A/N: I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.

Habits have a tendency to come creeping without you even knowing it. In retrospect, Shiro didn't know when he had resigned to his fate as Satan's vessel. He just noticed how big the difference was, when he started to actively try and interact with people again. Broken connections are hard to fix. You can make them work, but there will always be splices visible, and the occasional static buzzing through the line.

The trial by fire would come in March, on Midori's day. She had been very clear on the point that it was her day, not her birthday: everyone was invited to celebrate it, although nobody told Shizuku that Shiro was invited, too. The idea was, put simply, to make them talk to each other.

Because Shiro had promised that he would try.

"And your important homework…?"

There were more trials than getting Shizuku on speaking terms, and not all of them were confined to March.

"It's still a month left", Shiro enlightened as he dropped his schoolbag on one of the gaudy cushions of the tower.

The tinted window panes spilled rainbows of spring sun into the studiolo, and you could almost imagine how the light stuck in the thick, sweet smell that hung in the air. It was the time of year when you started waking up to birdsong again, green started to creep up between yesteryear's leaves again, and you were once again reminded how bothersome those small fruit flies can be, when they are literally everywhere and never leave you alone. A bit like Samael.

"Something tells me I will be hearing the same excuse on Holy Saturday", said demon remarked with a thin eyebrow arching upwards.

"If you keep bitching about it, then yes."

Shiro pictured her in his mind for an instant. Breathed in her scarred smile, her tanned body, her hair spilled out over white sheets. Breathed in the jarring shadows of ribs and hip bones under her skin; oxygen for the fire that fuelled him.

Whatever it took. Whatever it took to ensure Kasumi didn't have to starve to come and visit him.

"I will pick one. I just haven't decided yet", he replied, setting his calm in solid determination.

It's not what you say, but how you say it.

It was something his mom used to say. She'd said it like the words contained some secret compartment he would one day find, with deep meaning hidden inside it. It had seemed suitably mysterious, back when he'd been doing his homework at the kitchen table under her supervision. He'd pictured it like passing notes between the benches in the classroom; like a message you could send that only select people would understand. Like a secret language.

Nothing like Italian.

His vocabulary was steadily growing: as was his vocabulary of words for everything he did wrong with it. Over the weeks, Shiro became silently grateful that he was learning Italian and not Greek, since he was quite sure that he would never be able to say a word like anaptyxis, even if Samael claimed he used that all the time.

"…che prendeva a calci la macchina e poi sfondava il vetro. Mentre trafficava con il freno a mano, il capolavoro si è concluso. End of dictation."

"I can't fucking write Italian", Shiro sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. There was the thin, hissing sound of the demon sliding his dictation over for scrutiny.

He would do this, for Kasumi – if only his stupid brain could focus and get it right. He did his damnedest, practised writing until he ran out of paper and read until his eyes bled out of their sockets, but it was like he just couldn't grasp it. It had been the same with English. He'd settled for just passing that, thinking he wouldn't need to use English again. Italian he would use. Extensively. It would be his stepping stone to studies in Latin – or so they had intended, at least.

Shiro had been given books to read, children's books, and he still couldn't get the hang of it. He had been given drill exercises in writing Latin letters, and his handwriting still looked like an eight-year-old's. An eight-year-old with visual impairment. He made progress in speaking, sure: he could even pin the l:s at least 70% of the time, unless faced with tongue twisters like altro. He had no problem following spoken Italian, as long as it wasn't too fast-paced. The body language was nothing he cared to learn, no matter how important Samael seemed to think it was.

On the whole, Shiro could probably place an order at a restaurant, and pick his way through an average conversation. He was nowhere near reading Italian course literature and writing university papers.

"You had the same problem with English, I recall…" the demon mused, eyeing through the letters that stumbled awkwardly on each other's heels. "It looks to me like you're dyslectic."

"What are you on about?" he snorted. "I can read Japanese just fine. It's other languages that are the problem."

"That fits the description, actually." The demon twirled the ends of a gold-wrapped caramel between his fingers. The plastic bag on the table said W… e-r… ht… Imported goods for his fanciness' tastes, at any rate. "It's not unheard of that one whose native language uses a logographic writing system, like Japanese, can discover himself to be dyslectic when faced with an alphabetic one, such as the system English and Italian use. An unexpected obstacle, I do say." The golden caramel had shed the wrapping paper and was on its way to be eaten. "I could amend that - but then I would need something in return."

…There settled a brief, incredulous silence over the Renaissance studiolo, while Samael munched unperturbed on his sweets. Something in return? The bastard had the nerve to suggest yet another deal?

