This time I'm mistaken .
~*~
It's quiet.
It hadn't been this quiet for months, for years, he was sure, not since that just-another winter day his father had died, that day he'd come home from university and gone up the stairs listening to the absolute silence in the house, the sounds of his footsteps lost in the plush carpeting of the stairs.
He hadn't known that silence could be so loud.
It felt like that as he walked up the staircase today, felt quiet and so very empty. The silence rebounded off the walls, echoed back at him, empty, empty, empty. As if no one else breathed in this house except for him, no one lived in this house except for him.
And that hadn't been true ever since Misao came.
She wasn't here. He understood then, in that second, what the problem was. She wasn't anywhere around here, anywhere close by. The house was empty, devoid of everything that he'd gotten so used to over the past few months - and he'd never known she had so much presence in the house - hadn't known that the disorderliness he both liked and resented at the same time was so much a part of his life now -
"Okon!" he called, his voice warring for domination with the oppressive silence.
There was no answer. Quiet, everywhere. Both Okon and Omasu were usually up by now, by the time he got back from his morning walk . but today there was no one. And he was really very used to someone or the other coming running at his call.
Where could she be, this early in the morning? He didn't bother to specify to himself which 'she' he meant, continuing up the stairs. He worked his legs harder, almost stamping - he'd create sound, he'd do it, just watch him - thump, thump - all muffled, far too muffled.
The corridor to his room seemed uncommonly long, the early morning light and the dark carpeting making it dim and fuzzy as he walked. There was something strangely otherworldly to it all, today - dull and misty and not quite defined . . . and so, so quiet. He pushed open his door; it did not creak.
Answers lay on his desk, in the form of a cooling breakfast tray and a small pink - Pink paper? Where on earth did Omasu find pink paper? - note attached to it. He strode forward and picked it up, the curving handwriting blurring a little as he struggled to make it out by the light filtering into his room from the chinks in the curtains.
Apparently he'd given Misao permission to go down to the working girl's - what was her name again? - Kaoru, yes - house sometime during the past week, and though he couldn't for the life of him remember when (and that was his job, damn it) and that was where Okon and Omasu had taken her, packed her off early so that she could be back before dark.
And she better be back before dark, in his opinion, because otherwise . . .
Because otherwise the house would be empty all day, and he'd be so very alone, sitting here in the dim light with the shadows twining themselves around his brain again, pulling him down deeper and deeper into the mire of darkness he'd always lived in, ever since his mother died, and he didn't want that, not again, not when he'd tasted, so very briefly, what it was like to not be there, down in the dark, swamped in misery and loneliness . . .
He shook his head, a sudden, abrupt motion to derail his train of thought. It was just a day, for God's sake. One whole morning to spend without her anywhere around. It wasn't that big a deal. Sit, get some work done, have a bit of peace and quiet for a change -
Quiet. So very quiet.
He yanked open the curtains - for purely practical reasons: he had to read - not because it made the room that much more cheerful. Seating himself at the desk, he flipped through the envelopes that had been placed there last evening, tossing a couple away and busying himself with the rest.
He was sure the scratch of his pen echoed all the way down the hallway.
~*~
He could count on one hand the number of times he'd been this worried. There was that time when he was four - which he barely remembered, but he knew it had happened - and he'd gotten lost in the middle of a busy London street, and he'd thought he'd never see his parents ever again. And then when his mother was ill - that memory topped all, and it only covered his second finger. He remembered that day after Megumi . there was less worry in that than frightened sadness, but it still counted. Oh, and always the day where he thought maybe his father wouldn't send him to university, but right now that too seemed a minor event compared with what he was facing.
The driveway was empty.
Well, it was empty most of the year - the two carriages they owned were parked back near the empty stables, in a walled-in porch that was almost like those modern garages people had in fashionable houses in the city. They were only brought around to the front when he needed to go somewhere, or maybe Okon and Omasu were headed down to village. Or when somebody was returning to the manor.
Which somebody very noticeably wasn't.
He'd been pacing the hallway for what seemed like hours, ever since the sun set and darkness settled over the moors, lending them the ghost-like quality that had been prevalent in the house all day. And now, with the needle of his watch gravitating closer and closer to nine o'clock, he had gravitated closer and closer to the front door, finally ending up standing in the open doorway, a lone figure silhouetted by dull yellow light coming from within the hall, provided by a single flickering candle.
The driveway extended before him, a long stretch of paved road and overgrown weeds, ending at the tall cast-iron gates, slightly flaked with rust. The road wound through the moors beyond that, dipping down the small rise Misselthwaite Manor was built on. Empty.
Quiet, and empty.
His mind's eye pictured the worst possibilities, the carriage Okon or Omasu (Misao - ) were in held up by highwaymen, bandits, all of them bound and helpless . . . he could imagine Misao's eyes widening in fear, and they were already so wide -
Oh, shut up.
He blinked a little at his own mental chiding - that had been a little more exasperated than he usually sounded when he talked to himself.
