First Kiss Meme: Utena and Ophelia
Jun. 5th, 2007 07:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elabyAnother First Kiss meme response, again for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jiatra :) I I like this one better than the last one.
Characters: Tenjou Utena and Ophelia, um, of Elsinore.
Words: 780
Notes: I made absolutely no attempt to explain why they're in the same universe. When I was writing it, in my head I imagined them being in Ophelia-land (Denmark, I suppose) but they really could be in either. This takes place, for Utena, after the end of the series, so all revolutionizing of the world has happened. For Ophelia, this'd be after her father died and before, uh, she died.
-
They were sitting together on the riverbank with the water five feet below, and Utena had taken off her shoes and socks. They lay in a pile in the grass beside her. Ophelia’s sandals had slipped so far off her dangling feet that one hung on her toe by a leather strap, and Utena winced every time she bounced it. Those sandals were destined for the bottom of the river, she thought.
The sun moved in gentle splotches across Utena’s lap and onto the grass, swaying with the breathlike motion of the apple trees overhead. They were watching petals fall and pattern the water below, and Ophelia was telling her what they meant.
“That one says I’m Philomela with a tongue,” she said, pointing. Utena didn’t know who that was, or what having a tongue had to do with it. She leaned forward, unsure whether she should let belief override her skepticism. Some people read tea leaves, she supposed; Ophelia read apple blossoms on the river. “And that one says I should be wearing black for my father.” Ophelia looked over at Utena and plucked at the cloud-blue of her skirt. “But I’m not. Because Hamlet said they were only trappings and suits.”
“Did your parents die too?” Utena asked. Ophelia pressed her hands together, then folded them carefully as if they were made of paper. Her blue eyes looked almost violet. She leaned sideways toward Utena.
“My mother was a mayfly,” she said conspiratorially. Her expression was distracted and wistful as she looked back at the river. “Laertes missed her more.” She gave a little bounce of her foot, and her right sandal flipped off and splashed, moments later, in the water below. Ophelia folded herself over to peer down. “Oh…”
“I told you you’d lose that if you weren’t careful,” Utena said.
“Mm,” Ophelia agreed. “My father said the same thing.”
“You go through a lot of sandals?” Utena asked with a smile. She leaned back and laced her fingers around one bent knee.
Ophelia still stared down into the river. “If you’ve lost that, you’re not worth anything anymore,” she said. Utena made an indignant sound and dropped her knee.
“Your father said that to you?”
Ophelia shook her hair, revealing sunburnt shoulders. “My lord Hamlet did.” Her fingers stretched to hook the other sandal, and she slid it up of her foot and dropped it in the grass.
The gentle breeze picked up, and Utena scraped her hair away from her face. “What kind of a person must he be to say such a thing about your shoes?” She felt an odd sense comfort in her anger; here was familiar territory, at least. She had never been good at guessing what someone meant when they spoke in metaphors.
“All men care about is what you can give them.” Ophelia was watching the blossoms fall again, this time her face turned upward instead of down. Her eyes moved quickly as if she were counting them.
Utena sighed and folded her legs. “You got that right.” She leaned her elbows on her knees. “But that doesn’t mean you should let him talk to you like that. You’ll start thinking badly of yourself if you keep letting people treat you like you’re less important than you are.” Ophelia smiled at her the way you might smile at a child who pulled up part of your flower garden to make you a bouquet. “I’m serious!” Utena insisted. “I know it sounds tired, but you have to stand up for yourself. If you don’t like the way someone treats you, don’t let them treat you like that anymore!”
Then Ophelia moved, swung up onto her knees, and the other sandal slid off the bank and into the water. She took Utena’s hand in both of hers, and hers were hot and dry. Ophelia leaned in and kissed her, like a thank-you, like goodbye.
“You can’t save me,” she said.
“Wh-” Utena pulled back but her hand tightened on Ophelia’s, and she was surprised less by the kiss than by the fact that it seemed Ophelia had read her mind. “Someone told me that before,” she said. "It wasn’t true.”
“It is this time,” Ophelia said.
“Why?” Utena asked. “Because I’m a girl?”
“No," she said. "There's only one person who could do it, and he won't. He can't, not anymore. So I’m already gone.” Ophelia sat back, her skirt a cloudy pool around her. She let go of Utena’s hand. “My soul is a butterfly,” she said. “You can’t catch it with nets, or put it behind glass. It’s going to embroider orange on the blue of the sky.”
jiatra :) I I like this one better than the last one.Characters: Tenjou Utena and Ophelia, um, of Elsinore.
