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The threads were wearing thin. Across her neck, her body held together by cloth so worn out Mika could see her cotton arteries, they were a tug away from snapping. He gripped her head in one hand and her torso in the other and prepared to pull.
"What are you doing?"
"Ngah!?" The doll fell from Mika's hands and to the floor, landing on her back; this was bad luck, Mika thought, and turned to the room's newest occupant. He didn't want to linger on the sight of her gazing up at the ceiling, risk her turning her eyes toward him. He didn't want to look at anyone, but Mika knew he would not be given that option.
While his entrance was a surprise, his footsteps always light for a man so tall, the identity of the man who interrupted Mika was not. Eichi Tenshouin was, for lack of a better word, Mika's owner. He had the angelic sort of beauty that made Mika sick with envy, from his ghost white skin to his pale gold hair to his light blue eyes that felt like the sky and the sea had joined together to suffocate Mika in both any time he made the mistake of looking at them. Mika seldom made that mistake anymore.
The man stood still in the doorway to Mika's bedroom, the same expression on his face he always wore. It was a soft smile with a tinge of exasperation, his pale skin illuminated by the warm candlelight Mika should've snuffed out an hour ago, his eyes cold. Mika stiffened under his gaze as he thought through what to say.
"I," he began, then paused. Mika was a clumsy liar. "I was jus' fixing her hair. It got tangled up."
Eichi hummed in amusement, crouching down and grabbing at the discarded doll with his spindly, spider-like fingers. They were gentle as they wrapped around her worn body and carded through her neat golden locks.
"You must've done a good job, then," he answered, and Mika knew his lie had failed. "She looks beautiful." His owner had an odd eye for beauty, Mika thought, but he knew he would be scolded for ever saying it. Briefly, he worried he'd be scolded for thinking it, but Eichi must've been in a good mood that night. Mika wondered how long it would last.
Looking at the two of them together, Eichi crouched on his bedroom floor and Mika's beloved doll cradled in his thin hands, an emotion began to surface in Mika that he knew all too well. They both looked beautiful, and Mika grabbed at his own frayed raven locks, blinked his mismatched eyes, and wondered if he could ever be beautiful, too.
"Just like you," his master amended, seeing through Mika's insecurities. His good mood must've run out as he made eye contact with Mika despite his desperate efforts to avoid it, as he peered into Mika's terrible thoughts.
Mika forced his lips into a smile before lowering his gaze to Eichi's hands, which were now too close to the doll's eyes to look at safely, then looked to his desk. If he snuffed out the candle now and went to bed like he was supposed to, would his owner leave?
It was all her fault. Mika would've already been asleep if she hadn't been staring so much.
At some point after his foolish choice to look away from the two bodies in his room, they must have moved, for Mika felt a weight on his head while he was still brooding over the candle's lowering flame. "You should rest soon, my doll," the man whispered, leaning down to Mika's ear as he stroked his hair. "You'll need to be in perfect condition for tomorrow, after all."
"Tomorrow…? Are we doin' something?" Mika asked, catching a glimpse of pale gold in his periphery. It retreated as he turned, along with the hand pressing on his head. Eichi pulled away from him and walked to his desk, where the candle continued to burn.
"You'll have to wait and see." A teasing smile was on his face as he spoke. Mika swallowed down his nerves, suddenly very concerned with where his owner had left the doll. He hoped she was left facedown in a cold, dark corner, where the candlelight couldn't reach even if it tried. He hoped she wasn't watching him, that she couldn't tell he thought that.
Pale, bony hands reached out over his desk, casting shadows as they hid the candle from the papers covering its surface. Mika hoped the entire desk would be cast in darkness before the man could look down at it for too long. It was covered in pages and pages of Mika's unfinished thoughts, his raw emotions, and he wondered why he didn't shove them into a drawer or burn them with the candle's flame as soon as they came into existence, why he didn't keep them locked in his mind to destroy at the source.
But Eichi didn't look down. He paid no mind to the messy scribbles Mika dared to call art or the half-made pieces he hadn't called art yet, his attention focused solely on the candle's flickering light. His thin fingers pinched the wick, unafraid of being burned, and cast the room into darkness.
"It isn't good to stay up so late," he explained, heading to the door, the hall's light cast through it the last source of illumination. Mika could just make out his thin shoulders, his wispy hair, his smile. "Good night, my dear Kagehira. And…" He stepped outside and began to close the door, throwing Mika into cold, inscrutable darkness. "Don't do anything too rash."
With a final click, Mika found himself alone. He didn't know where she was, he realized with some fear, but it was too dark to see, anyway. She couldn't find him. She couldn't see him. He had to be safe, then, and so he felt his way through the pitch black room and to his bed.
It was comforting in a way, knowing he was invisible to her, and Mika wondered why he didn't think to do this sooner. He felt his silken bedsheets and the curve of his eyeless dolls—his friends—that let him slip under his covers and prepare to sleep, unwatched.
"…G'night," Mika whispered. He wasn't sure who it was for. He worried about what tomorrow would bring, about his owner's words and the light of the morning sun, and then he fell asleep.
Mika's existence was… something of a puzzle. There were clues, yes, scattered about in his memories, his body, his mind, but Mika was never good at puzzles. He lacked the brains to solve them, and any time his master would prod at his mind with riddles, he could do nothing more than admire in retrospect how the answers fit together. Though, even if he was smart enough, Mika wasn't sure it would matter.
While someone with more intelligence than Mika might've been able to cobble together a theory for why, how he was made, he knew such an answer would never satisfy him. This was because there was already a man who could tell him the truth, who knew the secrets of Mika's life inside and out: his creator.
A man who only existed in the vague, fuzzy forms of Mika's memories, but one who he wanted to meet again more than anything. If not for the proof of Mika existing in the first place and the flashes of recollection that would strike him at the oddest of times, Mika would think he had imagined his creator from scratch. Even now, he seemed at best a corpse, at worst an illusion, and the idea of never finding him again was one Mika was growing more accustomed to by the day. But Mika's search had never truly ended.