Usually. Talked to himself. He really needed help.
And the driveway loomed before him, empty and quiet, nothing but the wind rustling through the long grass of the moors, cold wind that stung his face and brought the blood to his cheeks in response, giving him more colour than he usually had. He wondered, absently, what Misao - and Okon and Omasu - would think when they got back, when they saw him standing there, flushed with anger - maybe, how were they to know? - and glowering down at them from the doorway, looking so much the family tyrant, the restrictive father, the overprotective older brother . . . the harsh master . . .
Master. Was that what he was, for all of them? Someone who ruled them all, who ordered them around, who they talked about in hushed whispers and frightened tones?
He remembered when that was just how it was - with his father, and with his grandfather before him, or so his mother had said. And he remembered that that was how it was supposed to be for him, too. But it just . . . wasn't. Right?
Right?
He was different, wasn't he? Omasu and Okon respected him, maybe, but they weren't scared of him, were they? They didn't hate him, did they?
Misao wasn't scared of him.
Was she?
He remembered, too, a day, perhaps not more than a year ago, when he wouldn't have cared whether they hated him or not, whether the world hated him or not - because a year ago, he was convinced that it did, and he hated it right back. But now, it mattered. They all mattered. Their opinion mattered.
Misao mattered.
That was a scary thought, one he did his best to push away, but it was kind of hard to rid his mind of that when he was standing outside on a freezing January evening, numbness lurking at the tips of his fingers, waiting for her carriage to roll up and her voice to call out a greeting.
After a while his legs got tired and he sat down on the steps at the front of the house, trenchcoat protecting him from the frost that lined the stone. He put his head in his hands, cold fingers skimming through cool hair, and thought about all the nights he was away from home, off on business, wondered why he never worried about her this way then, when he had no idea where she was and what she was doing and how late she was out of the house doing it.
That was because then he wasn't waiting for her all day.
Slowly, the wind picked up, the cold became more intense. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, eventually gave up and resorted to sitting on them in a futile effort to generate some heat. He wondered why he'd come out without his gloves, berated himself strongly for it, and didn't bother to even think about going and getting them. The wind worked its way inside his skull, down his collar, froze him to the bone. He thought about hypothermia and Misao, and found it funny.
Not enough to laugh, though.
So when he finally heard the voices, he thought it was all part of his imagination. Thought he heard Misao laughing, other voices joining in, a deeper male voice relating a tale of some sort. But no sound of trundling wheels, no light suddenly glaring in his eyes because of the lanterns strung on the front of the carriages. So he kept his eyes shut and his fingers barely warm, and listened.
"Oh, come on, Sano, that just can't be true!"
"It is, it is! Honestly! Kenshin just swung backwards, that's all, and the sword moved all on its own - I've never seen anything like it - c'mon, Kenshin, tell her how you did it - "
"It was just luck, Misao-dono - "
"Just luck, my ass! It was just genius, more like. So amazing, really, weasel girl - "
Sano? he thought sluggishly.
The voices came closer, and he picked out five sets of footsteps, only one heavy enough to classify as a man's. Maybe another - sure and firm, but very light. Swordsman, said his head immediately. Himura, it added after a second. He nodded at his head - God, he should've gotten out of the cold much earlier - and cracked his eyes open.
There they were, right at the gates, the tall dark-haired man tugging at one while the redhead worked at the other. He recognized them both - both by surname, and both by association with Kaoru. Who was there too, long hair bound up in a handkerchief, wrapped in a moth-eaten old coat that most definitely belonged to someone else once upon a time. And the little kid - the one Misao thought was a brat. And, of course, Misao herself, almost invisible under many layers of warm clothing.
And gloves, he noted proudly. He felt very proud. Because of the gloves.
Help. He needed help.
She saw him first, saw him sitting there bonelessly on the front steps, and she came running, scarf trailing behind her, only flashes of her thin form visible in the light that came from the open doorway. She skidded to a stop in front of him - literally skidded, her feet flailing for purchase on the frosty pavement for a minute before she regained her balance. She looked up at him, wide eyes - so wide, took up half her face, blue and green and aquamarine, and he was rhyming and this could not be good - and said breathlessly, "Aoshi-sama! What're you doing here?"
I live here, was the first thing that went through his mind, but since his mind wasn't exactly saying all the right things at the right times, he managed, "Waiting."
"Oh," she said cluelessly. "For what?"
You. "You."
"Oh," she said again, and then the guilt struck. "Oh God, I'm so sorry, I never thought you'd actually, you know, not be working and - and busy - didn't think you'd be worried, you see . not that I think you don't care, because I'm sure you do, it's just - I thought you'd be working, and that if we spent a little more time it'd be okay, 'cause you wouldn't notice - " She paused, took a much-needed breath, and smiled brilliantly, "but I'm here now!"
If he were another man, he would have hugged her then, would have slid his arms around her and crushed her to him and never ever let her go, never ever let her be anywhere else, let her look at anyone else, never let her think that she belonged anywhere else and damn the consequences . . .
