Chapter Text
Charismatic. Outgoing. Admired.
From what you heard, he was a younger gentleman sporting pockets almost as deep as the pretty dimples in his smile; the local heartthrob, talk of the town; appeared out of no-where to boot. Honestly, it was like ticking a checklist.
(So why did he disappear?)
Local rumours were all you had to go on, but for this case, they proved to be more than enough. He was almost unreasonably popular, so the public were clued in on a majority of his personal information. His address itself was revealed to you by a group of petite rosebuds, eager to throw his privacy out to a stranger if it meant seeing his face again. 'Enamoured completely,' you thought, seeing their thighs press together at the mention of his name.
The trek to his house was a lengthy trip down to the outskirts of the town. It brought you to the concluding edge of the afternoon, standing in front of a detached, beautiful villa far too big for person.
You knocked twice. The night before (when you came here to scout the residence in preparation for today) no-one responded to your knocking, so you weren't expecting it today, but you counted out twenty seconds in your head nevertheless, keeping your ears peeled for any shuffling about.
You knocked twice again. The sound echoed distantly through what you assumed was a large entrance-way, but no other noises stirred from inside it.
And again, thrice this time.
When this set of twenty seconds was met with silence, you hiked your pants up above your knees and rolled your sleeves up.
Plan B it was, in other words.
From what you remembered in your scouting, the most secluded place along the garden fence was somewhere behind a hydrangea bush. Did it feel a little slimy, cutting your way into his private garden? Sure. It was shady, strange, and probably more than a little illegal, but it was still miles easier (and more discreet) than lugging around a ladder, and your most convincing argument declared that since the resident has been missing for three months, he was probably dead, and as such, unlikely to care.
With a decisive few clips from a pair of pliers, you cut a hole into the garden. It took more effort to push through the overgrown thorn apple bush on the other side, however; clambering out of its thickly layered branches brought you upon a gently tread path that braided a walkway from the house to the end of the flower garden—where tangles of ivy intertwined like snakes.
'Completely unkempt,' you thought, sidestepping dense bushels of ripe columbine flowers and walking towards the house.
There was a moment wherein you entertained the notion of knocking on the back door before deciding against it and making your way to one of the windows. All of them were tightly shut (their blinds pulled down in the middle of the afternoon), but they proved to be little trouble; in the end, it was nothing more than fiddling with a hair-clip long enough to budge the lock and squeezing through the gap.
A thick cloud of dust flew into the air when you pushed the blinds aside, running spirals around you before slowly falling to the floor. The tips of your toes met gently with the wooden floorboards, and at that point, you had successfully broken in.
The house wasn't much less lonely on the inside. Once you closed the window behind you, even the whistle of breeze died down to nothing at all, and the oppressive silence cut through the air with a serrated edge that deafened your footsteps.
Exploring the place revealed little at first: a bathroom here, an empty bedroom there, another bathroom, a closet-like compartment, yet another bathroom (just how many did one person need?) and it wasn't until you walked into a kitchen that you saw something of interest.
A person. Bent over the kitchen counter and distracted by his phone. There was something a little tired in the way he slumped, and his figure seemed much too short for the generous six feet and four inches ascribed to him in hearsay; he looked about five feet five at best. His hair too, seemed not as deep black and illustrious as in the description given by the maidens who fanned themselves over the gentle sculpt of his muscle, something which, had again, appeared to recede into barely-toned tissue.
Eventually, the premonitory feeling of being watched turned pesky enough to unstick his eyes from the screen and to the space behind him, where, for the first second, you caught a glimpse of his face, and in the next, all you could see was his no-less than gorgeous raven hair and the artful chisel of his jaw.
“Hey,” you said.
The man backed into the counter with a frightened clutter. Frantically, he looked about him until he plucked a kitchen knife hanging over the sink and pointed it at your chest.
"Who are you?" He asked, his eyes blown wide and unblinking. “What the hell are you doing in my house?”
