Chapter Text
Kaoru thought herself to be a starving artist, plagued with the task of influencing the tides of cultural evolution. It was not a mere choice, but a necessity—as if the strings of Fate had pulled her into such a burden, clawing at her heart with such an unbearable need that it could not be ignored.
Much like the Great Bard that had preceded her, most of Kaoru’s works were tragedies. The tendrils of good and evil tugged and tortured her characters, ultimately unable to escape the suffering of existential concussions. Life is fleeting—the repeating motif that Kaoru made sure to include in everything she wrote.
And as much as she wished it not to be, so was love.
Chisato, as an actress, was loved by many, but was easily eclipsed by the love Kaoru had for her. However, compared to Chisato’s success, Kaoru’s standing as a playwright was inadequate to say the least. It made Kaoru feel inferior, especially at times Chisato seemed to harden up at her faults. She wanted to become better, to prove to Chisato, the world, and namely herself, that she deserved to stand beside Chisato as equals—both as professionals and as lovers.
All it would take is one play. The perfect play, one not yet written. It would convey her deepest emotions, the sense of duality that she felt tearing within herself. Kaoru would pour the entirety of her soul into this unbegotten masterpiece, so tragic that it would be as if the Bard himself had possessed her and guided her hand. But one’s soul cannot be measured in a manner of meters and fathoms, for its depth is endless; and the deeper Kaoru delved into her own introspection, the more the emptiness haunted her.
The rays of limelight shone brightly upon Chisato; however, she was not always inclined to stay under its gaze. She was coined as a prodigy at a young age and since then was roped into the relentless world of theatre. Years of hard work and dedication forced her to keep a smile on her face despite its hardships. The smile, as pleasant as it made her look, was one plastered on after years of practice and perfection. There was hardly any emotion behind its sweet curves. As an actress, she mastered the art of molding herself to fit whatever was asked of her. True, she loved the performing arts, but when constantly faced against the tedium of dealing with directors, interviewers, scouting agents, and the public audience, it was no surprise that she would eventually grow weary. If she really wanted to, Chisato could set down her mask and turn her back to theatre; but every time she contemplated retirement, a small flicker of passion for the arts always remained. A flame kept eternal by the one person that gave her hope: Kaoru.
Chisato would usually come across as cold, as the years in the industry forced her harden her outer shell; but beyond the walls she had built against the public eye, Chisato truly cared dearly for the playwright. She was a tender partner with a softer nature than what her audience perceived her as. Chisato was certain Kaoru knew this about her, as it was the more honest side of herself that only revealed itself when they were alone together. Even in her coldness or in Kaoru’s shortcomings with her professional life, Chisato’s love for Kaoru ran eternal.
It was because of this fondness that made Chisato concerned when Kaoru started isolating herself in her private study. Kaoru had a terrible habit of overworking herself, but this was becoming quite excessive even for her standards. Chisato made multiple attempts to coax Kaoru away from her work to give her a chance to relax, but Kaoru remained insistent on working. Even her more risqué efforts were dismissed—a tactic that had previously never failed to gain the attention of her lover.
“This tragedy will change the way people see the world,” Kaoru always said with determination—no, an obsession rather—to complete this play as if it were her destiny to do so. Her claim was not entirely wrong though, for it was because of this play that Chisato saw her world change before her. The little paradise that she and Kaoru had built and found solace in began to crumble, leaving her with only a stranger mumbling to herself in the mirror and scrawling incoherent words into a tattered notebook—the empty shell of a person she once loved.
The ultimate tragedy indeed.
“The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.” -Shakespeare