… for handing you a heart worth breaking.
~*~
She didn't get it.
A week ago, everything had been fine. She studied, she ate, she talked to Aoshi some, she studied, ate some more, ran around outside, slept, and it started all over again. And she was happy with it, happy doing it. He'd generally been in a good mood, Sano and Yahiko had been good friends to make, there was still snow on the grounds, and her governess didn't annoy her the way she could have. And now . . .
He was avoiding her. Again.
She'd really thought they were past that stage by now, past the part where he snuck around, doing his best not to bang into her in the corridors, and making sure he was never in his room whenever she was free. She'd really thought he wasn't going to lapse into that again. But no, she hadn't seen him since that day she'd spent at Kaoru's – oh, and that had been fun – except for a chance meeting as she came out of the kitchens a couple of days ago, where he had barely looked at her and hurried past without a word.
She'd pulled out every recent memory of him and scrutinized them all diligently, and found nothing to account for all his oddness. Nothing she'd done, or said, or implied. She thought about him waiting outside for her that long, and couldn't figure out why; she thought about his sudden departure from her room that same night, and couldn't understand that either. But there were a lot of things she didn't understand about him, and she was used to overlooking them.
"Miss Misao?"
"Hm?"
"I have a question."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. That meant get on with it."
"Oh, right. Okay."
"Kaoru …"
"No, sorry, just thinking. You know Kenshin, don't you? I mean, of course you know him, but … okay, Kenshin."
Misao paused, waited. "Yes. Kenshin."
"I like Kenshin."
Another beat of silence, then, "Yes, he's likeable enough. I like him too."
Kaoru gulped. "Not that like!"
"Oh." Misao blinked. "Sorry. I don't like him at all, in that case. Go on."
"He doesn't like me."
"Oh, I'm sure he does – "
"Not that like!"
She grinned in reply. "Yeah, I know – "
Kaoru glared at her from her position near the grate, where she sat blushing and making a mess on the carpet with the coals in her bucket. "Look, I . . . God, I don't even know why I'm asking you, it's not like you'd know anything about how to deal with this – "
"Hey!"
" – but I can't say anything to Sano or Yahiko, though I daresay they know already, prying blockheads that they are – and Megumi – she's my sister, I know, but she's such a flirt, my God, always hanging over Kenshin and I know she's not serious and I know she knows I – like – him, but I just can't tell her . . . and Tsubame and all the rest . . . I mean, I'd be insane to even mention it to them …"
"Yeah, okay, okay, I get it, I'm your last choice. What do you want me to do?"
"See!" said Kaoru, chucking a lump of coal across the room. It left a black mark on the opposite wall. "I knew this was a bad idea."
Misao looked at her, at her uncomfortable posture and the tenseness in her fingers, at the worry in her eyes, and suddenly realised this was far more serious than she'd been taking it to be. Sure, she knew Kenshin and Kaoru were – just that, Kenshin and Kaoru, always going together, always mentioned at the same time, inseparably, but she never thought . . . never thought it wasn't a consummated relationship, wasn't something agreed upon and accepted and declared.
But she had absolutely no idea what to say.
"Look, um, Kaoru," she said, clearing her throat uncertainly, "at least . . . just try, okay? To tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong," said Kaoru venomously, as if the word wrong was the cause of all her troubles. "Everything's exactly as it was. Nice and normal and not wrong."
"Which is the problem," said Misao astutely.
"No, really?" said Kaoru, with uncharacteristic sarcasm.
"I meant – "
"Of course that's the problem! I mean, we've been like that for ever and ever. It's always been 'Kaoru-dono this' and 'Kaoru-dono that' and so protective in times of crisis or worry or anything, but the minute that's over, it's like he was never inches away – or never came close to even – "
"Uh, okay, not asking for the details!" she cut in hastily.
Kaoru coughed, blushed, and stuttered to a stop. "It's just – we've been like this for as long as I can remember. Not sure of this, not sure of that, and what happens now? How do we – get on with it? I just don't know . . ."
Misao sat and watched her, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, unsure of what to say. Not sure how Kaoru would take any advice she had to give – if she had any to give at all, which she didn't, not at this point. Finally, she said, "I know he likes you. That like."
She looked up at her, eyes bright but not surprised. "You think so? Really?"