The first clue—to his creator's identity and, thus, to Mika's existence—was a small village a day's ride out from town. The people there were kind, helpful in some ways and useless in others. Mika thought of them fondly, and his master did not.
When he was first cast aside, they were the ones who found him. Mika's earliest clear memories were of the village: the elderly woman who pulled him out of the trash, the children who screamed in terror when he first moved and listened in fascination when he first spoke, the couple who insisted they never saw who left him there. Mika remembered them all, and at times even missed them. His time in the village left its mark, picking up the people's way of speaking, their mannerisms, their interests. Even his name—Mika, not Kagehira, which was deemed too impersonal to stand alone—was from them. Maybe that's why his master disliked them so.
He never outright said it, but Mika noticed things. The way he winced when Mika's accent slipped through, how his eyes would linger reproachfully on the dolls gifted to Mika by the village children, his constant excuses and refusals any time Mika proposed the idea of a visit. Eichi was much too polite to condemn the filthy masses, at least aloud. That didn't stop him from thinking it. Mika could still remember the way his disgusted expression fell away to delight the first day they met, when he finally looked away from the villagers and found the rumored doll.
Ever since that day, Mika hadn't seen the villagers. His owner had returned alone, seeking out the clues left behind at the source of Mika's abandonment, the clues Mika longed for. But Mika himself was not allowed to leave his current home. No more outside influences would be permitted to taint Eichi's precious doll.
Thus, the first clue was useless. To Mika, at least, though Eichi shared his dream of one day finding his creator. In their early days together, it was all he spoke about. The topic had not been brought up in quite some time now, and Mika wondered if his master thought he had given up.
The second clue was a memory. A collection of memories, really, useless alone with how worn down and faint they had become but useful together as they pieced together the start of an image. A tall, slender man striking an imposing figure, his eyes sharp and mouth downturned, his hands delicate and precise. This man was Mika's creator, so perfect that if he only existed in one memory Mika would assume he had imagined him. But he existed in several, so Mika knew he must be real.
Of course, knowing the vague idea of his creator's appearance was not helpful when Mika was not allowed to mingle in town. He had pictures, dozens upon dozens of drawings, and he occasionally gave his best attempts to Eichi; hope pushed people to do the strangest things. Eichi thanked him every time, but Mika never saw those pictures again. Once, he thought he saw a piece of paper sticking out of the fireplace. He was told he imagined it.
Thus, the second clue was almost useless. Mika's main solace was that, were he ever to stumble upon his creator, he would have a chance at recognizing the man. He wondered if he would be recognized in turn.
The third clue, and perhaps the most important of all, was a doll. A worn doll of cotton and yarn crafted by Mika's own hand as a reflection of his memories. It was a tribute of sorts to what he supposed would count as his sibling: his creator's true doll. Mika remembered her soft blond hair, so he wove yellow yarn into curled threads in a cheap imitation. He remembered her beautifully flowing dresses, so he stitched together scraps of cloth into something resembling clothing. And, more than anything, he remembered her piercing red eyes. He was going to use the red buttons he had been gifted by one of the village women early on in his crafts for them, then decided it wasn't enough. The doll's eyes were painted detail by detail on polished glass, so realistic no one in the village liked to look for long. Mika hated to look at them, but he knew no doll was complete without perfect eyes. And she had to be complete.
Maybe it was cruel to give an imitation so much life, though. Since then, she had been able to learn scorn, envy, judgment. She stared at Mika and saw through to his thoughts just like her original self could. At times, Mika even forgot the difference between them, something so incredibly conceited he felt his heart pang with guilt when he realized; to compare and even confuse something he had made with the handiwork of his creator was nothing short of blasphemy.
Everything—excepting Mika—his creator had made was perfect. Mika couldn't recall a single fault in any of his crafts, scarcely remembered as they were. Which was one of the key mysteries to Mika's existence: why, for a man who could choose to never make a mistake, would he waste his skills on the creation of an imperfect doll only to cast it aside? When he already had a perfect doll whom he loved?
Why would anyone put so much effort into a botched and soon-to-be discarded creation? Mika knew he wasn't flawless, that his chipped skin and mismatched eyes and stiff joints were all signs of an imperfect doll, and he knew he was extraordinary as well. The other dolls could not move nor think like he could; they could not sing nor cry nor make nor dance. Mika could, and yet he was nothing more than scrap, and yet he was left behind, and yet he was unloved and unwanted by the one person who knew him above all.
Why? The question haunted Mika, in all its complexities. Why, why, why? He feared he would never know.
And she was the main thing tethering him to the truth. Were his creator to see her, to recognize his own craft in Mika's pale mockery, perhaps he would be unable to resist setting right the wrongs of both her and Mika's existences. Even if he did not care about Mika, Mika had in his hands the memory of something he did care for, someone he loved. His creator could one day pass by, make eye contact with an imperfect doll with perfect eyes, and be drawn in to Mika at last through this.
It was not a perfect plan, but it was the most concrete way Mika had to keep his memories alive, to retain that feeble connection he had to his creator. So he had to keep her alive, no matter what, no matter how much she stared, no matter how much she hated and betrayed and mocked and laughed, no matter what. He hated her, and perhaps she hated herself, for all she was nothing more than a botched craft meant to be the shadow of a memory, a vessel for Mika's selfish whims. But she had to live.
When Mika woke up that morning, his master calling him to breakfast and the rising sun casting a warm glow over his room, she was staring again.
"G'morning," he said, and this was to her. Eichi must've set her down in Mika's chair last night before he left. Her gaze permeated his skin, so intense that, if it were possible, Mika knew he'd be shivering. He hesitated to leave his bed, the protection of his blanket covering his body, the wall of toys shielding him.
His master called for him again, and Mika thought that he would have to be brave. He lifted himself up, keeping his eyes firmly planted on his feet with each step away from his bed and toward his dresser.
Step, step, step. He passed by the chair. He trembled.
