Maybe their lives had become idyllic– or at least the closest Soul's had come since the death of his mother. It was him– them. The tender line of their face, the voice, the subtle differences in movement all left Soul questioning. Even worse was Marie's evasiveness, the sly smiles that he knew were borrowed from her husband. There was a lingering secret, and Soul could put no name to it other than them. No matter how much he churned it over in his mind—how many times it had kept him awake he couldn't count—the progression didn't seem to matter. Masao as him, them, or maybe even her… none of it changed the way he yearned for their presence.
And they honored him with it, day in and day out for months without end.
As soon as any kind of boredom would start to settle, Masao would make sure to give some disgruntled grumble before the pages would rustle until their melodic, strong voice would fill the room. Soul had never cared for books—he had learned to read and only that—but listening to the tales woven around the room made it all seem real rather than imagined. The kitsune peeked from his window while the tengu wandered along the eves of the garden. To Soul, it was as if each one had more life than he did just through the power of Masao's voice.
Masao had taken a break, the clatter of a tea cup bringing his attention back to the screen.
Soul eased to sit, leveling his mask near his face. "Are you dressed?"
They scoffed in return. "Of course. It's almost midday."
"Then we're goin' out." He fixed the mask to his face before rising, his steps swift with the insecurity of that order. He considered himself lucky they didn't balk or disobey, especially since the little bit of bravery he was clinging to was only secured by the wisps of their voice still telling stories in the back of his mind long after they were done.
"Where are we going?" Instead of indignance, their question was entirely filled with wonder.
"Out," Soul repeated while continuing his steady steps. Masao stayed right on his heels as they entered the courtyard, but he could feel his shadow disappearing as they hit the walk along the main house.
"You mean outside?"
He didn't slow, knowing that roots would grow from his feet if he even dreamed of it. "Yeah. To town."
Their hurried steps brought a whispering but stern voice behind him: "Soul, you don't leave."
"How would you know?" he spat back quickly, but there was too much trembling for it to hold venom.
"I've been here seven months, my lord," they corrected sourly, but the worry clung right back to the rest, "so I think I know very well that you don't leave. You've barely ever left the courtyard!"
"In a year," he corrected. "Before you came. Even then, rarely." He tried to wave their whispers off with a weak flick of his wrist. "We have somethin' to do."
"We?"
"Isn't my page supposed to follow me everywhere?" He offered flippantly as his foot crossed that invisible barrier at the front of the house. Here he had to pause, had to feel the stoney cold fingers clutching at the back of his kosode as if his mother's hand was there to stop him. A year– a whole year even though that hand's not real. There isn't anythin' stoppin' me but myself, is there? He pulled in a warbling breath under the mask. "Let's go, Masao."
Each step brought a new bristle of panic, only blossoming further with each face that froze on their first forays out into the street. Color paled from cheeks while whispers flirted dangerously close to his ears:
"... hasn't been out…"
"... couldn't look any more cursed…"
"... next page to die– heard he's an orphan…"
"Masao, you're goin' too slow," he snapped, trying to fake enough frustration to drown out all the rest.
"You know your legs are longer than mine," came punching right back, "and anyway, there's no reason to rush. It's not like what you're looking for is going anywhere if it's been a whole year since you've left."
He tossed his head over his shoulder, catching the cocky little turn of their lips as their chin jutted in some sort of victory. A tentative smile started to catch on his own. "Careful– I was gonna to do somethin' nice for you."
Masao scoffed at that, but their eyebrows still furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Here." He was relieved to find his memory wasn't all grey– that the bookseller his mother used to frequent still had its sign hung slightly askew.
The page's eyes bounced from him to the sign and back again.
"You don't want to go?" he offered playfully as he backed into the road.
"No!" Masao took a step towards the door. "I mean, yes, I do, but–!" Those bright jade eyes darted back and forth again, lingering along what little the doorway gave away of the store inside. "This is where we have to go?"
"Thought you'd want to." Soul stuck an absent hand into his kosode, scratching at an itch that didn't exist. "But if you're not interested…"
"I said I am." With that, Masao turned sharply on their heels and disappeared into the opening.
"Of course you are," Soul murmured with all the sweet amusement that deserved as he followed after his pouting page.
"O-oh, my lord–" The bookkeeper was instantly bowing his head as soon as Soul made it a step into the threshold. "You honor us with your presence."
"Masao," Soul called, trying to grab attention that was already starting to be lost in the stacks. "Masao." He had to repeat before the blonde head bobbed to attention. Once those eyes were on him, Soul turned back to the owner. "This is my page, Masao."
The shopkeep followed Soul's finger down to the boy in question.
"You give him whatever he asks for. I don't care what it is, or how much it costs. Add it to my father's account." He dropped his glare down to Masao, catching the surprise and the start of color on their cheeks. Why are they lookin' at me like that? Am I wrong?
"Thank you," Masao mouthed at him.
Soul was blessed by the mask hiding the jump of his eyebrows, the unsteady heat spreading on his own face. "Find somethin' and come back home." The order warbled unsteadily as he forced his attention back to the owner. "Is that clear?"
"Of course, my lord." The shopkeeper bowed again, eyes staying on Soul's feet as he wavered back to the door.
He shot into the street, footsteps even more hurried without the short legs to wait for. Even with the mask, his hand reached up to touch to the surface, swearing he could feel the warmth radiating even under the wood. In his mind, he could do nothing but watch their lips form those sweet words over and over.
