Just Between the Two of Us, dedicated to wottie;
Title: Just Between the Two of Us
Author: maleroleactress
Fandom: Sailor Moon, Takarazuka AU
Summary: Onstage the quiet is their final victory, in stark constrast to how backstage erupts into a stage of chaos. And ruleless as chaos is, everything acquires the ability to change if only for a moment, but maybe forever...
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The first time Rio and Sahoko kiss on stage, at the very first performance of Pieta, the Takarazuka Theatre falls completely quiet, no applause rising from the audience even though the well-known tilt of a hand covering two pairs of lips only inches apart serves as the conclusion of the main musical theme of the first act (Stay the Night; Haruka’s voice breaking around the last lines “the rain is bad, but even if it weren’t - stay the night, don’t leave me - not alone, not anymore”).
They’re still playing their parts, but even so the look in Haruka’s eyes as she meets Michiru’s gaze after drawing back speaks volumes. Didn’t I tell you so, it seems to tease, the responding smile reflected in Michiru’s pupils not matching the practiced look of surprise on her face.
It’s been a long way in coming, Pieta has - and the silence is a victory in itself. This production is the final break with everything Takarazuka is expected to be and a rather careless (rude, oh so very rude) gesture towards the public image of a lesbian stronghold residing between the four walls of the traditional, all-female theatre.
Two women can kiss on stage - as girls, even though one of them is easily mistaken for a boy - without the truth of that emotion, crisp and pure, translating directly into the personal lives of the actresses performing. (Only Haruka and Michiru themselves know that in their particular case, at least between the lines, it does - crisp and painful, if not pure).
If people wanted a glimpse into real life, they wouldn’t come to the theatre in their search, Haruka had once said and the stillness, the absence of reaction, is all the confirmation her statement needs. Letting her hand fall to her side, she utters a half-way mocking, half-way concerned huff, her voice (Rio’s voice, not Haruka’s own; Rio’s words, not Haruka’s) a few notes lighter than her normal otokoyaku tone around a line she has prepared hundreds of times, and yet it sounds utterly like a spur of the moment remark. As it’s supposed to.
“Don’t look so scared. This is ours; this moment. Just between the two of us. Don’t worry - why should anyone look our way?”
The quiet breaks. Only a little; cracking like too-thin ice in spring. In the first row a woman drowns her astonished giggle against the palm of her hand, her neighbour looking first at her and then up at Haruka and Michiru with wide eyes. The invisible wall between stage and audience has been proved an illusion; the difference between what they see in this other world behind the red curtain and their own lives suddenly minimized.
Michiru’s brow wrinkles in a frown, the rest of her features moulding into a fittingly scolding expression (pursed lips, raised chin, eyes dark as the ocean before the storm) as she pushes a lock of Sahoko’s straight, brown hair away from her face and looks up at Rio, though her eyes recognise Haruka behind the persona of her role.
“Even if this room is ours, there’ll always be someone raising an eyebrow just on the other side of the window, no matter if we acknowledge their presence or not, Rio-chan.”
Somewhere in the crowd someone laughs. Not loudly and the sound dies out as quickly as it emerged, but the way the many women in their soft, velvet seats begin shooting each other amused glances (questioning - what’s going on? is this really okay?) concludes the scene in the precise way it was intended, though not even a hundred hours of rehearsal could have foreseen its success.
~*~
The curtain closes and backstage erupts into a stage of chaos.
“Best performance ever!” Amaya shrieks as she runs towards a jubilant Yayoi, linking her arms around the taller girl’s neck and letting herself be lifted up into a not-quite-elegant swing that only barely manages not to knock any of the surrounding dancers off their feet. Yayoi breaks into a fit of laughter, almost losing her balance, the younger performer landing on the mattress they used for Rio’s dramatic suicide attempt (though Haruka misjudged the distance during the scene and scraped her shoulder against the floorboards) as a result. Next to them, Eiko and one of the other newly graduated musumeyaku head for the exit, their schoolgirl uniform skirts swinging in time as they disappear out of sight.
“Did you see how they all got up when Michiru-sempai and Haruka-san walked their rounds,” Yukiko whispers excitedly to one of the younger otokoyaku actresses as they walk arm in arm off stage, the otokoyaku giggling in a way that doesn’t at all seem to fit with the small moustache shadowing her upper lip.
“I don’t think I’ve seen that at any previous show…” she agrees in a surprisingly husky voice that leaves no doubt as to why she was sorted into the otokoyaku group back in school.
In the middle of it all, Haruka simply stands, breathing in the air of completion and basking in the energy that’s almost tangible on the stage around her, soaked into every costume and the grand staircase itself. She remembers this feeling of victory from when she was still a racer and almost effortlessly won every competition she entered - the excitement of crossing the finishing line, not only in the best time, but with the highest level of precision. Freedom. It all comes down to the freedom of knowing what you can do; how far you’re willing (and capable) of pushing yourself.
It makes all the hurt, all the turbulence and complications fade into nothingness. This is the very reason Haruka doesn’t fear the pain of performing (because there is pain, there will always be pain when you have a mission) - this; that afterwards when all is said and done there is no room for regrets.
“Want me to help you with that?” Michiru’s voice sounds quietly from her right, making Haruka snap out of her thoughts and turn her head to meet her co-actress’ eyes. Michiru’s fingers run gently along the soft edge of Haruka’s back-piece to indicate what she’s referring to, her eyes not holding back the curiosity that doesn’t find its way into a direct question. It’s the privacy she allows Haruka; the privacy of emotions and thoughts that, despite their exhibitionistic choice of profession, the blonde still prefers to keep to herself.