But he wasn't. He was who he was, but God, she was so close and so warm, and she was here, she was back, and the house wouldn't ever be so empty again, because she was here, with him, and he couldn't ask for more.
Couldn't want more.
Oh, but he did.
~*~
Her room was a girl's room, Okon and Omasu had made sure of that, with the wide mirror attached to the dressing table and the frills hanging from the top of the four-poster bed. But it was different from what he expected it to be, too - no girly knick-knacks on the table, no embarrassing clothing scattered about the place. There was, absurdly enough, a pillow on the floor, and a blanket made out to look like a makeshift bed right next to the real bed itself, but he ignored that.
"Geez, you're cold, Aoshi-sama," she had said as she'd grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, and he'd been too shocked - and much too tempted - to protest.
And now there he was, sitting on her bed - her bed! - because there was nowhere else to sit, apart from the tiny dressing table stool, and she was in the washing room attached, splashing water over her face and talking to him about her day. There was a candle in the room, one single candle, and he was very very aware of how absolutely alone they were. Which reminded him -
"Where are Okon and Omasu?"
She poked her head out of the washroom, droplets dripping down her face. "I don't know. They said they might be spending the night in the village - thought you'd know the details."
"I don't," he said shortly. This was unacceptable. Sure, he didn't want to be hated, or feared, or anything, but at least asked before two of his most trusted servants went on impromptu leave.
"Weird," she said, echoing his thoughts. There was the vigorous sound of nose-blowing, and then she appeared, all freshly scrubbed cheeks and excited eyes. "So how was your day, Aoshi-sama? Did you get any work done or did you spend all of it squatting in the doorway?"
He was insulted. Mildly. "I did not squat."
She laughed, came and sat down next to him with a flounce of her limited skirts. Her leg was inches from his, and he moved away unconsciously, even as his body screamed for closer contact. "Sorry for bothering you," she said sincerely, face upturned to his, and he felt that familiar tightening of disappointment. Of course she thought it was a bother. Because, by all accounts, it should be - and was.
Right?
Of course she never thought of his relief, of his happiness, of everything that he'd felt when he'd seen her appear behind the gate. Because all that was just a bother, wasn't it, just something that someone like him couldn't feel -
"Aoshi-sama? Hey, Aoshi-sama? You still in there?"
"What?" he said, almost blinked.
"Kinda zoned out there," she said explanatorily. "You should really not do that . I mean, I'm sure it really puts off people who don't know you at all."
"Most of the time I don't know those people either, and so do not care."
She grinned. "Long sentence, and good point. It's tough to make yourself care. Like I don't care at all, and that makes it even harder to be cared about, and it's not fun not to be cared about."
"No, it's not," he said agreeably. She had a fallen eyelash just above her right cheekbone. He wanted to brush it away.
Wanted to touch her.
He looked down at her, at her open, trusting face and small lips, at the - whatever it was - shining in her eyes as she looked up, cheeks glowing, and the full reality of what he was thinking hit him with all the force of a sandbag over his head. Here he was, her guardian, her legal would-be parent (not true, not true) thinking . . . oh God, so many things . . . about her, and there she was, looking up at him with such trust in her eyes, in her face, and he couldn't do that to her, he wouldn't - wouldn't abuse her trust like that, wouldn't ever do that.
He blinked, and she blinked, and the moment shattered, lay about their feet in jagged little pieces of possibility. He glanced down at her once, just once more, took in every line and angle of her face, and pushed himself backwards, away from the bed, away from her, hoping against hope that all this wasn't as obvious to her as it was to him.
"I have to go," he said, and he hated that he sounded so cold, so impersonal.
She receded into herself immediately at the sound of his voice, the happy light fading from her eyes, replaced by confusion and slight disappointment. "Okay," she said uncertainly. "You - have things to do, right?"
Oh, I wish. "Yes," he lied, easily, quickly. He paused, managed, "I'm sorry."
"That's okay," she said, a little more conviction in her voice now. "You need to catch up on all the work you missed while squatting."
And she smiled, looked up at him expectantly, searching for amusement, any reaction, but her half hopeful, half smiling look was heartbreaking, and he couldn't find anything for her, nothing to give her in return. "Good night, Misao," he whispered, and fled.
Because he was a failure at love, at all of this, a failure at building and maintaining relationships, at laughing and loving and giving, because he had absolutely nothing to offer her, nothing to give her . . . and God, when did all this become about love? What did he know about love, anyway? A couple of fumbles in the gardens ten years ago, a fierce protectiveness for his mother from when he was seven, a slight empathy for a stray dog that had wandered into the house when he was small.
That wasn't love.
What was it, then?
He didn't know.
What he did know was that everything he felt now was wrong, was something that couldn't be dealt with. What he did know was that she trusted him, and that meant everything.
He wasn't going to ruin that. Not ever.
~*~