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Even after coming down from the rooftop, Utena doesn’t want to let go of Anthy. She clings to Anthy’s hand as if there was still some danger, some pull of gravity, another abyss threatening to swallow her whole. She holds tight as the two of them climb into bed together— truly together, this time, with Anthy all bundled up in Utena’s arms.
Anthy gives Utena’s hand a small squeeze. It seems like meager comfort, but it’s all she can muster, her body and mind exhausted. But Utena is glad, somehow. She lays her cheek against the crown of Anthy’s head and holds her.
For a long time, neither of them speak. There are no words left to say, really. They apologized until it left their throats raw, but at the end of it all, they have no words of comfort to offer. No forgiveness to be found yet. Only the knives they buried deep in each other, twisted cruelly, and their own bloody hands to ponder. Hands that now have the gall to try and cradle one another.
The stars spin slowly around them. Not the real stars, which Anthy saw wheeling and roiling above her head as she stood on the brink. They frightened her, the infinity and the persistence of them, the way they made her dizzy and coaxed her to the edge. Compared to that, the projections in this room are comforting. Predictable and known. And yet Anthy feels no affection for the stars. They simply make her course easier to follow.
There’s one thing that Anthy hasn’t apologized for— a sword that Utena doesn’t know about, blade poised and ready. And even lying here in her arms, Anthy can’t find it in herself to feel remorse. It’s as though all the events of tonight have wrung her dry, reduced her to a child seeking comfort. Utena gives it willingly. And even stranger, she seems comforted as well. Anthy can’t imagine why.
“…Himemiya?” Utena whispers. The words brush Anthy’s scalp, soft and warm as a sleeping breath.
“Yes?”
Utena is quiet for a moment. Perhaps she was hoping that Anthy would be asleep. But the moment passes, and she says, “What kind of tea do you like best?”
What a question. It gives Anthy pause. These days, she usually makes black tea— earl grey or a particular breakfast blend that her brother favors. Anthy never liked black tea much. It’s bitter.
A memory suddenly stirs; one night closer to the beginning of the term, when she and Utena lived together in the East Dorm. Utena was unable to sleep, and so Anthy offered to make them both a pot of tea. They drank it together by the flickering light of Anthy’s TV, curled up together under a blanket, until Utena began to doze, and…
“Chamomile,” Anthy says quietly.
“Chamomile… Okay.” Utena clutches Anthy’s hand a little closer to herself. “That’s what we’ll have in ten years. I’ll make you chamomile tea.”
Ah… this again. Anthy’s eyes glaze over as she gazes up at the projected stars. She’s never understood this fixation on the future. She gets questions like these all the time from teachers— Where do you see yourself in five years? Ten years? What sort of career do you want to prepare for? What university are you thinking of attending? We hope you consider applying to our own, of course. As if there is any future for her or anyone else that isn’t more of this. As if Ohtori won’t be a cage that she carries around with her wherever she goes.
There is no leaving a place like this. Not really. Ten years from now, Anthy will likely be sleeping under this same roof, watching the same stars. But even if not, it won’t matter. Those little pinpricks of light are burned into the backs of her eyelids. She is a planetarium all her own.
Still, she indulges Utena’s questions.
“What should we eat with our tea?”
“I’ll make more cookies.”
“What kind?”
“Hm… Whatever you like.”
“You don’t have a favorite?”
“So long as it’s sweet, it’s fine. Oh…” Anthy pauses.
“What is it?”
“No, it’s just… I forgot. I keep forgetting. I was going to make some with dried flowers.”
“Ohh, that sounds cute… What kind of flowers?”
“Well, all I have are roses.”
“But in ten years, you can have any kind you want.”
“Mm… if you say so. Maybe… Maybe pansies, then.”
“You can eat those?”
“Mm. A little sugar and mint, and… maybe lemon…”
“That sounds delicious.” Utena tentatively trails her free hand through Anthy’s hair. Her fingers still aren’t quite steady, but her touch is so gentle. Gentler than Anthy believed possible from anyone. “Where should we have tea?”
“Where?”
“Like… in the living room, or the kitchen table, you know…”
“…The garden,” Anthy says softly. Not a greenhouse, but a garden.
“That would be nice… What would you grow?”
Roses. No matter what she plants, it will all come up roses.
“Maybe chamomile.” Her voice is hollow as she speaks. “Then we could make our own tea.”
“I bet you would be great at that. We could open up our own tea house.”
We.
“If that’s what you want, Utena-sama.”
Utena is quiet for a moment after that, stung in a way she can’t make sense of. The knife twists just a little deeper. And still, she tries again. “What kind of house would you live in?”
A prison at the top of a tall tower.
“Anything with a garden is fine.” And then, surprising herself, Anthy adds, “A small house.”
“Small?”
Small like this room, just big enough to hold what matters. Too small to have any shadowy corners to hide things in.
A lump threatens to rise in Anthy’s throat, but she keeps it down. “So that Chuchu can get around.”
“Heh, of course. We could even build Chuchu his own little house. That could be fun.”
“Are you good at building things, Utena-sama?”
“Err… well, I can follow instructions…”
“I see.”
The silence that settles over them then is heavier than before. All these foolish little dreams disguised as hopes disguised as promises hang above their heads like stars. And then Anthy feels her head drawn toward Utena’s heart by a shaking hand.
“I’ll learn.” Utena’s voice is no steadier than her hand.
“Utena-sama…?”
“I’ll learn to build things, and how to make tea and cookies, and grow flowers, and… and I’ll find a good house with a garden. I will.”
She laces her trembling fingers with Anthy’s, clutching her so fearfully. The fear wracks her whole body, Anthy can feel it.
“Himemiya?”
“Utena-sama?”
“…I’m really sorry.” Utena’s voice splinters and breaks. “I’ll get us out of here, okay, Himemiya? I know I— I know, but— But let me try, okay? We’ll be okay, so just— just don’t— Just let me try…”
Utena cries softly, stroking Anthy’s hair. It’s a little strange, the way she does it— awkward, as if she’s never done such a thing before. As if no one has comforted her like that in a long time, either. It makes Anthy ache, deep in her bones.
Anthy has no tears left to cry. Only this emptiness in the pit of her stomach, the heaviness in all her limbs, this sorrow so deep that her body becomes it. Utena can promise her nothing. She can try but she will fail, and Anthy will be the instrument of her doom. If Anthy truly loved Utena, she wouldn’t be here, clinging selfishly to her. She would have found the courage to…
And yet, Anthy clutches Utena to herself just as fiercely. Buries her face in Utena’s chest as Utena weeps for them both. And the stars behind her eyelids wheel and careen and roil until she can no longer find her bearings. The grim resolve vanishes, its place taken by something smaller and paler.
She wants so badly to believe.
“Utena-sama?” she whispers.
Utena swallows the last of her tears. “What is it?”
She squeezes Anthy’s hand.
“…It’s nothing.”
Anthy does not die tonight. Instead, she sleeps all tangled up in Utena, dreaming of the sweet smell of chamomile and of stars reflected in her cup.