"If you knew how tantalizing that look is on your features", he snickered, turning the caramel slowly in his mouth. Taking his time. Savouringboth the taste and the view. "No need to make such a face: I did promise to do everything in my power to ensure your success, didn't I? I'm a man of my word", he spread his hands with a languid smile, "and I will help you. I just can't do it for free."

"Can't just add another magic cross to my glasses cord, then? Or that was a one-time freebie to promote your services?" he retorted dryly.

"There's quite the difference between working magic on a pair of glasses and working magic on a living, breathing human being, you know", he smiled. "Objects I can alter as I please, and despite what you may think your glasses aren't part of your person. This is no mere optical distortion we're discussing: this is inside your head.I would need to reach in and modify the connections in your brain – alter your visual perception altogether. That", he raised a gloved finger to point out the importance of his words, "I can't do unless you", the finger tipped forward at Shiro, "surrender something of equal value. I will give you the most generous offer possible, I guarantee."

Shiro couldn't help but raise his eyebrows sceptically at the mention of "generous". Nonetheless, it was an offer circumstances forced him to consider. He had to be able to read and write to complete his mission: he could probably pull it off through sheer effort, but he was well acquainted with what a stressed schedule did to one's judgement and general functionality. It was a good offer…

…And the arrogant fuck offering it had risen out of his chair and sauntered over to Shiro's end of the small table, acting like it was a done deal already.

"What would something of equal value be?" he questioned, staring straight ahead and refusing to look up at Samael. "Auditory perception?"

"Would be, yes, but you need that as much as you need your visuals. If we consider what would be least detrimental for you to lose, I would say your perception of time."

Personal space is an alien concept to demons. Samael had assimilated that social custom perfectly, in public, but in private he saw no reason to respect people's personal spheres – or to leave their glasses strings alone. As if humans were just pieces of furniture, there for his convenience to fiddle with as he pleased. As if he owned them.

"Well, doesn't he?" The words were bitter on his tongue even if he didn't utter them. Bitter, cynical… and true.

"Such a sacrifice would make it hard for you to gauge how much time has passed between one moment and another, and you might have some difficulty recalling in which order events have occurred unless there is a clear cause-and-effect relation between them." The cross-shaped bead he'd played with slid from his fingers, back to dangling from Shiro's glasses. "You could call it dyslexia of temporal perception – nothing you can't compensate for with a wristwatch and a calendar."

"…And if you just slightly improve my ability to read and write, would I be just slightly worse at gauging time?"

"Always equal exchange, little lion."

For a brief moment, Shiro was fully occupied with imagining the sweet feeling of his fist connecting with the demon's temple.

"Right… Can we take it by degree? So I can see how big the difference is." Shiro breathed out and rose – and checked an impulse to flinch away from the fingers that threaded into his hair.

"Certainly~"

…It reminded him of when Samael had examined his hair, after the discovery that it had gone permanently white. The soft pressure, the cautious touch of claw-tips; bony fingers that almost held their breath, for fear of handling the delicate porcelain of his skull too roughly. Shiro let his eyes wander the walls of the tower room, search for cover behind intarsia doors and windows barricaded by weeping remnants of snow. Search for cover from that… that.

Yeah, it reminded him of that time his hair had gone white. Something in the touch of ten warm fingertips on temples and scalp that seemed to touch so much more.

His mom had been right. Secret language, passing messages. It's not what you say, but how you say it.

Samael had assured him that the brain had no sensory receptors of its own, that he wouldn't feel a thing; still, there was… something. A presence. A closeness. Something he felt outside the range of nerves and receptors. Outside the range of his will.

"Shit. He'll notice. He'll notice for sure."

It had been there a long time now. He hadn't noticed until summer holidays, but it must have been there ever since he'd gotten the imprint. Miraculously, Samael hadn't discovered it. Things could have been so much worse if he had.

"And will be if he does", he thought sardonically, and hoped he had arranged his features in a non-suspicious manner. Act natural. He should be good at that by now.

Eternity passed before Samael retracted his fingers. He hadn't noticed…? Or he thought Shiro was letting his guard down on purpose? Whatever. Act like nothing. Don't rouse suspicion.

A secret language only one of them was aware of. Messages sent with no words and infinite interpretations. It's not what you touch, but how you touch.

The demon slid the dictation back to him, still with no indication that he had noticed anything off. And Shiro could read it. He could understand the sentences, without his eyes stuttering over words – and he saw clearly the places where he had turned the letter s backwards. He noticed a p where it should have been a q, and…

"There's a difference", he murmured, nodding in amazement as letters joined together in words before his eyes. "There's definitely a difference. Hand me that pen."

