Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2266968.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Natsume_Yuujinchou_|_Natsume's_Book_of_Friends
  Relationship:
      Matoba_Seiji/Natsume_Takashi, Natori_Shuuichi/Natsume_Takashi
  Character:
      Natsume_Takashi, Matoba_Seiji, Natori_Shuuichi, Madara_"Nyanko-sensei",
      Nanase_(Natsume_Yuujinchou)
  Additional Tags:
      Non-Consensual_Drug_Use, Rape/Non-con_Elements, Vomiting, Overdosing,
      Dubious_Consent, Implied/Referenced_Character_Death, Near_Death,
      Psychological_Trauma, Victim_Blaming, Tags_Contain_Spoilers, Loss_of
      Identity, Emotional_Manipulation, Exploitation, Symbolism, Self-Worth
      Issues
  Series:
      Part 4 of Den_of_Iniquity
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-09-07 Completed: 2016-09-12 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 37990
****** Lotus ******
by hakuzo_k
Summary
     It’s funny how this all becomes full circle. It starts the same, now
     it ends the same.
***** Firsts *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
This will be Natsume's first exorcist meeting. Typically they're set on
weekdays (as exorcism is a profession to these people), but Natsume is still a
high school student. When Matoba suggests an upcoming one to be organized,
Natsume sternly refuses to attend one, especially if it is on a weekday.
Expecting such an answer, Matoba smiles and reminds Natsume that he is his
apprentice; it is crucial to his spiritual development. He plans the first
autumn meeting the following Sunday.
Under Matoba Seiji's guidance and exchange of his teachings, Natsume Takashi
attends.
The past few sessions (that recently increased to a few weekday afternoons) is
instructed in preparation of the meeting. As is typical with cultured business,
there are rules and guidelines, certain things to say and not say, gestures
that are encouraged and ones to avoid. (Such as asking a guest's identity when
they are clearly wearing a mask. Or too much involvement with a shiki unless it
was newly possessed, thus attracting expected attention.)
There is a lot of information to digest and a lot of it provokes questions and
wonder in Natsume. Of course the inquires were curious and to be expected, as
this is new to him, but they are still expressed in bias of ayakashi. Matoba is
used to being provoked by Natsume's opinions, but when it concerns the business
he works in, his reputation will be dangerously influenced by his charge's
actions. He will have to make sure that the boy at least keeps his perspective
of morals to himself.
Meeting attire is business casual, but often, and suggested by the prominent
Matoba clan, kimono should be worn. "It's reminiscent of the older exorcist
days," he explains; one shouldn't forget one's roots.
He offers Natsume a kimono, but the boy declines; his uncle had given him one
of his. "Good." Matoba smiles slightly. Unsure how to interpret it, Natsume
looks away. "But I'll have to provide you a haori with the clan's insignia."
Natsume wants to decline, but Matoba's adamant tone cuts through the rising
objection. Little by little, he's becoming more a part of the exorcists, not
humans, and of the Matoba clan, not his family. But it's hard to object to
those that protect you.
Natsume puts his hands out and receives the iconic black haori infamously known
by youkai. His amber eyes catch part of the white embroidered bullseye and
passes a hand along the threads.
This will be his first exorcist meeting as a willing participant, as Matoba's
apprentice, as a newborn exorcist.
 
"What if Natori comes?" Natsume chokes out, the tightness in his throat
unrelenting.
Matoba understands the fear, and having Natori attend so early wouldn't be
productive for that reason and more. He regards Natsume's hands quaking in his
lap (wrinkling his uncle's dark red kimono), before steadying his own hand to
finish the strokes on his writing. "Ever since I have taken you in, he hasn't
made an appearance at a meeting. I have a checkpoint before entering the manor;
you don't need to worry." He pulls his brush back and studies the letter for
any imperfections or impoliteness. There are none. Proud of his skill, Matoba
smiles to himself.
The brush is placed on its bed as the ink dries. Natsume worries his bottom
lip, waiting for more reassuring words from Matoba.
The exorcist rises from the chabudai, taking the paper in hand. "I'll prepare
some tea to ease your nerves." He motions for Natsume to rise and the boy
follows, his frame curling into itself. "I can positively assure you that he
won't trespass."
Lavender with some catnip is chosen, and Natsume watches Matoba brew the tea.
It's only when the exorcist works with tea that Natsume studies the exorcist's
fingers closely. They're slender and unexpectedly strong. He has seen the man
practice his archery while he himself rested. He often wears gloves to prevent
burns and callouses, but there are times he forgets to wear them. After
returning from a sudden outing (exorcisms or hunting), his fingers are
noticeably red and thick. It's fascinating to Natsume how someone can do such
laborious things, yet look so refined when preparing tea. It must be an
illusion.
Natsume hasn't noticed his hands went cold until he feels the warmth of the
teacup melting into his palms. He sips, careful not to down the diluted mellow
flavor because of his frayed nerves. When glancing at the exorcist, he notices
the soft smile directed at him; Natsume looks away embarrassed. He's not used
to that kind of look, whatever it is, and especially from this man.
He feels the tea take effect, nestling into tense muscles and a throbbing mind.
Sometimes his heart picks up, but he remains unbothered. It's preferable than
the spinning thoughts and fears.
Sometimes his breaths deepen, eyelids droop, and he falls into a dreamless
sleep. It happens often, but Matoba reassures Natsume when it is brought up.
The stress, the lessons, the tea all contribute. It's nothing to worry about. A
natural phenomenon, besides the dreams he can never recall or the faint smell
of smoke when he awakens. Something always feels off when he comes to, so
Natsume blames it on his ever-persisting uncertainty. Matoba has been
accommodating and careful ever since he offered protection to Natsume.
Natsume gently blows the surface of the tea, hoping the ripples would distract
him from lingering doubts. It just might be his nerves of the upcoming meeting,
after all.
Matoba regards the boy sipping from the cup for a moment. "Come to the Shuten
Room when you're finished. I want to prepare and debrief you a little more
before the meeting begins."
Natsume watches the exorcist leave from the small kitchen, regarding the
bullseye insignia on his back and the black sleeves flowing behind him. The
blond lifts his arm and pinches the sleeve before crumpling the silk fabric in
his palm.
He hasn't thought that this man was capable of tenderness. Maybe it's because
he's his apprentice, but Natsume wants to believe that Matoba could be a
changing person.
 
It's hard to dismiss the chatter around the grand hall, of exorcists and their
practices and businesses, mundane catching up, but a consistent trend of the
Matoba clan influence often surfaces. Every time the name buzzes by, Natsume
can't help casting a look to the polished man. He isn't sure if Matoba doesn't
hear or is used to this sort of gossip now; he carries on undisturbed with his
mingling. It's not like all the gossip is in bad taste. The clan is reputable
for reasons of power, support, and ruthlessness. Adding to that, the current
leader himself adds much more to that equation—
Natsume has strayed from Matoba after a small duration, but remains in close
distance to listen. He catches the man's lips quirk, readying a witty response.
—his charm.
The fact that Natsume knows what that expression means embarrasses him. He
covers his mouth with a black sleeve and turns away, hoping it will mask his
confused grimace. But the fact that Natsume enjoys that wit (although it can
become aggravating overtime) troubles him further. (Is he always looking too
closely out of habit or interest?) It's not just the personal charm Natsume
reveres, but his business demeanor. It's intimidating at first, but it's cool,
collected, and sure.
He mentions this once to Nyanko-sensei, as a hopeful test to lighten the
youkai's temper towards the exorcist, that there are nice qualities to
detestable people and silver linings. But Nyanko-sensei spat in disgust. "What
sort of garbage are you suggesting? Someone shows you a little kindness and
suddenly they're a redeemable being. You then let that someone use and misguide
you; look where that made you end up—" Unfortunately, the fight that followed
and its tasteless ending were expected.
Natsume doesn't bring it up again. Instead, he keeps the secret admiration
hidden.
For the time being, he will have to play along with Matoba's exorcist meeting
requests and talk among the people and ayakashi here. Looking around, a lot of
the exorcists seem preoccupied, but it's not hard to miss their curious glances
and unsettling whispers. Humans are difficult to talk to.
Natsume spots an ayakashi alone by one of the expansive windows. Its attention
seems lost in thought as its small eyes peer outside. (But ayakashi are also.)
Regardless, he introduces himself and decides that maybe he can learn to
improve his understanding.
"Your apprentice is very interested in ayakashi," a female attendant comments
to Matoba, her head nodding slightly in the direction of said person.
Matoba looks over the vast room, beholding his charge talking with a shiki of
the Fuse clan. He bites his cheek, somewhat humiliated and angry that the boy
would still do this despite his warnings. But Matoba is resourceful; he
wouldn't let himself be defeated by this small blunder.
"Actually, ayakashi are his specialty," he offers when turning around to face
her. "He's unlike any other medium I've worked with. His abilities are much
more natural and powerful. He can blend in effortlessly with them."
"That sounds quite useful," remarks the woman, taking in the boy from afar.
"It can be." Matoba nods before moving on with a small shrug. "Unfortunately,
he often finds himself in danger. Hopefully I can help resolve him of such
troubles."
Not receiving a reply right away, the exorcist becomes curious, turning around
to see the young woman continuing to assess Natsume. One could not hear from
their distance, but Natsume's soft and kind expressions could be clearly seen.
"Is it perhaps because he looks and acts otherworldly?"
Matoba's lips twitch slightly and huffs out a bitter chuckle. "...Yes. That is
a reason."
  
How long does it take to prepare someone? Natori has fucked him before, so he
must be fine by now. It's been two weeks since he last saw Natsume. That's
enough time to stretch his patience.
Matoba has prohibited Natori from entering the estate unless he is summoned.
But he needs to check on the situation, and Natsume. He needs to see Natsume
again. Natsume will be ready for him again.
Natori sweeps through the halls as quietly as he can. It's a Sunday; not many
attendants or shiki would be roaming around the estate (from what Natori
remembers when he visited the place when he was younger). It was a Sunday last
time Natori was summoned; Matoba must be working with Natsume around his school
schedule.
The room should be the same. It's secluded in the back of the east wing, a
location not as reinforced as the west with enchantments and barriers. Sane
ayakashi don't dare travel to the direction of the rising sun. The winds that
sweep by effectively carry off and dilute the tainted smoke of the incense
Matoba burns after sessions. Humans aren't as prone to picking up the smell of
emotions, deceit, and veiled sex. Although, neither human nor ayakashi can
detect those through the mask of enchanted smoke.
Natori nears the hall of the reserved room. The hall itself is dark; lights
unlit despite the autumn's setting sun. The shoji allows light to pool through
its thin paper into the hallway. There's no sound, no shuffling, no voices, no
gasps, no moans. But Natori approaches all the same (as if there were those
distinct signals). He makes sure his bare feet pad lightly, hopefully noiseless
down the wooden floor, closing in on the room.
His heart hammers in his chest; he begins to feel sick with anticipation and
lust. There is no sound that comes from the east wing room, yet he rests a hand
on the door's handle. Inside, the sound of a cloth garment slides against the
floor; Matoba must know he's here and may be about to acknowledge his
unannounced arrival.
"Matoba?"
Natori's actions and breaths halt in stupefied horror — a voice much too soft
and wary. Why isn't Matoba in the room? Why is Natsume still conscious? Is this
not the day Matoba prepares him?
Natori retracts his hand, nearly stumbling over his feet upon backing away.
Another shift in the room — he sees a figure shadowed against the screen.
"Do you need help opening the door?"
Natori darts down the hall from the way he came. As he rounds the corner, he
hears the shoji slide open. He braces himself for a scream, but instead hears
the shoji slam shut and charges into another figure. Ceramic cups clang against
each other and thankfully the iron kettle does not crash nor spill.
"Why are you here?"
Natori reflexively pulls back, about to apologize profusely, but notices that
the one he crashed into is Matoba. He's not supposed to be here. (He just wants
to see him, make sure this is real, that Matoba is keeping his word.) Before
Natori can find a reason (an excuse), the two exorcists hear dry retching down
the hall.
Matoba sighs heavily, but holds Natori's attention from straying down the hall.
"Are you here because of the arrangement? That business can easily be dealt
with by a phone call or letter."
(It's not that, not that.) Natori swallows to prepare his throat, but it's
harsh and dry and instead feels like heartburn. "I want… to help."
Matoba raises his brows. "What sort of help could you give? Right now, I don't
need you ruining my hard work and causing the boy to also get sick from the tea
I give him. Don't ruin your pathetic opportunity and my compensation because of
your untimely impulsivity."
The message is reinforced when a frail groan carries down the hall. Natori
furrows his brows and clamps his teeth together. The younger exorcist watches,
unsure of the other's conflict and feelings. (Of helplessness? Of longing? Of
anger?)
Matoba takes a step next to Natori. "Now I have to explain to him that that
person was a member of mine who mistook the room." He blinks over to Natori,
his carnelian eyes cast forward, conflicted in thought and circumstance. The
older man refuses to speak (his mind races instead), so the clan head
continues.
"As for you wanting to help, I really can't allow that. It's too risky in the
matter of his guardian beast and your compulsivity. You would compromise all
the progress I have done with him." Black hair spills over his right shoulder
when the exorcist leans closer to Natori, their arms resting against each
other's. "You're free to listen because I'm afraid watching will only make you
jealous." Matoba blows a teasing whisper against Natori's jaw. "You're really
desperate, aren't you?"
The black-robed exorcist pulls away with the conflicting touch of warmth, but
Natori has to know — with an unintentionally hard grip on Matoba's arm, Natori
asks, "Why did he get sick?"
What a stupid question, Matoba muses with a smirk. He shakes his arm, signaling
the other exorcist to remove his hold. "Didn't you know?"
Natori waits, watching the muscles in Matoba's face for any lies. But it's all
mocking, like it has always been between them — both from infamous clans each
known for their own fault of cowardice or deceit.
"He gets sick from the mere sight of you."
Matoba turns to the direction of the hidden eastern room. Natori stretches out
his hand, to hinder the upcoming session, but his fingers are sliced by the tip
of the retreating man's ponytail. His elegant, but simple, dark robes flutter
behind him, tea set stable and noiseless by his steady movements. Entering the
room, Natori catches Matoba's eye soften when addressing Natsume.
The screen is softly shut, barring out those unwelcome and uninvited to refuge.
 
One finger.
He has to start with a measured pace. He knows Natsume has taken more than this
(all accumulated in one night), but that is too much too soon. The boy would
recognize the aching sore, and that would be the end of Natori's, including
Matoba's, exchange. Preparation must be timed with a mindful pace, generous
with lubrication and stretching, and ensuring that the recipient receives a
reward for enduring this.
Natsume's muscles are understandably tense at the beginning. (He hasn't been
touched there since his violation.) But gentle coaxes of hands, peppered kisses
to his face, and soft requests yield his resistance. Every time he tightens,
Matoba passes a hand down his hip, squeezes his hand, pecks his forehead.
Sometimes the man has to request him to relax (as much as his reflexive muscles
could). Natsume is never met with anger or violence.
Natori, no doubt, would want Natsume to reciprocate kisses too, Matoba muses.
He casts his eyes over Natsume's sweaty face, pants and lips both dry. He has
Natsume rinse his mouth with water, not wanting the residual drug to affect him
also. (A note he will have to remind Natori of.)
Matoba removes his finger from the boy's asshole to instead introduce him to
practiced kissing. He's sloppy and a novice. With each correct reciprocation,
Matoba pets down Natsume's back or leg or waist. With each independent kiss,
Natsume receives a stroke to his dick.
Reintroducing a finger, Matoba nuzzles his face against Natsume's jaw, pecking
lightly. Natsume shivers in his grasp, pressing his fingers into the exorcist's
arms. (Never are bruises or cut left behind.) The finger sinks in, held and
pushed and swallowed by the allowing muscles. Experimentally, Matoba curves the
digit, pressing against a spongey wall.
Immediately, the blond gasps and twists from the new pressure, beginning to
feel his climax peak. Matoba notices his hand becoming wet with precum and
gently coaxes Natsume to remain on his back. To reach orgasm, the finger is
pushed in shallowly as the other hand tenderly pulls and strokes the boy's
arousal. Natsume comes with a stuttered gasp, hands twisting into the sheets
with raised hips.
Matoba pets down Natsume's thigh as he recovers, bleary and worn-out. He checks
his heart-beat, his pulse: nothing abnormal. Matoba wipes the sweat from
Natsume's face and cleans the release from his stomach with a cloth.
Sandalwood incense is lit and distributed throughout the room. Natsume slightly
stirs on the futon, descending into a fatigued nap. Matoba waits a half hour
before opening the outside doors, airing out the confiding smoke to the eastern
winds.
Chapter End Notes
     I thought to share some thoughts of this series since this is the
     last part. I hope you were able to catch what I mention, or even
     bring up something that I have overlooked.
     As for the significance of the title, I wanted to tie this last part
     to the cycle of karma. Upon my search, I discovered that lotus
     flowers symbolize karma in Asian traditions. The flower carries its
     seeds as it blooms; the seed the cause, the blooming the effect. You
     can read more about it with a simple web search, but there isn't
     anything deeper (like relating to Buddhism, besides 'karma') that I
     intend. Unless there is somehow a connection I am not aware of.
     It's funny; the Matoba and Natori clans' reasons for infamy have
     reversed and instead reflected on Seiji and Shuuichi as individuals
     (although each both stay true to their clan's flaws). Seiji (as will
     be read in further chapters) will not admit to his faults because of
     his fear of facing repercussions, all the while easily lying.
     Shuuichi began this ordeal by deceiving and misguiding Natsume. He is
     a coward by continuing this and also avoiding punishment.
     When I was outlining the last part, I found that these chapters have
     similar themes to Part 1. This theme is "firsts", as to when Natsume
     first drank sake and now his first exorcist meeting. Both are seen as
     instances that have no lingering effects, but there is certainly a
     domino effect that happens because of these.
***** White Lies and Half-Truths *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Understandably, Natsume has trouble with two fingers. By preparing him quickly,
Matoba knew he was going to encounter this predicament. (How would the boy even
stretch to three? At that point, an average dick would be able to penetrate.
Natsume wasn't given this paced time to prepare when that happened before.)
If Natori has come unannounced already, it is sure to happen again. He will ask
about Natsume's status, request to help, demand to take him as is.
(There is always confusion and a dull ache written on Natsume's face.)
The boy yelps and cringes when Matoba tries spreading two digits — not even an
inch inside. His perspired face scrunches in discomfort and he fists the
bleached sheets beneath him. Matoba stops, but keeps the digits inside. With
his other hand, he thumbs the boy's thigh in tender circles.
Natsume keens, throws his head back with a groan. Finally, Matoba is able to
push both fingers into the boy. He lets the muscles adjust and squeeze and test
the intrusion. Gently, slightly, he wiggles the fingers, but Natsume doesn't
lock down harshly on them like on earlier occasions. Matoba then bends them,
petting the hot walls.
His breathing is still heavy, his body still tense. Natori will come by again,
and Natsume is hardly ready.
Matoba looks to the lidded amber irises, and sighs. The boy's heavy panting
subsides to mind the figure above him. When a hand rubs up and down on his
thigh, Natsume releases a large breath, gentle sighs accompanying thereafter.
Matoba gently prods again. Natsume's muscles grip his fingers, pulling him in
with a moan. Surprised, relieved, the man smooths a hand up Natsume's forehead,
unsettling his messy flaxen hair to place a kiss there. Now sounds an open-
mouthed moan.
(His blocked conscious wants to call out, but the reasons are forgotten. What
is being done to him doesn't mean anything, won't mean anything.)
Natori will come again, he will come soon.
Natsume is not ready, and neither is Matoba.
 
 
"Master Matoba," a tengu-masked shiki begins with a meek voice, "an uninvited
guest arrived."
The light conversation ends with an apology. "I'm sorry. There's something I
have to take care of." The woman exorcist waves her hand and thanks Matoba for
the pleasant small talk.
The clan leader follows the four-foot shiki out of the grand room and to the
checkpoint down the hall. There are two clan members stationed, switched off
every two hours, but installing this security turns out to be very useful. Now
neither unwanted ayakashi or unwanted exorcists may enter unaccounted for.
It wasn't hard to guess who the intruder could be. Matoba wonders if he should
start keeping a tally of every time this happens.
The man's presence is more boisterous than usual. Perhaps he is making up for
the anxiety. He smiles, tilting his head slightly downward, before greeting the
clan head. "Hey, Matoba. I noticed that I'm not on the invitation list. Care to
explain why? Look," Natori spreads his arms and slides his hands down the
earthly-toned robes, "I even came in the attire you like."
Matoba huffs out loudly, unsettling his two subordinates. "You should know why
you're not accounted for. In fact, you're not even allowed on my premises
without request." He grabs Natori's bicep and pulls forward. "Come with me," he
orders in a low voice.
Natori shakes off the man's hold and his cheery facade. There's a glimpse of
hostility before Natori averts his eyes. (Not in public.) Matoba thanks the
members before guiding Natori to the entrance.
Silently, they walk next to each other. Although his arm hurts, Natori doesn't
dare nurse it to give Matoba the satisfaction. But said exorcist purposely
bumps into the arm, causing Natori to hiss both from the renewed pain and his
frustration. "Why is this taking so long? It's been many weeks, Matoba."
What an impatient man. The younger exorcist sighs heavily, increasing his pace
to discuss this further from the meeting. "I'm not like you whose rushes
jeopardizes things. I'm not going to make this boy tolerant of such a drug, nor
let him know what's being done to him.
"It's hard enough leading his beast away. I often have to use sleeping spells
on it, and that seriously cuts into my supply, even with your exchange."
"… how far?"
He knows what Natori is asking, but inquires nonetheless. If he wants to know,
he'll make him ask more than once. "… excuse me?
And Natori swallows, adjusts the sleeves of his kimono. Matoba's eye flickers
down to the movement, still aware of the man's discomfort and remaining scars.
"How far… have you gotten with him?" Natori visibly struggles with his words,
conflicted both by spite and want.
Three weeks. How much has he been able to do with Natsume during that time? How
many fingers, how many kisses, how many moans, touching, and orgasms?
After dwelling on the silence between them, Matoba offers bluntly, "Two."
Natori stops in place. Noticing the man no longer beside him, Matoba looks
back. His head is bent in just the right way with hair covering his face that
makes him just enough unreadable. But the stiff frame gives him away.
"I can't get past two fingers," Matoba repeats for clarification, watching the
other.
Natori's fingers fidget, joints tight and unused. He swallows an uncomfortable
lump in his throat. Only two…? "What else have you done?"
Matoba furrows his eyebrows and frowns. "Is now really the time to be asking
these things?"
The rebuttal is careful. The younger exorcist can see how sharp the other's
eyes have become when his head lifts, his words hissing out with quiet menace.
"I told you not to fuck him."
Mulling over too long would lead Natori's speculation, so Matoba regulates his
answers at a normal pace. It's composed and cool as always, but he makes sure
not to tack on a smirk. He doesn't want to deal with the sight of pointed
teeth. "I haven't."
But it casts suspicion regardless. Natori wants to prove that he isn't being
paranoid, that their exchange is just as it was laid out, and that the cursed
exorcist hasn't played true to his clan's fate of broken promises. "Did you
kiss him?"
"Yes." As much guidance as he could orchestrate and comfort during their
sessions.
"Did you make him orgasm?"
"Yes." As many times as needed during their sessions.
"There's no way that you haven't fucked Natsume. You did, didn't you?"
Impatient. Disgustingly impatient and naive and fickle. Matoba clenches his
fists and purses his lips. Is Natori envious, or just mad by this point?
"Please locate your shoes," he tells the man before slipping on a pair himself.
Both. It must be both. He's been wanting and deprived for so long (his own
fault, a grave mistake on his part). He's so despicable and desperate, rudely
arriving and grasping at straws.
"You're keeping him for the time being and love dragging out anything that has
to involve me. This has been going on ever since I met you; wanting to best me
out of every hunt or menial game that I come across. Haven't you grown out of
your childish habits?"
Matoba feels the muscles in his neck and throat tighten, nearly inclined to
throw him out by his collar (but that's too close, too roused for the position
he is in). So instead, he resorts to his typical mockery of faults. "I have
self-control and know how much Natsume can take at a time, unlike you."
"You're saying that you really did, didn't you?" Natori nearly sounds
breathless, as if he's trying to disbelief one of his worst fears.
Catching this, Matoba lets out a breathy laugh, wanting to stretch that
despaired face just a bit further, see how much he can pry before this becomes
too dangerous. "You know, Shuuichi, the more you say that I fucked Natsume, the
more I feel inclined to."
"Don't."
The clan head raises a brow at him. This man really is confusing. How helpless
has he become since they last worked together (semi) cooperatively?
"...Let me see him." Natori's head is slightly bowed, eyes averted to the side
of the other exorcist.
It must be that, then — an obsessed fool. Matoba sighs heavily, patting down
his haori before approaching the entrance. "I'm not allowing that," comes his
stern voice. He opens the foyer door to show out Natori. "You know the reasons
why, but it sounds like I have to reiterate them once more to you."
It's made to come out clear and cold and definite. No more confusion, no more
dropped-by visits, no more unneeded panic. "You are not welcome here for the
time being."
Stay like a good dog and come when you're called.
 