Maka knew the bookkeeper was peeking, stealing glances at her as she crouched next to the stacks. Death forbid any of these idiots be even remotely tactful about it. After Soul's orders there was no reason to attract this fly with honey, so Maka tossed a glare the owner's way instead. "Was there something you needed?"
"D-does his lordship like books?"
She barely swallowed a snicker. No, he likes to be lazy and be read to. I'm not even sure he likes what I'm reading, but he listens. I know he is because whenever I stop I hear him shuffle like he's anxious for the rest, or at least for me to keep speaking. "He sent me here for books so it's safe to assume…"
"He hasn't come here since he was a boy…" The shopkeeper murmured under his breath as if it were some mystical story, though it pulled in Maka all the same.
"With his father?"
"Oh, no," the man admonished. "Only his mother. She was quite the voracious reader. I could never tell if he had any interest—he was rather young—but he followed her all the same. Practically held her hem through the whole store."
The idea of a petite version of Soul following his mother around as her shadow brought a wobbly smile to her face. He loved her, didn't he? So much. And he's just been drifting without her, but now… Maka fingered the spine of a book. I wonder if he thinks of her when I read? An indescribable twinge hit her chest, Maka's hand coming to press over the invisible wound. Is it nothing more than me just reminding him of her?
"Such a pity"—the man tutted through Maka's sweet thoughts—"what happened to her."
Any chance of self-reflection slipped away as her eyes snapped back to the shopkeeper. "How did the lady of the house die?"
A restless sigh left the man's lips. "Bandits on the road, they say. The young lord was with her at the time– the only survivor of the fray."
Maka heard the "but" laced carefully in those words. "What else do they say?"
"Well, only the young lord really knows what happened, but…" The man dipped his head back and forth, checking the stacks before leaning towards her. "When he was found, he was bathed in blood, yet hadn't a wound on him. It wasn't just her guard dead, but the bandits as well. The boy– your master is a monster and you'd do well to run while you still have the chance."
Soul had waited with failing patience for their return but found that the glow of Masao's thank you was gone from their face. Instead, their fingers had tensed so tightly into the books in their arms that their knuckles were white, pleading for blood. Wordlessly—which seemed impossible for Masao to begin with—the page disappeared behind their side of the screen that now seemed to tremble with rage.
He instantly transformed to a child again, that old inkling of fear at the strange parallel of his mother's returns from his father. "M-Masao?" He barely swallowed the embarrassment before continuing, "Did somethin' happen?"
An impossibly long huff of air passed on the other side of the divide. It crawled up his spine to tug painfully at his thoughts. Before he could open his mouth again—though what he was going to produce was entirely beyond him—in a soft but firm whisper, they started: "Your mother was a reader."
There was a strange juxtaposition taking him: somehow, the blood was draining from all of him in a cool fear, while at the same time, a burst of some kind of painful warmth was erupting in his gut. It had most definitely not been a question, but he answered anyway, "Yes."
"Is that why?"
"Why what?" he offered back weakly as those conflicting flashes were still seizing up his body.
"Is that why you listen to me?"
"I–" The answer was a grain of salt within the sand, but he used the quiet to try to pick at it. Masao left him in it, the question firmly lodged as he plucked apart emotions that made little sense to him. "I never thought about it that way," he admitted with an unfamiliar rush of exhilaration tingling from chest to fingers. "I like your readin'… I-I liked my mother's readin'."
"You don't see how those could be connected?" While it came with a little exasperation, there was still a gentle lilt to their voice.
"I guess." Soul ran his knuckles over the tops of his thighs, trying yet again to sift through the mire of his mind. "She used to do it to get me to sleep, but your's… I like the sound of your voice." His heart thundered in his ears. I do. It's not mother I think of when you read. It's… only you. Of the passion you add to each word, or the way your mouth shapes each sound with a half-smile on your lips. "Do you want to stop?"
That was entirely the wrong question as it was instantly answered with another exuberant sigh.
A faint smile started on his lips, stretching to start to show teeth. "Then?"
"I suppose I have to apologize to the book seller."
He tilted his head, threatening to come towards the edge of the screen. "Apologize?"
As if they heard the closeness, Masao's face popped around the edge, painted with a tight frown. "I punched him."
Soul could only blink before letting out a weak laugh.
They rolled their eyes. "Not that hard, but… isn't a man supposed to stand up for his lord?"
Soul shrugged.
"You're supposed to say yes," Masao grumbled. "Have just a little pride for once! He was rude, so I taught him what happens when someone can't hold their tongue. Except… if I'm going to keep reading, I'm going to keep needing books, so I suppose I'll have to make good with him." With another huff, their face disappeared behind the screen.
While he could still toy with the wonder of such a runt throwing a punch, Soul found his mind settling on something he rarely entertained: want. "You'll keep readin'?"
"It's something I actually like, so of course I will–" came the flippant reply. Pages started to flutter, and he waited for Masao to begin but their voice dipped softly again. "You don't want to know what he said?"
"Doesn't matter," Soul answered quickly as he stretched out on the mat, propping up on his elbow.
"Why?" they pressed.
"Why what?" he tried again, this time knowing the answer all too well but not wanting to hear it all the same.
"Why are people allowed to say cruel things about you?"
He rolled onto his back, the weight of that settling on his chest. Because I don't matter. Because I'm a monster. Because what have I actually done to deserve anythin' different?
"They're not," they corrected in his absence. "So I hope you don't expect me to apologize that much."
A smile toyed at the edge of his lips again. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," they replied tersely before the story started again.