Shiro vividly remembered the day he got his first pair of glasses. It had been summer, and there had been an ice cream stand on the way that he had desperately pleaded his parents to stop at, so that maybe they'd forget the errand altogether. Grown-ups didn't do such things, though. They had promised he would get ice cream later, after they had picked up his glasses.

He had told his parents he didn't want any, that glasses were for sissies, but the optician's verdict had been absolute: nine-year-old Fujimoto was too myopic to go without.

Nine-year-old Fujimoto was no more inclined to care about such an opinion than nineteen-year-old Fujimoto was. The glasses had arrived in a simple black box – square, ugly things – and he had plain refused to wear them.

The optician had been frustrated. His mom had been embarrassed; she only fidgeted with her wristwatch like that when she was embarrassed. It gave him that horrible, horrible feeling of being a bad son, but he fought it down with the argument that they were just as bad parents. No reminders of ice cream could make him budge.

Eventually, his dad had bent his creaky knees and sat down on his haunches, level with his moping son. He'd pointed at the tangle of electric cables on the pole outside the window, and asked if Shiro knew what bird it was that sat there. He remembered turning his head, and squinting at the blurry shape… and then the glasses had been placed on his nose from behind. They had hung awkwardly from one ear, and poked into his other in a very uncomfortable way.

He still remembered how his mouth had dropped open in chagrin, when he saw that the "bird" was a broken umbrella – but what he remembered even clearer was how the world all of a sudden was there. Fuzzy lines turned sharp and organised themselves into fences, trees, buildings, roofs… It's something you remember vividly; no matter how many years that pass, you remember the first time you see the same world as everyone else.

Tip of his tongue clamped between his teeth in concentration, Shiro bent over the table while correcting his spelling and turning right letters that he had reversed. He read the dictation through once more, thoroughly, and spotted one or two additional mistakes. Then, he handed the paper back to Samael.

"Think I can pull through university like this?"

The green eyes scanned the writing - frowned at a few remaining mistakes, but ultimately…

"You still spell quella as q-e-l." He left the paper to lie flat on the desk. "But if you put in the additional manual work, you can. So, with that issue solved; let's head on to the next, shall we?" he said in chipper business tones, and looked very much like a comfortable CEO seating himself for negotiation when he returned to his chair.

When a demon adopts a business tone, it means that the business is his, and you are merely an employee being informed of your next task. At least that'swhat it meant in Samael's case. Rather than follow suit and sit, Shiro remained standing.

"I'm an avid supporter of sin in all its forms", Samael smiled cordially, "but at the present both you and I need to display a certain degree of virtue to pass for acceptable in the Vatican's eyes. There can be no doubt in Rome that you live in celibate and that any temptation towards the carnal is overruled by zeal."

"What makes you think I'd give them reason to doubt?" he questioned coolly.

Shiro knew the answer. He knew the answer, and he hated the saccharine smile that curled the corners of Samael's lips.

"Can't keep yer emotions in check when I'm around, Fuji~?" he mimicked, word for word, and added in the whole damn bedroom-eyes-and-seductive-voice act on top of it.

"Don't. Do that." Damn him and his talent for impersonation, damn his fucking ability to manipulate space and make his voice sound like hers; damn his disgusting habit of spying on people…! "I get your point: and you let me handle that. You're not going near Kasumi." Wrong words. Forbid a demon anything and he would go out of his way to do it. "This is between you, me, and Tanzi, remember?" he said through clenched teeth. "We're the ones who chose to play this game, and you promised nobody else would get involved. Be a man of your word and let me take care of Kasumi."

"Hear the lion roar~" Samael twirled another golden caramel by its wrapping ends and snickered happily. "Very well, then. Make sure Miss Honda understands that your relation must be discontinued and the matter is out of the world."

There were many things unsaid in that airy statement. Many clauses and consequences waiting to come into effect in case Shiro didn't get the matter out of the world.

"I hope you rot in hell."

A/N:

Anaptyxis – you know when a Japanese person says "brown" and it comes out as "burown"? That's anaptyxis: inserting auxiliary vowels to make it easier to pronounce consonant clusters.

That thing about dyslexia is true. I don't know if maybe you were already aware of that, but it fascinated me to no end when I first learnt of it. It's true in the reversed case, too: Western dyslectics can find themselves "non-dyslectic" when learning, for example, Mandarin or Japanese.

Dear Dare mo
No, it's not that scarf. Yet. It will come. "More on this in Rome…" No, actually, that is after Rome. ;)