 
Sprawled on a third floor windowsill, Nyanko-sensei flicks his ears to a pair
of voices below. When he recognizes a voice (one that he hasn't heard in
months), his restful purring ceases and he turns to the man on the ground. He
talks heatedly with the other exorcist, Matoba, not polite enough to lower his
voice.
His yellow eyes glare from above, hyperaware to the threat before the manor's
entrance. How should he attack? With a blinding light? A beastly form with
claws and teeth and unrestrained mercilessness? Sensei blinks to keep himself
focused. That cursed exorcist better not be involved with that bastard any
further. Perhaps they both need a reminder.
"And why not? I'm also an exorcist and should be included in your self-
promoting meetings."
"I didn't call for you, nor do I need you involved at the time." Matoba signals
with his hand for assistance; two white-masked shiki creep forward. "These
shiki will show you out along the right path so you won't get lost."
Natori's hand tugs on his other sleeve. His own shiki must rest within, Matoba
notes, and adds to the instructions, "Attempts to stray inside will result in
excommunication."
When Natori freezes in place, Matoba assesses the other from the bottom-up.
"I've had enough of your unannounced visits. They are unnecessary and honestly
a huge bother. You don't help with anything; you only make it worse."
The black-haired exorcist flicks his eye to the forest behind Natori. The shiki
follow his command and guide Natori from the manor, but not without a
frustrated glare to Matoba. Somehow he has kept himself somewhat composed
during this ordeal. A mocking sneer is returned to the departing exorcist
before the clan leader reenters the estate.
The door hasn't even closed when Matoba enters the foyer and sees Natsume
approaching. Quickly kicking off his sandals, he meets Natsume to break his
stride. By now, Natori hasn't even made it to the beginning of the forest, and
it's still possible that he might enter from another entrance. Matoba needs to
rid of the rising heat and anxiety from appearing on his face.
"Why aren't you at the meeting?" his voice strains, gruff from impending
nerves.
Natsume visibly flinches and steps back. But he won't be bullied by Matoba's
bad mood. "Nanase wondered where you were and asked me to seek you."
Nanase 'wondering' is her excuse to meddle in this ordeal. Matoba will have to
talk to her later because now… Natsume shouldn't be near this entrance, or any
others for that matter.
Matoba tries to portray himself as level-headed, but he feels the long-
forgotten, cold panic. He swipes a clammy palm against his robes. "You're
wearing on my reputation, Natsume. Go back now." The clan head notices a few
members appear from behind the blond. Quickly snatching Natsume's wrist, he
approaches them for their reports farther from the foyer, deeper into the
manor.
The boy is tempted to break off the contact, but the situation feels a bit too
strange, along with the hand that's clasped tightly around him. It's hot, and
sweaty. But Matoba isn't paying mind to him. Natsume looks up to the taller
people. It isn't hard to discern the worried looks on Matoba's members; Matoba
is a different story.
"Am I not allowed to leave for a break?" He instead attempts to break through
the surrounding exorcists' reports. He hardly registers the conversation as it
is disclosed discreetly to their master. 'Checkpoints' and 'security' sounds
unsettling. He tries once more. "Is something wrong?"
The head exorcist dismisses himself briefly to acknowledge the distance of the
entrance and Natsume. Still too close, a little further. Matoba nods to his men
and they carry on further into the manor towards the meeting hall. "Is seeking
me a break?"
Has Matoba forgotten he still has a grip on Natsume? The boy pulls away from
the grip and is thankfully released. Matoba immediately turns back to Natsume,
a fleeting glimpse of dishevel and panic, but Natsume carries through. "It can
be a part of it. It may as well since someone requested it."
The resounding snort sounds frustrated and annoyed. Matoba casts a quick look
to his members before insisting the boy again. "Fine, but you have to come to
me if you request a break. Right now, I will be incapacitated. You will stay in
the meeting hall until then."
"Do you think I'm a risk?" Natsume furrows his brows, displeased at the lack of
movement Matoba has restricted him to. Since when has Matoba given him such
curt orders? (Lessons were different; they were guided and observed and
careful.) Natsume wouldn't mind a small break from the gathering; waiting
around for a few hours can be tiring. It's not like he contributes much at them
either.
"Remain in the hall until I release you," Matoba orders much more firmly, his
chest crowded with heat and anxiety. The three members glance over interested.
"I'm not your shiki," Natsume retorts bitterly, but he quickly shuts his lips
together. With his head slightly bowed, he keeps his eyes up, defying.
Matoba feels his face heat up far more than it should. As much as Matoba wants
to lose his temper, he can't. Building confidence and trust comes at a cost.
(Everything is in danger.) He grits his teeth and hisses out through his teeth.
"My shiki will assist you then."
Natsume tries to step forward, but the courage has long since receded. A frown
pulls on his mouth, frustrated and unsettled. There is still a bothersome
inkling. It's not just the other members Matoba has been consulting with. He
wasn't supposed to notice or admit to it again, but there is a change to
Matoba. He's usually patient with Natsume, but now there's an authoritative
rush. Knowing and definite and secretive and confident.
"Stay there," is Matoba Seiji's definite words before Natsume is escorted
through the meeting hall doors by a white-masked shiki.
"I don't like my prey tough from abuse, Matoba."
The exorcist feels his heart drop before locating the scolding voice. The cat
has already stepped through the small turmoil and distraction to be at Matoba's
feet. Panic riddles his insides, and he is just barely able to take a breath.
Has the beast witnessed or overheard his encounter with Natori?
He doesn't waver for too long. There is still a danger outside and a security
breach if Natori was able to get by.
Composing himself, Matoba shakes his head and walks past the youkai to approach
a group of exorcists and shiki that a member must have gathered. He still feels
the bothersome presence of the beast. He thought that the manor's seals would
have been enough to at least subdue the annoyance. "I haven't time for this,"
he mutters lowly to Nyanko-sensei, nodding to the members to continue their
debriefing.
"With the way you have been pampering him up till now, I was afraid he would
become too soft." Nyanko-sensei eyes two men scurry past westward before
looking to the head exorcist.
Matoba scoffs when feeling the youkai's eyes on him. He doesn't bother with a
rebuttal. If softening the boy too much raised concern from his youkai
guardian, he must be doing well.
"If you want to continue assisting him, you must keep in mind my preference."
Another set of exorcists are directed northward. "How I interact with Natsume
is between us."
Nyanko-sensei tenses at the distasteful man's quip, but remains silent to pick
up the exorcists' mutterings. A flurry of faintly panicked voices is enough to
reassure the youkai's suspicion. Natori wasn't an invited guest. A foot nearly
steps on him, but the emitting energy was enough to attract surrounding
attention and ward off the man on his assignment.
"You know, that bastard exorcist isn't allowed near Natsume." Noticing the head
exorcist's flinch, the youkai sneers, grin wide and sharp. Finally he is able
to witness and mock a fault of Matoba's. If only he was able to catch his face.
"He somehow breached your security, didn't he?"
"I'm taking care of that right now," Matoba exasperates in a tired sigh. "Two
east," he directs before finally sparing a look at the youkai below him. What a
frightening youkai, Matoba comments to himself when seeing Nyanko-sensei's
twisted features. No doubt it's delighting in his slight.
Nyanko-sensei entertains the thought of hunting down the exorcist that Matoba
had dismissed not too long ago. How satisfying would it be to tear the damned
man's leg off. "I could be of help if he returns."
Recognizing the rising blood-thirst in Nyanko-sensei, Matoba dismisses the idea
(and hopes that Natori isn't stupid enough to return). "Beasts aren't useful to
me. Please dismiss yourself."
Matoba meets Nyanko-sensei's warning eyes. "I don't want to sense that bastard
again. By this point, I'm sure Natsume would be more lenient if I acted on my
own. Not only would I remove such a threat, but it would then take him out of
this contract and any other sort of dealings with exorcists."
"In the human world, we handle this as diplomatically as we can. Killing is too
easy a solution for you youkai. It only causes trouble for us."
The cat-youkai clicks his tongue. "You should know better than to write me off
so easily, youngling." With a heavy exhale, Nyanko-sensei stations himself
outside the meeting's door.
"Monitor and reinforce the entrances. I do not think he has the audacity to try
again, but it's best to be prepared." Matoba casts a glimpse to the cat-youkai
by the doors before dispersing the final members. He keeps a defined stride
when he approaches, pointedly ignoring Nyanko-sensei.
"I'll increase precautions in the forest. You both may leave after the
meeting."
The youkai's slanted eyes never leave Matoba, even when he disappears past the
hall door.
Matoba is quiet when he enters, not wanting to draw attention to his hurried
absence. He doesn't expect Natsume, nearby and without company, to immediately
hound him for answers.
"What happened?" The boy keeps his voice quiet, but his amber eyes remain
strong through his fallen fringe.
(What sort of worry would this be? Of his own safety or of others?)
Matoba signals him to follow, away from the door and eavesdropping gossipers.
"Just a minor security breach. Ayakashi tend to cross the manor's border when
the sun sets for instance." He eyes Nanase from the corner of his eye. She
feigns interest elsewhere, but of the years Matoba has known her he knows
better than to say too much. She has many resources at her disposal and has
demonstrated such on more than one occasion to Matoba — requested and
unwarranted.
The exorcist gently guides Natsume by his shoulder to stand in front of him and
leans down, blocking Nanase's view of both of their faces. "You needn't worry.
It was chased away."
Unsettled by their close distance, Natsume takes a small step back from the
man. His clammy hand twists into the black haori. "Was the ayakashi…?"
The question is left unsaid, cut short by lack of mental preparation. Matoba
could guess the easy answer aloud (Natori's Natori's Natori's), but that
wouldn't accomplish anything. Instead it would rattle this questioning trust
Natsume is displaying.
(There is a strong need to pull away, separate himself from cunning exorcists
and sly humans. An incredible alertness bears down on him, more so sluggish and
wearisome. It's meant to be helpful, but it turns out to be another bother.)
It wouldn't matter either way if the 'ayakashi' belonged to Natori — Natsume
believes so anyway. "You're safe here, Natsume," Matoba reassures in a softer
voice, making sure to mask his pained grin with kindness. (But Matoba continues
to question this himself. Natori coming this close, so dangerously close as of
late, is endangering this arrangement.)
"You're very important, Natsume."
It's meant to be reassuring, Natsume knows, but this man is always one step
ahead, talented with charm and careful with his cryptic words.
Matoba assesses Natsume's hesitance and continues. "If you feel like this was
too recent of a visit, you may be absent from the one scheduled Wednesday." Met
with silent acknowledgement, he adds, "You may work on lessons and homework for
the remaining time of the meeting. I'll fetch you when it's over."
There's still hesitation. Natsume's brows knit together, his fingers picking at
the end of his sleeve. Matoba softens his voice to sound reassuring. "Your cat
is outside the door. Don't worry." (And he means this. If anything, that beast
of his will strike down Natori without pause or speculation. Not like humans
have, like he has to.)
With a quiet thank you as his dismissal, Natsume leaves the meeting hall. And
expectedly, Nanase saunters over to Matoba.
"The more you continue this, the more dangerous it will become. I'm not going
to hide the fact I know he arrives unannounced."
Matoba turns his head away, eyeing the invited guests. Most of them seem
familiar, but there are always new faces, or masks. Some don't like to be
associated with this business.
Matoba has no choice in the matter.
"It is bothersome, yet you tempt him. You want to get him into trouble. He is
childish, but you remain that way also." Nanase follows his line of vision, but
it's nothing out of the ordinary — just typical surveillance or excuses to
ignore her.
"I'll take note, Nanase," the clan head comments off-handedly. Having a lecture
right after a stressful situation is never good for him — he's too explosive,
and Nanase knows, has known for years, what subjects to press.
"You don't need to keep proving your superiority over him."
Matoba pulls himself further away from the guests. He doesn't want this
conversation, or the obvious bite in his voice, to be heard by the exorcists.
They are a small community, decreasing each year; they always find
opportunities to gossip about new practices — or other clans' business. "He
won't improve himself if I don't, and he won't grow unless he's taught."
"As does his self-proclaimed teacher," the older woman tuts back, eyes giving a
quick glance around them before continuing. "I am still having trouble
determining why you're doing this, but I'm sure you're not completely sure
either. You only aggravate the issue and don't suggest what needs to be fixed."
Matoba wants to rebut her claim, but reluctantly realizes that may be true.
"He's a terrible learner if he continues to not understand. Forgetting about
reflection is not my responsibility." Natori was reckless and driven with his
learning despite warnings from his senior exorcists. He is overbearing in his
growth, just like a wisteria left untamed.
"...I don't believe he considers you a mentor." Nanase nearly adds 'anymore,'
but she isn't sure if that is true in the first place. Natori, just as Matoba,
is stubborn. He had grown in his abilities since crossing various exorcists,
including the one around his age. For the jobs they had to painstakingly
cooperate on, each were able to gain something from the experience.
"He'll reconsider all of this." She notices a twitch of a grin and a quick
breathy laugh, and shakes her head. "You have him high-strung and desperate on
this. You've done a great job on that. but imagine the benefits we would reap
if you applied that motivation to higher priorities. But your passion runs
deep, doesn't it?" Nanase's smile is sharp, meant to unsettle the exorcist (but
he's used to these tactics; they're just annoying).
Matoba pointedly ignores. He doesn't know how to counter that. It's something
that has been going on since he has met Natori. A rivalry of sorts,
uncomplicated and not. When younger, he didn't think of what it meant, and now
that it continues, to this sort of dangerous point, he doesn't want to evaluate
it any more. It's best left as a persistent conflict.
"...He's wasted potential," Nanase bitterly adds after a few moments, looking
out the large windows on the meeting room. Matoba snaps his head to her, brows
furrowed. "I'm sure you didn't intend for this at first."
The clan head firstly scoffs before offering, "I don't keep around useless
things. Hence why Natori is often absent, and when called, will only make it to
my heels." Perhaps this is clarification, but having to explain this to Nanase
feels redundant. "Natsume is naturally capable, and that will not wither away."
"Although you claim Natori as being the only irresponsible one, you and your
apprentice are also. It's only a matter of time. As your 'member', I hope for
your and the child's safety, but I hope you learn much more than you are
willing to teach to the others."
The clan head passes her a sharp glare. She knows when it's time for her to
stop lecturing, but it really says something that she has to continue doing so.
"Continue weighing your thoughts and costs about whatever purpose this serves.
And don't forget your own reflection."
Matoba isn't sure why Nanase suggested that only Natori would reconsider.
It's been three months,
and Matoba has doubts.
Chapter End Notes
     For the sake of convenience and to avoid over-complication, Natsume's
     friends and family are left out. :(
     My intention was for the story to be about Natsume's struggle, but
     more and more events keep developing as I think about these
     characters. As Natsume still learns how to discern among intent of
     others and trust, now comes into play the people he is now
     (unfortunately) involved in that aren't making his growth any better.
     Theme 2 is hiding/secrets.
***** Escapism *****
Chapter Notes
     I have been putting off this chapter for too long. Next one will be
     really intense. Please enjoy!
There has been light sprinkles of snow here and there. Winter is not quite
here, but approaching. Some mornings greet those awake to a blanket. At first
it’s light, melting easily to the sun’s rising rays, but steadily it becomes
heavier and thicker each passing snowfall.
“He’ll make sure you keep your promise.”
It’s supposed to be daunting, urging Natsume to be careful.
There is still that constant nagging feeling in the back of his head (that
something is off, something is hidden), but there is no evidence to suspect
Matoba. He feels safer, yet he isn’t completely sure he is.
He doesn’t want to acknowledge it — doing so would be doubting the choice that
he had made. (The choice that would be for his protection. He doesn’t want to
be wrong. He just wants to be safe.)
So Natsume rejects Natori’s intimidating words.
It has been nearly five months since Natsume agreed to Matoba’s apprenticeship
in exchange for protection. Because of the lessons, Natsume himself has grown
effectively in using the taught skills and spells. Nothing has backfired,
nothing has hurt those around him or himself. Despite the unfavorable tasks
Natsume reluctantly agreed to, Matoba has not assigned the teenager to any
crucial excursions. Natsume first thought it was because there was no such
work, but that turned out to be false.
There is always some sort of arduous work for these people. He doesn’t know
whether it was because he wasn’t experienced enough, they had enough
reinforcements, or that Matoba actually considered his morals on youkai. He
feels grateful and relieved, he thinks, but also confusingly neglected. It
should be a good thing. (It is.) So he takes the time in which he is excused
from exorcist training to focus on other important tasks and his other life
uninvolved with ayakashi and exorcists.
The longest delay Natsume has had from exorcist duties is two weeks. He’s
concerned at first (for when he’ll be recalled and if anyone is hurt), but
easily falls back into his familiar and subdued schedule.
Natsume is startled when he’s requested to the manor, even more so when Matoba
tells him what they will be doing next. An assignment or hunting would have
been more expected and acceptable than what he offers, but apparently the clan
does this every year as a reward for their hard work and accomplishments.
“Especially for you, Natsume. You’ve come very far and deserve some rest,
including your cat for his constant surveillance.”
Natsume dismisses the invitation for the moment to address another strange
thing. He pets the ball of fur dozing and nestled against his leg. “You called
Nyanko-sensei a cat.” He briefly eyes Matoba before sipping from his cup and
looking to the screen door’s filtered light. The smell of long gone incense,
infused in the walls, flooring, and cushions, overpowers the taste of the tea.
He might as well be drinking the scented smoke.
Matoba lifts his head from addressing a letter to add, “When his beast state
rests, he is a cat, right? He has been behaving like one. I hope he appreciates
my gesture to include him. I know that he has been working a lot beside you.”
Natsume places down the teacup and strokes a finger down a side of it. “…this
trip isn’t for anything else?”
Stopping his pen, Matoba looks up once more to Natsume’s hesitance. “…Excuse
me?”
Unsure how to answer, how to continue, Natsume chews on his bottom lip, ripping
and gnawing the cracked skin. “Before… I was invited to help with an exorcism I
wasn’t informed of. It won’t be something like that?” Hesitant amber eyes reach
the other’s.
The clan leader mulls over the boy’s look before choosing his words to not
incite the wrong impression. “We have connections with this onsen, but by no
means is it haunted or do I have the intention of including ayakashi matters.
This has always been a retreat for my clan. You won’t find that sort of thing
unless it is leisure or an emergency.” He gives Natsume a small smile before
finishing his writing.
Natsume imagines wringing his own hands into his slacks or skin. Matoba would
know something’s wrong, but he must already know that with his earlier
confession. “...am I able to decline?”
The blond watches Matoba’s hand slide the paper to the side. “I suggest that
you don’t. I would like to have your qi calibrated.” Rising from the chabudai,
the exorcist approaches the incense burner on a stand and prepares to light it.
Natsume wants to ask how that is done, but his observation from earlier
overrides that question. “Why is this room always heavily scented?”
The match’s fire ignites the powdered end of the stick. With a puff of air, it
goes out and wafts up in mesmerizing swirls of smoke and a scent of ginger.
“It’s another precaution.” But he doesn’t say to what. It’s an eastern room,
reinforced with seals and passing shiki. It’s not uncommon in his estate, but
the west is more often heavily guarded.
Natsume opens his mouth to voice the inquiry Matoba expects, but a smile (its
purpose hard to place) quickly cuts in. “Would you like more tea?”
 
 
Natsume knows that he would be sharing a room. (Having one to himself would be
too much.) He wonders if it is a good or bad thing that it is with Matoba.
Surely Natsume would be uncomfortable with the members he doesn’t know very
well, but Matoba himself, despite how much time he has spent with him, remains
an enigma.
His smiles are hard to decipher, from mocking to playful to that rare softness
he only shows to Natsume. When he speaks, he takes a few moments to collect on
what to say, knowing what words to impress or antagonize. He keeps his distance
when working with Natsume, but the times he is touched (repositioning fingers,
a different brushstroke, a hand on his shoulder), incites a mix of delight and
alarm that creeps onto his skin and into his mind.
A human touch is nice, but it can be betraying. The gesture is kind, but may
keep its true intention hidden. Praising words are pleasant, but the purpose
can be deceiving.
Natsume believes he may as well be shown a prison cell when the two are guided
to the room. His throat hurts and skin begins to tighten. The cat calls out to
the boy before walking in as if he owned the room already.
Hearing Sensei’s holler, despite its enthusiasm, startles Natsume. Only then
can he take a breath, his throat now tender and adrenaline waning. Matoba has
already placed his belongings when the cat bolts through the sliding door to
the outside.
“Natsume! This room is connected to a hot spring. It’s accessible only through
here.”
Natsume gives a small, hesitant smile. He doesn’t like the sound of such a
thing if he has to share it with someone he has trouble trusting. Maybe he can
ask to go home (again).
“It’s for Natsume’s and your use only,” Matoba adds before Natsume’s thoughts
could develop into something darker. The blond looks to the exorcist
disbelieving. “Come have some dinner before you enjoy the hot spring.” He
passes Natsume an impartial glance before exiting the room.
 
 
The sun has nearly set when Matoba requests Natsume to come with him. Nyanko-
sensei whines that he hasn’t finished his meal, but the blond folds the cat
into his arms. He chastises the cat’s heaviness in a low voice in which Matoba
overhears and also chuckles about. The cat shouts at them both for their
rudeness (but figures he still wins in the end because Natsume obliges to his
lethargy anyway).
Matoba really has left Natsume and Nyanko-sensei to themselves since they
arrived. No lessons, no appointments, no lectures. Now that he has summoned
him, it makes Natsume wonder otherwise. Does he have a practice or exorcism set
up? Did he lie about this? Natsume squeezes into the cat’s sides, but it’s not
enough to erase the worry.
They reach a room in the far end of the inn. A sign on the side of the sliding
door reads ‘Break Room’. Matoba opens the door, entering without a knock or
announcement.
There is a woman seated on the porch with a kiseru in hand, gazing out to the
snow covered grounds illuminated by the coming winter’s dusk. The sleeves of
her salmon robe are tied up neatly, but her chestnut hair is pulled up in a
messy bun. “Get out. I’m on my break.”
She slightly turns herself to the intruders. Two birthmarks rest on her soft
cheek under her left eye, and her thick eyebrows are furrowed as she releases a
puff of smoke. Her eyes meet Matoba’s and she takes a longer drag of the
kiseru. Smoke pours out of her mouth, as if she were a dragon, when she speaks.
“Since it’s you, I’m unavailable for the rest of the day.”
“I’ll only need you for a moment,” Matoba returns casually, as if the venom
(the literal smoke) leaving her lips left no impression. His hand gestures
Natsume to come forward. Natsume grimaces and Nyanko-sensei scrunches his nose
from the smoke. “This is my apprentice, Natsume. He’s never had a massage from
you so we would appreciate it if you could explain the process.”
The woman fully turns around to eye the teen in front of her, blinking up and
down to assess him. She takes a small puff before reaching his light-colored
eyes and greeting him. “Hey.”
Natsume nods and softly stutters a ‘hello’.
She taps the ashes on a tray before setting the holder down. “What’s with the
cat?”
“A pet,” Matoba quickly replies, but the woman raises her eyebrow at him.
“I know of you exorcists and your servant ayakashi. You don’t need to claim
such a normal thing.”
Natsume’s eyes widen at the bite in her voice. It’s strange to witness a human
this openly vicious to Matoba. Behind him, he hears the man’s clothing rustle
and a light-hearted chuckle.
Nyanko-sensei scoffs in Natsume’s arms. “I’m this weakling’s guardian.”
The woman nods. “I see.” She leans forward into the warmer room to extend her
hand to Natsume. “I’m Okiku, the head masseuse. I don’t really care for your
boss, but I’m sure you know it’s for good reason.”
Natsume nods and weakly takes her hand. “I’m Natsume. It’s a pleasure to meet
you.”
Okiku pulls herself into the room and shuts the sliding doors behind. She folds
her knees together before bowing to Natsume. “Please sit, Natsume. As for your
tyrant boss, he can stay or leave, but if he stays, I’d prefer if he also
sits.” She eyes him standing near the entrance of the room. Matoba gives a
small shrug and a slight smirk before closing the door and sitting on the side
of the room.
Seated before her, hands in his lap and Sensei to his side, Natsume listens to
Okiku’s process of massage and the flow of qi in one’s body.
 
