Work Text:
Natori, sprawled across the couch with a book on his lap, awoke to the beat of a steady, insistent tapping.
He'd spent the night reading the book - a copy of one of the few extant treatises on forbidden magic, authored in the early Meiji period by a physician of the former Higo domain who'd moonlighted as an exorcist. It was an obscure work, and he hadn't expected to find much that would shed light on the terrible object that Natsume's grandmother had left him. Still, he'd figured it was worth a look.
The text combined memoir with research notes. The former sections were more substantial than the latter, which contained little that later writings hadn't already elaborated on. Yet Natori hadn't been able to put the book down: the man was a surprisingly good essayist, writing with vividness and prescience about the near future. From his home in Kumamoto, he spoke of the political unrest that the new leaders in distant Tokyo were trying to manage, the rebellion fomenting in the neighbouring prefecture down the coast. He saw monumental changes encroaching on the hometowns of those former samurai who had wrested control of Japan from their overlords, and he wanted to understand what they portended.
As this new world dawned, the man asked, how would inhabitants of the old respond? Would youkai disappear as iron and steel penetrated the mountains and forests, destroying their homes and belching coal smoke to trumpet the advent of "science" over superstition? Would exorcism soon cease to be a necessary trade? The man didn't think so. Spirits and the humans who could see them, he suggested, were resilient beyond the ken of the freshly-minted experts in the big cities up east. It seemed to him that both would find ways to resist. Possibly they would even band together. Exorcism would evolve, as necessary; people with the sight would continue to be born. Perhaps, he surmised, these people would forge new kinds of compacts with the spirits around them in order to survive, and even to flourish in the face of great odds, regardless of traditional prohibitions...
Natori had read on, unable to keep thoughts of a certain boy out of his head; the gentleness in his voice as he confronted non-human beings, the determined cast that often settled over the delicate lines of his face. His presence hovered like a soft, invisible shadow over the pages of the book.
At some point, sleep had overtaken him. Now fully awake, he rubbed his eyes, trying to locate the source of the tap-tap-taps that continued. They seemed to be coming from the direction of his window, so he walked over to examine it. He'd left the curtains drawn back, and moonlight was streaming into the room.
There was a diminutive, one-eyed creature perched on the sill, patiently knocking on the glass with a pebble. Something was tied onto its hairy back.
Natori slid the window open and regarded the youkai suspiciously. "Yes?"
The little furry cyclops undid the knot over its chest and shrugged off its load, wordlessly dropping it before him. Then it hopped away, skittering down the wall of the apartment building.
Natori looked at what it had left. It was a piece of paper, covered in writing, creased into a tight triangle. When he picked it up he could feel it was folded around a small, hard object. He had an inkling he knew who it was from; there was only one person who would send him mail by youkai express. He picked it up, smoothing out its folds. A key emerged. It seemed oddly familiar. Then he read the terse message on the paper, brushed in bold, elegant script, and laughed:
PLUG YOUR PHONE IN AND CALL ME BACK DAMN IT
Underneath this one-liner was the kanji for the first half of Yorishima's name. The paper's other side carried a list of what appeared to be book titles.
Still chuckling, he closed the window and went to obey the message, dialling in a number he seldom used but didn't need to look up. The phone at the other end rang for several seconds before it was answered.
"What brings the unexpected pleasure of this message, Yorishima-san?" Natori asked breezily.
The voice that replied carried the exact opposite tone.
"If you could be reached like normal people, this would be a lot easier, all right?"
"Who do you think first gave me the idea of unplugging my phone when I sleep, Yorishima-san? I forgot to plug it in again today, that's all."
"Don't blame your lousy decisions on others," Yorishima shot back, his scowl echoing down the line. "Anyway, listen up. You owe me a favour, so I'm going to call it in. You know how to get to my old house, don't you?"
"I recall the way, yes. But why -"
"The books listed on the paper are all there. I need them for something I'm working on, the sooner the better, but I also need to see to something around these parts that requires me to stay put for a few months. Can you get them for me soon, maybe in the next couple of weeks? If not, just send the key back."
Natori blinked, pleased and surprised. "Of course I will," he replied. "I happen to be free this weekend, actually, so I'll go then. Could you tell me where the books are in the house?"