She did not respond to him or acknowledge him, the heat of her eyes fading as Mika moved further and further away. This was a good sign, Mika thought, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he made it safely across the room. Today would not be a bad day, he told himself. Today would be good.
Mika dressed in his favorites clothes, combed out his unruly hair, greased his jointed limbs, then headed downstairs where his master awaited him. She did not follow, and she did not stare. Today would be good.
"How did you sleep?" Eichi asked, his voice carrying across the dining room between the clink of silverware and muffled chewing. His plate was full today, sporting an array of fruits, a piece of toast, and some cut of meat Mika wasn't sure how to identify. Mika stared down at the empty place mat in front of his own spot at the table.
"Good, I guess. Ya let me sleep in," he replied. He wondered what he would eat, if he could. Would he prefer the sweetness of fruits or the savoriness of meats? The bitterness of coffee or the tang of juice? While Mika seldom envied humans, did not long to be one like he saw the dolls of fiction often did, it couldn't stop him from wondering. Mika's curiosity was endless, and he wondered, instead, if he would be better off without it.
Laughter interrupted his introspection. "I did, didn't I? After you stayed up so late, I thought the extra rest might help. Not to mention how important today is." Mika looked up, catching his owner's eyes in one brief slip before settling on his mouth. Last night, he said they would be doing something. Mika remembered, and he was curious, and he wondered if he had the right to ask.
"What's so important 'bout today? We ain't got plans, do we?"
"We don't have plans, Kagehira. Honestly, what am I going to do with you…?" Eichi sighed, but a smile still tugged at his lips. Mika thought he was avoiding the question, focusing on Mika's slips into his accent. The vocal training and corrections were constant, at first, and now he only scolded Mika when he couldn't think of what else to say. Mika knew better than to point this out. He assumed they both knew, and that Eichi knew he knew, but drawing attention to such things did nothing more than make Eichi's expression scrunch together as if fed up with his doll.
Mika didn't want to change his way of speaking—it reminded him of the village, and the habit felt ingrained at this point—but he did not wish to antagonize his owner. He hadn't figured out exactly how important he was to Eichi, had only vague ideas of why he was taken in in the first place, and his own feelings on the man were as much a mystery as any other aspect of Mika's existence. Still, the thought of being cast aside again, of confirming he was as unlovable as his creator had led him to believe…
That couldn't happen. No matter what, Mika would not let himself be tossed out like the inedible scraps of their meals. Eichi had never threatened it, had never said aloud what it would take for Mika to lose his worth, and so Mika had to be cautious; there was no telling what the final straw would be.
"Tonight," his master began, and Mika leaned forward with interest. He cut off a bite of meat, chewed, and swallowed before speaking again. "Tonight, we will have a guest."
"A guest? From town?"
"Out of town. It's very important that you be on your best behavior tonight, my doll. Our guest will not accept anything less than perfection from us both."
Mika nodded, wondering if the mansion was clean enough. The maids took Sundays off, and Eichi, despite his best efforts, wasn't capable of many of their tasks. So, on the first day of every week, it fell on Mika to do the chores. He always liked Sundays, and he was glad, to an extent, that Eichi lacked the strength to clean; it made Mika feel important. It made him feel useful.
Today was Sunday, so Mika would have to clean. They had a guest today, so he would have to clean more. Mika liked Sundays, and he reminded himself that today would be good.
Eichi finished off his last piece of fruit, clearing his plate. He had a healthy appetite today, another good sign. Today was Sunday, so with their shared meal finished, Mika walked across the room to take Eichi's plate. He would do the dishes, then he would dust, then he would sweep. "Do ya know who our guest is gonna be?" Mika grabbed the silverware and plate, but the cup of water was only half empty, so he left it.
"Yes, and I believe you will be interested in meeting him." The dining room connected straight to the kitchen, the door between the two left open. Today was a good day, and sunlight streamed in from the kitchen windows strong enough to warm Mika as he headed to the sink.
"Why's that?" Mika asked, stepping past the doorway separating the two rooms. He noticed a dirtied butter knife on the counter, the evidence of his master's prep for Sunday breakfast. They were always alone on Sundays, except today, since there would be a guest, so they did everything by themselves on Sundays.
Mika liked that. He liked being alone, and being useful, and washing his master's dirty dishes and knives. She didn't stare today, and his master cleared his plate today, and they were alone today, and today would be good. Mika thought that, again and again; maybe that's why he let his guard down.
"He's a dollmaker," Eichi said, his voice carrying from the dining room. Mika froze. "A very talented one, too. It took me quite some time to find him, and even more to convince him to come. But he—"
Maybe it was a good thing Mika couldn't eat. As he stared at the floor, he was relieved they didn't have two broken plates to deal with. One was manageable, and Mika needed to sweep, anyway. The shards scattered across the wooden floor, circling Mika's feet. He wondered idly if, were he human, his heart would be hammering right now. He wondered whether his breathing would be erratic or stopped entirely, if his hands would be shaking or still.
There was a weight on his shoulder, and he remembered the shattered plate, and, even though he never needed to, he struggled to breathe.
"Kagehira?"
If Mika were human, he would've taken his breakfast on a plate. He would've eaten it, and perhaps cleared the plate like Eichi, and he would've decided whether he preferred the sweet fruits or the savory meats.
"Kagehira!"
Whichever he liked more, Mika thought, he would've finished last. That way, the taste would've lingered in his mouth once he was done. Then, he would've taken Eichi's plate and his own, both now empty, and he would've left to clean them. He would not have dropped either plate, for the news of their visitor would not have affected him.
"Mika!"
Mika blinked, turning away from the dropped and shattered plate, and found his master standing behind him. "Didja need somethin', Master?" Mika asked, noting now that the weight he felt was the man's hand, firmly wrapped around his doll. He was panting slightly, his other hand clenched at his side.
Eichi pulled away. His expression looked pained, and Mika worried he was pushing himself; today was Sunday, after all, and they had to do everything alone. "You broke the plate," he said, pointing to the floor.