 
The private onsen is beautiful. A small size, practical and quiet and like any
other Natsume has been in. Most of all, it is reserved only for Nyanko-sensei
and him. When first informed, he wanted to express his gratitude (at least a
delicate thank you), but Nyanko-sensei was there and Matoba was dismissive and
business-like. He’s sure the youkai would cut in or lecture if he did thank
Matoba. (Even after all this time, all he’s done, he’s still an objective
outsider to Nyanko-sensei. Natsume does agree with some of it, but expressing
any kind of positive or polite gesture or thought to the exorcist raises a red
flag to Nyanko-sensei.) It’s best to keep it to himself or until later.
Nyanko-sensei muses aloud about his missing element. Subdued and relaxed,
Natsume nods and agrees.
“Maybe.”
But just not around him. Don’t let him smell it ever again.
The cat paddles through the water, humming a tune that must only be known by
ayakashi. (How old is Sensei? He’s seemingly naive for someone who claims to
have known Reiko and of knowledge and people generations before her.)
“There is a sake made by snow rabbits in this area.”
Natsume nods and hums in agreement. He watches the ripples distort the moon’s
reflection in the water and absentmindedly tunes into a nearby hot spring. The
voices are muddled by the distance, but it’s good-natured, with some laughter,
mundane and easy talk. There’s a respectful silence when a deep voice speaks.
“Crisp and sweet, best when it’s cold.”
Skimming the surface of the water with his hand, Natsume tries to trace the
moon’s scattered shape. “You should go have some.” There is no longer the sound
of careless paddling, instead a gentle swipe through the spring. The nearby
conversation remains in the background as Natsume tries to ease his anxiety of
Nyanko-sensei’s solemnness. “Just don’t let me smell it, okay?”
The cat stares blankly at him with reasonable wonder and questions. “This trip
is for you, not me, Natsume.”
The blond smiles gently at the youkai. “I said to have a little, not go
overboard.”
“I still don’t trust that exorcist.”
Natsume grins lopsidedly. “I know.” Sometimes he wonders if he shouldn’t trust
him as much either. “You can bring some back with you.” Natsume reaches out to
scratch behind the cat’s ear. “I want you to unwind a little too. You’ve worked
a whole lot because of me, and I know you’ve been exhausted to the point of
sleep.” He thumbs the forehead and Sensei contently shuts his eyes. “It’s
unfair to you, too.”
Nyanko-sensei muses with a purr before deciding. “Fine. But not tonight. I want
to know the agenda for tomorrow.”
Nodding, Natsume strokes a finger down his muzzle and whiskers.
Nyanko-sensei means the agenda of both Matoba and Natsume, despite how vaguely
the youkai put it.
“Yeah.”
The lighter chatter continues and the deep voice remains distinct.
“You should bring some to Okiku. She could use it too, since she has the stress
of dealing with Matoba.” Natsume smiles at his own jest. It really is as if
this unwinding is untangling his nerves and cautions.
Nyanko-sensei chortles against the water and paddles away despite the human’s
gentle hand. “I’m glad there are other intelligent people around for a change.
Normal, too.” Natsume sinks lower into the hot water, humming once more in
agreement. “Exorcist drawl is too tedious and puzzling. I’m sure this Okiku-
girl has some interesting talk or funny jokes.”
Leaning his head against a rock, Natsume shuts his eyes to the near-winter sky.
“Maybe some funny stories about Matoba.”
The cat splashes on the other side of the hot spring. Other people’s voices
carry on in the crisp air, but lack an esteemed authority.
 
 
Wishing his comrades a good night, Matoba finally makes way to his room. He
quietly enters the dark room. If it wasn’t for the dim night illuminating a
sleeping figure on the floor, he would have forgotten he was sharing a room. He
pointedly maintains quiet movements to not disturb.
Already clothed in a sleeping robe, Matoba slips into the futon he laid out
before enjoying the hot spring. Still upright, he notices the small rise and
fall of Natsume’s shoulder. His hair looks even paler in the soft moonlight,
almost like silver.
Before he realizes it, his hand reaches out to touch the defined strands. It’s
faintly damp and warm, no doubt from soaking in the hot spring not too long
ago. It feels nice.
The sound of a bell and a glowering voice startles Matoba to pull back his
hand. “Keep your hands off him.” A pair of glowing yellow eyes stare at him
from Natsume’s feet. To think he forgot about the youkai… It must think he was
going to do something.
“I seem to have missed you by Natsume’s feet.”
The youkai doesn’t budge nor lessen its hard gaze. “Even if he moves, even if
he cries, even if he wakes up, don’t touch him.”
Matoba would like to settle in and fall asleep, but the cat-youkai doesn’t
break its gaze. The exorcist knows that the youkai either wants submission or a
challenge, and he knows he’s stirring an ember by biting. “What if he asks
anything of me?”
The glowing eyes narrow with the dragging silence. “He won’t request anything
from you,” Nyanko-sensei responds certainly.
“Maybe not with words,” Matoba suggests. Able to break the paralyzing gaze, he
adjusts the pillow and futon cover before lying down. He’s still able to reach
Natsume, but the distance is surely enough to indicate that neither the youkai
nor boy desire the proximity. When Matoba shuts his eyes, the sound of a bell
travels closer. “What if asks by other means?”
The ringing stops above his head, but it must be closer to Natsume’s. “If he
does, it’s not meant for you.” The metal ball inside the bells rolls dully as
Nyanko-sensei presses himself on the unused side of the pillow and against the
back of Natsume’s head.
“Don’t assume that I’m not watching you, Matoba. When you slip up, I’ll kill
you.”
Curious as to what kind of slip-up (he can imagine the variety of such the
guardian would list off), Matoba peeks his eye open. The youkai’s eyes are shut
and his body rises and falls with every deep breath. Nothing more to discuss
tonight. He won’t be able to brush the ghostly pale hair with the cat right
there either. (He tries to deny his curiosity has long since died out, but it
truly is remarkable.)
Natsume’s head shifts, lightly bumping into Nyanko-sensei before his legs
stretch out. Matoba turns his head and shuts his eyes, letting his back sink
into the plush of the futon.
If it wasn’t for the stillness and quiet of the inn, Natsume’s content sigh
would have been inaudible.
***** Temporary Comforts (Part 1) *****
Chapter Summary
     "Whatever you settled on with Matoba, he’ll make sure you keep your
     promise and to extract as much as he can in his deal. If you don’t
     also, it’d be wasted opportunity.” There’s a bitter grin before
     continuing. “Matoba is thorough with his bargains, but he’ll always
     find a loophole to benefit himself more in the long-run.”
Chapter Notes
     This chapter is incredibly long, so it is split into 2 parts.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
There is no schedule or time restraints. When Natsume awakens, Matoba has been
long gone. He wiggles his toes, feeling a familiar heaviness surrounding them.
The object makes a small whine before kneading against Natsume's feet. He
doesn't need to get up right away. Natsume reclines deeper into the futon and
stares at the ceiling.
The bed is comforting and warm, as with everything else. There is just the
right amount of light that filters into the room, revealing the dust particles
floating harmlessly in the room. Absentmindedly, he picks up on Nyanko-sensei's
breathing, quiet chatter dispersed throughout the inn, the melodic running
water outside. Shutting his eyes, he breathes in – hot springs and house dust
and clean sheets. Fidgeting his feet, clenching his hands, he feels the softly
worn texture and plushness of the futon. Natsume blinks and takes a deep
breath.
He's here. Really here.
And there's no malice or coercion or agenda.
Natsume looks to the cat-youkai, small noises continuing to expel. He nudges a
finger along the cat's brow, unsettling the groomed hairs there. When Nyanko-
sensei's nose twitches and a paw nudges away the finger, Natsume smiles.
Sensei is here too.
 
After a morning meal with Nyanko-sensei, Natsume decides to explore the inn a
little. Last night, Matoba said that it was fine to explore anywhere, but
Natsume noticed Okiku frowning in annoyance and a small shake of her head.
There must be some places off limits, but it sounds like that hasn't stopped
Matoba from prior visits. Nyanko-sensei departed earlier, wanting to gather
information of the snow sake he was raving about last night.
When stepping onto a patio outside a hall's doors, Natsume has to quickly
shield himself from a gust of wind. If he decides to venture out again, he'll
make sure to wear an extra pair of socks. He scans the area outside. The
grounds are desolate and hard from the wintery air, but the small pond remains
untouched by ice and still flourishes with fish bold enough to endeavour.
During the viewing, Natsume catches a whiff of smoke. Suspecting it from the
right, he looks, and witnesses a wave of it further down the patio. Natsume
briefly wonders if smoking is allowed. Okiku openly smoked when he first saw
her, but Matoba made a snide comment that she also breaks rules after she
narked on his habits. Curious if it may be a small fire, and disturbed from his
previous wandering, Natsume decides to investigate.
"The binding paper is easy, but I'm still struggling with the paper doll."
Natsume freezes in place at the mention of a paper doll. He looks to the
patio's doors, hearing footsteps down the hall inside.
"It's like that for those who don't concentrate," another adds.
"He makes it look easy."
"He's practiced it longer than we have." They stop right by the door, then the
steps further on. "At last we are able to have a more detailed procedure. These
will definitely help with seals."
Natsume forgets to breathe. He's been told to be mindful of that, by both
Sensei and Matoba, so he tries swallowing. It's tight and dry and feels like
he's going to choke. But there's nothing there. The air is now frigid and dry.
A cold sweat takes over.
The Matoba clan doesn't specialize in paper. If anything, they mainly use it
for seals. He has never heard of implementing paper dolls. There is only one
person he knows that does – and thankfully he hasn't been seen in months.
The patrons continue further down the hall of the inn, the conversation now
lost.
Natsume wouldn't be able to question them now. He isn't even sure he would. He
doesn't want to be reminded.
He rids of the reminder (of ink and paper and white lies) and carries on down
the patio. Another breeze wisps around, unsettling flaxen hair and navy and
white robes.
When Natsume makes it to the source of the smoke, he doesn't expect the smoker
to be Matoba. The exorcist is seated, leaning against a door's frame with a
kiseru in hand and trails of smoke leaving its tip. Upon noticing the teen,
Matoba nearly drops the kiseru as Natsume takes a startled step back. Matoba
takes another puff to compose himself before flicking his eye over to the
apologetic teen.
"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you," Natsume offers, hesitant to leave
without Matoba's word (something he is accustomed to by now).
"It's all right," the exorcist dismisses quickly, eyeing the hardened grounds.
"I was just minding the outdoors and became lost in thought."
He's never seen Matoba smoke before, Natsume considers. Sure the rooms at the
manor are often coated in the after scent of incense, but never of tobacco.
"Do you typically smoke, Matoba?" Natsume musters out, not wanting to seem
impolite about his snooping.
"On occasion," Matoba muses, tapping the end's ashes into a bowl. Before
pinching another fill, he looks up to the curious wanderer. "I'm sorry – does
it bother you?"
It somehow doesn't. Maybe it has to do with the ayakashi he's around, like
Hinoe. It's somewhat comforting, but he won't admit that or explain why to this
man. Natsume shakes his head as a reply. "I was curious is all."
Delicately stuffing the end of the pipe, Matoba lights the end and takes a
drag. He keeps Natsume in the corner of his vision as he watches the barren
outdoors and the slight sway of the trees, wondering if the snowfall will
happen tonight. "Don't lose track of time. You'll be meeting with Okiku soon."
Natsume watches the smoke leave the exorcist's mouth, mesmerized by the
movement and shapes as its twirls ascend. Hinoe had urged him to try her pipe a
few times, curious if his intrigue was a desire to taste. Just watching and
enjoying everyone's company was fine with him. They respected his decisions and
that left him content in their company.
The exorcist doesn't hear a reply, so he turns to look at the teen. Golden eyes
flutter in surprise and Natsume looks sideways down the porch to hide a flush
on his cheeks. Matoba smiles and adds, "She likes punctuality, but I'm sure
she'll give leniency for newcomers."
"Thanks," the blond accepts in a quiet squeak. He hastily veers from the room
and further down the porch, wanting to keep those memories alive and untainted.
 
She knows to be careful (as Matoba couldn't have stressed it enough). From the
bit of time she had been acquainted with Natsume, he remained reserved and
hesitant of others. A new clan member from what his disposition showed, still a
kid. As strange as it was, it's not her place to question – nor should she
involve herself now with the Matoba.
The teen brings the cat into the room with him. The Matoba head doesn't even
bring a shiki with him…
Okiku shrugs to dismiss it. She lights lavender incense before arranging her
products and setting music. "Please undress to your underwear and lie face down
on the table. There is a blanket to keep you warm." Turning to face Natsume,
she adds, "I'll be back in a minute. Please make yourself comfortable."
Natsume doesn't move, but Okiku takes her leave. His body is stiff and
hesitant, certainly needing an adjustment. Returning with warm towels, Okiku
knocks before entering. The cat has taken a seat on a high chair, keeping his
gaze directly on Natsume and the masseuse.
"I typically work one-on-one with my client," Okiku remarks before approaching
Natsume with the warm towels, telling him her future actions – "I'm going to
pull the blanket down from your back to your hips so I can place these warm
towels" – before doing so. Natsume flinches despite the warning.
"I keep an eye on anything that involves the Matoba." Nyanko-sensei's eyes
narrow.
Natsume releases a pent-up sigh. The towels' warmth seeps through his skin,
into his bones and nerves and blood. The idea of a massage and so-called 'qi
calibration' sound nice, especially with the explanation given, but it's still
unnerving. A stranger's hands on him, applying ointments and digging digits
into flesh and directing energy flow. It's a professional service comparable to
intimacy.
Okiku chuckles as she fastens up her sleeves securely. "I don't blame you,
kitty. I don't work for the Matoba, though." She flashes a devilish smirk.
"They're just well-paying guests I have the misfortune of hospitalizing."
Patting the plush table, she announces, "Now, now, no more talking from either
of you, and no movements." Turning on a CD player, a soft soundscape emits.
Softening her voice, Okiku addresses Natsume. "I typically work full-body for
qi-flow besides physically touching genitals. Is there any place off-limits?"
Natsume swallows, pushing himself to answer (to avoid regret). "My… hips." He's
sure the months-old scars are covered. Natsume awaits her reply. As long as she
doesn't touch, doesn't ask, he'll be okay.
"...Okay," is Okiku's response. "If anything becomes uncomfortable, please tell
me." Natsume is quiet, but softly nods.
"I'll start from your head down." She rubs her hands together, making them warm
and smooth, before dipping fingertips into Natsume's scalp. He flinches, but
doesn't move, doesn't object. "Did that hurt, Natsume?" comes her
uncharacteristically gentle voice.
"No…" Natsume bites his cheek. "It's… like a heavy pressure."
"Breathe out, Natsume. No need to hold your lungs." The teen takes deep
breaths, not knowing he had held his breath. "Your mind is very blocked. Please
continue to breathe deeply, unhinge your worries, let me guide your qi. Like I
explained before, you may experience numbness, tingling, temperature change,
heaviness, or lightness. Twitching is normal when channels are unblocked."
Natsume silently nods, a signal for Okiku to resume. She lopsidedly smiles
(it's not like the teen is going to see it). But Nyanko-sensei remains ever
vigilant, taking in the discrepancies of her eyes or mouth when she continues
her task. She feels the cat's dangerous watch, but her concern is especially
with Natsume's head; the energy there is very scrambled and misplaced. She
hears Natsume puff out stressed breaths. Pressing a bit deeper into his scalp,
down the front, Natsume's breath hitches and stops – as do Okiku's fingers.
This isn't an easy block to unwind. She glances to the alert cat, noticing his
hairs bristled. "It's fine," Okiku sighs as she drags her fingers back down the
parietal. Breathing eases back and she can't help her dismayed grin. "I will
have to focus on the front when he is on his back. It is too difficult to
target the block this way."
Frontal lobe – possibly an issue with short-term memory.
"Now then, I will focus elsewhere," Okiku changes the topic, hands quickly
skimming down the back of Natsume's head to his neck. It is much easier to
direct the flow here, Okiku minds to herself. She keeps her fingers light,
getting a feel for the channels before pressing the digits along Natsume's
spine.
He jolts, but remembers to breathe (remembers that this is to help him, that
this is a professional service, that Sensei is here). A sound of a wave catches
his attention, pulls him into the soundscape Okiku set up beforehand. It's both
a distraction and a comfort; the sound of a harp reminds him of the forest,
brings him to the smell of lavender in the room. Natsume sighs, gradually
letting his body sink into the table.
No longer is the teen's neck or spine strained. Okiku removes the towels before
sliding her fingertips down, but remembers to mind the hips. She stops at the
bottom curve of the spine before fanning fingers out to the sides of his back
and ribs, bringing them up to meet once more at the base of Natsume's neck.
Although it's hidden for the most part, Okiku can see a faint etched secret
peeking out. She glances to the cat, his expression stern and somber.
Don't press.
She leaves the back for now to pull the energy through his arms. Natsume
twitches as she passes over his shoulders. A reaction that is natural for this
process, not fear or doubt like before. After releasing the tainted qi through
his fingers, Okiku tenderly presses her fingers into the shoulders and drags
down to stimulate the teen's nerves and blood.
Natsume releases a pleasant sigh. That didn't bother him – it was beneficial to
his well-being, the touch of purpose and mindfulness. Warmth and heaviness
takes over. A harp fades out.
Okiku returns to the back, careful of her pressure and Natsume's sensitivity.
Slowly, hesitantly, Natsume's skin warms by Okiku's downward draw. Reaching
just above Natsume's tailbone, an obstructive energy stops her. Not only must
she be mindful, but there is a very concerning block from going any further.
"Natsume," the brunette breathes out gently, voice tinged hesitant.
Natsume knows; he feels the warmth of her fingers just above the part he wants
excluded. It seems like that won't be possible now. "Something is wrong there
too?" He looks over to Nyanko-sensei who returns a knowing look. (It's from
him; it's his fault.)
"...Yes. It would be for the best to resolve this."
Natsume bites his bottom lip. She'll see it, she'll see the marks. Another
nervous glance to Nyanko-sensei. But it's not up to the youkai. Releasing a
shaky breath, the teen resigns and fists his hands against his sides. "Please
don't touch." He searches for the music and a flute plays, a koto following.
Shutting his eyes, he recalls Asato, a time when he was unbelievably more at
peace than now. (There were no Matoba, Natori, or exorcists, only youkai that
needed help.)
"I will have to remove the blanket for the time being. Bear with me." After a
nearly unnoticeable nod, Okiku delicately removes the blanket and places it at
the end of the table.
The marks are faded and noticeably discolored from the pale skin they're
embedded in. Crescent-shapes were concentrated as the lines were dragged and
messy.
Okiku's eyes flicker and her mind invades the teen's business, offering
suggestions of why and who. The suggestions concocted are too dismal to remain
on. It's not her place to intrude. (If anything, that is Matoba's specialty.)
This teen is a client and her objective is to free energy from these blocks,
not involve herself in the story of them, no matter the questions they may
bring up.
Half a centimeter above his skin (so dangerously close, but the obstruction
needs to be eased), Okiku curls and uncurls her digits to coax the channel.
Natsume fidgets when feeling a tingle and pressure, but remembers to take in
deep breaths. Sensei was the only other one to see this.
"Natori has these nasty cuts from fingernails. I'm sure Natsume has some marks
himself."
After Matoba's confrontation, Nyanko-sensei requested to mind it. He didn't
press harshly, but he was stern with concerned intentions. They weren't treated
then – the skin was peeling and the injuries were raw pink. He couldn't help
remembering and how much the wounds bothered him. He wanted them gone. Instead,
Natsume peeled and rubbed the skin raw, further embedding the marks into
himself. After homeopathic remedies Nyanko-sensei received from ayakashi, the
wounds stopped festering and healed. Discolored scars, leveled and raised, were
now the only reminders left. Natsume made sure to never touch them again.
Natsume feels the build-up – pressured and aching and a numb heat. It's not
painful nor pleasant – it's mostly annoying. Guided waves try to crash through,
but it remains tough and consistent, alive and continuing to feed on scarred
memories. He begins to feel heavy, like a force is keeping him pressed onto the
table. Natsume fidgets, wanting to know he still has the strength to – and
he does. There's no physical force atop, just the inner conflict his body and
self have conjured.
The block begins to budge, its resistance and protection breaking and fading.
It's a little hard to breathe, so Natsume tilts his head to the room's closed
door.
A little more guidance and a narrow channel unhinges, flowing the connecting
passages with energy, hot and tingling and airy. Natsume releases a relieved
sigh (the blockage gone, his inhibition mended) before feeling a dozing effect
take place.
"Hmm…"
Okiku sighs with a smile before addressing the teen. "Looks like that was quite
a hindrance to you. Let me get started on your front before you doze off." The
masseuse hears a meditative breath before Natsume nods and carefully turns
himself on his back. Okiku places the blanket up to his waist before a doze
claims him.
The woman reaches Natsume's scalp, about to work her digits in before the cat
interrupts. "What is wrong with his head?"
Okiku side-glances the cat watching closely, its face scrunched in trying to
view her method, and decides to not grace it with an answer she isn't
completely sure on. Pressing down her fingers atop the frontal lobe, Natsume's
shoulders jolt and face twitches. She begins in a gentle motion there, watching
the teen's eyes flicker under his lids. Being put back into a trusting doze,
Okiku carries further, discovering a couple more problems in the chest and
stomach.
Guiding the last blockage through Natsume's feet, Okiku begins to rearrange her
materials, letting the teen rest for these few safe moments. "Have you noticed
anything strange about him?" is directed to the cat, now perched at the end of
the table near the teen's feet.
Nyanko-sensei eyes Natsume, content with the steady breathing he both hears and
sees. "More so his sense of judgment. He has become more fond of the exorcist
ever since he had agreed to work with him."
"Sounds like it was reluctance on yours and the kid's end. What brought this
up?"
Puffing his chest, the cat snorts, "None of your business. Humans are
incredibly annoying."
Another thing she agrees on with the cat. "Well in any case," Okiku takes
Nyanko-sensei's previous spot of the stool, leaning her shoulders against the
wall, "whatever you settled on with Matoba, he'll make sure you keep your
promise and to extract as much as he can in his deal. If you don't also, it'd
be wasted opportunity." There's a bitter grin before continuing. "Matoba is
thorough with his bargains, but he'll always find a loophole to benefit himself
more in the long-run."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Maybe," she replies, forcing a laugh. No doubt they'll be used too. They
should already know this by now though. "But you'd be smart to keep your wits
about you with him. He's as cunning as a fox. With his clan's history, there's
reason why he is both admired and feared. I'm still hoping he has a weakness of
some kind. He'd certainly be inhuman otherwise."
The cat scoffs, burying his paws beneath his body. "I'll keep you updated on
that, but I'd be sure to use that weakness first before you."
The woman laughs heartily this time. "What a smart cat! I wouldn't hesitate
either. Matoba surely has a lot of enemies."
Hearing a small noise from the teen, Okiku and Nyanko-sensei look over to the
still form. She tries to shoo off Nyanko-sensei, but is only met with a
hazardous look. She takes a quick moment to mind Natsume's sleeping face (an
other-worldly beauty) before gently tapping his arm. "Natsume, you're all set.
It looks like you really enjoyed it."
Natsume blinks open his eyes, a little disoriented, but the sight of the large
white ball of fur comforts his coming to. He nods and smiles shyly at Okiku.
A half-grin is returned – it's nice to see such an expression on this unsure
teen's face. Hopefully those blocks she worked through won't appear again and
turn into something much worse.
"I'll leave you to dress. Please make sure to rest the remainder of the day and
feed and drink for your body." Before leaving, Okiku gives a deeper bow than
before they first met. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Natsume."
With a blush, Natsume returns, "Likewise. Thank you, Okiku."
 
