The world navel and some hypotheticals
yuugiou fanfiction
ryuujitsu & co.
Disclaimer: Saying we own Yuugiou is like saying Elizabeth I was a queen of France. Also, any resemblance to real-world people in this story is…purely COINCIDENTAL. I swear.
A/N: Set in a Timeline? What Timeline? kind of scenario, some time after Shizuka's bandages come off. Anzu's dreams are to head for America so that she can become a dancer. The dates are set, Anzu is happy, and Shizuka has a problem with—everything.
I was wrestling with whether or not to post this. But, all events are in the past and we are for the most part stable now. Heh. This is also my first attempt at femmeslash, so please tell me how I did.
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The Domino high school rendition of La Belle et La Bête had been dancing somewhere in the back of her mind, but below the starry set and the singing beast there was Anzu, half-obscured by the rest of the ensemble and she had, therefore, only paid attention to the first song routine. Shizuka watched her and the swaying of her body with something hot and acid eating away at the center of her chest, watched her and caught the movements of the beast out of the corner of her eye. She watched the round, soft face and the hands, tiny from her seat in the balcony, flickering back and forth.
—Oh, ma belle, she said as Anzu came out of the side door with her only prop, a broomstick. Vous étiez fantastique. She had been planning to say it even before the beast had finished his lament, sometime in the opening scenes. But when she planned these things she was always expecting some grand finish; maybe Anzu would look at her and understand finally finally she sees and stretch out her free hand to be held.
Anzu looked at her and almost shrugged; she was, after all, an English student, but Shizuka had counted on that, and then Anzu's broomstick was in her hand, still warm from being held. Here, Anzu said. Hold it for a sec?
Shizuka gave the broomstick an experimental squeeze and felt the sweat on the wood, the heat from Anzu's hand.
—I should have brought flowers, she thought. Roses. No, chrysanthemums.
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The acid had turned heavy and guilty and had settled in her stomach and finally, as Jounouchi opened his apartment door, she forced the tears out.
—Aw, Shiz'-chan, said her brother.
—Aren't you happy? she said, thick and sad. Your sister is normal.
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For a solid week after the play when she dreamed it was of Anzu, a pure and perfect happiness that sprang from knees and shoulders that touched in the dreamscape.
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She had never felt so silly, eye-deep in angst and cryptic poetry. Et la danseuse part—et la danseuse part—et la danseuse pa—et la danseuse and she clicked submit twice before spellchecking. There was no reason to stop. There was something too vague, too fucking vague, about what she wrote. Ah, but it was cowardice; she knew the maelstrom she would unleash if she took the words and spelled them out. . .and what if she was wrong? What if she hurt Her, the precious dancer?
Sometimes it was frustrating; she would think, surely she must know it now. She has to know it.
Sometimes it was frightening; she would think, surely she must know it now. She knows it and she rejects it, and maybe I was wrong about everything I felt and why did I ever go with Honda!
Instead—look at me look at me please im seeing you at last—save and exit.
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It had been a simple thing before her imagination took hold of it. And that morning, unthinking, as they raced up the stairwell, she held out her hand and Anzu took it. They ran like that up both flights, cold hands clasped together until the hallway's people took the moment and swallowed it up.
Oh, she thought. I'm. . .
She was glad, because the sweat that came when she was nervous had burst onto her palm not seconds after Anzu moved away, and side by side they kept walking while she wiped her hands on her skirt.
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The dress was a deep wine red, gleaming like an Oriental silk.
Her fingers were clumsy, lacing up the back as Anzu hummed and waited. She was looking at the smooth white indent of the other girl's spine crisscrossed by the dark, almost-purple strings, the pink stitches like little leaves and flowers. Unthinking, mouth dry, she twisted a part of the dress between her fingertips and felt its smoothness and the warmth of Anzu's back, and then she was leaning forward, leaning down, pressing her face into the junction between Anzu's neck and shoulder, breathing in, sighing out. The skin felt hot against her mouth.