He looked different now than from before he turned around—of that much you were certain, but translating that feeling into a precise list of what changed was like picking apart a tangled ball of yarn. Trying (with lack of success) to separate the individual pieces of coloured thread into neat little spindles, but finding instead that the more you pulled them apart, the more they tangled together.
Your mouth made out the word before you had the chance to think about it. It opened to a circle, met in a gentle pout, expanded outwards, and had your tongue gently tap the roof of your mouth before releasing it with a swipe of the jaw.
('Obake;' a shapeshifter.)
When you finally spoke, your tone was very matter-of-fact. "For today, I assumed I'd be investigating a murder."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" His hands loosened their grip around the knife; not in repose, but in confusion.
"Means I thought you’d be dead."
“What?” he asked, and a flurry of terror crossed his countenance before his face hardened again. “Is this—I mean, are you with the police? I’m not dead, as you can see.”
"I’m not, no,” you said simply, offering no further explanation. “But I can see that you’re alive and well.” Frankly, you were surprised. An obake becoming a shut-in was completely unheard of. Finding a cadaver on a couch would have made far more sense than having a recluse on your hands.
He took a step back, further backing himself into the corner.
It was hard not to stare. Even pushed against the counter and curled into a terrified ball, he towered above you in terms of height. (If he wasn’t approaching six feet before, he was certainly well over it now). It was positively entrancing: how every single one of his physical features was the textbook example of conventionally attractive; how the somewhat angry, still somewhat confused curve of his eyebrow filled out just the perfect shape and angle.
"Are you Todomatsu Matsuno?" you asked.
He nodded, but the movement was so wooden and terrified you could almost hear the scrape of bone. "What do you want with me?"
You eyed the knife in his fingers before speaking. “Nothing bad,” you said, and watched his fear ebb away. "But before I can tell you what’s going on, I need to tell you who I am first."
Slowly, Todomatsu's hands dropped to his side. Without the sharp edge of a knife distracting your focus, you noticed the blinds in this room were also drawn shut and covered in dust. The kitchen looked barely used: only a single paper plate lay on the counter—a tell-tale sign of a bachelor too lazy to clean his own dishes.
He'd probably been living alone, in other words.
"Well?" Todomatsu ushered you on, and you were surprised at his boldness. So much for being scared.
“If you want the short version, I'm a yokai hunter,” you said, and watched Todomatsu’s eyebrow jut up in thinly veiled disbelief. "Means I handle anything to do with the supernatural.”
“A yokai hunter?" Todomatsu snorted, "I hope you realise how stupid that sounds.”
You shrugged. “It’s a little out there, sure."
He looked you over doubtfully, probably still caught between deciding whether or not you were just some burglar trying to fuck with him. “Hold on, I’m really just supposed to believe you run around fighting ghosts and demons like we're in some shitty anime?”
“Well, why not? I mean, you’re possessed by an obake, right?” you asked, and then clarified, “a shapeshifter?”
Those possessed by yokai rarely took kindly to being called out. From the way the prominent bones in his jawline locked into place, you assumed Todomatsu would not go out of his way to make his case unique.
"I'm not a monster," he said gruffly.
"That's not what I asked."
"And I'm not—I’m not some shapeshifter either. I don't know who told you all of this, but you sound crazy. You need to get out of my house before I call the police."
You scrutinised him but found no tell-tale signs in his body language to suggest he was lying. If it wasn't for the fact you'd seen him shape-shift with your own two eyes, you'd have probably believed him.
(So, he was a good liar. Noted.)
“Sure," you said sarcastically, completely glossing over his threat. “So, when you turned around and grew an extra ten inches of height in two seconds was what... exactly? A growth spurt?”
"That's still more likely than whatever bullshit you’re spewing.”
“Cut the crap. We both know I’m telling the truth.”
Todomatsu’s expression fell into a subtle grimace. He circled the hilt of the kitchen knife about the palm of his hand. "Don't get ahead of yourself,” he said, in the same, snarly tone he used when you asked him whether he was a shapeshifter. “What do you want, anyway? Are you after money? If this blackmail, you’re wasting your time. No-one from town is going to believe I’m possessed by a spirit.”
