[Birthright Universe] Paper Summer
[Title] Paper Summer
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG
[Warnings] None
[Notes] Book 1
[Summary] Sable remembers every single word.
Sometimes Sable doesn’t really know why he knows. Wait, that’s not true. He remembers exactly where he read it, down to the page number and paragraph. It’s printed on the inside of his eyelids in a serif-font. Even the ones in other languages are as clear to him as the ones he’s read over and over again. It doesn’t matter that he remembers it word for word the first time; he loves the experience of reading. There’s something so calming about leather in his hands, and the smell of old paper and ink. He loves deciphering foreign languages and letting the words paint themselves across his brain, forever.
But that’s really all he can do; remembering, recording, making sure the words in his head never die. He has all the stories to tell, plus more. It’s just so hard sometimes for him to explain to other people why it matters-why they should care. His reasons are so different from the rest of the world; his world is words, so when they get lost, he feels like a piece of his planet has burned up and vanished. There are so many books in his head now that when he finds out it only exists inside him, he grieves. He grieves for the words that no one else will ever get to hold in their hands.
He even reads in his sleep these days. The books of his childhood play across his dream-vision, pictures and pages fluttering in a non-existent breeze. He can feel the sun on his neck as he sits on the porch he hasn’t seen in over ten years, his father’s old textbooks in his hands. In the dreams, the pages never come in order. He remembers this chapter, then that one, mixed and swapped until he isn’t sure which book he has in his hands anymore. It doesn’t matter though, because he loves every book he’s ever held. Even the terrible ones. Sometimes especially the terrible ones.
Time doesn’t pass when he’s reading in dreams. He can read book after book, and the sun on his neck never moves. The wood grain of the porch is warm underneath him and the birds are always chirping. Father’s never yelling, or crying, or silent as the grave. Father is always having a good day in the dreams. Sometimes he feel a presence around him that you knows is Father, or that the book in his hand is one Father gave him. But Father doesn’t read to him anymore. Father stopped reading to him when Father’s bad days started outnumbering his good days. Sable reads to him sometimes, when he can’t get out of bed because the world is too much for him to handle, but in the dreams he’s always alone. It’s just him, in the endless summer day.
When he wakes up, he always feels that pang in his heart. He misses him. He misses the words Father taught him to love. Sable misses sitting in his lap when his feet couldn’t touch the floor, when he made the words come alive on the page and speak in real voices, like real people. Sable misses him so much that it hurts.
But he’s still with Sable. He never forgets words. And when he reads words by himself, the voice that he hears in his head is always, always Father’s.
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG
[Warnings] None
[Notes] Book 1
[Summary] Sable remembers every single word.
Sometimes Sable doesn’t really know why he knows. Wait, that’s not true. He remembers exactly where he read it, down to the page number and paragraph. It’s printed on the inside of his eyelids in a serif-font. Even the ones in other languages are as clear to him as the ones he’s read over and over again. It doesn’t matter that he remembers it word for word the first time; he loves the experience of reading. There’s something so calming about leather in his hands, and the smell of old paper and ink. He loves deciphering foreign languages and letting the words paint themselves across his brain, forever.
But that’s really all he can do; remembering, recording, making sure the words in his head never die. He has all the stories to tell, plus more. It’s just so hard sometimes for him to explain to other people why it matters-why they should care. His reasons are so different from the rest of the world; his world is words, so when they get lost, he feels like a piece of his planet has burned up and vanished. There are so many books in his head now that when he finds out it only exists inside him, he grieves. He grieves for the words that no one else will ever get to hold in their hands.
He even reads in his sleep these days. The books of his childhood play across his dream-vision, pictures and pages fluttering in a non-existent breeze. He can feel the sun on his neck as he sits on the porch he hasn’t seen in over ten years, his father’s old textbooks in his hands. In the dreams, the pages never come in order. He remembers this chapter, then that one, mixed and swapped until he isn’t sure which book he has in his hands anymore. It doesn’t matter though, because he loves every book he’s ever held. Even the terrible ones. Sometimes especially the terrible ones.
Time doesn’t pass when he’s reading in dreams. He can read book after book, and the sun on his neck never moves. The wood grain of the porch is warm underneath him and the birds are always chirping. Father’s never yelling, or crying, or silent as the grave. Father is always having a good day in the dreams. Sometimes he feel a presence around him that you knows is Father, or that the book in his hand is one Father gave him. But Father doesn’t read to him anymore. Father stopped reading to him when Father’s bad days started outnumbering his good days. Sable reads to him sometimes, when he can’t get out of bed because the world is too much for him to handle, but in the dreams he’s always alone. It’s just him, in the endless summer day.
When he wakes up, he always feels that pang in his heart. He misses him. He misses the words Father taught him to love. Sable misses sitting in his lap when his feet couldn’t touch the floor, when he made the words come alive on the page and speak in real voices, like real people. Sable misses him so much that it hurts.
But he’s still with Sable. He never forgets words. And when he reads words by himself, the voice that he hears in his head is always, always Father’s.