Words: 780
Notes: I made absolutely no attempt to explain why they're in the same universe. When I was writing it, in my head I imagined them being in Ophelia-land (Denmark, I suppose) but they really could be in either. This takes place, for Utena, after the end of the series, so all revolutionizing of the world has happened. For Ophelia, this'd be after her father died and before, uh, she died.
-
They were sitting together on the riverbank with the water five feet below, and Utena had taken off her shoes and socks. They lay in a pile in the grass beside her. Ophelia’s sandals had slipped so far off her dangling feet that one hung on her toe by a leather strap, and Utena winced every time she bounced it. Those sandals were destined for the bottom of the river, she thought.
The sun moved in gentle splotches across Utena’s lap and onto the grass, swaying with the breathlike motion of the apple trees overhead. They were watching petals fall and pattern the water below, and Ophelia was telling her what they meant.
“That one says I’m Philomela with a tongue,” she said, pointing. Utena didn’t know who that was, or what having a tongue had to do with it. She leaned forward, unsure whether she should let belief override her skepticism. Some people read tea leaves, she supposed; Ophelia read apple blossoms on the river. “And that one says I should be wearing black for my father.” Ophelia looked over at Utena and plucked at the cloud-blue of her skirt. “But I’m not. Because Hamlet said they were only trappings and suits.”
“Did your parents die too?” Utena asked. Ophelia pressed her hands together, then folded them carefully as if they were made of paper. Her blue eyes looked almost violet. She leaned sideways toward Utena.
“My mother was a mayfly,” she said conspiratorially. Her expression was distracted and wistful as she looked back at the river. “Laertes missed her more.” She gave a little bounce of her foot, and her right sandal flipped off and splashed, moments later, in the water below. Ophelia folded herself over to peer down. “Oh…”
“I told you you’d lose that if you weren’t careful,” Utena said.
“Mm,” Ophelia agreed. “My father said the same thing.”
“You go through a lot of sandals?” Utena asked with a smile. She leaned back and laced her fingers around one bent knee.
Ophelia still stared down into the river. “If you’ve lost that, you’re not worth anything anymore,” she said. Utena made an indignant sound and dropped her knee.
“Your father said that to you?”
Ophelia shook her hair, revealing sunburnt shoulders. “My lord Hamlet did.” Her fingers stretched to hook the other sandal, and she slid it up of her foot and dropped it in the grass.
The gentle breeze picked up, and Utena scraped her hair away from her face. “What kind of a person must he be to say such a thing about your shoes?” She felt an odd sense comfort in her anger; here was familiar territory, at least. She had never been good at guessing what someone meant when they spoke in metaphors.
“All men care about is what you can give them.” Ophelia was watching the blossoms fall again, this time her face turned upward instead of down. Her eyes moved quickly as if she were counting them.
Utena sighed and folded her legs. “You got that right.” She leaned her elbows on her knees. “But that doesn’t mean you should let him talk to you like that. You’ll start thinking badly of yourself if you keep letting people treat you like you’re less important than you are.” Ophelia smiled at her the way you might smile at a child who pulled up part of your flower garden to make you a bouquet. “I’m serious!” Utena insisted. “I know it sounds tired, but you have to stand up for yourself. If you don’t like the way someone treats you, don’t let them treat you like that anymore!”
Then Ophelia moved, swung up onto her knees, and the other sandal slid off the bank and into the water. She took Utena’s hand in both of hers, and hers were hot and dry. Ophelia leaned in and kissed her, like a thank-you, like goodbye.
“You can’t save me,” she said.
“Wh-” Utena pulled back but her hand tightened on Ophelia’s, and she was surprised less by the kiss than by the fact that it seemed Ophelia had read her mind. “Someone told me that before,” she said. "It wasn’t true.”
“It is this time,” Ophelia said.
“Why?” Utena asked. “Because I’m a girl?”
“No," she said. "There's only one person who could do it, and he won't. He can't, not anymore. So I’m already gone.” Ophelia sat back, her skirt a cloudy pool around her. She let go of Utena’s hand. “My soul is a butterfly,” she said. “You can’t catch it with nets, or put it behind glass. It’s going to embroider orange on the blue of the sky.”