"Definitely. It's obvious enough."
"Then why doesn't he do anything about it?"
She didn't have an answer to that. Not really. "Well – maybe – maybe he thinks you don't, you know, feel the same way . . . or . . . or that what if he ruined your nice normalness if he made a move . . . or . . . well, for the same reason you don't do anything about it."
Kaoru 'pfft'ed that easily enough. "I'm the girl," she said, as if that excused everything.
Misao was stumped by that one – it wasn't the reason she wouldn't put herself forward, if she was in a situation like that, but if that was how Kaoru thought . . . "I think, from what I know of Himura, he's being noble and thinks he doesn't – deserve? – you … you know, the usual crap. Appreciable, maybe, 'cause it's nice to know the guy thinks so – it is, right? – but really frustrating when you get down to it."
Kaoru looked at her suspiciously. "Who gave you that speech?"
"Omasu."
"Thought so."
After a pause, Misao said, "But it makes sense, ne? 'Course, Omasu-san was using it in a totally different situation, but it . . . fits. Really fits Himura and his atonement spiel."
"Yeah," said Kaoru despondently. "I know. How do you snap him out of it, though? I mean, according to Sano – and yes, Sano has no second thoughts about talking to me even though I can't discuss this with him properly – he says he doesn't want to take advantage of my trust. Please!"
"Total crap," Misao sighed commiseratingly. "That's what I – Omasu – I! – mean. You've given him a pretty trusted position in your house, and in your head, and all . . . and . . . he doesn't want to spoil that?"
"Say it again, and more convincingly this time," said Kaoru cuttingly.
Misao grinned and went on, warming to her theory, "He thinks you trust him with all these things, and living near you, and so on . . . and he can't possibly ask for more . . . so he doesn't . . . oh, and – and he wants you to be young and live your life and be happy and he can't make you happy because he's so old – how old is Himura, anyway? – and – "
"Stop making him sound like some romantic hero," snapped Kaoru, hands on her hips, but she didn't protest the way she could have – in fact, she seemed pretty taken with the thought of it.
Misao laughed, continued, "And he's probably imagining living by your side all your life, watching you get married, loving your children as if they were his own – "
"Misao!"
"Doing laundry with you, because your tyrannical husband doesn't help out, he sits and drinks and makes your life miserable, but Himura – ah, Himura will be your only comfort, your only source of love and what it means to be alive – " She broke off, caught by a flying pillow in the face, the rest of her words lost in a mouthful of goose feathers.
"Write a book, why don't you!" shrieked Kaoru, another pillow at the ready.
She emerged from the pillow cascade laughing, and by the time Kaoru left, the room was a much bigger mess than it had been when she'd come in to clean it.
~*~
"Knock, knock."
"It's open."
"I can see that. Can I come in?"
"If you want."
She shut the door behind her when she came, heading straight for the drawn drapes in his room. He was sitting at his desk, a sliver of light pouring in from the gap in the curtains – which she'd now thrown fully open – onto the papers he was going through.
"Can I do anything for you?" he said after a second.
"Um . . . noo . . . are you busy?"
"Yes."
"Oh well." She perched herself on the armrest of the chair on the other side of his desk, grinning widely. "I was bored, thought I'd come and talk to you. To you, get it?" She half-laughed, caught his stony expression and stopped. "Okay, not funny. But it's not my joke – Omasu's. And – uh – don't fire her for it, will you?"
Getting no response – and, honestly, expecting none – she went on, "Hadn't seen you in days, so I thought I'd just come up and . . . you know . . . talk." She couldn't help laughing again, but it was short-lived and high-pitched. "So . . . uh . . . what're you working on?"
"It's confidential."
"I'm confident."
"Misao."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, okay. Universe-destroying secret, I'm sure . . . don't want me to know, because who knows, I'd blow up the world . . ."
"Who knows," he agreed, dropping his head back to his work.
"You were supposed to argue with that," she pointed out, determined to get him to talk – to talk the awkwardness out, the avoidance, if nothing else.
His voice was distant, inattentive. "Mm-hm . . ."
"Aoshi-sama!"
She hadn't thought she'd actually reached across and snatched the paper out of his hands, but there she was, holding a suspiciously torn-looking sheet full of typing in one hand, and staring down into his eyes – wide, surprised eyes – at the same time. Surprised? Actually surprised?