The masseuse makes a strangled noise when entering the room, knowing full well
who this next client will be. Every year she knows to expect both the
aggravation and money and the man always makes her question taking leave. From
welcoming to leaving, he always tests her nerves, admitting it openly to her.
Okiku hears the deep voice begin to speak, but makes sure to interrupt it.
"Even though you know we have issues with each other, you continue to request
me." She rolls her eyes over to the head of the Matoba clan reclining on the
cushioned table. The man returns her non-enthusiasm with a subdued smirk.
Their routine has long since been practiced, but Matoba tries to change it up
each year. "Your hands work the best on me."
Okiku rolls her eyes and tries to have none of it. She sets out for the hot
towels and lotion, conditioning her hands in preparation of working with this
fox. "Thank goodness you're my last client for today. I'm going to need some
meditation afterward."
"I may be able to help," comes the smooth voice, head tilted to grace her with
the familiar snake-like grin. "I brought my own incense and tea–"
"Knowing you, it's some sort of poison," she quickly cuts in. Everyone knows of
the riches and specialties that the Matoba clan is able to acquire. When first
entertaining these people, she has even taken their offers. She knows better
now, even warns her coworkers of cleverly hidden contracts and mockery. Of
course, most if not all are from the new clan head.
Matoba laughs a little differently than usual. "You're very good, Okiku." The
masseuse turns to look at him, his words piquing her interest. He actually had
the idea of poisoning someone, or was this another ill joke?
"I sincerely hope you do not mean that. You are not a good role model to that
boy you brought here."
Matoba wants to say he knows better, but that's a lie. (Natsume doesn't.
Natsume doesn't know any better.) It's better than to say too much, even if
Okiku will find his lack of a comeback strange.
Conclusively, Okiku decides it's better that Matoba isn't speaking. The hot
towels are laid upon Matoba's bare back before she sets the soundscape CD for
ambience. Waiting for the heat to loosen and hopefully ease Matoba's mood,
Okiku prepares her hands and sanity before the work.
Cool air waves over his back when the towels are removed. Matoba sighs, lets
his eyes and head rest. "No need to be gentle with me," his voice comes out in
a subdued rumble.
Fingers jab at the beginning of the shoulders, eliciting a pleasant hiss from
its owner, pressing until there is a taut counter. "Wasn't planning on it."
There is no need to be gentle. There needs to be a near equal force to work the
blood and qi. Due to the Matoba clan's lineage, it is especially difficult with
whatever power courses through them. Okiku has always been a rough sort of
masseuse, and as much as she likes implementing her rough skills, this one man
gives her plenty of consideration and grief just by working the body.
His archery always tenses the shoulders and arms. It is nothing new, and fairly
simple to work through. Passing over his waist, the flow of the liver isn't
much of a problem. (He hasn't indulged in a lot of alcohol lately, which is
strange for him during this and the approaching month.) Matoba dozing off is
not much of a rare sight to Okiku, but it always unnerves her, as if he'll jump
up to scare her. Because of the protective seal wrapped around Matoba's eye,
she has to be careful around the head. There's not a lot of flow she can manage
around the area, due to the writing's own magic and her cautious hand of
disrupting crucial activity.
But her index joint snags something unpleasant. Right above the ear, the
amygdala.
Her fingers hover and coax the surrounding area, a little perturbed that such
an area would be problematic for this man. But it catches again and the corner
of his lips twitch. "You're stressed about different things, aren't you?" As
much as it is interesting and how she could mold this to her advantage, Okiku
has a job and Matoba is clever. "...You have some anxiety." Pulling her hands
back, Okiku dips and gradually pushes her fingers against the blockage from
above. "Which is strange for you," she adds in a puffed laugh.
"A lot of things have happened this past year," Matoba muses aloud for her.
Okiku nearly jolts at the explanation she didn't request. The exorcist doesn't
fight the pressure, so used to the invasion and benefits, and the channel opens
much easier than the teen's tense resistance. (She almost wishes she couldn't
be able to open that channel. This man needs to experience and reflect on human
emotions for much longer.)
"Speaking of problematic areas and people," Okiku sidetracks, dismissing this
man from speculated humanity, "that kid you brought is a mess."
Alarmed, the exorcist rises from the table (but not too hastily to raise
concern) and looks to her, expecting more to follow. The masseuse simply tidies
her station, tosses the towels into a hamper. It is made to be casual talk
between them, but Okiku's tone about the new guest hints otherwise. He can't
help but wonder (panic) what she may know.
"How so?"
How much does she know?
Brown eyes drag over and consider for a moment. "I am hesitant to share that
information with you. It's unlikely the kid will talk about the results with
anyone."
Okiku returns to finishing her session, reaching for the pipe and satchel she
always keeps on her. The hurried rustle of fabric is tempting. Glimpsing at the
exorcist, mostly dressed by now, Okiku shrugs as a half-hearted beckoning. If
he wants to know, maybe she can also gain something from this. It's strange
enough that this man would even be concerned (non-antagonizing) about another
human.
They leave the station and another masseuse enters, bowing to the clan head
before preparing. Okiku carries on with a mixed scowl, curious about Matoba's
concern but simultaneously irritated by his presence.
She leads them down the hall, through a sliding door that hosts a porch
overlooking a different set of grounds: a frozen pond and bridge, but similar
lumps of dirt due to the low temperature. They both sit without uttering a
word. From the bag, Okiku retrieves the essentials for her smoke. Matoba is
impatient, but not stupid to press the woman. This unsaid request breaches
confidentiality.
The pipe is prepared and Okiku draws from the mouthpiece, again at peace for a
brief moment. "I would hope to think you have the best in mind for him, but I
know better, and I am sure he does too," then she quickly adds on at the end,
"to a certain degree." Her attention remains forward, delights in the smell of
the flavored tobacco. It won't be long until the exorcist undoubtedly asks the
questions she can't permit. "I can't disclose to you his ailments."
"You could give me a hint," comes the voice, accented a little sultry.
The woman only rolls her head back in exasperation and takes a puff, making the
exorcist smirk at such a characteristic response. It's both endearing and
peeving. Matoba shuts his eyes and breathes in the smoke, wondering if he
should try that flavor at some point.
There's no fluid interlude into the explanation. She's not a diplomat nor
graced with charisma. It's probably best that way – the information shouldn't
be skewed by the way it is worded or how the presenter sounds. Okiku tsks, taps
the ashes into a bowl she placed down earlier. "Whatever you're doing to him,
don't push it." She restuffs the pipe, feeling the fox's gluttony upon her
tobacco-flecked fingers.
"He's tense in many critical places; it's a good thing you brought him in."
Okiku takes a long drag from the pipe, long used to the thick, warm smoke
inflating her lungs. Passing her gaze over the bumpy and frozen ground, she
exhales. "He should be able to relax much easier now. Although, there are still
things I can't correct. Like you, or whatever he frets about."
Chapter End Notes
     Theme is "discovery".
***** Temporary Comforts (Part 2) *****
Chapter Summary
     Does softness really make you this foolish?
Chapter Notes
     I'm back from that horrible writer's block for this series.
     Explanation in the end notes.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Natsume isn't sure if he appreciates or dislikes the lack of company.
Nyanko-sensei had departed with the snow rabbits like he informed earlier.
Natsume had smiled, albeit sadly and guiltily, wanting the guardian to take a
break and not continue to stress over him.
At least the hot water is nice.
He keeps his back against the border of the hot spring's rocks. Overall it is
quiet with faint murmurings from the other surrounding springs. Lowering his
eyes, Natsume watches the gentle ripples of the water like the previous night.
He moves his arm under the clear water, maneuvering over his lap.
In thought of the events earlier that day, Natsume passes a hesitant hand over
his hips, palm registering the raised scars. Natsume gnaws the inside of his
cheek, breath hitching when he allows his fingers to trace the scars'
placement. It is strange to feel so loose and relaxed. He was accustomed to the
tension along his lower back and waist. It felt like poisoning stones were
removed from him, not just distributing a heavy burden, but a trickling
reminder that never failed to sting him.
Natsume wipes his fingers on one of the submerged rocks to rid the feeling of
the disgusting skin, hoping that maybe the rocks will rub off the ridges on his
fingertips too. If he stupidly dared to be curious once again about this, he
wouldn't be able feel the raised scars.
(Maybe Nyanko-sensei should come back.)
Something cold drops onto his nose. Natsume quickly reaches up to wipe it away,
but even more tiny cold bites sprinkle upon his head and shoulders. Looking to
the contrasting darkness on the enclosed onsen walls, he is able to see the
small snowfall.
Bringing his hands out of the water, Natsume notes that they have become
wrinkled. It should be about time to leave, then.
Quickly, yet carefully, Natsume removes himself from the hot spring, not intent
on having the unexpected frost dust his hair frozen. Once inside the small
foyer to dry off, the teen pats away the excess water from his body with a
towel. Even inside it is a little chilly. He grabs the robe he has hung up
earlier and ties the obi to hold the front in place.
A sliding door startles him, fingers fumbling in a knot he almost finishes. He
lifts his head, listening as to whom entered the bedroom. The intruder doesn't
say a word and their movements are nearly silent. There is a rustle of cloth
and something plush that Natsume believes to be a futon.
Natsume looks to the door leading back to the onsen. He takes a breath,
tightens the obi much too tightly, but that's okay – it won't be easy to remove
or fall open.
Shyly, Natsume enters the main room. He keeps his head bowed and moves
mechanically to retrieve his own futon in the closet.
Even with Natsume's closed-off demeanor, Matoba inquires, "How was bathing?"
"It was good," Natsume somehow forces out with a meek voice. He tightly presses
his lips together, embarrassed that his voice came out in such a way. He isn't
sure if the embarrassment has met his cheeks since he still feels flushed from
the hot water. The futon is spread out and patted down. Natsume keeps his focus
on just that, not the unsettled feeling he has from Matoba's silent gaze.
"You look too hot. Are you okay?"
"Ye-Yes…" He keeps his head angled away. He does feel too hot, but he doesn't
want Matoba to be right in his observation. With the futon now spread out,
Natsume feels even hotter, notes the harsh thumping against his chest. That
small activity couldn't be the only cause. He follows the shadow of the other
figure, bringing a cool breeze when crossing the room. Natsume chews on his
bottom lip, chapped and becoming raw.
Fisting his hands into the futon's sheets, Natsume wonders what to do. Sensei
isn't here. He let him leave, to have a long needed break from him and his
insecurities. There is rustling in a bag from across the room, and the teen
grows more nervous.
Acknowledging the overwhelming heat of his body, Natsume gets up to open the
door to the private onsen. Cold air curls in and past, carrying the faint
humidity of the hot spring and a sprinkle of snowflakes. He takes in a long
needed breath. It's a little harder to choke in the condensed hot spring air,
but it's better than the inside's stale awkwardness.
Already locating a customized box of incense sticks, Matoba's thumb trails the
edge of it. Ginger or ylang ylang to begin. Rosemary or lavender for a calming
sleep after the purification properties of sandalwood.
Matoba can't help a nervous laugh. "Oh? You can't fix his fretting for me?"
Okiku gazes intensely at Matoba before she scoffs a sneer through her smoke. "I
was only able to fix something entirely different. As much as you are a
bastard, I know it wasn't you. Although, it would have been nice to finally
have a dirty little secret about the Matoba head." The corner of her lips
quirk, looking straight across the barren grounds. There's a bitter grimace,
and she doesn't look to see where she is tapping the kiseru. Some ashes spill
onto the porch. "But the timeline doesn't match up – nor was the energy
manifested there familiar."
(He shouldn't have been left like that.)
"What would have been the dirty little secret if it were true?" Matoba's eye
tilts back to the porch's door when footsteps travel inside the halls, one
light and the other stout. A small and gentle scolding carries down the hallway
before fading altogether.
She puffs out, gradually becoming frazzled from the exorcist's prolonged
company. "That's not up to me to disclose."
"That's irresponsible."
The woman nearly chokes on her smoke. With a hacked cough and a slap to her
thigh, she barks out, "Oho! That is rich coming from you." She bites on the
metal lip of the kiseru to quell her wicked smile and laugh. "Ask him yourself,
but I have a feeling you already know."
"..." Matoba regards the woman with restrained anger that undoubtedly shows on
his face. He watches her bite her lip in anticipation of his retort. Although,
he is always capable of having a smile melt onto his lips. (Something he knows
Okiku hates with a passion.)
"Thank you for your hospitality, Okiku." The exorcist leans forward, black
strands slipping over the front of his shoulder and collarbone that is
delicately exposed. Okiku blinks down to the cheeky attempt of seduction and
takes a deep inhale of her pipe. "May we kiss for old time's sake?"
Okiku considers Matoba for a moment before blowing smoke in his face.
There has been distance and alertness that always left him weary. There is
never time to rest. An unexpected movement and misread gestures and words are
reasons to rightfully panic. Natsume has been poisoned for too long.
He assumed there would be marks, but he never inspected Natsume in their
sessions. There was no need to.
An uncomfortable concern rises when Matoba wonders what would have happened if
that pain wasn't eased.
Glancing to Natsume, he takes notice of his body inclined to the outside than
the discomfort of the room. The box is stared at a little longer before it is
buried back into the duffel bag, next to a pouch of prepared seals.
The scent of smoke, tempered drowsiness, and the reassurances of the lapses of
time. Matoba knows what words to use, the care put into the thoughts, and tone
when delivering. He could see Natsume's little doubts, hears them at first, but
it is coaxed down as pestering paranoia.
If it was made more apparent, would he then acknowledge it?
Matoba rises and passes another glance to Natsume, now resting his body heavily
on the door's frame.
Does softness really make you this foolish?
Natsume keeps his attention on the swirls of heat eating the beginnings of a
snow dusting. The wind rolls over, disrupting the distant trees' composure. His
heart continues racing and he considers the aftereffects of the massage and hot
spring: mind muddled, but body relieved. It's supposed to be therapeutic. The
reverberating pain was a reminder, a sense of security. Now the only thing left
to dwell on are unresolved emotions left behind.
Maybe Sensei should have stayed.
The grip Natsume has on the door's frame weakens, but he feels fine with
letting himself fall. His eyes lower to the floor and mind his bare feet.
Swallowing, he realizes his throat is dry and scratchy, and reaches up to his
neck. It's too hot.
(He doesn't want to think right now. He doesn't want to think of confusing
things times past and now.)
The winter breeze and faint sound of running water fades out. A dead ring. The
corners of his eyes transition black, white specks dotting his vision. With his
legs weakening, Natsume presses closer to the door frame to slide against it.
His heart drops.
He's about to faint.
Matoba moves quickly in order to catch Natsume from hitting the floor. With the
sweating flush on his face and labored breathing, it takes only one look to
know it was from overheating. Without thinking, without remembering the
cautions he has to take with this person, Matoba loosens the front of the
kimono panels to let the skin breathe beneath. There's a sharp gasp and a
panicked shove.
The exorcist doesn't recognize the frightened expression before him. All he can
see is the dampness and flush of Natsume's face and neck and chest. Unsure if
the heartbeat he hears is his or Natsume's, Matoba places a hand over the bared
chest.
He should have known better.
He should have expected this.
If the cat-youkai was here, this may have been the end of their agreement.
Natsume flails, rips the hand from his chest, and viciously shoves at Matoba's
arms to keep him away. "Stop!" He falls further into the room, leans against
the wall near the door. Amber eyes stay resolute, unwavering (but he's scared
and weathered and breathless. He couldn't win).
Immediately Matoba withdraws, a bit breathless from the palpitations in chest
from the sudden shout. Trembling settles into the younger's frame, hands tight
and tugging close on his obi. Tightening his jaw and forcibly swallowing his
own shock, the man turns around, unsettling the black hair to fall upon his
back. Releasing a breath, the exorcist suggests, "You need something to drink.
I'll get you water," and moves to exit the room.
The flickering lights of movement and laughter on the television. A creak in
the unused sofa. The pooling condensation.
"Stop! Don't!"
Natsume pants dryly, eyes moist, thoroughly embarrassed and distressed. When
the exorcist turns around to look at him, clearly confused, Natsume shrinks
into himself. He keeps still, listening and waiting for his breathing to regain
some stability. At least just enough to explain.
"...He did that too." When feeling the other's attention on him, Natsume angles
his eyes away (anywhere but the figure now far away from him). "Please, I… I
want that tea," is somehow muttered through the tightening of his throat. He
wraps his arms around his waist, reassured by palming the obi's stiffness.
They had gone over the teas provided; its properties and effects and measures.
Matoba was always accommodating with his anxiety and fatigue; keeping Nyanko-
sensei distracted when Natsume needed time to himself or was too tired to
return home right away. Matoba always took the utmost care when providing him
the blends. It was always after an exorcism that Natsume received a special
blend. It always put him into a relaxed stupor; mellow and sleepy and he
could breath again. Natsume was always able to drift away with ease, but by no
means were they always restful.
Marked in flesh and spirit, the pain will never leave.
Matoba blinks over to the open door and regards the snow drifting heavier. It
begins to pile before the door frame, tickling at Natsume's toes. He wonders if
the blond notices. Reluctantly, he answers, "...I'll return in a short while."
There is no reply, nor sound of movement. Matoba doesn't bother to check, but
resolves to not keep him waiting for long.
Unzipping a side pocket of a duffel bag, a tin that contains various mixtures
for tea is pulled out. He gently shuts the shoji and makes way to the guest
pantry.
Instead of pandering the insistent guilt, Matoba lets his mind busy with the
preparation. Boiling the water, setting two cups on a tray, portioning one
blend of passionflower and one of lavender and chamomile. Hot water is poured
from the kettle into the cups. After a few minutes have passed for the leaves
and herbs to soak, the filters are taken out and discarded. A small two-inch
plastic bag is pulled out and opened. Tilting the bag against the edge of a
cup, .4 milligrams of powder slips in.
The tea helps with his complicated and hurtful feelings, but introduces him to
much more, like the things he won't remember. How to kiss, how to touch, how to
bend and shut his eyes and sigh so nicely. How with a specific press Natsume
can become undone from his tight vigilance. He'll always recollect that
horrible time with Natori, but never these moments in which he was detached to
experience something pleasant.
Matoba bites his tongue, looking to the sink faucet. A frightened shout,
withdrawn frame, distrustful look – it comes back without warning. He grabs a
glass and fills it with water. Even if this may dilute the strength, Natsume
needs to hydrate.
He leaves the small pantry with the tin and accompanying beverages on a tray.
(How much further was he going to contribute to this?)
Matoba secures the shoji before placing the tray down on the chabudai and a cup
before Natsume. The door to the private onsen is shut, remains of the beginning
frost causing an ignorable puddle before the frame. "I'm sorry about earlier. I
wasn't thinking." He doesn't expect a reply, but hopes that one may calm both
of their nerves. Looking over the blond, he takes in the bowed head and
avoidant eyes (much like when he first requested him). The glass of water is
met warily as the tea cup isn't even passed a glance.
The exorcist straightens himself and reaches for the cup he brewed himself.
It's much hotter than usual and he lets it burn his fingertips. "You didn't
look well, like you were about to pass out. I wanted to make sure you were
going to be okay."
"Mhm." The mumbled reply sounds a little disbelieving. It's not that he means
to be. The 'intention' feels familiar, almost close to breaching the line that
had shattered his trust with Natori. His eyes shift again, hesitant to pass
over the table, to assess how far he would have to reach the tea cup.
Matoba is fine if he's not believed. This hasn't been the only time in which
that happened. Regardless, an icy feeling creeps through, sucking the warmth
from his fingertips. He presses them harder into the tea cup, not wanting to
acknowledge it (the dread and guilt and anxiety). He minds his own brew of
light amber and soft flowers.
The beverage looks too hot. But instead of that occupying Natsume's thoughts,
the ever persisting horror does. Disclosures and trustworthiness and
explanations remain buried and untouched. Nyanko-sensei didn't want to hear it,
or it was too much for him to process. Part of him wants to expose these heavy
burdens. From the uncomfortable actions to every moment his vision went black.
How congested and full and hot and sick he felt. His heart engorged and
shattered.
His head bows as his fingers press the circumference of the cup. Bringing it to
his mouth, he sips it generously (anything to direct his mind and eyes away
from distress). Mild, flowery, and aromatic. Natsume's eyelids dip, reassured
by the calming smell and heat and taste. He keeps drinking, wanting nothing
more than to be under the tea's spell.
It's not long before Natsume feels wet heat envelop his eyes. "... I am tired
of crying, of fearing him." With the side of a palm, Natsume wipes the tears
piling in his eyes. "You're not supposed to be scared of a friend."
At least he can say a few things. His heart feels less burdened, like a
floodgate carefully let open. Natsume keeps his eyes closed for a bit longer as
the secret spills out. "I didn't want to involve him. I didn't want to be a
burden." A waft of savory passion flower reminds him to breath, to let its
effects bring him down and into a doze that will inevitably come. He takes a
deeper drink, sinking into the calm.
A warm presence moves closer. Natsume's heart skips in fear, but the figure
does nothing. His panic is for nothing. He breathes in the tea, delicately
nursing the cup in his hands.
"How are you feeling now?" The deep voice to Natsume's right comes out airy and
collected. He wants to lean into it, have his body become that cooler
temperature.
Natsume nods. When he blinks, it becomes hard to open his eyes, like he wants
to sleep. He vaguely sees Matoba's vigilant watch through the mellow blur that
takes over. He places down the cup.
More subdued, more calm (and free and unrestrained and raw), Natsume allows his
head to rest against Matoba's arm. Knowing and feeling it makes the skin on his
neck prickle. Matoba becomes noticeably stiffer, but doesn't move. Natsume
exhales softly and looks down to their laps. They're wearing the same navy
robes provided by the inn. Their obi are just slightly different in color.
When a hand cards through blond hair, Natsume feels both a tingle of pleasure
and a shiver. Despite the conflict, he leans toward the gesture. He can hear
his own breathing and just a faint rhythm of the other man's.
Natsume lifts a hand to Matoba's chest. Although startled, the exorcist doesn't
pull away, letting the hand take note of his breathing and heart beat.
It's embarrassing, and a little invasive. (No worse than what he has done.)
Although it's harmless, Matoba needs to guide the situation. He takes note of
the slower breathing and the rare relaxed expression on Natsume's face.
"Intimacy is known to strengthen not only bonds, but also power."
With half-lidded eyes, leaning more heavily into Matoba, Natsume nods in
agreement.
He's heard this before.
Natsume shuts his eyes and presses his face into the other's arm. Both hands
play with the robe's sleeve, ears perking to the deep voice. But it's brought
back down by a touch to his head, a darker seduction flitting behind his
eyelids and softening his hearing.
"Like when we first began," fingers delicately (thoughtfully) rearrange blond
bangs, "don't you want to deepen it?"
Languid, melted eyes reach Matoba's. Natsume is listening, interested. Matoba
feels a sliver of guilt drag down his throat. Sometimes he wonders if Natsume
knows, knows just a little, just enough. He glances to the table to assess
their progress.
The cup is only half-empty.
"You're a bold person," Natsume softly chuckles. Although he is feeling subdued
and warm, he still feels a little embarrassed. He likes his charisma and
confidence and skill. His suggestion is strange, eliciting joy but also
caution. "I like that you sound sure. You must deceive many people with that
charm."
(Like him.)
Natsume quickly becomes quiet once again.
This feels familiar.
When Matoba moves to touch him, Natsume pulls away quickly. There is the slight
static of anxiety again, the beginning of racing thoughts and meaningless
guilt.
"Excuse me." The shell begins to close once more.
Matoba pulls back, heart like thunder in his chest. He needs to control the
situation, control the main piece of the gameboard.
(This was always meant to be about Matoba's and Natori's rivalry and mockery.
Natori hurt his weakness, exposing it, giving Matoba all he needed to pursue
his objective. If the sacrifice is a person, then so be it. Their games were
never playful to begin with. Always stay one step ahead of the other. Remain
discreet, but use vicious actions.
Natori was long due to be unveiled as a demon hidden beneath practiced smiles
and sly sexuality.)
Resolving his nerves, Matoba hardens himself once more. Moving closer, with a
perfected voice of charm, he suggests,
(He will be the one to win endlessly. He will conquer.)
"You're not feeling well. How about you go lie down?"
Natsume lifts his head just slightly, remembering and peering at the tea on the
table through his fringe.
He should finish it.
It would be a waste.
(Something's going to happen.)
Matoba flinches when Natsume downs the rest of the tea. The teen gives a hardly
noticeable nod before crawling over to his futon. The taller figure rises to
cross the room, tugging the room's light switch before returning to his
prepared bed.
Gradually, Natsume lies down, eyes to the ceiling. (Like before, like before.)
He swallows. Dizzy. The ceiling is moving. The sick taste of candied heat. It
doesn't feel like he's breathing. Vision nearing blurry.
Matoba appears above him. There is a slight shadow of his face, but he keeps
his distance beside the blond. There's curiosity, an assessment. Is he going to
tell him things he doesn't want to hear?
But the man lies down, pulling the heavy comforter over himself.
He feels it. He feels it. The sob that raises from the pit of his stomach and
anxiety and dread. The ice and claws that surge before its release. It swells
in the back of his throat. Burning and swollen and sore. He has to release it–
There's a feather light touch in his hair. Natsume can't suppress a sharp gasp
or how harshly he fists his own comforter. But the hand remains there. Light.
Unmoving. His skin prickles in anticipation, first cold, then a bristly wave.
The blond strands are warm and nearly dry. Digits are pressed into his scalp
and Natsume becomes drowsier, as if the gesture induces a deeper calm.
It is only a little different. But the hurt in his heart fades. The sore bubble
in his throat eases.
Although the premeditated gestures are meant to be slow, soothing, Matoba moves
his hand hesitantly, not wanting to upset Natsume. Natsume keeps his eyes
closed, trying to will away the knowledge that it is this exorcist who is
treating him with such regard.
Conflicting trust and fear and admiration. It's confusing, but exciting. He
doesn't know how to place or expel them. And so Natsume's trembling hand grips
Matoba's robe.
Stop.
Wait.
Wait for the apprehension to pass.
It's soft again. Gentle and coaxing. Careful fingertips pressing. A twists of
hair between digits. Hand patting down along the side of his head.
It's so nice. Why is this so nice?
Releasing his grip on Matoba's robe, Natsume twists his body around to face the
man. Feeling and listening to his breaths, Natsume bends his head, locating the
other's mouth. Matoba's breathing becomes shallow, pulled back – Natsume
presses forward before Matoba is able to fully retreat. Pressing once more, he
can feel the small reciprocation and his heart jumps. Breathing out (shaky and
nervous and sad and excited), Natsume tries more. No fervor or passion or lust
– just a nice feeling.
Matoba pulls the blond's futon closer so he no longer lies upon the floor. He
lets him nestle more onto his futon and immediately Natsume pulls to his body.
A desperate need of affection.
All gentle and shy and quiet.
Tiny breaths and relieved sighs.
Maybe if Matoba says something like, "It's all right," Natsume will feel
better. His body shivers when he thinks about it.
To Natsume's surprise, he doesn't feel scared. More so, he's embarrassed of the
attention put on him. His face is hot, but he doesn't feel the need to hide it.
Matoba won't be inspecting or teasing it. Instead, he concentrates on Natsume's
sounds and breathing, pulls away when there is a flinch (something too deep,
too passionate that they need to stray from).
Breath fans across Natsume's face when Matoba pulls back. Natsume doesn't deny
he likes that. So warm. Comfortable. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded. Can
your heart really leap out of your chest?
Neither thought that something like this could be so soothing.
After a shuddering breath, Natsume bends his neck to let Matoba nestle his face
there. The man just breathes, carefully holding the lithe frame. A hand returns
to the blond locks that have long since been dried mussled. Natsume breathes in
deeply, the back of his neck and upper back tingling.
If it's just like this, it'd be okay, Matoba thinks to himself. (But it's not,
and won't be. The dreamy thought is a nice comfort for now. It'll start again
with him, but afterwards there will then only be the faux comfort and sickening
obsession.)
A shuddering breath is taken in, along with Matoba's own unique scent. Unsure
of Natsume's awareness of this, the exorcist becomes uncomfortable when he
feels a slight rouse in his groin and shifts.
Natsume shuts his eyes, brushes his hand along Matoba's shoulder until it
reaches his neck. Finding the long hair, Natsume tangles his hand within it as
he presses their lips together.
Matoba slightly jolts and frowns into the kiss. Gentleness is fine.
Reciprocation is fine. But this isn't supposed to be loving. There aren't
supposed to be any feelings. It's just a small comfort.
Fading with a content sigh, Natsume rests his progressively fatigued body
against Matoba's. Placing a hand on his forehead, then hesitantly his heart,
the exorcist wonders if the drug began working not too long ago.
Matoba makes room on his futon, gently pulls the blond more onto it. His eyes
move (unfocused and drowsy) from the ceiling to him. Matoba gazes back with a
blank face, reaching down to tug open the robe's panels. Natsume continues to
look at him, a little confused, but obedient.
With a heavy exhale, Matoba rises and crosses the room to his bag. He looks at
the items in his hands with indifference before returning. There's no need to
look at them and consider.
A warm, clammy hand holds Natsume's cheek, tilting his face up to meet the one-
eyed fox. "We'll begin slow," comes the deep voice, reverberating in Natsume's
ears as if he was submerged in water. The teen nods, eyes cloudy and lidded,
and presses into the hand.
The preparation comes as expected – careful and tight and hesitant in the
beginning. But Natsume responds positively. He angles his hips, tilts his head,
gasps and breathes. (There have been too many instances where that has been
difficult for him, during this and not.)
Expanding to three, he chokes and bends, ripping at the futon below him,
tossing his head to the side, eyes squeezed shut. He's sweating more than
usual. More tense. More lost.
Matoba's hand leaves Natsume's bottom and coaxes a thigh. He hears the strained
breaths trying to regain a normal pace. Clenched hands unwind from the cushion.
Natsume is trying, even though he doesn't tell him to.
Matoba grimaces. Noting the excessive sweat, the exorcist disrobes the blond
further. Obi fully untied, opened panels, kimono pulled back down, his
shoulders and skin cool to the room. When wiggling fingers coat the walls,
Natsume's heart leaps and he releases a surprised sound. The exorcist watches
his face as he continues. The twisting features, shut and half-opened eyes,
soft to harsh gasps, a desperateness to reach out – to hold, touch, scratch,
rip up. It is unsure, and Matoba isn't sure which he prefers.
(Let him have control. Let him be the one who has forced you, not coaxed you.
You're just a vessel like this, not a person. You can't think for yourself. You
bow to the orders sent from above.)
Matoba doesn't touch his hips or force his lips. He's slow and paced and stops
when Natsume makes an uncomfortable noise. The teen falls back, allows and
feels what is being done to his body. Gifts of kisses and touches and strokes
and encouraging words aren't forgotten.
The windowed door to the outside rattles when Matoba presses a kiss, brushing a
lock of blond hair between his fingers. Natsume softly sighs, before his voice
and hips both jolt when Matoba finds that special spot.
It's like they're lovers.
The withdrawal (loss) of the fingers is always uncomfortable. Natsume whines
and a hand pets his thigh. Gently blinking his eyes, Natsume watches the man
roll on a condom and apply more lubrication. It makes him a little nervous, he
thinks. But captured once again by a red gaze, he waits, and the hands return
to coax his body from arms to thighs.
Spreading his thighs, and with the press of something hot and hard, the
familiarity twinges in his heart. It is pushed in, at a dictated pace. They
both have to hold their breaths, but Natsume easily collapses with breathless
gasps.
And he feels sick.
Thumbing Natsume's cheek, the blond looks up, eyes moist and pupils adjusting
to the shadow, the figure, the man, above him.
"Call me Seiji, Natsume."
Exhaling, Matoba presses his damp forehead to Natsume's. He waits, for the both
of them, to process the sensations in their bodies. (The strain and tightness
and the interchanging hot and cold and pleasure and pressure.)
"And I will call you Takashi."
He has to swallow his disgust.
Natsume swallows and nods against Matoba's forehead. His body shakes,
unknowning if it is due to their activity or a recollection. Matoba threads a
hand into damp, blond hair, digits massaging into the scalp. When he moves his
hips, the teen reacts with a low groan and clings to the arms before him.
"S-Seiji…" Natsume tests the name on his tongue, a name so foreign and bizarre.
Such a name belongs to this man above him, but he's never used it before, never
been offered to. Being able to is so intimate and strange, Natsume feels even
more lost in his mind and body. As an anchor, to pull him back, he rolls his
hips, releasing a sound between a hiss and whine.
Matoba rubs into the scalp before moving his hips to meet Natsume's attempt. He
nearly curses when a spike of pleasure shoots through him, and grimaces when he
almost slips with the younger's last name.
It feels funny using these names. Matoba wants to laugh, but he doesn't allow
himself the relief. It's best to keep it surreal than let the reality of the
situation crash into him, and subsequently, Natsume.
Starting to ease into a harmonious rhythm, the exorcist sighs, keeping in check
the beating of Natsume's heart and comfort.
With a ring of a bell, a sickening dread plummets inside of Matoba and his
sweat turns ice cold. Blinking up, he locks eyes with a fierce yellow, glowing
and assessing the scene.
"S-Seiji…" a quiet voice calls out, pleading and pulling on his arms.
Nearly choking on a swallow, Matoba leans down to gauge Natsume. A little lost,
labored, and flushed.
"Is something there?"
Natsume begins to wriggle around, following the direction where Matoba was
looking before. In a panic, the exorcist twists the teen's head back to kiss
him on the lips. Panting and hot, he wants to reassure, to regain complete
attention again. "It's nothing, Takashi."
The intruder leaves with a thump and faint bell ring.
Matoba almost collapses then onto Natsume. His arms shake to support himself.
But he needs to finish. Then it will be fine.
There will be no need for him to do this again.
"It's nothing," the man repeats, a bit firmer, more certain, and strong.
By hovering over the smaller body, Natsume collapses back down, mesmerized by
the regained intensity of the man's voice and virility. The pressure moves
inside of him and Natsume throws his head back with a pitched gasp.
'Matoba' almost slips from his mouth.
"Seiji," a hushed, dangerous whisper.
Another thrust.
"Ah-!" Natsume arches his back, sheets familiar in his hands. With the body
trembling again, Natsume keeps the side of his face pressed against the futon.
There is tightness in his throat, moistness in his eyes.
He can't fall back into that place.
Matoba opens his mouth, struggling for what to say. He bows his head into the
crevice of the shoulder and neck. "It's all right– Takashi…" Takashi.
Not Natsume. This is different. He is not Natori.
Collecting himself there for a moment, Matoba tries again, gentler. Natori must
have been like this with him; desperate and harsh and selfish. A slower pace is
developed and Matoba reaches down to bring back Natsume's waning erection.
He needs the pacing. He needs to be grounded.
Natsume looks up to him with hooded eyes and pants. Wrapping arms around his
neck, Natsume pulls him down, meeting their lips. Something gentle and
reassuring.
(Natsume has a slight conscience with this.
He doesn't want to think about it. He should have used more.
This is meant to be a secret spite to Natori, after all.)
The tenseness is much looser now, so Matoba begins his erratic thrusting for
the both of them to finally finish.
"S-Seiji," Natsume pants out when the friction and pleasure increases and
clashes. Both bodies move back and forth with the movement. Natsume squeezes
Matoba's shoulder blade to hang on, the thrusts taking a toll. "A little more…
Please… Ah!"
"Hmph…" It's too late to feel embarrassed now about making a noise.
"Seiji, Seiji please," Natsume begs in breathy gasps. Weird. Strange. Like
Alice smoked with the Caterpillar. Extra-sensory and nonsense. This isn't him.
But he feels it, calls for it. It must be him.
He can't keep up. Not with his name being called like that. (His heart is
swollen, inflated. It's going to shatter. He wants to finish, to be done with
this. No more of this–)
"Please, I'm–" Natsume breaks off in a voiceless scream as he reaches the peak
of his orgasm.
Not to be left behind, Matoba frantically thrusts as the body beneath him
convulses, pulling and spasming on his dick. With a low groan shut behind lips,
Matoba cums and lets the spasming muscles disperse the pleasure.
The room is filled with heavy pants.
He doesn't want to think about the smell. Not yet. But it's there. Undoubtedly
there and thick and potent.
Releasing a shuddering breath, Matoba removes himself from Natsume.
Straight to business.
Matoba keeps his eyes off Natsume, spread and spent on the futon, as he moves
to clean up the mess. (The lubrication, the condom wrapper, the mussled sheets,
their loosened kimonos.) He tries to re-secure the knot Natsume made for his
obi. A hand reaches out to touch him when he pulls away from the waist. The
amber eyes are trying to read, to comprehend the situation. Matoba frowns,
swipes a hand down the teen's face to shut his eyes, and whispers softly,
"Go to sleep."
The futons are separated once more. Each in their own beds. A distance once
more.
But when Matoba lays his head down to rest, he finds himself gazing at the
blond-haired teen in front of him. Exhausted red.
There is no restful sleep. Just an abyss.
 
