Work Text:
Sumiko was quiet as she huddled under the desk, hidden behind black wood and lacquer designs, staring down at a small textbook, her small hands fumbling with the edges.
She didn’t understand what any of the diagrams meant, or what half of the words she was looking at were, but she knew she wanted to learn them. She traced a small finger over an anatomical drawing of the spine, following from the neck to the pelvis, each vertebrae labeled.
“Inter— Intaverble…” Her voice was small, flat, quiet. She was barely ten, reading words she could hardly pronounce, hoping to impress someone who couldn’t ever be satisfied, “In-ter-ver-table.”
Intervertable Disk.
She read more of the words, quietly mumbling them out loud to herself, making sure she didn’t stutter or stumble.
She shuffles her knees up to her chest, socked feet scuffling over the modern hardwood, bookshelves high above her head.
The wooden floor creaks beyond the door, and Sumiko freezes, eyes shooting towards the sound. The smell is familiar, routine, but it never stops terrifying her.
The smell of blood and decay and sickness, like death itself was wandering its way towards her door, hand clasped around the round, brass handle. Terrifying, but strangely warm and comforting. Tinged with hatred, and an endless fear and frustration.
The door clicks open, and Sumiko can see the bottom of a black silk kimono and white socks. She curls up smaller, hoping to go unnoticed, but her heartbeat was probably heard the moment death stepped up to the door.
She closes her book, a black, titleless journal with an elastic band to hold it shut. It’s old, made of leather, and entirely plain.
Her ruby eyes watch as death walks across the room, right towards her, her feet stopping at the edge of the desk.
“Sumiko.” Her voice is firm, masculine, and very very scary.
Sumiko scrambles to stand up, shoving herself out from under the desk, pushing herself off the ground with one hand, her dark grey sleeves too long for her arms.
“Yes, Lord Muzan..?” She mutters, head down, book held in both hands, demure and polite.
One pale hand reaches out, palm up, and Sumiko rushes to place the journal in it, making sure their skin doesn’t even dare to touch. Her eyes linger on her sharp, pale blue nails, entirely different to Sumiko’s own short, plain ones.
“You’ve been playing around with my books again.” She says, matter of fact, gaze impassive and uncaring, a faint scent of anger coming from her.
“…I’m sorry.”
She heard the soft sound of the book sliding into its rightful place, and then barely prevents a flinch at the feeling of a hand on her back, guiding her out of the study and into a small yet glamorous bedroom. It wasn’t entirely Lord Muzan’s style, but it had traces of her preferences. The bed was unused, the sheets soft and white, the bedframe expensive and black. Books lined the floral walls, an arrangement of white gardenias and carnations.
Lord Muzan taught her some flower arranging, using pots made by the man who smelled like salt and porcelain. Gyokko, she thinks. It was one of the nice moments.
The lord guided her to sit in a stool in front of an expensive looking vanity set, filled with expensive makeup and jewelry and hair products. She felt dirty just looking at it.
“You look terrible, that scar is garish.” She spits, and Sumiko follows her movements through the mirror, watching and feeling her cold hand cover her forehead, then reach to spread open her eyes, “And your hair… simply terrible. You should be ashamed.”
Sumiko doesn’t look down or avert her gaze, simply nodding in a vague agreement.
“While I fix it, you tell me what you learned.” Lord Muzan’s hand lifts her hair, now grown a little past her collarbones, looking at Sumiko through the mirror.
“Um… I saw about the intervertable disk… And it’s how your spine moves…” Muzan tugs softly on her hair, pulling it all to grip at once, leaning over her to grab a short comb, brushing it back into a small, low bun.
“More.”
Sumiko swallows, words falling from her lips as Lord Muzan’s hand lifts brushes her hair, uncharacteristically gentle, never looking at her face, focused on the movements of her own hands.
It’s motherly, in a twisted way. It’s mechanically comforting, the muscle memory of affection soaked in cold death, like a woman’s hand marred with soot.
“It’s fibra— fibrocartiligous… ah—“ Sumiko breaks off with a yawn, reaching up to rub her eyes, feeling tired.
Lord Muzan’s nails rake against her scalp in a soft massage, Sumiko’s hair tied up with a fine black cloth, watching as her heavy eyelids close over her plum eyes.
Lord Muzan frowns, pulling on Sumiko’s ear to wake her up, half smirking at the pained whine it earns, the little girl reaching up to cover both her ears, pouting childishly.
“Don’t pout. Come on.” Muzan grabs her wrist, pulling her off the stool and towards the king sized bed, urging her to climb on, staring uncaringly when the girl only sits at the edge, looking nervous, “Sleep here. I don’t use it.”
Sumiko’s eyes widen, but she knows better than to panic and deny the Lord, so she nods, scooting back and shimmying under the neatly made covers.
Muzan turns away, walking slowly to the door, making hardly a sound against the floor. Her hand is just wrapped around the brass door handle when a quiet, timid voice speaks up.
“…Goodnight.”
Muzan doesn’t turn around, opening the door without a sound.
Before she closes it, she glances back, right into two plum-colored eyes. She rolls her own, scoffing, but nevertheless replies.
“Goodnight.”
The way those eyes sparkle hopefully makes her feel ill, so she rushes to shut the door, hurrying back to her study.
Sumiko watches the door close, huddled in a bed that is not her own, cold and unused, but it feels like a mother’s.