"You've ripped it," he said, and his voice was not quite as calm as always.
"G-Gomen! I didn't mean to! It just – that is – it's your fault!"
"You tore my work."
"You were being annoying!"
"You tore my work."
"You asked for it! And besides, I didn't mean to – "
"Give it to me." If she didn't know better, she'd have thought he mumbled.
She handed it back to him, red-faced with both anger and embarrassment. "It's not that badly torn," she said, in what she hoped was an apologetic voice. She pointed towards the edge of the paper, where a few words had been lost in what was anything but a neat tear. "I'm sure you can just pin it back together . . . or . . . something . . ."
He looked as if he was going to say something, but instead he just shook his head helplessly and started placing the two pieces of paper back together. He could be angrier, she mused hopefully, watching how he adjusted the paper, eyes narrowed and not-so-icy blue.
"You haven't lost me the code, at least," he said in a voice that told her that she might not still be living in this house if she had, indeed, lost him the code.
"Ah," she said, in a voice that said she understood completely. "That's good then."
He didn't answer, which made her think that maybe in his opinion her not living here might not be such a bad thing. She looked at him fit the sheet together, then pull out a thin, velvet-covered folder and place it carefully inside, putting the folder away for future usage.
"I didn't mean to do it," she said.
He nodded, steepling his fingers. Classic lecture stance.
"You just weren't listening." She meant to make it sound matter-of-fact, normal, and just that tiny bit sorry . . . she thought it came out whiny and annoyed.
"My work is not a joke, Misao." Ah, here it came. "It is not a vase that can be replaced, or a dress that can be stitched back together." How did he know she tore her skirt from hip to knee yesterday? "I expect you to understand that, and to respect that."
She said, "Hai, Aoshi-sama," just to put him off.
"If I don't get this done, there will eventually be no food on the table. If my standard drops, there will – "
"I know that part of the speech!" She rolled her eyes. "God, you sound just like Kaoru yelling at Yahiko!"
That one really should have unnerved him, but all he said was, "Maybe that is because Kaoru understands responsibility and you do not."
"Yahiko does not."
He didn't correct himself, which only made her fume. She looked at him picking up a fountain pen, tip shining in the light, studying it carefully, and it suddenly occurred to her that there was something almost – satisfied – about him. Something almost joyful, despite the fact that he'd delivered a very convincing speech and that she'd just ripped up the paper he was working on.
"You felt like tearing that up, didn't you?" she said, with awed realisation.
And there it was again, that look where his eyes half-closed in preparation for the smile that never ever came, but the one she waited for anyway, where there were little wrinkles around his mouth and laughter in his eyes – it was there, she knew it – it was going to come out any second now, and his face would break and the stoniness would disappear …
"Let's just say I'm not as angry as I could be," he said, voice expressionless.
She grinned, widely, opened her mouth to say something along the lines of 'I knew it!' and that he was just shallow and emotional like she was, wanting to vent frustration on a piece of paper, but he preempted her.
"Which does not mean that my work is unimportant, or to be shredded every time a code cannot be broken." There was seriousness here, and slight iciness too, and she needed to assure him that she got it, because he was right, and he needed to know she thought that.
"But shredding is good for the soul," is what came out.
"Misao – "
"Don't worry. Your work is not cheese."
He blinked, and let it go. Leaning back in his chair, he touched the tip of the pen with his fingers, and watched the blue dot of ink spread into the invisible ridges on the pad of his thumb. She thought about what to say next, now that he showed no sign of pulling out another document and dismissing her without glance or word, but somehow her mind was empty of all conversation, focused only on the spreading ink-stain on his hand, on the skin that wasn't actually that far away, only a couple of feet – the expanse of the desk between them.
"Have you had lunch?"
"Kind of."
"Have you had lunch, Misao?"
"Yes."
"But you're hungry again."
"Yes."
He put the fountain pen down, and her eyes tracked the drop of ink quivering on its tip all the way from the shining silver to the carpeted floor. Nice hands, she thought dumbly, as he got up and went to the door, calling for Okon. She listened to Okon's running footsteps, and to his voice asking for two trays sent up for lunch immediately, instead of the one that would be sent half an hour later, and thought of how unacceptable this was, sitting here ready to talk and make pointless conversation just for the heck of it, and instead thinking about the fact that he had nice hands . . . and that the ink-stain was pretty, all blue and spreading on his skin . . . so slowly . . .