—Do you want to try it on? said Anzu, holding the dress out to her.
—No, it's alright, said Shizuka, the dream shattered. Why don't you put it on? I want to see.
—No, said Anzu. Then, more softly: Yuugi's waiting for us, you know. She smiled, teasing. And Otogi, she added.
Shizuka took the dress and set it down on Anzu's bed. She ran a hand across the pink embroidered flowers and felt her fingertips catching roughly against the cool polyester, and though how she, the sophomore, had only agreed to go to that dance with Otogi because Anzu would be there, along with all the other graduating upperclassmen.
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The boy from room one-twelve had pressed Anzu to the railing, saying something about tossing her over, and though they were all laughing, joking, even Shizuka, she felt a sickening and terrible fury rising into her throat.
I'll kill him. I'll snap his neck, she thought, and the idea drew out another startled gasp of laughter from her mouth.
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—So that's a no?
—Yeah, sorry.
Shizuka walked away from Anzu with thunder in her ears. I was brave. I was brave. She thought, I miss Honda.
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They were sitting in the grass outside the apartment as the summer waned, and Shizuka, in half-lotus, had a tangerine cupped in her hand, a full waxy sphere. She was thinking of the book she had read, The Hero with a Thousand Faces and the belly of the world.
—World navel, she said. Like a…
—Hm? said Anzu.
She had meant to say navel orange but the thought had fled her seconds after it occurred. And then she thought, this is the last day. Oh, God, and began thinking about the orange again, an orange the size of the world—the world navel orange. I'm holding it in my hand, she thought. The world in a grain of sand, infinity in my hand, it went something like that. And eternity in this hour. God, please. She flexed her fingers around the tangerine and looked at the back of Anzu's head and took it all in, the glossy brown hair against the sky.
Coward! Take her hand, kiss her, don't be afraid, do it now, noother choice. But she'll leave me! And Otogi will be here, always here for me, and she's leaving me. I'll die. I'll die.
—This is the last day, said Anzu, staring into the sky.
Oh, God, Shizuka thought again, but she said nothing.
—The last day, Shizuka, said Anzu, turning to look at her.
I know, she wanted to shout. But it's your own fault, I didn't tell you to go to America, I didn't tell you to leave me and you wouldn't love me anyway. And I wanted you. She thought that she should be crying but the wrath had strangled her words.
—Too late, she croaked instead. And I wanted you, she thought again, so angrily.
—Yeah, said Anzu.
She put her tangerine away in her pocket and like that day in the stairwell, she held out her hand and Anzu took it, a simple action, and then the tears came, welling up in huge drops, choking her, sliding down her chin and into the grass.
—Shizuka, said Anzu, sounding disappointed.
—I'd ruin your career, said Shizuka, between the big, gulping sobs, crying like a child. I'd ruin your fucking career. Stay, stay, she thought.
—Shizuka. . .
—Too late, she went on numbly, trying to be sarcastic, trying to make Her laugh even though she, Shizuka, was crumbling. (Nothing wrong.)My timing is spectacular, she said. Inwardly, she was screaming, Don't you get it now? Can't you see it now? What do I have to do for you to see it?
In her mind Anzu was leaning toward her, saying, Alright. Alright. Alright.
—I hope someone blows America up tonight, said Shizuka with her nose dripping, vicious and uncaring, smiling and crying and giggling just a little, digging the heel of her free hand into her eyes. She wasn't learning English, she wasn't going to be a dancer; she did not care about America in the least, though it was irrational and terrible to think it. I hope someone nukes them in the next eight hours. I hope they get blown to pieces. Stay. Stay.
In her mind Anzu was saying, Yes, into little, little pieces. Yes. Alright.
And Anzu outside her eyes was standing, moving away from her; the sun had set, they were alone and Anzu's silhouette was dark against the grass and her face was icy with tears and the tangerine was like a boulder in her pocket.
—and how could I dance with another when I saw her standing there?
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A/N: Ah. The wonders of. . .the Beatles. So, how did it go? Did you like it?