 
'Wasted potential,' Nanase had said.
Matoba thumbs a lock of blond hair illuminated by the rising sun. It's not so
silver by the sun, compared to the moonlight.
Wasted potential.
He has a calm-looking face. Serene.
Wasted potential.
He couldn't rid of the heavy frown on his face.
Matoba's heart jumps when Natsume stirs. A puff of air, small nuzzle into the
pillow, and languid eyes on him. Matoba can't breathe, forgets to. His amber
eyes are still heavy and murky. But with just a small gesture of rubbing his
fingers down his hair, Natsume nestles back into the pillow, sleep taking over
once more.
This is where their relationship will end.
Matoba's lips twitch, but he collects himself. Better this than further
involvement.
As he makes to get ready for the day, shuffling through his own bag, the
exorcist knocks over Natsume's. He doesn't think much of the accident until his
eye catches the word 'friends' written on a handmade book. He considers the
book, delicately flipping through the pages. Custom sheets. Added as if this
was a collection.
It is.
His brows furrow when looking through the pages. Incomprehensible scribbles,
all done by different hands.
 
 
The morning is a little bright, reflecting the snowfall from last night.
Natsume doesn't mind the dimness of the room – it makes waking less abrupt. But
when he stretches, there is a harsh ache throughout his body.
Immediately Natsume folds into himself, squeezing the aches in his joints. Some
parts even burned.
Perhaps this is the effect of Okiku's massage along with the onsen, and Matoba–
Natsume furrows his brows and scrunches his face. He peeks an eye open. No one
is there, but the futons are closer. The blond looks away, surveying the rest
of the room. Nothing else is disheveled or misplaced. There are empty cups on
the table and two duffel bags in the corner. Lowering his head, Natsume
breathes in the inn's pillow and sheets, expecting a heavy scent of bleach or
excessive softener. Instead it's the minerals from the onsen that must have
sprinkled onto his hair. He passes a glance to the other futon, wondering if it
also smelled like that. (Not wondering… hoping…)
He pulls out from the warm comfort of the futon and passes a hand over the
other. He pauses, frowning, apprehensive of his dark curiosity. Shutting his
eyes, Natsume then grabs the cover and keeps it a safe distance from his nose.
Familiar.
He harshly squeezes the sheet before tossing it aside and leaving the futons.
(Matoba must just have a weird scent.)
Natsume immediately takes a shower.
 
 
"Disgusting."
Nyanko-sensei's insults are more biting and frequent than before. Natsume
regards the cat-youkai who has his nose turned up. The atmosphere has been too
friendly lately. Sensei is still ever wary of its presence. This place is
supposed to be a temporary escape from stress.
"Sensei," Natsume scolds, turning back to Matoba to apologize on Nyanko-
sensei's behalf.
He would have none of it. Hairs bristle.
"Don't apologize to that underhanded exorcist. He knows he's a horrible being."
"Sensei," Natsume tries more sternly, worried about losing his own temper with
the youkai.
Nyanko-sensei has been acting like this the whole day, from when they met to
their now departure. He spat and taunted and growled. Natsume had inquired if
the exorcist provoked him, but then the cat became eerily quiet, expression
hard and cold as steel. When his eyes also accused Natsume, the teen pulled
back, not wanting to evoke a harsher temperament or investigation. (Natsume
didn't want to confess the vulnerability of himself, how easily he confessed to
Matoba and the concern he was shown.)
The exorcist carries on, effective in ignoring the cat-youkai. "Relaxation or
sake isn't enough to ease your beast's temper." Matoba glances to the round
cat, catching the hostile flicker in his yellow eyes.
Regarding Natsume, Matoba blends in an easier conversation. "I hope you enjoyed
the trip. It certainly shows that it helped." Natsume's expression and body is
definitely lax and less conflicted. He can't help but pass a fleeting touch to
the teen's arm. There is a mild alarm and a faint blush from him. Matoba
furrows his brows, wondering how much Natsume remembers after all.
"I'll call for you in a couple weeks." There is no further significant reaction
– just a shy nod. Matoba gives a contemplative smile before dismissing himself.
"What a disgusting human," Nyanko-sensei scoffs again.
Natsume watches the retreating back for a moment before turning around to the
direction of his home.
 
 
"You are being particularly nasty today, Sensei. What has gotten into you?"
Redirecting the budding of irritation, Natsume places the duffel bag on the
floor near his desk and begins to empty it from the trip.
"And you are being particularly avoidant," the cat-youkai huffs back, searching
the room for a cushion to perch on.
Natsume focuses on emptying the bag – clothes, a few books, toiletries. "That's
because you were being very rude. Even after such a nice stay–" Natsume cuts
himself off, knowing that it will lead to a compliment for Matoba. He pretends
to pluck something off a sweater.
Nyanko-sensei snorts, folding his paws beneath his body. "A 'nice' stay it was.
I had my fun, but more importantly, Matoba and you did too."
The blond reorganizes some books and a notepad on his desk. "Of course, Sensei.
It was meant to be great for everyone."
But there is a drop in his stomach, and a cold chill. There is something that
Natsume couldn't place. Nyanko-sensei sounds suspicious and accusatory. Natsume
runs through what happened during the onsen stay, wondering what the offense
could have been. The cat-youkai did leave him temporarily last night; perhaps
he is looking for what happened between him and the exorcist.
"Matoba and I… talked, if that is what you are investigating." Natsume teethes
his bottom lip, distracting himself from the pick-up of his heartrate. What
happened after is still confusing to Natsume, and really doesn't need to be
announced. It was a sad moment of his vulnerability for comfort.
"You are avoiding it." Natsume turns to look at the cat's tired face. He's
angry, but he's also concerned. Natsume doesn't know whether to be glad or
disheartened that Nyanko-sensei still shows him that face. "I saw what you
did."
Natsume blinks his eyes away, defeated and guilty already – he knows anyway.
Before the teen could fully turn back to unpacking, Nyanko-sensei confirms much
louder,
"You were having sex."
Jolted by such a bold statement, Natsume jumps in (much too quickly) to deny
it. That's not what it was. There weren't any sexual words or touches or
gratification. "No we weren't, Sensei. Do you even know what sex is?"
"Any form of sexual gratification, especially penetration with a sexual organ.
In your case, that is what happened."
Natsume's brows knit together, trying to understand how Nyanko-sensei
interpreted what he saw. There was nothing like that – "What are you talking
about? We didn't do that." – but now the doubts come flooding in.
Back touches and brushing away hair. A pet to the face and soft exhale on lips.
Careful fingers on an arm and sleepy smiles.
It was different. Much different. His heart didn't race, didn't hurt. He didn't
want to run away or scream or hide. He felt himself melting into the warmth,
falling asleep with ease and without nightmares and daily haunts. There was
concern and gentleness and welcomed feedback.
That wasn't sex. It was comfort.
Natsume fists a shirt.
"It's disgusting. How can you do that after what happened to you?"
Offended, upset, confused, speechless – Natsume doesn't know how to feel. His
face is on fire. (Shamed. He feels ashamed again. He's plopped and dropped back
into that slow-sinking dirt, continuously drowning on his mistakes and pointed
out failures.)
"I don't know why you keep insisting." The voice is small and weak, breaking.
He slowly recoils into himself, trying to process why he is being berated for
the brief escapism. It didn't harm anyone. He was okay – is okay.
"You were using each other's given names. It looked and sounded consensual.
'Seiji.' 'Takashi,'" the cat-youkai spits. His mouth curls into a twisted
grimace. It hurts his face muscles, his voice, his mind, but Nyanko-sensei
bears the discomfort. "He looked me over before you called to him, then
continued to fuck you."
"Be quiet, Sensei." Natsume tries to remember his breathing practices. One,
two, three, four, five count – deep stomach breaths through his nose, enough to
burn the back of his throat and strain his lungs. But the air escapes too
easily, like his lungs were punctured balloons.
"Both of you were breathing heavily, panting. Calling each other's name like
animals in heat."
One two three four five – "Try again. Focus on the rise of your stomach, hold
for a moment."
"You clung to him. Holding on. He cradled your head."
One two three… "Carefully release it through your mouth, like you are blowing
out a candle."
"Both of you moaned and gasped. Like it was harmonious and meaningful."
The release is shaky. He can't hold the air. He can't pace it out. Every time
Natsume is about to breath out, an imaginary uppercut digs into his stomach,
and his nerves disperse it in waves.
"It's okay to keep your eyes closed if that helps."
"Never once did I see or hear you refuse him.
It was always better with his eyes closed.
"No wonder you progressed so well and are exceptional with expert techniques.
Intimacy strengthens the spirit."
He's heard that before.
(Why has he heard that before?)
Natsume's palms sweat and a wet cold takes over like he was drenched by a
bucket of water. He can't listen anymore.
"Through that connection–"
Without seeing, his hand grabs onto an object, raising it up–
"Be quiet!"
–and throwing it at the lecturing youkai.
A ring of a bell and the thud of the object are the only sounds that finally
disrupt the cloudiness of Natsume's mind.
His heart hurts; he feels and hears its thudding in his ears.
Both of them look to the thrown object. A forest green book, the inside splayed
and open on the floor.
Why? What happened?
He remembers comfort, warmth, nods, and soft words. Short breaths. It was hard
to breathe. But there was room and patience, a touch to his hair. Slow and
languid and listening. Kisses that didn't taste like fire or sweetness. Airy
and fresh, brought down to a homely, warm cloud.
Not sex.
He never felt sick. Even now, Natsume doesn't feel the lead drop or salivation.
Only confusion and hurt.
Is that what really happened?
Natsume averts his eyes. Even if he just admits the kissing and comfort, it
still leads up to Nyanko-sensei's story. With heavy feet, Natsume moves to pick
up the Book of Friends. He passes a hand over the cover, finger tracing a
stroke of the character "friend".
Lifting his head, Natsume addresses the cat-youkai, "Sensei–" but the red
cushion is empty.
 
 
He hasn't felt this horrible in so long. Amber eyes watch the few speckled
shadows across the ceiling. Holding the Book of Friends close to his chest, he
wonders how long Nyanko-sensei will be absent. Natsume hasn't been left alone
like this in months. There is no helping the panic building in his throat, the
excessive shudders, twisting in his gut, and prickling on his skin.
Sick – he feels so sick…
Swallowing, taking a breath, Natsume tries to ease his body seized by terror.
It wasn't bad. It wasn't. Matoba was supportive, mindful, and understanding. It
felt nice; it was reassuring. He was comfortable and cherished and he doesn't
want that experience ruined or regretted.
He can't help but doubt his recollection.
He can't sleep. A hand twitches, aching for the comforting touch of Nyanko-
sensei's fur. There is only a smooth comforter.
Natsume shuts his eyes tightly when remembering earlier. Same pillow, same
sheets.
"We'll begin slow."
It smelled like sex. Matoba's futon smelled like sex.
He doesn't remember having sex. He remembers a hand on his head, on his back,
on his arm. There was warmth on his face, lips, all slow and attentive. Matoba
stopped, waited, let Natsume guide. (He did that. He did that. He let Matoba
approach, encouraged him to.) There was nuzzling, a graze down his chest,
before slipping into a slow lull. Blurry and bleak and distant.
He needs answers. He needs reassurance. He wishes Nyanko-sensei was here.
Curling into himself, the teen fights the pain in his chest, the coiling in his
stomach, and holds on tight to the book.
"Takashi."
Natsume feels sick, but he doesn't want to expel it. To do that would mean that
he regrets his decision.
"Go to sleep."
Chapter End Notes
     This chapter was particularly hard to write, and it was Matoba's
     fault. I feel that Natsume has the ability to make people softer
     because of his demeanor. It really isn't expanded on as much, and I
     apologize for that. (New developments keep happening every time I
     write and think about this work.) Exposure to that has changed
     Matoba, but he resolves to continue this affair.
     Matoba's motives are really strange. He wants to expose and destroy
     Natori. He's interested to see whether he will consider his morals
     and conscience. It is exactly as Nanase said: he appointed himself as
     a mentor, but with the intensity of a rival that wants to see their
     opponent fail.
     As for the Mato/Natsu in this chapter, it's purely physical and
     emotional comfort. Natsume is confused at what sort of attraction/
     feelings he has for Matoba, but it is not romantic. When you hear of
     the symptoms for different attractions, you may think it is that. But
     for Natsume, it was receiving affection (physical) and being
     reassured of his well-being (emotional). Hence why the 'passion' and
     'heaviness' is excluded – it brings him back to Natori, a type where
     the affection was damaging and well-being manipulated. This way is
     comforting.
***** The Sweet and Bitter *****
Chapter Summary
     There are very critical rules to follow.
Chapter Notes
     If I knew how developed this story was going to be, I would have
     addressed Matoba's and Natori's history. It would be a bit darker
     than how it is in canon. Both of them were hostile, destructive, cut-
     throat. Their games were merciless, and curious.
     Theme is "plan".
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Ever since the other night, restful sleep evades Matoba. No dreams. No sighs.
No deep sleep. He still refuses to acknowledge it. He keeps himself busy with
other tasks, either to spend time wisely or induce enough mental energy to
prompt sleep.
The early morning comes in shades of diluted blues and oranges.
Intent to just keep working, Matoba descends one of the main hallways to the
front of the manor. Nanase keeps a list of assignments to be completed,
priority calculated by time received, difficulty, and urgency.
 
 
Self-disgust and chagrin flood Natsume when he realizes he finds himself here
so quickly, so willingly.
Sweaty hands, stretched fingertips, reach for a jar, an unknown tea blend
inside. The weight isn't what Natsume expected – the glass must be heavy.
Unlatching the lid, flipping it open, he bends over and takes a deep whiff of
the blend.
Bold passionflower and touches of lavender and chamomile. Soothing and calming
and sleep-inducing. Natsume hasn't realized that his eyes had already shut, his
body swaying to one side in the mesmerizing scent.
But this is only a part of the tea blend. There is an ingredient missing.
Natsume half opens his tired eyes, trying to recall what it could be from its
scent or color or appearance. Maybe it is because he isn't indulging in the
blend to feel its effects.
He knows Matoba must add an extra ingredient to the blend. It's what Natsume
always asked for.
Lifting his eyes back up to the cupboard, Natsume spots a few more canisters
and glass jars along the shelf. They each have their own labels; 'guricha',
'gyokuro', 'keemun hao ya'... When shifting the black tea leaves jar to the
side, Natsume furrows his brows, grabbing a flat, shallow jar with a strange
label.
It is only white powder.
Natsume blinks.
(This must be it.)
Passing by the small pantry, Matoba's heart jumps. Stops.
His fingers are already moving. The latch snaps open—ttp—still caught by the
hook keeping it sealed.
"I wasn't expecting you for today."
Natsume jolts at the words (the voice a little nervous), shoulders hunching up
and hands jostling the jars he has pulled out. Natsume turns around to face
Matoba, guiltily looking up through heavy eyelids.
Matoba wears a sleeping robe, somehow woken in time to Natsume's intrusion. He
looks tired, but not entirely due to the unexpected visit.
The blond teen isn't able to ponder on that for long. Matoba has already
secured the jar filled with white powder, "You don't know the measurements and
blends," and filed it back in the depths of the cupboard. Natsume's eyes trace
the label of 'valerian root' that is then placed on the counter. Matoba
mechanically determines the ingredients and distributes them into a ball
strainer.
Matoba's exposed eye blinks slowly and he takes a deep, listless breath. He is
still in a daze of sleep. Despite the seemingly approachable demeanor, Natsume
doesn't accept it entirely. People act differently when half-awake. They can be
kinder, or meaner. Always defensiveless.
Matoba doesn't push Natsume to answer why he is here. A red pupil glances to
the left—a rigid frame, avoiding gaze.
It feels weird to be near him. He wants to be closer, wants to keep his
distance. Natsume's stomach is in knots.
He shouldn't have come.
Noticing the quiet, Matoba suggests in a smooth, low voice, "Make yourself
comfortable in the next room." The metal strainer is placed inside the ceramic
cup, a clink inside.
 