"How are your lessons going?" he asked, when he sat down again, and she answered quickly, because him starting a conversation was a novelty.
"Not so bad. Languages are disgusting . . . why do I need to learn French? I can barely speak English! And mathematics isn't quite so horrible, because I keep thinking about money and it makes me feel better . . . but . . . all these books I'm expected to read . . . I just don't see the point."
He looked thoughtful, for a moment, before he said, "Have you been to the library here?"
She blinked. "There's a library here?"
"Yes. It's on the third floor . . . just above this room, actually. There's a huge collection of books, some of which even you might not mind reading."
"I mind reading all kinds," she told him honestly, and she thought maybe his face fell, just slightly. She hurried to explain, "I just don't get the point. I don't get involved, I don't care to read something about people I don't know, and don't want to know, and places I'll never see, and things I've never heard of. And even if I have . . . it's just someone's story. I don't care about them."
He nodded, accepting her viewpoint, and she said, "You like reading, don't you?"
"Yes." His answer was immediate, his eyes slightly faraway. "For me . . ." His voice faded away, and she was sure he wasn't going to tell her what it was like for him, why books mattered to him, that he was just going to close up and fade away, but his voice strengthened and he went on, though he didn't look at her, "For me, those people and those places are sometimes the only things that are real. Sometimes those are the only people I care about, and the only people that care about me. The books . . . they . . . all of them, everything in them, is mine. They belong to me."
She wanted to laugh at him, make some joking comment about obsessive-compulsive urges and fob it off. But he was so serious, and he was telling her this, and she hadn't even poked and prodded like she sometimes did, and his voice was low and deep and he built a world when he spoke, built books and people and reality, and she realized that her father with his droning voice and his lectures of education had known nothing about books, about reading, cared nothing about books, and that she learnt they were things to be read and despised . . . not loved and believed in, like he did. She didn't know books could be real, books could matter like this, but there it was, in his eyes, in the half-surfacing dreams she could see in his face.
"Which is your favourite?" she asked, trying to keep her voice low, like his. "'Cause I'll read that."
He opened his mouth, and this time she didn't doubt that he would tell her. But his lips remained parted for the longest time, and nothing came out, until finally there was almost a smirk – she'd seen him smirk before, and though his lips curved, there was nothing like a smile about it, no amusement, just dry cynicism that scared her – and he said, "I doubt you would enjoy it."
She looked down, feeling as if she had given the wrong answer to something she knew by heart, as if she was supposed to pass a test that she'd never realised was one. Some part of her wanted to cry, some part was angry, and the rest was just disappointed, staring at the dark brown of her skirt as if it held all the mysteries of his head.
And then he said, voice quiet, "But there are some books you could try on the shelves on the right wall – the library isn't difficult to navigate, you'll know what I mean when you get to it." Another pause, then, "I like some of those."
She was surprised she didn't gasp out loud. This was – amendment. This was a put-down – not quite, but she had thought it was – and something that could almost be an apology, coming from someone like him. As if he regretted rebuffing her attempt at – what was it? Friendship? She didn't think so – and wanted to make it up to her.
"I will!" she said, nodding vigorously. "Though – if I'm really slow – you won't mind, will you, Aoshi-sama?"
He shook his head, picking up the fountain pen again, and she cut her eyes sharply from it to his face, where she kept them fixed. Her thoughts went all strange if his hands moved like that, so soft and slow, and the way the skin pressed in where the silvery tip rested against his fingers . . .
He was telling her that Charles Dickens didn't drag as much as she thought he did if she would actually listen to what he was trying to say rather than the story he was telling and she was arguing that she had no idea what the difference between both was when Okon came in with a tray balanced on each hand, the smell of steaming meat coming off both. She looked at them both and grinned, "My, my, Misao-chan. A literary conversation. I never would have expected it of you."
She stuck out her tongue at her. "You just walked in on my first mention of a book," she said.