"I'm real sorry. Didn't mean ta do it, it just happened."
"Kagehira," he sighed, and only then did it occur to Mika that Eichi had used his first name. This was reserved only for special occasions, a precaution to prevent Mika from viewing the two of them as equals. And yet Mika, despite the name's frequent usage, never thought of himself as Kagehira anymore. He couldn't remember when he stopped, when he no longer prioritized the name gifted to him by his creator, and when he started thinking of himself as Mika instead, when he decided he liked the name enough to use it.
Eichi never enjoyed the idea of Mika having his name, the one not from his creator but from the poor villagers looking to befriend a doll. He was a novelty to them, Eichi had told him, and they did not truly view him as an equal nor as a friend. Eichi was simply more honest about it.
Mika knew better than to argue, but he still doubted. He cast his gaze to the floor when Eichi told him that, hiding his thoughts, and never spoke aloud how much he enjoyed being called the name. Maybe Eichi was right, then, that it'd make Mika feel like his equal. It was a wise precaution.
"Kagehira," his master repeated, and Mika knew he wouldn't be called anything else today. "Are you afraid?"
"Afraid? What would I be afraid of?"
"Meeting… him. The dollmaker."
"Why would I be afraid?" Mika asked. He glanced down and worried that Eichi might step on a shard of the plate. Maybe he should sweep before washing dishes, just for today. It wasn't safe to keep things like this. They had a guest coming, and Mika needed to clean, and maybe today could still be good.
"I'm not certain about this, but I do believe he's the right man. We've been searching for him for so long, Kagehira, that I can understand being scared it might be over."
Mika shook his head. "It don't matter to me. Course not." He wondered if the broom was where he left it, or if the maids had moved it since last Sunday. He wanted to leave and look for it, but it'd be rude to with Eichi still speaking to him.
He wanted to dismiss the conversation entirely, dedicate himself to his chores and duties and mindless actions. He wanted to, and yet… Mika let himself prod. It was a selfish thing to do, and Mika knew this, and he spoke regardless.
"Do ya really think it's him?"
"It has to be."
"Do ya think he remembers me?"
"He has to."
"Do ya…" Mika stopped, eyes drawn back down to the shards littering the floor. "Do ya want it to be him?"
"…You should finish cleaning, Kagehira. Our guest will be here before you know it, and the kitchen is a mess."
Mika nodded, and Eichi left, and the broom was exactly where he remembered.
By the time the mansion was something nearing clean, Mika could hear the creak of his joints with every movement. His arm stuck during one particularly hard wipe with the dustcloth, only falling back into place after a few minutes of coaxing massages, which he took as a sign to accept his work as done. He looked around, silently praising himself for the sleek shine of the floorboards and the neatly arranged decor. It wasn't perfect, but it was Sunday, so what was accomplished was all his own.
Mika returned to his room and fetched his grease, immediately setting about rubbing it into his groaning limbs. He greased each ball joint as best he could, starting from his fingers, to his wrists, to his elbows, and in and down further and further until he felt as limber as a freshly-wound spring.
She watched him do it, though her own limbs never needed the same care that his did. She lacked his mobility, and Mika pitied her at times for this, envied at others.
Her stitched mouth was set in an eternal pout, but it seemed more pronounced than usual today. Mika thought today would be good, in some foolishly optimistic wave, though he was beginning to doubt that anyone else shared his opinion. The least they could do was act like it, try to make today good instead of sabotaging Mika at every turn, but he understood that some days simply couldn't be good, no matter how hard one tries.
Her gaze did not carry its usual fiery red heat, nor its sickening envy. Mika did not dare look for long, but he let himself look at her mouth. This meant she could see his eyes, a risky position, but Mika thought today of all days he should allow her this. After all, there was a chance this was the end.
"Did ya hear us downstairs?" Mika asked. He didn't wait for a reply. "I dunno if it's really him or not, don't think Master woulda lied, least not on purpose, but…"
Slowly, tentatively, Mika allowed her closer to him. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he neared the chair. He shuddered. "If it is him, really really him, then ya gotta be there too, ya hear? Ain't no way around it."
Mika glanced at his desk. He reached over before he moved too far away, grabbed a handful of papers off its surface, then returned to her side. Shifting through them—useless, ugly, useless, useless, wrong, wrong, this one—Mika held up one of his drawings. The back was covered in scribbles of a beheaded doll, its subject before him, but the front was of one man: his creator.
"This is our creator. Ya ain't never met him, and he didn't really make you—I did—but he's yer creator, too. It's like… uh… by proxy? 's that the word? He made me, and I made you, and yer his, got it?"
"…"
"Good. And be real respectful, aight? We don't know much 'bout him, but he's important. Real, real important. It's like meetin' a god or somethin', and ya don't wanna disrespect a god, do ya?"
"…"
"Hmph." Mika crumpled up the paper and tossed it aside. "Well, long as ya got all that. All you gotta do is be quiet and look pretty, or pretty as ya can look. And ya might even—"
He paused, a thought occurring to him he had somehow managed to avoid before now. She would be there, wouldn't she? It seemed unlikely for her to ever be left behind, unlike Mika, but he had forgotten to ask Eichi if he knew. Eichi said "a guest," which implied one, which implied the dollmaker arriving alone, unaccompanied, but would he have thought to count her as another? Or was his mind set on the idea of human guests, and he did not think any other types worth mentioning?
But his creator wasn't the type to leave a doll he loved behind, Mika's memories filled with that girl by his side. He thought he could handle meeting his creator, his god, despite his reservations, but… But he forgot to consider her.
And how, Mika thought, would she feel? He glanced at his own botched imitation of the girl, and her pout seemed deeper still. He looked at her eyes, let her know his thoughts in a rare show of camaraderie. He didn't know how to explain himself here, not verbally, but not even Mika was cruel enough to let her go into this blind.
Meeting your better was never an easy task. Mika knew it would be difficult for him, to come face to face with her once more, but it would be leagues harder for one crafted in her image. At the very least, Mika had an identity to fall back on, an existence outside of his superior's shadow; she did not.