 
Natsume gazes at the cup of tea, unsure if he should indulge, accept this
reality, and have its effects wash over him. With a hesitant eye, he minds the
exorcist before him. The man also minds his own beverage, looking
uncharacteristically tired, mentally and physically.
"I'm… confused about what happened during the trip." Natsume swallows, looks
again to Matoba for a sign to continue. He's looking at him, fatigued and
expectant. Natsume moves his tongue, hoping it will ease the discomfort, prompt
him to push forward.
"I—..." It doesn't come without fault, though. The back of his throat
stretches, trying to close his windpipe. Keep quiet. Keep secret. It's not a
problem. You're making it a problem.
("Disgusting.")
Natsume chokes and bows his head, fisting his hands into his pants. Breathe.
"I remember some things." (Breathe.)
"It was confusing." (Comforting.)
"I'm not sure how to address it." (How to address itproperly.)
"Why… did we have sex?"
Of course the cat told him. Although Matoba's heart is racing, he knew that
this would likely happen—just not so quickly. Then again, the teen looks like
he hardly slept, too. It's unfair to interrogate how much he remembers.
It's unfair that he is even here at all.
Matoba takes a moment to taste his tea, cup now reasonably warm in his hands.
"I apologize if it had upset you. It could be due to the qi calibrations. It
does work on tightened channels, can 'loosen' your nerves." Matoba gazes at
Natsume all the while.
Natsume keeps his gaze to the side, attempting to keep his blush and
embarrassed frown hidden behind the teacup in his hands. It's true—he was
lucid, calm, relaxed. Matoba was comforting, supportive, careful. Chewing the
inside of his cheek, Natsume softly admits aloud that he did feel those things,
that his walls were weakened.
"I can see that it has made you uncomfortable." To affirm his observation,
Natsume still doesn't spare him a look. The clan head is silent for a few
seconds before continuing, slowly and clearly. "You do not have to worry. It
won't happen with me again." He nearly expels a painful laugh; that is one of
the few, if any, truths he has spared Natsume. (As if the teen would know.)
"... If you wish," the exorcist pauses, thinking his next words both wise and
stupid, "you may leave." Natsume then looks at him, confused and a little hurt.
"Would you want to continue with me?"
A chance to leave. Before everything begins their descent.
But Natsume accepts.
Matoba smiles, but it doesn't look happy. It's painful, a little angry,
disappointed.
(Nanase had brought up the teen at an earlier time. Ever since the mention of
Natori's involvement, she knew it would not go well. She protested; it would
fuel their conflicts further, involve parties that do not need to be involved.
She is wise with experience and observation.
But at the time, Matoba did not care.
"He's too kind." They both know this, but perhaps by verbally voicing this, the
exorcist would reconsider.
But there is no mercy when it involves Natori Shuuichi.
"It's his own fault that he is." Matoba's eyes scan over the document,
finalizing the details and location of the exorcism that would be Natsume's
first.)
It's unfortunate, unkind. This world and fate.
"I will notify you, then. Thank you for coming to address this issue with me."
Matoba stretches out his hand to Natsume. The teen is taken back; it has been
too long since he was treated like this.
It is now back to the apathetic business temperament. It's not like the
relationship before could be continued or rectified. A one time moment of
honesty to leave. Leave. It is now long gone, passed—
Natsume shakes the hand despite the shock. Matoba remains a blank slate.
—because they are both cowards.
 
 
There are very critical rules to follow:
       The sessions cannot be often, and only when Natsume is fatigued.
         The time limit is one hour – a nap is the best justification.
              No marking, no roughness, no video or photography.
                   If kissing, rinse mouth before and after.
                 Condoms must be worn. No ejaculation inside.
               If fellatio, the mouth must be cleaned afterward.
   When finished, clean up with designated supplies and enchanted materials.
 
 
Nyanko-sensei doesn't come with Natsume for the exorcist meeting later that
week. Natsume doesn't bother inquiring. He knows why he won't come—Natsume
decided to continue working with Matoba. The cat-youkai wasn't shocked by that
decision, but he lets it be known that he considers it foolish to continue.
When will he stop seeking refuge? Nyanko-sensei was thoroughly exhausted on his
efforts; perhaps the Matoba clan head will at some point, too.
'When will you look out for yourself?' was the unvoiced inquiry.
Natsume looks around the room. He became fully adjusted to these socials, even
with the manners and rules Matoba drilled into him months ago.
Familiar white ceramic jars on trays pass by him. Natsume scrunches his face,
curious and frightened.
Matoba explains to him that the sake ban was lifted. "It's been a while for the
patrons." He passes an unreadable look to Natsume. "I also thought some
exposure may help."
Unsure and a little frightened, Natsume nods and bows his head away, eyes
scanning the room again. Amber eyes vigilantly watch the alcohol being passed
around.
A buzz in a kimono sleeve alerts Matoba to a message on his phone. Retrieving
the device, his red eye reads over the message, face never betraying his
thoughts and knowledge. Pocketing it back into the inner sleeve, Matoba
addresses Natsume. "Gauge the guests and youkai for any interesting stories or
leads. I'm sure you will find a job that piques your interest."
Before Matoba has the chance to fully depart, Natsume inquires, "Where are you
going?"
Initially the younger is met with silence, but the clan head finally says,
"It's an urgent matter. Excuse me for a moment."
 
 
They meet at the eastern garden.
It's unfortunate that the lotuses have disappeared for the winter. The eastern
garden is typically abundant with flora and foliage. There is not much to
remark on here. Winter crushes and lies with its frigid winds and blankets of
white. The man-made stream that runs through is roofed with a thick layer of
ice, as the inhabitants inside the water have departed for an active source or
sunk to the bottom for a long, cold sleep.
Natori contemplates the garden regardless. Eyes once blinded by winter
brightness now survey the depths and coverings of the snow. Puffs of visible
breath leave his mouth. Opting for a warmer, casual clothes for today, he keeps
his hands in his jacket pockets.
When Matoba comes into view, Natori turns his body from facing the garden to
the clan head. The other dark-clad man wears a heavier coat atop the haori and
kimono, a set of sandals adorning the clean white tabi. With hands already
folded into this sleeves, Matoba joins Natori at the side of the winter garden.
Matoba is careful not to get snow on his feet.
Natori glances back to the red bridge, coated in snow and untouched by humans.
"Where's the kitty?"
Matoba nearly snorts at the term of endearment this man still uses for a beast
that would kill him without hesitation. "Absent. He decided not to make an
appearance today." Even with Natori's profile, Matoba can easily discern his
discomfort.
Not enough.
Beginning with a hum, Matoba adds, "In the cases this does happen, I have
precautions in place." The glasses-clad exorcist glances him sideways, clearly
not impressed by Matoba's casual attitude of the situation. "You wouldn't be
the only one slain, after all." The smaller man still quirks his lips. This is
all very unsettling after all. There's nothing fun about this.
Instead, it's thrilling.
"I'm sure you also intensively studied the instructions I've sent to you. Rest
assured, I'll make sure that they will be followed. I also have followed them."
The black-haired man shuts his eyes and gives an ominous smile.
Facing the other fully, Natori furrows his brows and frowns. "Great," is his
unenthusiastic response. "Is there anything else you will throw at me last
minute?" The fingers in his coat pocket fidget and rub together in an effort to
keep civil. Natori has already received a schedule of anticipated dates to
come. The dates planned correspond with exorcisms and harsh lessons as the
first step for preparation. Of course not everything is going to line up with
Natori's own work schedule. He isn't sure to blame his irritation on work or
Matoba's possible scheming to make things more difficult.
"You may leave your payment and negativity in the meeting room before your
arrangement."
Shuffling his feet in the snow, Natori moves to pass Matoba. Before he is able
to, the man's red eye pierces him in place. If only the look was dismissible,
but the severeness warns otherwise. Natori steps back, leveling a stubborn gaze
that couldn't reach near the intensity of Matoba's. The silence disrupts the
malicious banter.
"Don't look at him. Don't approach him," comes Matoba's unyielding voice.
They both know it's likely that Natsume will panic and cause a scene. Without
interaction from Natori, it can be controlled. Otherwise, attendants will
wonder and guess.
What happened? Is it because of Natori? Ah, yes, it must be. Why has he
appeared now? Was he banned for a short while? What did he do to that boy?
A snowflake to his eyelash and a tug on a jacket sleeve, Natori is pulled
forward, meeting with the cool gaze of the Matoba clan head, "It wouldn't be
wise, now would it?" With the sleeve as a leash, Matoba guides Natori inside.
 
 
There's a lonely spirit trapped in a haunt, unable to find the exit it needs.
How unfortunate. Natsume nods, intent on the details. He adds a soft smile to
the patron, reassures her that he will look into the issue. Her own smile back
is kind, but a little concerned.
Shaking his head and wiping the thin layer of sweat coating his forehead,
Natsume waves off the unsaid concern. His heart is still racing from the scent
of sake being passed around. It tickles his nose and throat, warning and
provoking, sweet and warm and strong. It's not like the temperature of the room
is of any conciliation—it's solely his nerves and heart overworking. Before the
lady is able to voice herself, pretty lips poised and polished, Natsume bows,
blond hair a mess and clinging to his damp forehead and cheeks.
He can't avoid the scent and its presence after all.
Stepping away, Natsume wipes his sweaty palms on his black robes. The pounding
won't stop. Raising his head, the teen surveys the room in an effort to locat
the clan head. Isn't it irresponsible that he left him during this exposure?
Upon the surveillance, of faces acquainted and not, a recognized black hat
(locks of sandy-blond hair peeking through) snatches his attention.
The pounding is no longer that. It's crashing and thrashing, jumping around in
the chest trying to find an exit to die in peace.
It's not real, Natsume tells himself.
But his stomach drops.
Can't be.
Yet affirmation of his dangerous curiosity drives Natsume, like an unsure
animal investigating baited food.
A voice always charmful, practiced in fluctuations and drama.
Natsume shivers, but continues to edge closer despite the increasing scent of
alcohol. (A sweetness both strong and repulsive.)
Plano glasses perch, jaw defining, and cheekbones handsome. Carnelian eyes
simultaneously flash and graze over to another guest, feasting upon the
positive reception and meeting it with bewitching smiles, sure to have hidden
beastly fangs.
Watching and staring and disbelieving. A wave of dizziness and nausea crash
into and claim Natsume. The tightening in his chest, the rise of bile in his
stomach, the jitters and contrasting hot-cold anxious sweating. Knees weak,
nearly collapsing, but with panicked breaths and heart, wild eyes locate an
excite. (Sensei. Where is Sensei?)
Oh, but that doesn't matter. The dread and disgust and hurt and pain flood his
insides, burning up his stomach and lungs and throat. If he doesn't leave, he's
going to spill out all of these ugly things. Secret secret ugly disgusting
things.
Swallowing, but caught in his throat, Natsume hurriedly flees the room. Hands
barely pull open the doors, sweat residue and heat left in its wake.
There's a bathroom nearby. Nearby. Not near, not close.
Oh, it's hard to breathe, too. (He needs to breath, needs to breath.)
The panic and dread is never forgiving. The sickly-sweet scent carries into the
halls, trailing after the ailing teen. There's Natori, too. Natori's here, in
that room, shrouded in a barrier of sake's scent and welcoming guests.
(He's horrible. He's awful. Don't they know? Can't they see his wary eyes?
There are marks on him—
Marks marks marks. Bites and digging nails and stretching skin and pulling down
down, closer to him ("It's all right")—)
Natsume collapses, out of breath and pulse erratic, in front of the toilet
bowl. Knees and legs bend awkwardly, hands already clinging and slipping on the
seat. Too familiar of a place and action. His body convulses, from lower to
upper back, gagging. Shredded air before a straining pressure up up his throat,
into the toilet.
Finally, Natsume is able to heave in a breath, but all that results is a body-
shuddering sob, heart iced over and saliva pooling in his mouth. Eyes heavy, he
shuts them, a sharp pain in his forehead panging when the hot tears slide down
hot cheeks. A few smaller convulsions—a little, then dry. Natsume prefers
listening to his erratic breathing (and the lack of it), muse over the burning
of his cheeks and the heat in his eyes. With eyes shut, he can still see
everything.
     Bare chest, flushed red and sweaty, above him. Heavy pants and grunts. The
   curve in the mattress where he lied, the dips of knees and hands around him.
     Damp hair clinging to the forehead. Eyes sometimes closed, sometimes open,
     always focused. The chest rising and falling, hips rocking back and forth,
        lithe thighs folded back, large red blossoms of pain and dried blood on
 hipbones, a cock disappearing and reappearing in a directed pace. Arms red and
      pricked with crescent dents. Carnelian irises watching him, catching him,
                                          impassioned and intense and powerful.
Saliva pools in his mouth and another tremor. Natsume lies his head on an arm
on the toilet seat, air slowly coming back to him, eyes blank on the wall. The
heart aches, but has slowed down, now satisfied with Natsume emptying the
poisonous guilt and ugliness.
He wants to lie down.
He wants to sleep.
"I want to sleep."
Quietly (respectfully), the door opens. Natsume should be worried, should be
jolted, but he's tired. At the thought of that, tears well up in his eyes,
sight once again blurry. (He's too tired.)
"Natsume." Cool and smooth.
Even more saliva fills his mouth. Shivering, he pulls into himself, a shocking
chill coursing through adrenaline-deadened veins.
Although it's coarse and scratchy, Natsume has to speak. "I can't be here."
Pausing, a slow breath that stabs his lungs. "I have to leave." Hands hover
near him, above defunct shoulder blades and a hunched back. "I don't want to be
here." The last part comes high-pitched, shaken with a withheld sob.
And like before, Matoba should have asked to touch him.
The hands are warm. A light pressure, sliding from shoulders to arms, pulls
Natsume away from the toilet. The teen is limp in response.
Matoba decides not to say anything. What could be said? Nothing is alright.
Natsume is not safe. And soon enough he will be presented, wrapped in ribbon,
to the expecting recipient. Instead, he gingerly handles Natsume, offers water
at the sink, cleans his face. The amber eyes remain in a subdued panic, face
sickly, pale, tired, and cold.
"Come," he keeps his tone quiet, reassuring, smooth. A hand wipes the excess
sweat (nearly reaches for the eyelashes, to pet them down, wipe dry the
remaining wetness) before shifting Natsume against him, guiding out of the
bathroom.
It's a long way to the back room, but the safest. It is away from noise and
patrons and intrusions, secluded and hushed by winter's early approaching
sunfall. The once shaky legs beside him strengthen a little, ashamed that there
was such an episode like that. Matoba continues on his silence. There is no
real comfort in the words he could offer.
Shifting the careful hold he has wrapped around Natsume, Matoba guides them
both into the room. Shuffling inside, Natsume is settled onto a cushion as
Matoba quickly acquires a blanket and places it around the younger.
"It was possible this may happen. I have tea being prepared for you." The teen
bows his head, a small nod. "I have him secured right now. He doesn't know
where you are." Funnily, these aren't lies.
A rap on the door frame alerts them both. Matoba rises to receive the tray with
a single steaming mug from the black-figured shiki. Closing the door with a
tap, the exorcist approaches and offers Natsume the mug.
Natsume assesses the door, the shiki, the mug, Matoba. His brows furrow, frown
sticking in place. Suspicion crawls back into his head and skin and nails and
eyes. The accommodations are certain and on-point, careful and paced.
It feels like a performance.
Yet slender hands reach out, taking the mug and pressing lips to ceramic. An
earthy taste, a little bitter against the sweetness flowing through the manor.
The man bends down, sits on his knees in front of Natsume. He watches the teen
drink the tea with purpose (despite its heat), throat bobbing in mouthfuls. It
could be that Natsume is thirsty, "It should work soon," but this hot tea
wouldn't quench that.
Natsume levels amber eyes (knowing) to Matoba's once removing the mug from his
lips. They both know there's an undiscussed ingredient. It promotes relaxation.
(But the unsaid main purposes of mild sedation, acute memory loss, dizziness,
lowered awareness, impressionable willpower).
Eyes descend to the nearly empty mug in his hands, a golden orange with herb
sentiment collected on the bottom.
It makes him feel better. It makes him forget for a temporary period.
A warm hand spreads through flaxen hair, unexpecting but tolerable, and then
impassive. The touch is both reassuring and unsettling. It turns into a motion,
gingerly back and forth and slow. The sensation both tingles and stings. But
most importantly, Natsume's heart hurts, rousing him to cry even more. There is
no sympathy for a shameful, ugly thing like him—indulging in and seeking
affection after a forced intimate act not too long ago. He should just die. He
already feels the heat and sweat take him. The thick cloud is settling, heart
skipping in unsteady rhythms, a little nausea.
But it's better than self-consciousness.
Matoba is looking at Natsume intently, brushing a hand down the temple and
cheek (taking the sweat in its descent). Long eyelashes blink up at him,
languid and unguarded. It's too easy to push the blanket off the teen's
shoulders. It falls with a gentle rustle. No pitch in breathing.
"Remove your haori." There is no hesitation in the command.
Hazy, groggy, Natsume complies. Tangled at first, motor functions slow, but it
meets the discarded blanket like a dead leaf falling from its mother, piling
with its foliage brethren beneath. Blink up, swirling. Not too dizzy, not
choking.
A warm figure, with dark clothes resembling a smoky shadow, leans over.
(Matoba, remember?) Pieces of long, black hair slip past his shoulders. Feeling
hands ghosting his cheeks, Natsume shuts his eyes, a little sigh leaving him.
The voice breathed over him is a calm and smooth rhythm. His own hands pinch at
the dark sleeves above and his mouth opens so slightly.
"Another man will come into this room. Listen to him. Call him 'Shuuichi'."
Matoba grimaces. He does not and will not expand on his gesture. Nor will he
regard the increased grip on his sleeves.
Pulling back graciously and disturbing the grip the teen purchased on him,
Matoba prepares the rest of the room. A green futon is pulled from the closet
and Natsume is carefully shifted onto it. He is a little unstable, but he lies
down and spreads his legs. The action tugs on the panels and obi, but it is now
looser on his frame. Matoba lights a stick of incense and leaves the room.
Tap.
Matoba finds Natori in the front meeting room, looking at a window with drawn
shades. The requested items (scrolls and an enchanted hairbrush from a youkai)
are placed on the table as per their exchange. The older exorcist doesn't budge
when Matoba enters with a purposeful and sounding step.
"Come."
The clan head wishes he could see and assess Natori's face before calling him.
But he is met with indifference, practiced over months of prior downfalls.
Blank and unshaken; a slated carnelian color. A slight and a challenge. Matoba
eyes him, then, never lenient to Natori's sour temper.
"I am confident that you will follow procedure." However, there is a nagging
worry. It must have have been brought on by Natori's expression.
With no reply but a step forward from Natori, Matoba flicks his eyes back to
the door frame to leave the room before the other. He keeps the pace brisk with
an air of patience. Nanase is spotted in the corner of his exposed eye, but
Matoba leads the guest deeper into the manor. She enters the room they just
left, likely releasing a weary sigh, gathering the items for the clan's later
use.
Once they are before the room to Natsume, Matoba slides open the door.
Instantly, the two exorcists are hit with a cloud of perfumed incense. The
black-haired man offers a hand inside of the room, leveling a hard look at the
other.
The rules are clear and strict. Everything that may be required is provided. He
is tempted to restate the doctrine (perhaps for his own peace of mind or to
irritate Natori), but Matoba restrains himself. Remove the familiarities and
concern. It is business again.
At that, a grin pulls the corners of Matoba's mouth. "Enjoy."
Tasteless.
There's no need to acknowledge the down turned brows or scowl. Matoba quickly
swipes by Natori without another word, having to return to a function himself.
He finds himself in the large lobby with no recollection.
Spotting a set of sake, Matoba makes way for it, proceeding to pour a cup and
downing with no breath in between.
Everything's a mess. But at least it's a controlled mess.
 