Aoshi opened his mouth, and then shut it again as if he had never meant to say anything when Okon arched an eyebrow at Misao and Misao glared right back. "Whatever you say, Misao-chan," said Okon coolly, then winked so broadly at Aoshi that Misao choked on the stew she'd raised to her mouth.
Grinning, Okon was chased out by incoherent screaming and a red face.
~*~
She wasn't the kind of person who indulged in self-analysis, not usually. She didn't lie in bed after the day was over and think about everything she'd done and everything people had said and what horrible thing she planned never to do again. She lay, stared at the ceiling, and thought about tomorrow. She was the kind of person, Jiya said, who always thought about tomorrow. He called it foresight, her mother had called it optimism, and she herself called it planning.
She thought, today, that her mother might have the right of it.
Tonight was different. Everything just seemed slightly off, tonight. She'd changed, but the nightdress scratched against her skin oddly, and she felt all tight inside, as if she hadn't had enough exercise today and there was something missing before she could go to sleep. The candle on her bedside table – she still slept on the floor, but kept the candle above her on the table – didn't burn as brightly as usual . . . the flame was low and flickering, giving off clouds of smoke that made the room a little hazy, and her thoughts a little fuzzy around the edges.
She thought about him.
She thought about what she thought about him, and what he might think about her, and what every little look and every little smile meant, and she thought about what she wanted and what she thought she wanted. She thought of all the formless wants in the pit of her stomach, and the slightly blurry outlines of the room, and wondered if he thought things like this. Because it was so easy to convince herself, here, in the dim light and the smell of burning wax, that he did, that maybe he ached like she did, right now.
And she knew, when she'd wake up in the morning, that she'd blush and refuse to think about thinking all these things, and the candle would be out and the sunlight would be clear and sharp and the room would be bright and her thoughts wouldn't be dulled, and she would think that she didn't like him the way she thought she liked him, sometimes.
She turned over, too hot in her clothes, and wondered how much she really liked him, now. Right now, in the dimly-outlined dark and the warmth created by the coals in the fireplace. Too much. Liked him too much. Not the way good girls liked men. But when had it ever bothered her what good girls did, what good girls were supposed to want? She'd never been a 'girl', not the way girls were supposed to be, and … Too much. Liked him too much.
Was it love?
Love? How could it be love, when she didn't even know him as well as she would like, when he never opened up to her and they never had a conversation she didn't initiate? How could it be love, when the only times she thought like this were moments where she was too close or time just seemed – off. Wrong. Like now. How could it be love, when she didn't even know what she wanted from him?
Oh, she thought she knew; she wanted to talk and have him talk, and wanted to have a friend who cared, and that was all. But that wasn't true. She knew it wasn't true, and she'd known it for a while now. She was just . . . so confused. Just wanted him to smile at her when she was near, just wanted to be nearer than she was, just wanted so many – other – things right now . . . just wanted to talk, sometimes, and she didn't understand how she could want so many different things at the same time.
And she wasn't even seventeen yet. Old enough by Japanese standards, but she knew nothing about English law, and . . . what was she thinking? How far was she taking this?
She was never going to go to sleep like this. She didn't want to get up, not at all, just wanted to remain curled in a tight little ball until all these feelings went away, but she forced herself to sit up, to fan herself with the cloth of the nightie as she hoisted herself to her feet. The room seemed too small, almost claustrophobic, the warmth intoxicating, and she yanked the door open to clear it of the vibrating air created by the smoke.
The blast of cool air from the hallway was the most beautiful thing she'd ever felt, and she could feel the sweat soaking her clothes drying. Picking up the candle, still pouring gouts of smoke, she stuck her feet into the velvet slippers she only wore when going to the bathroom and stepped out into the corridor, letting the drafts of cold air caress her as she walked. It felt much like a cold shower did in summer; as if her mind had just snapped back to her body, and that the world was clearer, less confused and blurry.
She thought for a second that she would go and find the library he had spoken about; maybe reading a book she knew he liked would help put her to sleep – if there was one thing books were good for, it was putting her to sleep. But she decided instead to make her way down to the kitchen and find a new candle. It wasn't really necessary, because a single candle could never give off enough smoke to be dangerous, but she thought that making the room smell a little less murky might help.
