybe something terrible happened between them, and she’s lying to spare him that knowledge. Maybe nothing happened between them at all, and she’s lying because she wants the idea to keep haunting him.
He’s not sure which possibility unsettles him more.
“So it’s like nothing happened, right?” Kozue asks, tilting her head. “If neither of us remembers.”
His entire body feels numb. “It’s like nothing happened,” he agrees.
The blank space in his memory is just that. Nothing but blank space. Nothing to worry about.
He doesn’t sleep that night.
-
Kozue isn’t the girl he remembers. The past is gone; he knows that. He knows there’s no point in chasing after it.
But, if he lets the past go, that means he has to think about the future of his relationship with Kozue. And, if he’s honest, he’s terrified of what that might look like.
He needs a separate room. He needs a room with a lock on the door.
He doesn’t know if he’s more afraid of her or himself.