the unsung.

silence. - michio

    No one would dare ask Michio to tell his story.

    They all knew it in some part, or at least enough of it to know that it was best to leave him alone, unprompted. Respecting Michio was of utmost importance in this house, regardless of where he came from. Here he was only decidedly outranked by Xiaokai and Amah herself. And maybe the aunties, but that was debatable.

    While the rest of them had lives and families outside of Amah's service, Michio had grown up here alongside Xiaokai, raised by the previous magic eight. The ones whose legacy was well known and well established — but also untouchable. Everyone knew of them, of course, though none would speak a word of their history as if it was taboo or simply too painful — the latter of which, Haoran came to realize, was true.

The painting in the common room was their one enduring rememberance, which is why Kuo kept glancing at it, gnawing at his lip. Guanyu sat deliberately away from it, Zhuang likewise kept his back craned at an awkward angle just to avoid its view. Haoran stared at it bravely. Michio cowered at its mention and would always pay it as little attention as he could help.

    But as he grew tired, his mind wandered, guided by Hoaran's own introspection.

    The world is a noisy place.

    Michio nodded, understanding. Understanding all too well.

    There was a portion of him which had learned to shut it off like a simple switch, and therefore this portion had long forgotten how to feel. He very much hoped Haoran would never come to learn how to do the same, despite them sharing many things between them. While Haoran felt too much, Michio had taught himself to feel too little.

    It was almost like his heart had been asleep for so long. His language became that of the body — if Haoran looked at someone and saw absolutely everything, Michio looked and saw nothing but flesh and the best way to break it. His work was made easier as he no longer felt sympathy for his victims. A key quality for any mutilator, he would say. An asset to any torturer — and he was now likely the best there was.  But for a boy? It scared him, almost. Just almost.

    Michio. He heard her, just barely.

    Michio. Michio. That was louder. He had to have been getting really tired.

    "She's calling again, isn't she?" Haoran suddenly asked, breaking his train of thought. Of course he noticed.

    "Hm?" Michio raised a brow anyway.

    "Your eyes." Haoran nodded, indicating Michio's irises had likely flooded with his light orange magic. "They're glowing. Which means your mother's calling for you. And you're allowing it — you're answering."

    Michio frowned. "I'm not answering."

    "You still hear her?" Guanyu asked, voice filled with all sorts of worry.

    "Sometimes." Michio conceded. "She's always there... but whispers are loudest in silence."

    And everyday she whispered, ceaselessly. Sending him Spelled messages all the way from Japan, where he was stolen from her around fifteen years ago, now.

    "What does she say?" Zhuang's eyes glossed over in intrigue.

    "Just my name." Michio. Michio. Michio. "Over and over. Like she's reminding me where it comes from."

    She didn't have to. His name came from across the sea, where Beau Song-Wilde was regarded Amah's heir. The French hafu everyone not-so-secretly despised everywhere else was revered there, upheld on a pedestal by select Japanese families, those who were forming alliances discreetly as if Amah could not see. It came from Sapporo, where he was born, where the snow was like powdered sugar and fell with such heaviness that they built castles and towers in the ice. And all this only meant it didn't come from here, where Song Xiaokai was hailed with honor and dignity and power. It didn't come from here, where Song Xiaokai was his brother.

    His brother. Kiho. No no, don't think of that. Anything but that. That's why everything is numb. That stays silent.

    He rubbed the thought out of his eyes.

    "I'm going to sleep." He mumbled first in Japanese, mind too muddled to realize, before repeating it louder in Mandarin for everyone to hear.

    "Do you ever answer her, gege?" Haoran couldn't help but ask as he walked away, down the slim, dimly lit hallway where their bedroom doors lined the walls. The room they shared was one of the larger ones, to the left at the very end, directly facing Xiaokai and Yuze's.

    Xiaokai. Yuze. Kiho. No, idiot. Go to bed.

     Hand on the knob, a singular deep breath. A little too sure, he answered —

    Michio? Yes.

    "Never."