She was only halfway down the first flight of stairs when she heard voices. For a second she was sure she was hearing things – no one would be up at this time, and if awake, would never be wandering around. By the time she'd realised the voices were very real and very definitely approaching, she had only managed another four steps and wasn't out of sight when two men rounded the top of the staircase, stopping short when they saw her.
"Misao," said Aoshi. Absolute shock there, on his face, if not in his voice.
"Aoshi-sama!" she managed, eyes flicking between him and the man with him, not quite as tall and with fuzzy side-burns and a top hat. "I – was just – "
"Well, Shinomori – " began the man uncomfortably.
"Symonds, this is my ward, Makimachi Misao," said Aoshi, and his eyes were icier than the wind and his face as shut off as it had ever been. "Misao, I work with Mr. Symonds here."
"Pleasure to meet you, Miss – " She could literally see the man thinking, his mind trying to process whether her surname was Makimachi or Misao and which he should use either way. " – Makimachi."
She smiled at him, because she couldn't think of a good response. She thought they'd walk on, then, but Symonds just stayed there and continued looking at her, and Aoshi was looking too, but more at the banister behind her than at her, and she was suddenly aware of the fact that the nightdress had no sleeves and that it was plastered to her with sweat, and she knew she didn't exactly have body-parts the way some women already had at her age, but it was still indecent, and that was why Aoshi was being so cold to the man – and she could just imagine what Symonds had been thinking about her and Aoshi, about a girl not wearing all that many clothes and wandering around in the middle of the night –
Her cheeks burned, the candle wobbling in her grasp. "I just came down to get another candle, Aoshi-sama," she said, looking at him very carefully and ignoring the other man. "Sorry to bother you."
He nodded, short and abrupt, and jerked his head towards the bottom of the stairs. "Get it, then."
She was surprised she didn't roll down half the steps in her haste to get to the kitchens. God, she'd known it was a bad idea to leave her room and go wandering about the manor in the middle of the night, but she'd never thought . . . The candle she took down from the shelf above her head shook in her hand as she lit the wick from the one already burning, and she couldn't blow out the smoking one in the first go. It took her four tries.
She thought they would both be long gone by the time she went back upstairs, and she was partially right. It was only Aoshi waiting at the top of the stairs for her, face shuttered and eyes hard. Her throat clenched; she stopped two steps below him and craned her neck to look up.
"You should not be wandering around at night without something warm to cover you."
She supposed that was the most tactful way he could tell her that she was indecently dressed, and her face flamed despite the fact that his words were not that harsh. "I thought I would be back to my room really quickly."
She half-hoped he would sigh and let it go, but he didn't. "This is not acceptable, Misao. You aren't a little girl, and you can't go running around like this whenever you want."
That wasn't being very indirect, or very tactful. But she supposed he didn't have to beat around the bush, didn't have to be extra polite to her; he was her guardian, and he had a right to tell her off whenever he thought it appropriate. Not that she was going to stand here and take it. "I'm sorry," she said in a tone that didn't sound very sorry at all. She didn't mean it to.
"And you really could catch cold," he said, and she thought she might catch it from his voice.
"Like you care," she shot back, and instantly knew she shouldn't have.
If she had thought his eyes were cold before, well, now they were sub-zero. His face hardened, lips tightening in a way that made her want to take two steps back and then run like hell. She gulped, hands fisting in the flimsy material of the nightdress – and it was getting cold as the sweat filming her skin evaporated – and stammered, "I'm sorry! I didn't mean that, I know you care, it's just – I was just – "
He didn't say anything. Not one word. His expression didn't flicker one bit. He turned on his heel and walked up the stairs, turned left to get to his room, and as she caught the look on his face as he turned the corner, it was still exactly the same.
She wrapped her hands around herself and shivered. This was her fault. This was absolutely and completely her fault. She knew he cared, she knew she shouldn't walk around half-dressed, she knew he only meant it so that she wouldn't be embarrassed by other people – but she had been, embarrassed and angry and she'd said it and she was so stupid . . .
Running up after him and apologizing now would just rub it in further, the fact that she wasn't wearing anything proper and she was still willing to flit around the manor despite what he'd just said. She massaged her arms as she dragged her feet back upstairs, and to the suddenly welcome warmth of her room, thinking that she might finally be able to sleep now. Crying always exhausted you enough.
~*~