Yorishima cleared his throat. "...I don't actually remember," he muttered. "Sorry about that. They shouldn't be too hard to find, though. I used these volumes together quite often, so they're probably all in the study. Or my room."
"Understood," Natori said merrily. "Please don't worry about it - I do owe you a favour, as you say, and I understand how it can be hard to keep track of a personal library."
"You can thank me for letting you repay your debts," Yorishima growled. "And while you're at it, speaking of thanking me, you can pick all the loquats you want from the trees there. They'll just rot if no one takes them, anyway."
"How generous, Yorishima-san. I'll help myself, then."
"Feel free to ask him to come along and take some fruit back, if you like."
Natori paused, taken aback at the sudden, distinct hue of slyness colouring Yorishima's voice.
"To whom might you be referring to?" he said, the instinct to withdraw evoking a register of exaggerated formality.
Yorishima snorted, conveying an inordinate amount of sarcasm with a single breath.
"If you don't know, forget it. But if you're going to insist on hanging around that boy, you ought to think about doing things with him that don't involve work."
Natori swallowed, feeling a bead of sweat run down his temple. "It would seem that this request also involves work, Yorishima-san."
"I'm not your colleague anymore, Natori, and I'm not asking you to do this because you're an exorcist. Take it as you will."
He nodded, forgetting for an instant that they were speaking on the phone. His chest felt inexplicably tight.
"I understand. I'll plan on heading over this weekend, then. And if I can't make a trip down to see you myself next week, I'll mail over the books."
"That sounds fine," Yorishima said grudgingly. "Much obliged, Natori."
A pause, and then he added, "You know how to reach me if anything happens."
Click.
Natori listened to the flat beep of the dial tone. Then, slowly, he replaced the receiver, and re-folded the sheet of paper into a triangle. He picked up the key, silver-grey and flecked with rust, and ran a finger over its edges, picturing a certain smile on a certain face.
Part of him objected that this needed to stop. Creating excuses to meet made him a hypocrite, surely. What use was it to worry about his safety, if being together put it at further risk? Work or not, this request still involved exorcists. Another part of him argued back, with similar passion, that the odds were on them meeting even if he didn't try to arrange anything. It was almost uncanny how their paths insisted on crossing, defiant of his lack of intention or deliberate attempts at non-involvement. Besides, there *had* been a few times when he'd been able to help, hadn't there?
Aside from those considerations, if he cut off contact at this point, the boy in question would be grieved, and would probably construe it, completely mistakenly, as rejection. He knew how that felt. He refused to make someone else feel like that. Especially him.
Natori drew a long, deep breath, trying to sort out his colliding impulses. He thought he knew what the right thing to do was, but everything in him seemed to be resisting. It was hard. He hadn't known how hard this would be, how intensely he was capable of feeling.
He'd thought he had answers, but all he could grasp were questions. The only thing he was sure of, right now, was that he wanted to know how Natsume was. What had he been doing, since they'd last seen each other? Had the kitty kept him unscathed from his usual series of run-ins with the youkai chained to that heirloom? How *was* he, really? A strange, sudden yearning forced him to a single conclusion: I want to see you.
His chest seemed to have further constricted. Without thinking, he reached up to rub a hand over his heart, as if to try and ease the pressure.
One call, he decided. That would be all right, surely. One call to the Fujiwaras' house, to check in, without mentioning the errand he'd just accepted. That would be all. He could do that tomorrow, get it out of the way, and then get on with helping Yorishima. Sometimes you had to negotiate compromises, even with yourself.
"Master," a familiar voice said behind him. "Are you all right?"
"No worries, Hiiragi," he replied, not bothering to look at her. "I'm just going to go out for a walk, maybe have a drink. I'll be fine."
Hiiragi said nothing. From behind her mask, she watched him shrug on his coat and hat, shutting the door behind him as he left.
So much trouble, she mused. Humans made so much trouble for themselves. Still so much to watch over, with this one. But she would be around for a long time; she could be patient. She sensed Natsume could, too.
Some day, Hiiragi thought, perhaps Natori would also come to understand.