"I know it ain't gonna be easy, but I still need ya there. No backin' out." Mika pretended his voice didn't tremble, pretended she didn't notice. "And… And if it's really, really too hard, then I can bring ya back up here after we greet 'em. But yer gonna have to meet her. Maybe you two'll even get along."
They wouldn't. He predicted his creator's doll would be indifferent at best, disturbed at worst. She was never the most reactive, but he had seen her frown far more than smile.
Or maybe he only remembered the frowns, Mika thought, then shook his head. It didn't matter now, she had likely forgotten him anyway. And Mika had clung to her for all these years, chasing after her memory in pursuit of their mutual connection. He wondered if a doll could be pathetic, and he wondered how many others would think he was. But it was going to pay off tonight. It would have to, no matter how much Mika would have to suffer through seeing her and facing judgment from all sides and how terribly he would be treating his own creation.
Then, tension rose in the air, Mika's joints stiffening and the world twisting in on him as if in warning. The crunch of their gravel driveway, the clop of hooves, the gradual ease into a stop as the noises rose then died.
Footsteps Mika couldn't hear but felt, a knock at their oversized front door, Eichi's call: "Just a minute, please!" and the warning embedded in it. It was time to set the scene.
Mika grabbed his doll, took a brief second to stare at his reflection in the bedroom mirror and wonder if he ever looked better than this, then headed to the parlor he had cleaned longer than any other room that morning. He wanted to clean more, rearrange every piece of furniture and decor, recount the seats and cushions and open the windows to air out the room and set himself down neatly arranged on the divan tilted to face slightly southwest, enough to catch the evening light without being overwhelmed. He wanted everything to be perfect, but it wasn't, and he was out of time, and Eichi was opening the door, and he set her down on the divan instead and stood and waited, and then, finally, he arrived.
"Kagehira," Eichi called out, as much a warning for Mika to ensure he was presentable as it was an introduction for their guest. The two of them walked through the doorway, Mika stood before them with her at his back, and he felt his limbs creak at the sight. "This is Shu Itsuki, the man I told you about. Mr. Itsuki, this is Kagehira."
"I'm familiar," the man said, and his voice was exactly what Mika expected. He was exactly what Mika expected.
Somewhere in him, he knew this would be the case, but actually being before him now… Mika's body felt uninhabited, his mouth unresponsive, his mind frozen. It was him. It was really, truly him. The man of Mika's dreams, of his nightmares, of his hundreds of thousands of drawings. His god. His creator.
He was as perfect and intimidating as Mika remembered. His piercing violet eyes struck through Mika with a glance and saw through him as if he was made of glass and not wood. His hair and skin looked soft, supple and vibrant like a child's, but the same could not be said about any other part of him; this was a man who commanded respect, who demanded obedience, who shifted the world around him to fit himself inside. He was harsh, sharp lines and firm edges and a mouth that opened only to spit poison and bite. Mika wondered if his heart should be hammering right now or frozen solid.
"Did he never learn to speak, then?" his god asked.
"I'm afraid we don't have guests often. He can be shy at times, but I promise you all his functions remain."
"Is that so?" Itsuki took a step forward, and Mika found his eyes trailing to the floor to follow before shooting back up. He couldn't let himself look away from the man's face, even knowing it made his mind transparent. Perhaps, for a god, that distinction didn't matter. Perhaps he could see through Mika from any angle. "Boy," he said, now face to face with Mika.
"M-M-Me?"
He snarled, looking around the room at Mika's sputtering. "Do you see anyone else I could possibly be referring to? Do not act foolish, boy. I know you have a brain; I put it there myself."
"I… I'm sorry. Uh, it's… it's a pleasure ta make yer acquaintance, Mr. Itsuki. Sir."
"Why is he speaking like that?" he asked, directing his attention to Eichi. Eichi was still standing in the doorway, that familiar gentle smile on his face that Mika knew meant he wasn't sure how to handle the situation, that he wasn't fully in control for once.
Eichi laughed, more to lighten the mood than anything, before replying. "An aftereffect of his time in that village, I'm afraid. If you wish, we could fix it with a little time and effort."
"Don't bother," Itsuki answered, and that was that. "And what are you both standing around for? Have you never tended to a guest in your lives? I have not been offered a drink nor a seat, and neither of you have taken yours. Or do you wish to see me out of here as quickly as possible despite begging me to step foot in your humble abode?"
"My apologies, Mr. Itsuki. As I said, we do not have guests often. I assure you it's a pleasure to have you here. Kagehira," his owner called, sudden and startling. Mika couldn't hide his jump in time, purple flames drilling into him at the slip.
"Y-Yes, Master?"
"Fetch some tea from the kitchen, would you? And the scones. They were baked yesterday, but they should still taste fresh." This last part was not directed at Mika, for he did not eat, but he wondered still if scones were acceptable when not freshly made, especially for someone of his caliber. Mika dared a look at his creator's face, and he was frowning.
Mika didn't move. This was a mistake, and he knew it, but the floor seemed too attached to his feet to let them leave. Eichi was staring, and Itsuki was staring, and they were waiting. "Well?" Itsuki asked, his voice harsh. "Your limbs don't need to be fitted and replaced, do they? I'm sure your legs work, but perhaps I should check your ears, just to be safe."
"I…" His gaze fell to the floor, cleaned and polished with such care that he could make out his own shameful reflection in the wood. Everyone was staring at him, seeing through him, and her eyes on his back reminded him of why his legs would not move.
His god hadn't seen her yet. And when he did, Mika feared what his reaction might be. Hatred, disgust, pity, anything was possible. Anything, but nothing Mika wanted.
He didn't miss the fact that Itsuki entered the room alone, Eichi aside. The man seemed almost naked without the doll by his side, an almost constant presence in Mika's memories. Was she abandoned like him, in the end? Was she no different than him, and to be left behind was simply an inevitability for creatures like them? The thought left an odd taste in his mouth, but Mika couldn't tell what the flavor was.