“Thanks,” Haruka murmurs as Michiru lifts the unexpectedly heavy feather construction off her shoulders, only wincing shortly as one of the straps rubs over the sore spot on her left shoulder, Michiru tsh-ing with a mix of lenience and worry, her hand pushing Haruka’s shirt aside enough for her to check for bruises. “I don’t know why they insisted on keeping this attire for the finale.”
Haruka’s tone is only half-irritated, because she doesn’t mind too much - it’s only that her muscles ache and on top of that it takes a great amount of will-power to actually continue speaking as Michiru’s fingertips are pressed against the damp skin on her neck.
“In the face of all the changes Baragumi has made to the Revue over the last couple of months, the Board felt it necessary to implement at least one of their old, beloved traditions into our performance,” she responds; her voice amused (with a touch of sharpness) as she finally steps back, satisfied with whatever conclusion she’s drawn about Haruka’s little accident. Her only note on it is a light “you’ll need to be more careful tomorrow, Haruka.”
If one didn’t know Kaioh Michiru as well as Haruka does, it would be traitorously easy to mistake her almost detached tone for one of coldness, but Haruka knows her better than that. Michiru doesn’t mother people; she expects them to be perfectly capable of standing on their own two feet in the same way she manages; without ever stumbling (at least not when anyone is looking). With Haruka it’s not even a one-sided expectation, because if Michiru were to show any obvious worry for her partner, Haruka would brush it off with a careless shrug.
The look that passes between the two of them as Haruka reaches out for the back-piece, their hands brushing as Michiru lets go and allows the taller woman to carry it towards the hallway where their dressing rooms are located leaves none of these facts unsaid. With a mild, teasing smile forming on her scarlet lips, Michiru tilts her head slightly to the side, contemplatively (maybe even curiously).
Still, she follows without comment.
“I don’t like having to hold back,” Haruka informs her, needlessly, over one shoulder, hoisting the back-piece up on her hip and heading for the exit, only stepping aside to let a couple of prop masters through who nod first at her and then at Michiru politely. Stopping on the other side, she waits until Michiru catches up with her, without hesitance meeting the pair of blue eyes that glance up at her as she falls into step next to the other woman. It’s the truth, not only when it comes to acting. Haruka prefers to always express herself freely, albeit only at her own initiative.
For a moment, they simply move down the hallway together in a companionable hush. Behind the closed doors to the other dressing rooms Haruka can make out their fellow actresses’ voices as they discuss whatever it is they discuss amongst themselves when their two heads aren’t around to apply the respectful censorship to their words that they do just by being present.
There’s already been left a couple of bouquets of flowers in front of the door to their shared dressing room and as Michiru bends down to pick them up, Haruka watches the almost water-like grace with which the chestnut strands of her wig fall around her face. While rehearsing for this musical, she’s watched Michiru more than usually - trying to pick up on the little movements, the unconscious gestures that the musumeyaku actresses put into their acting. She’s told herself it was for the sake of her role as Rio, but she knows it has just as much to do with the fact that it’s both been a liberation and a detention (in its own ways; no bars, only Haruka much more aware of their unspoken borders) to play a woman in love with another woman; and a woman as portrayed by Michiru at that.
“Maybe,” Michiru speaks suddenly, her eyes skimming the little cards with the flowers, one by one. Haruka makes a sound of acknowledgement, her gaze following the soft line of her partner’s jaw up to her ear from which a simple pearl earring dingles in response to the movements of Michiru’s lips. Tucking the greeting cards away, Michiru smiles softly and meets Haruka’s eyes, cocking her head slightly. “Maybe - with all that this performance requires of us - you won’t have to for much longer.”
Michiru’s words and the way she turns around to open the door doesn’t call for any reaction from Haruka; expects nothing to be said in return. Yet, Haruka remains rooted to the spot, staring after the shorter woman as she walks into their shared private area and places the flowers on the make-up table. Wide-eyed, her throat dry, the back-piece suddenly weighing a ton in her hand.
Even though they’ve never drawn the line, even though it’s never been a physical border, Haruka knows in this instant that it’s been crossed. Irreversibly so.
Down the hallway a door is slammed open and a small group of musumeyaku runs past her on their way towards the entrance hall. The scheduled autograph session will begin in half an hour, Haruka knows. She doesn’t have time for this.
They don’t have time for this. Not now, not ever. Or maybe, just maybe, it won’t change anything - maybe it won’t have to make a difference, except if Michiru’s words mean what Haruka thinks (knows, because she is well acquainted with the subtle emotion on Michiru’s face as she looks at Haruka in the mirror) they do, it’ll make all the difference in the world.
“Don’t look so scared. This is ours; this moment. Just between the two of us. Don’t worry - why should anyone look our way?”
Rio’s line echoes in Haruka’s mind, making her features soften and a crooked smile bloom on her lips. Even so, if everything changes, will it really matter? They define themselves, Haruka and Michiru; they define in what direction to push their relationship, step by step. There’s nothing holding them back unless they want it so - and there’s nothing forcing them to continue if it gets out of hand. Michiru has already crossed the line, but only to invite Haruka to do the same; to run that last mile towards the finishing line where she’s seen the checked flag wave for so long, but never been able to draw nearer.
Closing the door behind herself, Haruka takes a deep breath - it’s almost a sigh, but only almost. Effortlessly Michiru’s fingers tuck a stray flower here and there into its right place, her attention not straying from the task at hand. Haruka can tell that she’s waiting. Like she herself has been waiting.
“Maybe,” she says finally, her dark voice not betraying the hard drumming of her heart (fifty metres, twenty metres, ten metres), “you’re right.”
Michiru turns around to face her.