Work Text:
“This afternoon, everyone was saying you looked like a demon. But to me you look like something else..”
“Like what?”
“What indeed…”
Shuuei hears the rumors, just as he knows they do. The other monks aren't as subtle as they think they are, and it's easy to hear gossip if you know how to listen. Of course it's all just that - gossip created by weaker minds jealous of a child . It's not true, and he knows it. If he had his way, he’d jump to their defense in an instant, make it known just what it meant to cross the master of talismans. But it’s not his place to decide. He looks to them first. They don't address it, so neither does he. If they notice him giving extra chores to the ones he catches - he knows they do - they don't say anything about it.
He wonders if they know the truth about him. Koumyou must. He plays the idiot, but he seems to know. Sometimes he feels like he's been read, all his secrets laid bare, though not a word has been said beyond basic pleasantries. Kouryuu has that same look - they really are so like a father and son. He wants to think the boy is innocent, but with the way the others talk around him, he’s not so sure. If either of them know the truth, they never say it. They don't say a lot of things. But neither does he.
The rumors about Koumyou might not be true, but the ones that sometimes go around about him are not so far off the mark. He catches those, too. They make no effort to hide them. He punishes them all the same, but he’s always careful not to cross the line, careful not to give any credence to those stupid rumors. If they scratched more than the surface, they would know.
Even so, he knows Kouryuu is off limits. He cannot touch. He can look after and care for him, but he doesn’t dare to go farther. The boy is pure, and he should remain that way. He pushes back thoughts that try to ruin that, spending more time than he needs to in meditation when they become too pervasive. It’s the only self-punishment he can manage without raising alarms.
He can't stop the dreams, unfortunately. He wakes up sticky and guilty, the image of blond hair fanned out like a halo and a small, girlish face dusted with pink burned into his mind the way intense violet eyes burn into his soul. He is sick, and he knows it. He rolls out of bed for a cold bath, and tries not to let the image linger. He lost a lot of weight starving himself in twisted retribution. It never worked. When he was younger, he would ask God to take this away, but the gods wouldn't listen. Perhaps Kouryuu wasn’t so wrong with his cynicisms.
He knows, deep down, his care for Kouryuu is genuine. He's the boy’s only friend in the temple, and a part of him sees the boy as a nephew. He wants to guide Kouryuu, he wants to see him grow to be a great monk and a great man. There is a side that just wants him to be well. But it comes with the demon, and he knows the line between them is as fine as a strand of golden hair.
He will not touch what he knows is untouchable. For now, that is all he can do.
“Here, take them.”
“Weren't you wearing these when you were found? Are you sure?”
“Take them. Besides, I've never given anyone a gift before. They're kind of a collector’s item.”
“...Thanks, kid.”