 
Tapped and clicked and sealed. Natori ensures the door is set before casting
his gaze to the weak figure lying in the middle of the room. The futon's
decorative greens blend well with the light skin and flaxen hair. Natsume has
already spread comfortably, but raises his head lopsidedly, assessing the only
other figure in the room.
"Natsume." It comes out too low, unbelieving.
That must be the other man, Natsume thinks.
"Shuuichi."
The sandy-blond man visibly flinches, affronted. Then he trembles from oncoming
emotions of rage and sadness and excitement and desperateness.
Before starting, there is a set of duties he has to ensure every encounter.
With the room already sealed, Natori investigates the incense, lighting
another. Cinnamon. A pleased hum behind him sounds. He discards his thick,
brown jacket to the floor.
Natsume knocks his head back into plushness, the feeling of falling mixed with
the spice strangely pleasant. When a hand (large, not his) touches his leg, a
deep shiver runs through him. Looking up, Natsume finds the unruly beast. Amber
eyes try to focus. There is glowing, blurry red.
"Take off your clothes."
A ghostly command, blurry, like a mile away. Yet Natsume sits up to untie the
obi and shed off the clothing. The fabric is prickly when it's rubbed past his
skin, a warning to either keep it on or an urge to remove. It must be the
former, though. 'Shuuichi' says so.
Not even finished with removing the last kimono layer, Natori dives in to kiss
Natsume's exposed neck, following with a heavy breath hovering above the wet
press. "Ah—" Nervous, clammy hands skirt his body—chest and waist and
thighs—and the last piece of clothing dips around Natsume, the white
contrasting to the darker gray beneath. Noticing that his underwear hasn't been
removed, Natsume reaches between the exploring hands to tug at the elastic. But
the hands disrupt the thought.
Lowered eyes look up through lashes, curious to the hands that grabbed his.
Offered a glass of water ("Rinse your mouth."), Natsume complies with the
order. It's refreshing, especially from the dryness beginning to set in his
throat. His blond hair is ruffled (what a nice feeling) before it cups his jaw,
another spread of fingers along the side of his waist. Natsume's eyes are half-
lidded, but he sees the figure lean over, a breath unmistakable on his newly
wetted lips.
Kisses. Many kisses. At first hesitant, then tender and bruising and biting and
hard and ravenous teeth. A little suffocating, like he's drowning in a thick
syrup. Natsume gasps for breath too many times, brought back in to drown again.
The soft kisses are nice, the others can be rough and choking. Fingernails dig
into Natori's arms. They're not deep or frenzied. Just a way to keep himself
upright. Natsume's mouth is filled up, feels their saliva dripping out of his
mouth.
The sandy-blond man pulls off his mouth, leaving a strange emptiness in
Natsume's mouth. Instead the lips are placed elsewhere on his body—jaw neck
shoulder arm collarbone chest ribs hipbone—all accompanied with hungry hands.
Lied down, now with a little freedom of breath, the experience of swimming and
slight prickling takes over. Natori's touches melt into Natsume's flesh,
seeping through vessels and muscle and bone.
A tongue licks over his nipple, and Natsume tosses his head back with a breathy
groan.
A part of him now.
Hands run over Natsume's hips again, this time regarding the scars embedded
there, tracing them. Natsume's heart increases in rate. He touches the hands.
Isn't sure why.
Sweaty, hot, remains of his panic. He feels this is wrong. The monster feels
familiar.
Natori, with all the gentleness he could muster, holds Natsume's jaw instead,
having to ignore the scars for now. The other hand dips past the elastic of the
underwear. The teen pants into Natori's hand and raises his hips, bothered by
the restraint of the fabric.
A snap of a bottle catches Natsume's attention. Looking above, he finds
'Shuuichi' focused on distributing a lubricant onto his fingers. When red eyes
flicker to amber, a smile replaces the stoic frown. A warm hand pets Natsume's
thigh, carefully pries it to the side for the glazed finger. It's cold (always
is), swirling at Natsume's entrance, probing gently not for fun, but for the
teen's comfort. They both find it too easy to slip it in.
And oh oh oh. Very very hot and tingly.
Natsume moans out. Inside him. A finger inside of him. Moving slightly is a
nice spark, a little more and he feels so full. Opening to hooded eyes, the
blond regards the man above him. Natori's hand reaches and strokes Natsume's
arousal, flushed red and strained. Natsume chokes on another moan, remembers
the saliva wet but drying from mouth to chin. Covering his eyes with an arm, he
curls his hips into the hand. He can't believe he is that aroused.
Natori fits in another. The pressure increases. They slide in and out leisurely
with such lewd noises. It makes Natsume a little self-conscious, but is too
mindful of the stroking on his dick. Deeper, stretching, thrusting.
Hearing the winded breathing above, Natsume blinks up at the source. Sweat
beads at Natori's forehead, face flushed and veins in his arms pulsing from the
heat and exertion.
A third, a little strained. His stomach feels full. But with a bend up, Natsume
cries and throws his head to the other side of his shoulder. Pressure, that
pressure. He likes that. The stroking on his dick matches in good tempo with
the adjusting.
There is only so long Natori could tend Natsume before he has to remove
clothing himself. The heat and pressure and attention leave for a brief moment.
The sandy-blond hurriedly removes his clothes. The shirt is thrown haphazardly
off. With shaky hands, the belt is first removed before slacks are torn down
and off his legs. A little hesitant, but with lust and impulse overpowering,
Natori pulls at his underwear, a sigh leaving his lips when the arousal is
freed.
Peering below him, with both his erection and Natsume in view, a harsh feeling
of bitter lust explodes inside of him.
He doesn't forget to apply the condom. He couldn't afford to forget.
With more lubrication, Natori shifts, and enters.
So sensitive, hot, full full full. Natsume buries the back of his head into the
futon, whining. Oh god god god. But it goes slowly, smoothly, paced. It becomes
easier. 'Shuuichi' fills him to his base and holds still for a moment, then
gradually pulls back, muscles tightening on the withdrawing cock. More pace, a
little faster each time, it becomes slippery and really enjoyable. Natsume's
dick twitches at the thought of the slipperiness and the act upon him.
When Natori finally establishes a steady pace (hot and smooth and sure),
Natsume wraps his arms as far as they could go around the larger frame. He
needs to hold on, grip and feel and squeeze the body above him. The futon
wouldn't do; it's cool and flat and not human. Here, with this hold, Natsume
registers the heat and bend of the other's back and shoulder blades. Inside,
that spot is prodded again. Choking, a small wail and breathless, Natsume bucks
against Natori.
Again, again. Hit it again.
"Natsume…"
The voice is distant despite being from the beast above. Natsume tilts his
head, damp bangs falling messily across his forehead, regards the mesmerization
in clouded red eyes. "'Shuuichi.'"
Natori ignores the name, pretending the teen addressed him the way he had
before. He watches Natsume blink, lick his dry, pink lips.
"Kiss me."
The scent of clean dust. No—cinnamon smoke.
The dick inside of him pulses, waiting in anticipation.
Natsume pulls down on Natori's back, guiding their mouths together. Chest to
chest, waist and ribs and hips crushed together. Natori leads,knowing what he
wants from this kiss and Natsume's mouth. A tongue licks inside the mouth,
cheeks to teeth to tongue, pressing and pushing. The movements continue inside
of Natsume, thrusting into his entrance as his tongue is sucked and abused.
Natsume whines and fidgets, the intensity of the thrusting inside of him and
having his mouth ravished overwhelming him. With every movement of the man's
body, his erection also runs between them, strained and leaking and red for
release.
He wants to breathe. Doesn't want to breathe. His head becomes even more thick
without air, but the sensations in and on and around him increase tenfold.
Natsume curves into the sandy-blond's sweaty body and pulls his thighs back,
rocking with him so that he can achieve his own orgasm.
With the way Natsume bucks into him, Natori has found a spot that the blond
likes. And as brutal as Natori wants to fuck Natsume, he has to keep the rules
in mind. No roughness.Garnering self-restraint and careful poise to target that
spot for Natsume, Natori keeps a constant thrust there, feeling the tightening
around him, knowing it was found.
Natori breathes harsher into Natsume's mouth, the intensity of the kisses
lessening in favor of the fucking. Natsume has no qualms. Instead he fulfills
Natori's request himself, gripping the man's jaw with both hands and exploring
the mouth.
No breath no breath.
Both of their decisions were met with an intense pleasure.
One more press puts Natsume over. His orgasm rises quickly, splattering against
both of their stomachs with a pitched moan. The aftermath rolls in waves,
making him spasm, as Natori continues to assault inside. Raw and hot and used.
With his orgasm peaking, Natori flattens Natsume into the futon with his body,
knowing that the younger has come due to the twitching of the muscles. When
coming, he rides it out with a few finishing rolls of his hips.
The arms, once clinging to Natori, have fallen due to exhaustion. Natsume lies
on his back and stares at the ceiling while gradually lowering his legs.
When the spent dick pulls out of Natsume, he releases a shaky gasp, "A-ah—" It
stings. It's empty. The muscles twitch from the before activity.
Before Natsume has any time to mind himself, he is peppered with many kisses
from Natori. Face and hair and eyes and lips and ears and jaw. The blond
reciprocates what he can eagerly.
Natori pulls back, chest red and body drying cool. There is a shadow casted on
him. A grim image. He's smiling and satisfied.
Amber eyes flutter around the room crazily.
To Natori, he sees a wildly dancing butterfly.
More accurately, a moth constantly smashing into a blazing white light.
Chapter End Notes
     It only gets worse from here.
***** The Beginning of Summer *****
Chapter Summary
     That betrayed trust should have influenced him to leave. Instead, he
     continues coming back, looking for praise and belonging where there
     isn’t any.
     And Natsume still doesn’t feel well.
Chapter Notes
     Theme: Panic
See the end of the chapter for more notes
"How many times has this been, now?"
Don't know. He doesn't know. He feels his body being slammed into, muscles
flexing and squeezing, the heat and stickiness on the back of his thighs. Sweat
and cum and spit.
The body presses flush, and continues in paced intervals inside of him. His
hole is used to this by now, open and used and ready, stretched and spread and
accommodating. Many times enough that it is easy to wiggle a finger inside of
him—
There is a small pool of his drool on the floor from when Natori has forced his
head to stay.
"I don't know. I don't know. I feel sick." Breathless. Lost, sad. Fast.
Natsume groans, stomach then feeling incredibly heavy. The man behind him holds
onto his body as he shudders, reaching his orgasm inside of Natsume.
Nothing flows out this time. Not like the first time. No red or white or pink.
Clean and clear, but still pink-raw and glistening in mild use.
Sick.
Now without someone to hold him up, Natsume's body slumps to the floor, joining
the mess of his earlier orgasm and dropped sweat. His heart thuds, slams
against the wooden flooring. It's hard to set focus on anything—dulled eyes
flicker around the room. It's hard to see, yet it's always easy to feel.
Sick. He feels that a lot nowadays, and cracks a grin.
 
 
 
Tired, sore, disorientated. Nearly every day, Natsume often feels like he's
floating. Sometimes he is not even sure of his surroundings, of his
consciousness. He wakes to an empty room, undoubtedly cleansed with the remains
of sandalwood incense. Sometimes Matoba is there, sliding open a door to the
outside, a breeze rolling in to take out the room's excessive scent and magic.
Perhaps it's too stuffy, too strong a spell.
Rising from the bed, a sharp pang shoots up his back and butt. Smarting, but
tolerable. When deciding to get up, a different pain persuades him otherwise.
He winces and stays put. Sore and tight and hot. Natsume sweats a little.
Matoba looks to him, indifferent, but still inquiring.
It could have been from before. Or he must have pulled something. The sensation
remains, just lesser and more faint. The exorcist lets Natsume move at his own
pace.
For the times the blond requests help, Matoba always refuses. In his own
pseudo-polite way, of course. He won't listen to the strange hurt, just gives
him pain medication and a wish of restfulness. He doesn't touch him anymore.
Natsume knows he has done something wrong to warrant this sort of response. But
he never follows up on it. Stupidly, he returns to complete tasks and lessons
and never inquires. He is dismissed easily and, consequently, is hurt by the
detachment.
"You have made your decision," is all that Matoba says.
"Don't listen to him. He is stupid and stubborn, too," Nanase comments once to
Natsume in passing.
Natsume disregards Nanase's tack-on of 'too'. (She also thought the same?)
"What do you mean?"
"..." Nanase stops, sparing a quick moment to the teen. "He thinks you can
understand him. Of course, he isn't clear and direct. Always careful gestures
and pauses and layered meanings. It isn't you, boy. He is a coward and needs to
realize that others are not mind readers."
 
 
 
Spring melts in early this year. The ground and grass are still a little harsh,
but the snow flows into the rivers and lakes, embedding the soil with its life.
When the lotuses begin to form in the garden's pond, Matoba finds himself
inspecting them nearly everyday. They're still young buds, petals enclosed for
its own growth. He watches them, wanting them to bloom much sooner like the
other early season flora.
Nanase has a small smile when regarding the Matoba head. She taps his arm, an
indication to follow. Matoba doesn't move, but recalls their task before he
stopped at the garden. Another exorcism today. Natsume with Nyanko-sensei had
already made way to the vehicle that will bring the group to the site.
"It comes in cycles. You'll see the lotus come summer." Nanase then departs,
giving the man a few more peaceful moments.
That summer, Matoba ceases willing the lotus to bloom, and instead watches it
gradually open with bitter patience.
 
 
 
He thought he would be better by now. Natsume regards the thermometer before
him, the reading above a body's healthy temperature.
Calling Matoba, he informs him of his summer cold. There's a small silence
before Matoba follows up with, "May I schedule you for next week?"
It isn't an order. It's a request. Natsume glances at Sensei snoozing on his
favorite red cushion.
"What is more important to you? Humans or youkai?"
(Natsume notices his scent nowadays is heavily coated with smoke and dust and
sandalwood. At least most of the wind carries it off.
Along with the youkai that often come to bother him.
Natsume is used to the unexpectedly nightly visits, from pleas of names being
returned to demands of obtaining the heirloom book. The visits have been
decreasing. It was slight at first, just unfamiliar spirits that would happen
by for their name. Now he hardly receives such requests. The youkai that often
pay visits have been scarce, a twitch in their noses or squint in their eyes
when visiting.
Natsume lifts his arm to smell it. Sandalwood smoke. He eyes Nyanko-sensei
dozing on the seat cushion. He drags himself across the floor to address the
cat-youkai.
"Youkai haven't been bothering me lately about the Book of Friends. Even the
middle-class youkai have been distant."
Nyanko-sensei snorts, a little smug and knowing. "Don't you know? You smell
like spells and exorcists."
"..."
Natsume pulls away to return to his studies. He never mentions the security
breach to Sensei. There is no need to. After all, he wasn't there—Matoba was.)
Perhaps now is the time (the chance) to break this off.
(Before he loses too much.)
"I think… I want to stop coming." Natsume chews on his bottom lip. Doesn't
Matoba consider him a burden now anyway?
But the clan head advises against it. A bad idea. "You're vulnerable now."
There's a small strain in the other's voice; Natsume feels a little guilty and
bothered. "Don't worry. I will send shiki."
"... All right." Natsume catches Nyanko's head-turn and small glare. (Not at
him, but at Matoba…) "Next Sunday."
Matoba confirms with a gracious voice before disconnecting. It seems that he
will have to now make a tedious call himself. As the newly pressed number
rings, the exorcist relaxes his voice, letting it rumble smoothly when the
other end picks up.
"I have the pleasure to inform you that you won't be needing to come by today.
Let's reschedule for next Sunday."
Exasperated and frustrated, Natori sighs heavily into his cellphone. No doubt
Matoba is smirking widely, knowing what an inconvenience this has caused him,
both business and personally. "Tell him to come anyway."
At that, Matoba laughs, a little bristled. Such an irritable man. "I'm not
going to request my student when he is sick. Is your problem that bad,
Shuuichi? Would you like something different?"
Natori doesn't like Matoba's tone—too playful, too inviting. But what else is
there? He remains quiet, a sign that he accepts Matoba's suggestion.
"I could let you fuck me instead." Natori finds himself a little flustered when
such a robust voice answers, "I can lie there, compliant and obedient, just
like Natsume," enchanting and menacing like a trickster fox.
Regaining quickly, Natori seethes through the phone, "Disgusting! You're
nothing like Natsume," as Matoba laughs loudly.
Disgusting and hilarious. That is exactly what Natsume is right now—nothing.
"He is rather sick now, Shuuichi, and he did imply about leaving my care." A
startled silence. Natori is now deathly quiet, holding his breath, palms sweaty
holding the cellphone. Loyal attention back on him, Matoba smiles sweetly and
pronounces clearly and solemnly, "If you flirt with the idea of visiting him,
you will either find yourself occupied by my shiki, or incapacitated by the
boy's beast."
There are no such things as empty threats or warnings from the Matoba clan.
 
 
 
Can't. Can't. He can't. He can't see straight, think straight, or breathe
right. He blinks and it's blurry, clouded by tears and fog. He swallows, keeps
sweaty hot-cold hands on the wet chest below him, trying to bounce his hips
onto the dick. Slamming hips down, he regards his arms—clammy and pasty and
prickly. He shuts his eyes, tears dripping freely, trying to regain a steady
breath. It's hot and labored and scattered and difficult.
Impatient hips move up, dick still hot and hard inside of the teen. Natsume
groans, shakes his head. He can't ride anymore.
The monster doesn't care.
Hands find his scarred hips, raising them so the man could thrust inside of
Natsume. The blond whimpers, hands slipping to hold on. The haze doubles in his
eyes and mind. He has no balance, head swimming and swirling.
The thrusting is sloppy and difficult. Natori stays inside Natsume when he lies
the other on his back. The faded amber eyes flutter in confused pleasure. The
breathy whines continue until Natori stops his thrusting. He rips off the
condom and poises his dick above the teen's face (who still tries for a steady
breath) and ejaculates. Natsume flinches and scrunches his face, a hot mess
suddenly there.
Natori doesn't bother to clean the mess, still frustrated by Matoba's meddling.
Natsume has no energy to wipe it off.
The only clean-up the exorcist does is light the purifying incense. Slamming
open the shoji, he shouts to Matoba that he has finished.
Not pleased with how he was addressed, Matoba quickly appears from a nearby
room. He doesn't have a chance to scold Natori. The musky-scented man passes
him without intention to stop. He calls for Natori to stop, but the sound of
wheezing garners his utmost attention.
Hurried, pounding footsteps make it to the room. Being met with both the mess
and Natsume's poor condition, Matoba growls out another 'Shuuichi!' but the
action does nothing to amend the situation before him.
Natsume is limp, pale and sickly and sweaty, but at least he's breathing.
Matoba retrieves the water basin and cloth (left in the room for clean-ups like
this), and wipes Natsume's face of Natori's cum. Carefully he pulls the teen
onto the wooden floor for him to cool off, wiping him down with more wet and
cool cloths. Once the breathing stabilizes, he lifts Natsume to drink some
water. A hand shakily reaches out to tip the glass. His eyes are bloodshot and
lips cracked and dry.
It takes a lot out of Matoba to watch and address this with composure. But he
couldn't train his heart to stop racing or the frustrated burn in his eyes or
the tightness in his throat.
It was a bad dose.
A hand runs through the blond locks, petting them into place. At first Natsume
shivers, but then registers the hand as harmless. He dozes off after the
disjointed breathing evens out.
Waking, Natsume feels more exhausted and winded. Exorcisms take energy from
him, but never to this extent.
(He ignores the dullness in his lower back and strain of his leg muscles.)
Youkai poison. Supposedly. Matoba, displaced and closed-off, hands him a small
antidote vial, wishing him a restful leave.
A couple weeks rest, but even more symptoms, related and not, appear.
Natsume hasn't been doing well in lessons and missions. Forgetfulness and
fumbling and difficulty. But most important of all—his power is lacking. It's
strained and weak and trying. Thankfully the teen is still able to see the
spirits and creatures, yet the natural skill is decreasing.
Matoba folds his arms, curious of the aura now emanating from Natsume.
When placing a hand on the younger's shoulder, Natsume jolts, fumbling with the
ink brush in hand. A small relief in the muscles, a clearer mind for a moment.
Natsume finishes writing the sutra, tracing back to review the errors that
Matoba usually announces. "I'm sorry about that." The hand leaves and Natsume
breathes in clearer. "I will correct those mistakes."
Matoba blinks, eyebrows furrowing so slightly as he watches Natsume create a
new sutra—more clear and enchanted. "Better," he breathes out (relieved).
Natsume's skill has been lacking, and now he understands why.
Natori is not nourishing like him.
But he will not revive that connection.
Amber eyes gaze up at him, curious and delighted by the praise (the
reassurance). Matoba keeps his face stoic, glancing once more to the creative
sutra before leaving. No tampering, no acknowledgment.
That betrayed trust should have influenced him to leave. Instead, he continues
coming back, looking for praise and belonging where there isn't any.
And Natsume still doesn't feel well.
 
 
 
The session lasts longer than what is permitted. Matoba doesn't chase it.
Instead, when Natori finishes and follows up with the clan head in another room
for next time's exchange, more is requested. More discoveries and scrolls and
bounties—all to be handed over to the Matoba clan. The corner of Natori's mouth
twitches, suspecting this may be due to the over allotted time. Matoba inches
closer, seemingly to corner the other. His irritation isn't solely from the
prior activity (heat and adrenaline and blood pounding), the younger exorcist
surely moves and speaks in a way to inflame Natori's emotions.
And he can't help but to lash out. Natori shoves at the black-haired man, too
close for his comfort or state of mind to handle. Oh, and Matoba knows that.
Sees the knowing smirk, more damning words spilling out.
"It was you who decided to do this. I invited you to see him. What happened
afterward was your doing. I only request payment for the trouble and hard
work."
Natori grits his teeth, "You tempted me," and snarls back.
But those aren't the right words, not strong enough to combat the knowledge and
power Matoba always has.
And, without missing a beat, the exorcist reciprocates the hostility with a
smile. "Do you have any self-restraint?"
"You wanted me to mess up." The sandy-blond man is surprised by how quickly he
responds. Even with this knowledge, he followed along. It was too good to be
true. But why follow along? He still ached, and needed. Stupid and selfish and
single-minded. The bait was too precious to dismiss then, and he is still being
dragged along now. He doesn't know where, but it's still too good, too
delicious to release his fangs. What is at the end of the game when there is
nothing left, or it is fully reeled in? Natori swallows, carnelian eyes never
leaving Matoba's.
"You knew that, but you still came." His voice spreads a little smoother,
teasing.
What a dangerous man, willingly letting Matoba assess and press buttons,
fiddling and testing the strings.
 
 
 
One snaps unintentionally, too taut and used. The whole puppet remains intact,
so it goes without notice. The neck is a little loose, mind now a bit more free
to assess and scheme.
Matoba has softened his demeanor to Natsume—guiding and patient and careful.
(Something he once was.)
No more listening or rescheduling or waiting or exchanges.
The arm strings snap.
Even with Matoba closed off, he is still closer emotionally with Natsume.
(Something he also once had.)
Snip. Both legs free.
No more. He was supposed to have that.
The envy and impatience inflame him. Before leaving after another invitation,
he finds the container too easily, and takes it. He knows what it does, why
Natsume acts the way he does and doesn't remember, how both the exorcists can
get away with all that they are doing.
Natsume is already making his way to the manor. (He looks so tired, so sick,
slow and half-hearted.) A gust of wind blows some dirt into his eyes and face.
He shuts his eyes and rubs them, trying to rid of the specks and burning.
Suddenly hands are on him, and Natsume falls back, being pulled onto the side
of the path. (No no no, hands, not those hands—) Heart racing, breathing in
sharply, Natsume is finally faced with the one he would least want to see (ever
again). He doesn't have much time to breath or scream or move away. Back shoved
against a tree, a hand presses against his mouth and one two three small pills
are lodged inside. He tries to spit them out, but the hand is there to prevent
that. Hot tears have long since pricked at his eyes, and Natsume still refuses
to open them to acknowledge what is happening now, who is here in front of him.
"Swallow." The voice is terrifying (but shaky).
With both his mouth and nose closed off, Natsume knows that swallowing whatever
is in his mouth will allow him that necessity. He tries to push the tablets to
the side of his cheek, but notices the coating is dissolving, the powder inside
soaking into his tongue. It is useless. The hand on his mouth tilts the teen's
head back, a signal to do as you're told.
It burns and scratches down his throat. When the hands pulls away, Natsume
still keeps his mouth pursed and eyes shut.
Even now, especially now, he won't look.
The assailant grabs Natsume's arms, pulling him from the tree (bits of bark
embedded in the back of the teen's arms). The man doesn't say anything, but
Natsume knows it is Natori. Shaking his head, the blond pulls back, eyes now
open but cast onto the forest ground. Another pair of shoes in front of his.
Tears flood his vision. A hiccup dislodges from his throat, and his arms are
violently yanked forward.
No no no, what was he fed?
Scared and lost at what to do, Natsume tries to pull back again, slamming
himself into the tree. The hands grip harder into his arms, burning. Twisting
to the side, he tries to rid of them, but they're so much stronger (he's much
stronger).
He shouts. He knows he does. 'Stop!' But he couldn't hear it. He really can't
hear anything right now. …Why can't he?
Natsume's head shoots up, face red and wet with tears, now facing the
assailant.
Wavy, sandy-blond hair tucked beneath a black bucket hat, red eyes demanding
and fierce and imposing. The monster. It says something. Something. Its lips
moved, right? His eyes flicker over the face, not understanding, not
remembering.
Natsume is easily taken from the tree, an arm wrapped around him. No struggling
or shouting or crying, just… calm. Exhaustion, drowsiness, and surreality. With
feet half-dragging half-accommodating, Natsume finds himself guided out of the
forest and the path to a nearby road.
It's hard to tell where he is. The focus dilates in and out. Natsume
repositions his hand to cling and drag on the man supporting him. There is no
dispute, just a stronger hold.
Natsume chokes on the dry scent of ink and paper and sweat. (He hates that
smell.) He will fall if he lets go. Cold sweat gathers on the back of his neck.
It feels like his mouth pools with saliva, but it's dry.
(Hate him. Does he hate him?)
Natori helps him into the passenger seat of a car. Natsume's head lolls across
the headrest. The door is shut with a quick thud. The other door opens, the man
seating himself there. He hates how warm the inside of the car is, how the
leather makes his arms itch. Too stuffy-warm in here.
"...t… ...place… ...q… ...kay…"
He's saying more things, Natsume realizes. Trying to listen, the blond tilts
his head, eyes still fluttering crazily.
"Buckle," somehow comes out clear and strong.
Natsume faintly groans, arms much heavier to move than usual. His arm reaches
over to the left, feeling the smooth polyester strap and pulls it over his
chest. Snapping the buckle in place, the simple order washes relief over him.
Ah, it's too hot. This is too tiring.
Already situated, Natori starts the car's engine. Before setting the vehicle
into drive, he looks over Natsume. He is slumped further into the seat, eyes
hardly open but quivering wildly beneath the eyelids, and face moist and red.
(This has happened before, but it's all right—)
Natori leans over, tilting up the teen's head to rest against the headrest.
Natsume whines, low and weak and dying out. His neck is red and clammy. Tracing
down, Natori rests a hand on the chest. The heartbeat is erratic and harsh.
"Natsume, please speak."
Thump thump thumpthumptthumptthumpt—
Natsume only breathes, wheezy and rattled and lacking.
"Speak."
"...kk… ...hot…" Panting for a moment, swallowing dry, Natsume 'speaks' again.
"St… m'f- c'nt do..." When the blond shakes his head, it wavers backwards and
then snaps forward to hang.
"Natsume. ...Natsume."
No response.
The man rests the back of his hand on the teen's burning forehead and then eyes
glance down to the perspiring neck and chest. The AC is quickly adjusted to its
coldest and highest setting.
There's so much sweat.
(—...right?)
Chapter End Notes
     Here we go. Beginning of the end.
***** Kanrensetsu *****
Chapter Summary
     No more excuses. He needs to let go. He cannot rationalize this or
     forget or run away. Natsume rubs the fabric of the kimono between his
     fingers. Of course, he remains conflicted. He was never for violence,
     revenge, or retribution. But now… he's just so tired.
Chapter Notes
     Thank you all who have followed through with this dark journey. I did
     not think this work would be stretched out so far, but this is it. No
     more. I am tired, but more importantly, Natsume is tired.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
"... What?" He isn't sure he heard that correctly. That can't be true. Matoba
glances down the hall, imagining the small pantry that contained the drug. Part
of him wants to check, to make sure that it is true himself, not by word of
this treacherous man— "How many doses?" his voice rushes out, feeling choked
(on thoughts and questions and feelings of rage and shock and worry).
"I don't know," Natori admits softly (as if that lessens the impact of the
news), casting his eyes over to the sickly teen on the couch. The three shiki
have since gathered around the furniture with hushed whispers among them. Half-
listening to Matoba, Natori furrows his brows, intently watching the
interaction. It's cold and determining from just observing. Delicate, ghostly
fingers hover above a forehead, hesitant to press with its coolness. A body
crouches and tilts their head to the side, inspecting the blond's face that
effectively blocks any other view. Another leans in closer, medium-length hair
slipping forward, face approaching Natsume's.
Matoba's grip on the phone tightens, caught between shouting and directing. But
then an icy coldness shocks through him, prompting the man to sternly order,
"Make him throw up. Give him water. I will be there in a half hour."
Chest heaving and face clammy and eyes lidded and dizzy. Natsume's eyes hardly
flutter open, passing a dazed look among the youkai, all seeming more opaque
than transparent. Have they always looked like that? He tries to flex his mouth
or eyebrows to express his confusion, but it's stuck. Giving up, he allows the
discourse; he's so tired, anyway. They do not move any closer upon Natsume's
awareness, and remain silent.
"Natori?" Matoba calls in irritation. It's not impatience, but urgency. When
there isn't an affirmation, only a dead pause, he listens closely. Abruptly,
there's shouting of 'stay away' and pounding footsteps across the room. It's
when the names of the shiki are addressed, heavy dread drops in his stomach and
disperses alarm through Matoba's veins—anger and sadness and fear. He couldn't
even keep his shiki retained during this. Matoba curses before hanging up the
phone and rushing to collect a vehicle.
Rashly, Natori charges through the spirits' weak blockade. They all move to the
side as ordered, quiet and obedient and judging. Eyes flicker just slightly,
their bodies angled away. They intently watch as the exorcist pulls the teen
into his arms, half-dragging half-carrying him to the bathroom.
The teen fumbles with his legs, feet struggling to place on the floor, weak and
tired. He can't move them on his own. Then realizing, whoever is holding him is
doing all of the work. A wave of nausea and darkness hits him. Groaning, he
weakly grips a sleeve, knocking his inflated head against the figure. Pulled
closer, into the scent and warmth and physicalness, Natsume loses his breath,
feet sliding across a linoleum floor (not there, not there).
When Natsume is placed to kneel on the cool, tiled floor of the bathroom, his
back hunches and only choked air and sobs leave his throat. It's dizzy and dry
and too bright. He can hardly see and he does not feel right (even more so than
that night. … Which night. … That one. With Matoba. … Right? No. Another...).
Natsume shakes his head wildly, slumping down something cool and round (a
toilet bowl). But he's brought back up by frenzied hands (hot and strong and he
feels sick anddead). One is around his waist, another slipping into his
mouth—Natsume violently jerks (go away!) and retches into the toilet, a heavy,
thick burn continuing to push through his chest and throat.
Natori watches in displaced awe, skin prickling and tightening and sweating.
The figure before him hunched (and small and thin and weak) drowns the bathroom
in echoes of sobs and provoked retching. Tears hot and wet plop into the toilet
bowl and his shaking arms. Petting up the sides of Natsume's fringe, Natori
wonders if it may offer some relief. (Temporary. Not permanent. A relief to his
own nerves.) Perhaps some words and apologies and atonement. (Half-hearted.
Selfish. There's nothing to salvage.)
Useless, though. Natsume continues shaking. Slipping. Quiet. Unseeing.He won't
talk to him. (Can't talk.)
On shaky legs, Natori locates a glass on the counter to fill with water and
wets a hand towel. Kneeling next to Natsume, he struggles to tip the cup to the
teen's lips to have it fill his mouth. It dribbles out of trembling lips and
down his chin. With a wet towel, Natori instead wipes the blond's damp face.
Trying again with the water, and his eyes are straight-ahead and dead.
Familiar. This is familiar.
("Let me see your eyes."
("I've wanted to do this for such a long time...")
He feels the moist heat in his eyes, his heart thumping harshly into his lungs.
That's it. That's why.
Natori wants to keep him forever. His, only his. Although Natsume is just a
husk now, an impressionable zombie that follows command without question nor
thought, there is a thought that maybe later he will be introduced to what
Natori has to offer.
Extreme lust and thoughts and plans were only made for Natsume. He was rash, he
should have acted slower, but he wanted it then and now. No restraint. A need
to have his needs fulfilled immediately. Tired of waiting and competing.
Instant gratification. The mixture of his low self-esteem, warming connection
with another, and admiration for Natsume warped into something irreparable. It
is dreadful and imposing and selfish. When in that high, that is all there is
to it. Just him, nothing else. Natsume is for him. That is what it was.
That is what it is now.
Natori wishes he could offer words of relief to Natsume (to himself), but that
isn't right.
 