"Move, boy," a commanding voice barked at him, a hand pressing at his back and pushing him forward. Mika stumbled, but his feet remained rooted in place, and Itsuki pushed harder. "Are you truly so broken that you cannot perform this simple task?"
"…Perhaps I should grab the refreshments instead," Eichi proposed. This was pity, Mika thought, and he pushed back against Itsuki's hand in a show of defiance that he figured should cost him his life. But he was scared, so, so scared, and he wanted to do nothing less than move.
The hand retreated, perhaps out of disgust at a doll's attempt at free will, and the god spoke. "No. You can do it, can't you, Kagehira?" Mika followed his hand and watched it rest at his waist, highlighting the extravagant clothing worn by higher beings. Mika's favorite clothes felt like tattered rags.
"I can," he admitted. "But, um… Can ya close yer eyes, just fer a minute?"
Itsuki scoffed, but Mika already knew it was a foolish request that would never be fulfilled. He was not lucky, and further pity would not be taken on him. There was no other option than to move and face the consequences that would follow, to showcase his and her shame to the one man with the right to judge them above all. Mika clenched his hands and felt his joints stick and creak, let the tension in them build, then took his first step forward.
He made it exactly four steps before she was acknowledged. "What is that thing?" Mika didn't turn around, but he felt the heat of her gaze and looked up at Eichi, staring at him across the room. He wasn't smiling.
Mika took another step, but a hand wrapped tight around his shoulder and held him in place. He wondered if the grip would be painful, were he to be made of flesh and blood. "I'm talking to you, boy."
"What… What thing?" Mika asked, pretending he didn't know.
"Don't play stupid with me. That… hideous insult to dolls sitting there. Where did it come from?"
Mika turned, his creator's hand pushing him until he was facing the blemish. She stared at the two of them, and was that envy in her eyes? Or pity? The evening sun framed her thread-worn face and golden locks, catching on her scarlet red eyes that were always too dazzling for her own good. Her frown was heavyset, the same as always.
"I made her," he confessed. "She's… Ya don't recognize her?" Mika dared a glance at Itsuki, the man's grip making his wooden joints groan in would-be pain. And he looked back, and he found Mika's eyes, and that let him know everything. Mika was see-through, all his secrets exposed before a man who understood him inside and out even after years apart.
His god scoffed. "Hmph. I see what this is. It seems I did not equip my doll with a worthy memory, now did I?"
"Ngah? Whaddya mean?"
"She… That thing is meant to be a mockery of my own work, is it not?" Mika wouldn't use the word mockery—tribute might be better, imitation or even copy if he was bold enough—but he couldn't deny it. Not with how her appearance felt like it was mocking him already. He nodded. "As I thought. And yet the details are all wrong, as if cobbled together from some fool's shadowed impressions of what my work might've been. This is hearsay, slander I should ruin you for."
Mika opened his mouth, perhaps to apologize, but Itsuki lifted a finely gloved hand, the lace trim edging it catching on sunlight as he silenced Mika and continued to speak. "But," he started, "I am not a cruel man. I understand what you were attempting here, misguided as it was, and I will show you where you went wrong."
He pulled away, calling out that he would be back momentarily, and left the room. Mika could do nothing but stand and watch, and she did the same, and even Eichi did not speak nor try to stop him nor seem to understand a thing that was happening. It was oddly comforting, seeing him as Mika was: confused and, for once, not in control. Itsuki commanded the room, even while not in it, the three of them left as puppets tied to his strings, his strict, slender fingers guiding them into place. Without them, Mika could not be pushed to move, and with them, he was bound too tight to move, and so he stayed rooted in place as he waited.
It was but a few minutes later that the man returned, cradling a glass box in his arms as he walked with steps slower and gentler than before. Nobody moved or spoke while waiting for him, and he returned to find the room exactly as he left it. Mika stared at the box and wondered what he was looking at.
"This is who you were mocking, Kagehira," Itsuki explained, setting the container down on a table in the center of the room. Mika had planned to put their tea and scones on that table, were he to ever move and retrieve them, but he didn't think it necessary anymore. Something more important was now taking that place.
She was beautiful, but unfamiliar. Her golden hair fell in defined curls, fair and soft and smooth. Her skin was shined porcelain, unmarred by the world, her hands dainty and folded, her limbs slim, her face formed into a kind smile with a gentle blush. Her clothing was elegant and clean, perfectly tailored and without a wrinkle in sight. A stunning crimson dress crafted with the level of detail only a true artisan could accomplish, a matching bonnet framing her hair. Gold trim lined it, black lace along each edge, and Mika thought she looked perfect.
But…
He stared. He couldn't help it, even knowing it was rude, but her smile said she didn't mind. Her eyes… Her eyes glittered in the sunlight, clearly visible behind the polished glass keeping her in. They were gorgeous, captivating, enough to make Mika sick with envy that another could exist with something so beautiful. And they were green.
"Do you know who this is?" Itsuki asked, tapping at her glass case. The question was directed to Mika, and he thought about if he could answer honestly. They both already knew the truth.
"No."
"I thought so. Such a pathetic doll, clinging to the past without even remembering it…" Itsuki turned away, spared a scornful look at Mika's once-important doll, then spoke to Eichi. "I believe we are done here. You may keep it, if you wish. I have no need for such things any longer."
He lifted the girl in her container and made for the door, exiting as swiftly as he came. Mika sputtered for a moment, unable to process what was said or what was happening, but his gut twisted with the thought that he had made a terrible mistake. He should've destroyed her when he had the chance, and then maybe his god wouldn't have looked at him that way, and then maybe he could've stopped this awful feeling.
Eichi moved this time, as though a spell over him had finally broken. He reached out for the other man as they intersected at the door. "Mr. Itsuki, please wait. I apologize for Kagehira, but—"
"I have no need for this awful reminder of my past mistakes." He shook Eichi off, his gaze cold. "When you mentioned the boy 'dabbled in art,' I even foolishly dared to get my hopes up. To think that what you were referring to was such an insult to my craft."
