Work Text:
Truly, Natsume was a tragic creature. Too weak to defend himself, and too soft hearted to want to anyways. Madara is often surprised he made it this long, what with his self sacrificing nature, and his tendency to forgive. It surprises him every time, that a child of Reiko’s blood could be so tender. Madara watches as Natsume gently takes the paper in his mouth and exhales, the yokai’s name rising like prayer incense. When Natsume looks up again, the corners of his mouth are daubed with ink.
“At this point, I might as well eat you instead,” Madara snarked, “The book of friends is getting thinner and thinner by the second. I might as well take whatever morsels of spiritual energy I can get.”
Natsume huffed, a token act of protest. This is an old topic of conversation, a well worn path. To Natsume, the old yokai was as threatening as a ball of fluff. Nyanko-sensei was all bark, no bite.
“Well then, I hope I give you indigestion, you greedy old cat.”
“Ha! As if such foolish human weaknesses could hurt the great Madara-sama!” The yokai rolled into his back, basking in the late summer sun. With his shape he resembled nothing so much as an overstuffed meat bun. Natsume stifled a grin.
The boy gently closed the book of friends, and put it in his satchel, as if he was tucking in a small child. To him, perhaps it really was that precious. The book of friends was his burden to bear. Countless names were written inside, each a delicate candle flame, the snuffing of which could end a yokai's life. Yokai that his grandmother had subjugated, and were now Natsume’s responsibility to free. The book was small and crudely bound, at odds with the power it contained. Reiko had decorated it like a bored schoolgirl’s art project.
“You never know sensei, maybe one of these days your gluttony will finally be the death of you.”
Natsume rubbed at his lips, face puckering at the bitter taste of ink. It was something he wondered about, how a book created in his grandmother's time could still give off fresh ink. It was one of those little mysteries of yokai that Natsume has gotten used to, over a lifetime.
Nyanko-sensei snorted, refusing to dignify that with a response. He really was like a cat sometimes, proud and prickly. Natsume flopped down onto the warm grass next to him, sighing with contentment.
The boy and yokai lay side by side, lazy in the afternoon heat. The sun shines from high above, catching them in its glow. As the pair dozed off, they both muzzily wished this moment would last forever. A little piece of time made infinite and immortal.