 
 
The buzzer to the apartment doesn't frighten him, but the dread settles in all
the same. Finally he is conscious to it. It's not dismissed, but it's also not
embraced.
Without command, Hiiragi opens the door, knowing the person and purpose behind
it. Matoba looks frenzied and worried, but most dangerously of all, furious. He
strides in with no greeting, frame taut and poised to hit Natori. No one
interjects, not even the targeted man. The punch isn't held back nor focused;
raw emotion and messy, knuckles immediately reddened and cheekbone bruised.
Matoba wastes no words on Natori, instead stomping over to the blond teen
sprawled on the couch. He checks the pulse and temperature with the back of his
hand. A good effort, but it was not going to be enough.
"Don't bother cleaning his scent." The finality, and a glare to Natori. The
sandy-blond man levels his own stern glare, a rightful swollenness on the side
of his face. Not wanting to be tested, Matoba introduces a question that the
other doesn't expect.
"Did you ever find out why he was initially scared of you?" It seems
unprompted, but Matoba glances to the messenger bag near the sofa. Impatience
and urgency convinces him to continue without participation. He makes sure it
is biting and dripping and bitter. "He was worried about your well-being
because of what he possessed. If he informed you about it, he speculated that
your friendliness and protection would be feigned. Funnily enough, it is true
despite that knowledge."
("Natori, if you ever feel like hanging around me is too burdensome, you should
leave.")
"He put others above himself, worried about them rather than himself because
they may come to harm because of their involvement. You have finally given him
a reason to worry about himself."
("I can't stand the thought of someone getting hurt because of their
involvement with me.")
From a distance, Natori watches Matoba hunch over Natsume's limp body on the
sofa. He assesses the body once more: his temperature, his breathing, his
pulse, his skin, his awareness. The weak body groans quietly.
("I'm used to it. It's understandable.")
Matoba resists the urge to pet back the blond hair, a red eye darting over the
sickly figure due to the delicate pants and groans. Once the teen secures a
rhythmic breath, the exorcist secures the messenger bag around his shoulder,
and curls Natsume's dead weight against his front.
"I would be expecting a visit from his beast."
Long after Matoba had departed with Natsume, Natori remains frozen in place
with his head slightly bowed in the direction of the sofa.
("I'd be in despair if I lost you.")
He lost him that night.
Throughout the whole ordeal, the three shiki remain out of the way and quiet.
Even after the black-haired exorcist leaves with Natsume, the silence
continues. When their master has since done nothing, besides vacantly gazing at
the sofa, the youkai with the bone mask speaks.
"Natsume was near death." Yes, they all sensed it, watching solemnly as pieces
of Natsume's spirit gradually depleted. As youkai, of course they would be
attracted to it. And once berated out of that hypnosis, they all understood and
accepted what transpired.
Their master nearly killed a human, a human that he proclaims he loves, a human
they all also admire.
Although unsaid, they all wish for the same thing. Hiiragi allows Natori some
moments, knowing that he too realizes. Funny, Hiiragi thinks, that he
understands a youkai like her far more than a human.
"I no longer wish to be contracted with you." Urihime and Sasago both fidget
their frowns, uncomfortable and foreign to request this. He looks more clear
and certain, Hiiragi notes.
Natori nods, producing a thin smile. "I understand, but I have a request before
doing that."
It's still dark and calculated. The bone-mask youkai doesn't ease her stance,
wary of the exorcist she endearingly called 'master'. Her comrades also
recognize the unsettlement.
A final request. A final selfish act.
"I will write a letter to Natsume. Please deliver it to him when he returns
home."
Forever a cursed man.
 
 
 
Madara has been waiting at the manor for over an hour. Ten minutes he could
wait. When time passed and there was no sign of either the boy or the exorcist,
Madara felt a creeping worry. Restless, he morphs into a beast, set on locating
the two missing persons. Before setting out, Nanase waves to beckon him. He
growls, frustrated, but approaches the old woman.
"Where are they?" he snarls, no need for riddles or mockery.
"He requested a vehicle a while ago. It was urgent." Quiet, Nanase looks upon
the dirt path leading to the manor's entrance. He was careless. "... I'm sure
this will be the end of their relationship."
The white beast scoffs, about to click his teeth in a retort, but a black car
speeds up the dirt path. Madara freezes, and Nanase frowns deeply.
Poor child.
Matoba keeps his attention fully on Natsume. The teen's hands are fisted at the
man's waist, and forehead resting on the upper arm. He's taking labored
breaths, sick from the drug and motion. Matoba gently rubs Natsume's arm for
comfort. They're almost there.
(He's almost free.)
Once the vehicle has stopped, Matoba opens the door, messenger bag already
secured on his shoulder, carefully pulling Natsume with him. He's still weak
and limp. Just faintly does the man feel a small grip on his arm. He's still
dead weight. Matoba has to drag him across the car seat, scooping him into his
arms.
Finally with Matoba and Natsume in sight, Madara's fur bristles. The image is
too strange. Natsume doesn't struggle nor speak, seeming to cling to the one
carrying him. When the exorcist approaches, Madara notices there is a haze in
the golden-brown eyes. A distinct smell of Natori and death follows. His claws
dig into the earth and a thick growl thunders from his throat.
"Exorcist… Why does he smell of that bastard and death?"
Matoba passes a quick look to Nanase, who has since turned and left to enter
the building. He presses his fingers to secure his grip on Natsume when looking
the beast in the eye.
"Even you are useless to protect him." The beast's eyes are glowing, teeth
exposed. Even the aura darkens and chokes.
In a collected voice, Matoba answers, "I will explain inside," and takes a step
forward.
Madara also steps, effectively blocking the exorcist. "Natsume is strange.
Release him."
Matoba purses his lips before eyeing Madara with his own severity. They cannot
hold this altercation. There is no time to. "I have to medicate him. Don't
prolong this."
"Why should I believe that? You bring him back like this and he cannot even
stand! What did that exorcist, or you, do?"
The clan head spies some subordinates shuffle behind Madara. He is a youkai and
causing a scene—of course they would be alert.
"That exorcist did this to him. Move so that I can help him."
Despite the lacking explanation, frustrated and unsatisfied, Madara snorts
loudly. Natsume's health comes first than the questions. The beast recedes with
a puff of smoke, transforming into his cat vessel and allowing Matoba to carry
Natsume inside.
There are attendants on hand that gather the materials he requests—water in
basin, cloths, empty bin, medicine vials, guest robes. Nanase catches Matoba's
eye for a moment, but she neither approaches nor speaks. She sees the damage,
knows (knew for a while) that this won't continue or be rectified. She turns
away when Matoba passes by, gently jostling the teen in his arms. A fidget (so
slightly).
"Come now," Matoba whispers softly, trying to bring him into consciousness,
"You're safe. You're at the manor. Your cat is here." The teen doesn't respond.
Matoba carefully maneuvers Natsume as the room is set up by attendants in the
meantime. Already placed to lie down on the futon, he begins to remove the
teen's tainted clothes. (Of sand and sweat and Natori.)
The cat-youkai immediately objects. "Haven't you touched him enough?"
Matoba bites the inside of his cheek, feels the sickness rising in his stomach.
(He has, hasn't he? Preparing and tenderizing him like a delicate dish.
Brushing and pressing and holding to appease not only himself, but another that
rips with teeth and a sharp tongue.) His purpose is not that. Not anymore.
Pulling over the salmon-colored t-shirt, the exorcist wipes a wettened cloth
from the nearby basin down the sweaty chest. "Get out of the way." Thick and
dangerous.
Nyanko-sensei narrows his eyes, perching himself near Natsume's head. He
listens to the haggard breathing as his sharp gaze divides between Natsume's
face and the exorcist's trembling hands.
A vial next to the basin is taken. Matoba slides a hand beneath the teen's
upper back to lift him forward, dipping the supposed medicine against withered
lips. "Please drink this."
And somehow, Natsume does. Weakly the lips part, swallows what is dispensed
into his mouth. There is a brush of fur against his arm, a firm hold on his
back. A frail grunt, and he's lied back down. Forcing his eyes to flutter open
for just a moment, there are blurry shapes of black and white watching him.
Neither figure says anything, so the tired eyes shut, and body depresses into
the futon beneath.
As much as wishes to cry, Natsume can't, mind blocked and separate and
forgetting. There are still cool hands that cool his body with damp cloths, a
worried purr lulling him to rest.
Natsume approaches darkness and wonders if he is going to die.
 
 
 
There are no dreams—just a dark, unsettling suffocation. If there were such
unconscious activity, it was dim, and muffled. Perhaps retelling of events and
past nightmares. Reminders of reality. Dreams or not, even unconscious like
this, Natsume feels dread.
Sand. Shuffling feet. Sharp pain in his back. Choking on something forced into
his mouth.
Natsume furrows his eyebrows, mouth fidgeting, and nose scrunching. It feels
real.
Heat and sweat and tears and breathing and—(his left hands twitches)—
That's it. It abruptly halts with no warning of an end.
So where is he? Is he… with Natori? Is he on the forest ground? Is he
approaching death? Remembering the bits he could before Natori killed him—
Shuddering out of the paralysis, Natsume feels everything at once—the heat the
sweat the pain in his back his parched throat his weak arms and legs his racing
heart impending doom fear hopelessness—
Alive.
A blanket covering Natsume's body is haphazardly tossed to the side. Rising too
quickly, the room spins in his vision, but the panic keeps him going through
the vertigo. Running a hand down his chest, he realizes these clothes aren't
his. Not wanting to comprehend, to accept, Natsume untangles himself from the
bedding and kimono, adrenaline coaxing him to attack and run, but a nasally
snore cuts through the internal chaos.
Natsume doesn't bother looking to his sides, but once he does, he finds the
comforting sight of Nyanko-sensei curled near him. The image alone causes his
heart to decelerate. He fights the ongoing vertigo to pet the cat-youkai's
head. Nyanko-sensei whines in response, unmoving.
In his periphery, Natsume notices a human-shaped figure. He snaps his head up
to face the assured threat. Black and gray-clad. He feels both relieved and
betrayed. Where was he? Why and how was he brought here? Why wasn't he
protected like promised—
All of Natsume's internal frantic questions are cut off when he notices a green
book laid out in front of Matoba. The Books of Friends. Heart skipping
irregularly, tears flooding his eyes. He can't have it. He shouldn't know about
it. That's why he wasn't protected, right? Matoba is too smart. He knows what
it is, what power it has.
Natsume himself is unforgivable. He's selfish and naive and bigoted. He
couldn't keep the book safe. He has only been thinking of himself. Now all
those youkai will die—
"Natsume," the exorcist begins, eyes glancing from the book to the teen, "I
know what this book is. I've known for a while."
Nyanko-sensei has since half-opened his eyes, gazing vacantly at a faraway wall
from the other two. He isn't pressed to Natsume, but he is close, close in case
Natsume needs to be grounded again.
Natsume swallows what nervousness he can to sustain a look in Matoba's
direction. He wants to run, grab Sensei and the book, and get as far as he can
away from here, from deceivers and liars and betrayers. It's too late for that
now. A red eye flickers, dismissing the clear conflict written on Natsume's
face and body language.
"Inside this book are youkai names. In our world, names are power. Inside this
book," he grazes the cover with the tips of his fingers, "are contracted
youkai, bound by a prohibited method."
Natsume has failed himself, his grandmother, the youkai. He opens his mouth,
tears slipping down his cheeks, ready to offer excuses and white lies. Matoba
immediately recognizes this, and shakes his head at the teen. 'No.' It seems as
if the man has decided, then. This forbidden book cannot exist, shouldn't
exist. (It was his grandmother's, a troubled human's trial to connect with
others, finding where she belongs—)
The book is slid across the floor. The exorcist pulls back, arranges his hands
in his lap once more. Confused, Natsume looks from the book to Matoba.
"I was never interested in this. I will dismiss that I know what this is."
He thinks it is a lie at first. What exorcist wouldn't be interested in this
book? Much more prestige and power could be gained from this. But this exorcist
never anticipated something like this. His intention was elsewhere when
stumbling onto a precious, forbidden heirloom full of spirits. Never
interested, is what he says, and will not be, he means. Even if there was a
hint of such an item, intrigue of the book was not the cause. It was never the
book.
Natsume digs his nails into his palms. …They were always interested in him.
Even now, that its existence is known, he is still chosen. (And he's nothing
important, nothing special. Naive selfish blinded ignorant secretive withdrawn
doubtful. Why him? Why not the book? It's so important. It holds hundreds of
youkai lives. Isn't that useful to exorcists?)
Nyanko-sensei listens to Natsume's confused cries. This revelation is
needed—another cut to the thread that keeps Natsume bound to this man. When
they first met, he should have fought harder for the book, should have known
that pain would befall upon this child of circumstance. He would look after
himself—obtain that self-regard he needed, and stay away from the convoluted
world of spirits and exorcists.
The exorcist distances what emotion he can to solemnly watch Natsume achingly
accept, and grieve. Sometimes, selfishness is needed. There are different
kinds, different circumstances for it. A kind person like Natsume will only be
further pained if he continues to idealize self-sacrifice. Now it's time (it
should have been sooner) to express that.
"You are here because Natori took you. I do not know the exact details," of the
struggle, no, but he knows the desperate means and method (shameless coward),
"but you were drugged. He used too much of the substance that prompted him to
call me." Natsume's breath stalls, shudders. The cat-youkai glares harder at
the wall. "I was able to retrieve you in time to revive you."
Revive. …So, he was close to death afterall.
Natsume's head has since bowed, hands fisting the fabric at his thighs. He was
overdosed, in a stupor, with the last feelings being of lost and distress and
fear and seeing— Swallowing the sickness he feels rise, Natsume nods so
slightly.
The last thing Natsume saw would be Natori if he died.
Nyanko-sensei clicks his teeth, finally coming to a conclusion of his. "No more
of this. Of exorcists. Of the Matoba." Pointedly, his glowing yellow eyes focus
on the black-clad exorcist across from him. "Natsume has had enough of betrayal
and ulterior motives. He will be leaving your 'care'." He's speaking for
Natsume again, but for this, perhaps it's for the best. (Of course it is. Don't
doubt that.)
It's amazing how well Nyanko-sensei manages his rage. He is ruminating in the
dark energy, has yet to burst with shouts and wildness. Neither human speaks
when the cat-youkai crosses the room, opening the sliding door to step outside.
There, he morphs into a large, white beast, the dark aura now wafting off him
and dripping from pronounced fangs. "That bastard exorcist better be expecting
me," and with a gust of wind pushed from hind legs, Madara takes off into the
rising dawn.
Without it being said, they all knew Natori's repercussion.
No more excuses. He needs to let go. He cannot rationalize this or forget or
run away. Natsume rubs the fabric of the kimono between his fingers. Of course,
he remains conflicted. He was never for violence, revenge, or retribution. But
now… he's just so tired.
Matoba's gaze shifts from Natsume's bowed head to the fidgeting fingers. He has
been hurt and deceived far more than Matoba is willing to admit. And he still
doesn't know. The blond still refuses to investigate that gut feeling he
presented at first. It was too easy to delicately quell it. Afterwards, it was
simply infatuated admiration (right?)—nothing at all.
"I'm withdrawing my involvement with the Matoba clan."
"…" Matoba immediately grimaces. Finally, a good choice, although it still
pains to hear. The clan head shuts his eyes and concedes. Admittingly, it feels
quite ugly. "That is acceptable. I understand. I haven't stayed true to my
promise. And this book I have uncovered is pretty interesting, but I won't
pursue." An implied compromise. Raising his eye, he notices the teen struggling
to look at him. It's to be expected. It shouldn't ease the regret and guilt.
Natsume doesn't respond and remains quiet as he makes careful way out of the
futon and onto his feet. Too dazed and apathetic to care, he changes to his
normal clothes nearby (thankfully cleaned). Understandably, there is still no
acknowledgment to the man. The rest of his belongings are gathered. For a brief
moment, Matoba catches the hurt in the golden brown eyes, hoping he may be able
to offer something to ease that. (Don't be foolish.) Natsume is already at the
room's door, and Matoba is grasped by fear and regret and longing and a need
for forgiveness.
'A waste.'
Matoba pauses on the thought, reverberating in his head ever since Nanase
uttered that to him. Naturally he brushed it off, as it was a way of Nanase
guilting him about his choices and exploitation. If it weren't for unneeded
antagonism, Natsume could have grown so much more. Lost potential to the
spiritual community. Lost potential to himself. Ruined and tainted from
corruption and neglect.
And because there is still that old, missing longing, Matoba tries one last
time.
"If you ever need to retreat, this place will always be welcome to you."
Natsume doesn't bother a look to him, and leaves without an answer. That is
fine, Matoba heaves with an unsteady sigh.
In the end, Matoba settles that this wasn't that much fun.
 
 
 
Walking home is a simultaneous mix of racing thoughts and crushing apathy.
Natori forced him a drug and kidnapped him. If it wasn't for the unexpected
overdose, he wouldn't have called Matoba (his protector) for help, he would
have continued with what he wanted to do. He would have forced him. Again. And
he wouldn't have remembered. He didn't remember what happened since being
guided out of the forest, towards a car. Before he knew it, he was conscious in
the Matoba manor, this monster nowhere in sight.
It is still morning, but at least the summer sun is blocked out by sympathizing
clouds in the sky.
He's no longer safe. He wasn't really, was he? A false sense of security.
Crossing the gates of his home, Natsume freezes in place when raising his head.
Before the path to the front door were the three shiki of Natori. Alarmed, his
breath hitches, lips licked in preparation of a spell he hardly remembers. The
one youkai with the long hair ('Urihime', he recalls) quickly interrupts,
telling him that they're no longer contracted. Natsume's mouth twitches,
unbelieving. A trick.
Urihime blinks over to Hiiragi, who then steps forward. Within her hands is a
blank envelope, intended for the teen. "It is Natori's last request." Not
'master', but 'Natori'. They no longer serve him.
Conflicted, Natsume looks from Hiiragi to the offered envelope. He doesn't want
to take it. He really doesn't. He doesn't want to hear this man's words or
voice or visualize his face ever again. Even the three youkai can recognize the
conflict rattling the teen. It's not a lily-white letter of farewell. The
letter is taken regardless, pinched by three fingers.
Natsume quietly enters the house and disposes his bag onto the floor of his
room. The envelope now sprouts divots from where his nails have pierced. With
great pain and hesitancy, the letter is removed from its container (lip not
even sealed with glue or tape) to be read.
It starts with skepticism before morphing to hurt then disbelief. Tears are at
his eyes again, the paper crumples from his grip before it is ultimately
shredded to pieces and tossed in the bin. The curtains are drawn shut and the
room is dark, but it's preferable like this. Dim and cool and enticing for a
long, long sleep. Natsume sets on taking his futon out of the closet, wanting
to curl up and sleep or maybe lay unconscious for an insurmountable of time.
Supposedly, the letter unveils the truth behind the excuses Natsume was fed.
Supposedly. He took naps because of spiritual exhaustion, not because of some
sort of drug. The incense was aromatherapy for his anxiety and recovery from
spiritual work and his trauma, not to conceal the remains of drugged sex. The
shikigami technique was newly mastered; there was no exchange of scrolls and
methods. There was no way that Natori could have… forced him; there was no
residual stimulus, no scent, no evidence.
Not bothering to change out of his clothes, Natsume slips beneath the comforter
of the futon.
Those were the only things mentioned. Nothing else about Matoba's alleged
cover-up. So it's strange, then, that Natori did not reason why Matoba and him
kissed and had sex. If Natori knew everything, as he claimed, he would have
known that too. What purpose would that have served, anyway? They both wanted
to bond, resulting in an unconventional way. He enjoyed it. To this day, he
still accepts that he did (does). He's not going to be shamed for that any
longer. Natsume understood Matoba's strange, but gradual approach.
They both knew that that tea calmed him. Matoba asked again for reassurance.
And yes, Natsume accepted. He didn't expect where that calm would lead to, but
it was careful and tender. He remembers their cuddling and soft kisses vividly
before it melted into a fog of heat and gentle pleasure.
Natsume gasps—chokes on a sob. Oh. Oh. No no, he doesn't need to realize nor
acknowledge this. A drug he accepted. It is separate from the one Natori claims
makes him forget. At the worst, he will consider this a case of an unrequited
crush. More manageable, more real.
And yet when he lies down, to stare at the ceiling, a sickness presses heavily
atop of him. Sick. Disgusting. He wants to vomit. Vomit out the disgust and
feelings and confusion and want and need of feeling like he actually belonged
somewhere yet again to only be wrong. A false invitation, never for his own
interest and heart. Used and tossed away.
The wrong path yet again. And he is so so incredibly lost. What about his
friends at school? Tanuma and Taki? His family with Touko and Shigeru? How will
he be able to confront them? Be able to speak and carry a conversation with
them as they know nothing of these horrible, terrible circumstances? Is his
place with them, or is it another lie?
The window slides open, a cat figure shadowed behind the masking curtain.
Natsume turns his body to gaze at a beige wall. The cat youkai wanders over,
placing himself on a forgotten cushion a distance from the teen, but enough to
be seen. There is blood on his fur.
Neither speak. Natsume doesn't mention the letter. Nyanko-sensei doesn't
mention Natori's fate.
The only thing Natsume can do is breathe, but he can't feel—
the petals crack open, reaching for enlightenment
—and he is okay with that.
Chapter End Notes
     Theme: (open-ended) closure
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