"Our agreement was for at least a conversation. Please, stay for a cup of tea. I'm sure you have the time, and once you finish, you are more than welcome to leave if you are still dissatisfied with what we have shown you."
"Hmph. You both appear to be completely insufferable." He looked back at Mika, and Mika wondered if he should defend himself. He stayed silent, unsure of what to say. "But…" Itsuki walked one step back into the room. "Truly, the only thing more insufferable than staying would be listening to your pathetic wailing over my departure. I understand wanting me here, and I am kind, so I will oblige you."
"Thank you, Mr. Itsuki." Eichi's gentle smile returned, following Itsuki into the center of the room. He placed the doll back down, and Mika wondered where they would put the tea and scones, now that they mattered once more, and the two of them took their seats before staring expectantly at Mika.
"Go on then, boy. Fetch the tea," his creator ordered, and this time, Mika obeyed.
Mika sat between the two dolls, all of them lined up along the divan to bask in the evening sun. They were on display, quiet and pretty. Well, pretty and ugly and hideous, in that order. Itsuki had removed his doll from her case, introduced her as Mademoiselle, a name which Mika took three tries to pronounce before Itsuki gave up on him and ordered him to never attempt it again, and then set her down in what he said was a show at trust; if any of them got so much as a speck of dust on her, he would see them ruined for all they were worth, Itsuki explained. Mika scooted away from her another inch when he remembered, then he felt the other girl pressed against his side, then he returned dead center between them and did his best to remain still.
The men's discussion had been going on for some time now, the tea and scones loosening their lips enough for something bordering peaceful communication. Mika did his best to follow along, but it was not something they intended for him to understand. They spoke in long, winding sentences with jargon and—Was that French? He didn't know enough to tell.
Mika pretended he couldn't keep up at all, that their words were none of his business, and so they did not watch their tongues as they spoke. But he did hear some bits, had enough of a brain left to piece together some of the story. As far as he could tell, this was far from the first time they had spoken, and references to their connection—to Mika—slipped in through subtle references he acted as though he did not notice. Eichi had known for months now, at least, about his creator. He had known, and had said nothing, and Mika felt a tinge of betrayal at the realization.
"And you, Kagehira," Itsuki spoke, addressing him in a sudden break from their conversation. Mika trembled, but he tried to remain still. If he were to move too much, the cushions could shake and knock the dolls out of place, to the floor where the hideous would survive and the beautiful would shatter. "What do you do in this mansion, aside from dawdle about like a fool?"
"Huh? Uh…" Mika looked around the room, his mind a blank expanse struggling to form anything of substance. The dustless shelves and polished wooden flooring stared back at him along with Itsuki, and he considered the art lining his desk, as well, but he did not wish for a god to see his paltry works. "I clean. On Sundays, least, since we ain't got anyone else to do it then. Cleaned the whole mansion by ma self today, in fact."
"Did you now? So my doll has been turned into nothing more than some menial laborer cleaning for the rich? How degrading."
"Ngah? B-But I like cleanin', and Master can't do it himself, so—"
"The reason matters little. I will not scorn one for upkeep of their home, but if that is the only answer you can procure for my question, then I fear you truly are a lost cause. And," Itsuki squinted his eyes, violet against the evening light. "Your master seems to be squandering you, regardless. As much of a failure as you are, it is truly the owner's fault when his doll turns out this way."
Mika hung his head, trying to think of a response. His days were filled with simple things: brushing his hair, mending his clothes, oiling his joints, and following his master around to do what he was told, nothing more and nothing less. He sat at the table for meals despite not needing to eat, gathered the dishes to wash if it was Sunday and retired to the parlor to watch his master work if it was not, basked in the garden on sunny days and painted pictures on rainy days, tended to his dolls, spoke to the maids, and broke apart the pattern of his routine only if Eichi asked it of him. He seldom did.
It was simple, but Mika was not dissatisfied with the way things had been; perhaps that was because every day was spent looking forward to the potential for change. He lived his life waiting for something, and his creator was that something, and now he was here, and Mika felt unchanged save for a painful twist in his gut that seemed unable to go away.
"Perhaps it is my failing," Eichi said, cutting back into the conversation that was no longer on his terms. "I admit I have not been utilizing Kagehira as others could, though I do have my reasons."
"And what reasons are those, pray tell?"
"You, Mr. Itsuki. I was saving him for you."
Mika looked up at Eichi, smiling across the room. Was that why Mika was here, then? Itsuki sneered, and Mika thought Eichi was bad at giving gifts if he thought this would please the man. Mika was not fit for anyone, and to give someone their tossed garbage back was nothing short of insulting.
"A foolish thing to do. If I did not want him at his prime, why would I ever want him now? He is yours to do with as you please, Mr. Tenshouin." Itsuki spat out the name like a bitter poison, and it fell sloppy and wet to the floor. Mika wanted to remind Itsuki that he had just washed that floor, but he bit his tongue and let the scene unfold; he could clean again tonight.
"You don't want him, but you can't say you don't care. After all, why else would you be here tonight?" Eichi's grin stretched out, Mika worrying for a second that his lip would crack and bleed at how thin it was growing. "You wanted to see how the boy was doing, did you not?"
"Much as I loathe to admit it, he is my creation. I owe him some responsibility, at the very least. Were he to be an utterly incompetent failure, it would reflect poorly on me, as the one to bring him into existence."
"Wh—" Mika began, his voice trembling. The interruption was quiet, but both the men heard, pausing to watch him and wait and pretend they didn't already know what he would say. "Why'd ya… Why'd ya even make me then?"
It was a moment of bravery that allowed Mika to stare into his god's eyes as he asked, but his fear swallowed him whole as the other man sighed, then stood, then approached him. Mika's gaze fell to the floor, but he could still feel the heat of a human nearing. Itsuki stopped, his polished shoes with the laces tied in perfect loops within view.
Mika wanted to snatch the words back and swallow them down; he wanted to cover his ears and shut his eyes and block out the world; he wanted the question to linger in the air unanswered for all eternity. This was what he sought to know, but so many of his expectations, of his thoughts, had been demolished already today. Today was supposed to be good, but it was not, and the longer the day went on, the more Mika feared he would never have a good day again.
He wanted to cover his ears, but he did not have time. Itsuki was quick in his response once he reached Mika. "It was simply the folly of youth. I was something of a romantic, admittedly, and you were the… result of my naivety. I suppose there is some beauty in being birthed from such innocent optimism, but I was misguided in your creation."
"Ngah? Whaddya mean?"
"Hmph. Even now, you prove my point. Tell me, Kagehira, do you know why people like dolls?"
"Cause… Cause they're pretty, I guess?" Mika rubbed at his fingers, his knuckles stiff, and wondered what Itsuki would do were he to cover his ears now. He was not pretty, and she was not pretty, and they seemed unlovable. He did not wish to know anything more.
His creator grabbed his hand, and Mika felt that he was slightly cold. The glove kept them from direct contact, at the very least. Still, Mika shivered as the man's fingers pressed in and glided along the chipped paint coating his wooden flesh. "Not a bad answer, for an imbecile. But still, there is more to it than that. Many can learn to appreciate even the most hideous of dolls, and it is for one simple reason: they are not human."
He tapped his finger against Mika's hand. "Humans are messy." He ran it over the palm. "They whine, and scorn, and mock." He traced his way to the first joint of Mika's pointer finger. "They age." To the second, slowing at the exposed wood beneath the paint. "They wrinkle." And finally, to the tip, before pulling his hand away. Mika's chest felt tight. "They die, as hideous as they were born. Human beauty, both internal and external, is fleeting on the few occasions it does exist. They crumble apart with time, tearing each other down all the while."
Mika had never met a human he considered ugly before, but he supposed a man like Itsuki would know more than him. The old ladies of the village were cute and kind, the children the same, and those in between held unique charms Mika grew to love more every day. But perhaps they were the exception, or perhaps they had grown worse since Mika's departure.
"And I still sought to imitate them. I thought, in my half-formed mind, that to create a doll as though it were human would result in something better than its parts; instead, all I managed was a pale imitation of both. You failed, Kagehira, at being a doll, for I made you human, and you failed at being human, for I made you a doll. In other words, I failed you. From the moment of your conception, you were doomed to this fate."
"So… So ya just gave up on me, then?"
"I did try, of course, to salvage you. I know your memories are scrambled somewhere in that sad excuse for a brain, thinking I ever had that doll you envisioned, but surely you remember some of my attempts."
Mika shifted through his mind, unsure what he could trust any longer. Every memory he had, she was there, but he knew now that all of those were to be modified if not dismissed. She never existed, save for in his mind, and in his doll, and Mika should have killed her when he had the chance. He wondered what it would have changed, then realized he was out of memories. He looked up at his god and shook his head in denial.
"Honestly, you're more hopeless than I feared… Though I suppose it matters little now. In the end, it is true that I gave up and left you behind." He shook his head, as if dismissing the thought, before casting his knowing gaze upon Mika. "Is there anything else you're dying to ask, boy?"
"…" Mika wasn't sure what he was allowed to ask. What Itsuki would be willing to answer. What he needed to know. Eichi, too, must have had questions; after all, he had gone to such lengths to get them both here. Mika doubted it was without motivation. He dredged up his sunken bravery and opened his mouth once more. "The girl, um, Ma-Madem… Mado—"
"What did I say about her name?"
"R-Right! Sorry, sir. Um, how long… have ya had her?" He let out a shaky breath once the question was complete, an imitation of human fear that Mika felt full-bodied. But he did not consider covering his ears this time. This was something he needed to know.
Itsuki made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, both soft and mocking. "As long as I can remember. She had always been by my side, you know." He paused, and Mika dared to follow his gaze to the woman in question. Her serene smile lulled one into a sense of trust, but still wariness gnawed at Mika's bones. "Perhaps that was part of my error, with you. People seldom have room for so many in their lives, after all, and I find myself content with one partner."
"With her?"
"Yes, with her."
Mika nodded, conflict brewing in his mind. Here was a man who made him on a whim, who gave him life and a conscience and discarded him as soon as he realized his creation was flawed, who claimed to always keep the same woman by his side despite Mika's memories reflecting another. Was he not the first to be discarded, and would he not be the last?
And his owner, his master, had guided the two of them back together. He knew, all along, that Mika was unloved by this man. Mika wondered if he was bait, at first, for the two of them; he recalled the bits of their conversation they let slip of Eichi's plans, his grand ideals to see the other's visions come to life. Was there room for Mika in those plans, when Itsuki refused him at his side? Mika was fated to be unloved and discarded, and there was already another in his place, and, as Sunday drew to a close with the setting of the sun, Mika feared his time was running short.
There was no space for him. There was no use for him. Already a doll existed, hideous and haunting, and she stared from his side and saw his thoughts and feared.
The strings around his limbs fell slack, and Mika lifted himself from the cushioned seat. Eichi was watching him, smiling, and Mika thought he of all people would know what was about to happen. Itsuki would have, were he to consider it a possibility. Mika considered that perhaps this was his one moment of luck in life as he walked two steps to the right and turned to her.
His hands bunched into her dress, and her hair was as soft as it looked. She was crafted from the finest materials and given the treatment to match; Mika could not find a flaw on her. He lifted her high above his head, his joints creaking and freezing for a moment at her apex. It was long enough to stare into her eyes and contemplate what he was about to do, and long enough for his god to return to his omnipotent state as he yelled out, "What are you doing!?" and raced forward to retie the strings.
Mika dropped her, and porcelain was fragile. She shattered against the wooden floor, her pale limbs spread out in pieces surrounded by crimson fabric. He would have to sweep again, Mika thought, staring into her green eyes as her head lolled loose on the floor.
He had to sweep, and someone was screaming, and Mika finally felt free.