Your snort was automatic. As if you'd spend the better half of an entire week playing detective just to tattle on him.
"What’s so funny?" he asked. He seemed offended that you weren't taking him seriously, which almost entertained you enough to draw out another laugh.
“That's just not what I'm here for.”
“Then what are you here for?”
“Well, the short answer is I'm here to help you,” you began, “but until I figure out what’s going on, I don't really know myself. All I can say is that if your problem has anything to do with yokai, it’s my business.”
“Are you going to exorcise me?” he asked. There was something off and dark about his expression—some sort of atmosphere that suggested there was certainly a wrong way to answer his question.
“Probably not?” you offered, trying not to let yourself get intimidated. You’d certainly dealt with worse than the average pissed off person. If Todomatsu wanted to scare you, he was missing a few rows of teeth and a couple of hundred claws. “I mean, you’re possessed by a kitsune, right? I tend to leave them to their own devices. They usually mean well, even if they are sometimes a little cheeky."
“Then there’s no point of you being here,” he said, “I don’t need help and I don’t want to be exorcised, so you can leave me alone.”
You looked him over sceptically. “Then why have you shut yourself in for months on end? From what I hear, you used to be the talk of the town. Now, most locals think you’re dead.”
“Maybe I just needed a break?”
“For three months?” you asked. “No way. You shouldn't need one at all, let alone for so long; kitsune don't possess people who need to take breaks from socialising."
There was a long, tense silence as Todomatsu appraised you. Bar the steady circling of it on the kitchen counter, the knife was mostly retired to obsolescence, though it still would have been easy for Todomatsu to pin you against the wall and slit your throat if he decided it was the best course of action. With a practiced sense of caution, you stood on your toes and scanned the surroundings for the nearest weapon. Two other kitchen knives, one serrated and the other not, were tucked into a rack about a meter away. If you jumped over the kitchen counter to grapple for them, you could probably—
“And you’re not here to steal anything?” Todomatsu asked, breaking you out from your stupor.
“No,” you said definitively and took a glance around the kitchen. (Did that fridge have a water dispenser? How bougie.) “Though for the sake of honesty, I should probably say I came here with half a mind to. I thought you were dead and you’ve got some nice stuff here.”
He looked at you incredulously. “You’re really admitting that?”
“Yeah. Best not to hide things at this point, right?”
Todomatsu leaned against the counter. With a deep breath in (more a result of exasperation and confusion than anything else), he gave you one last look before his hand went to his forehead to rub at his temple.
“You’re crazy,” he remarked.
You shrugged.
“I’m not just saying that. You’re fucking insane. You broke into my house, told me I should be dead, claimed to believe in the supernatural, and then admitted you were two steps away from stealing all my stuff.”
“Well, you're possessed by a fox spirit. Your situation’s not exactly normal, either.”
“That’s still unconfirmed,” he said, with as much monotone as he could muster.
“Whatever you say.”
An unbroken silence dragged through the kitchen as Todomatsu spent the final few seconds appraising you. His face was neutral to a masterful consistency you could only conclude was a result of his shapeshifting, and you readied your stance to your toes again—preparing for the worst.
"Alright, fine,” he finally concluded, though it was only when you saw him put the kitchen knife into the sink—out of arms reach, that you let go of the breath you were holding and let yourself relax. “Go through that door. I need to sit down.”
“Sure,” you said.
Todomatsu trailed behind as you walked out into what immediately struck you as a guest room. It'd be easy to assume he insisted you walk ahead of him as an act of chivalry, but the cautious way he refused to let you out of his sight suggested he just didn’t want to turn his back to you.
The room’s décor was, you had to admit, incredibly to taste. Framing the fireplace: empty, porcelain vases stood around each other in a careful arrangement, and etchings of flowers garnered a low-lying table in front of the room’s couch. Most notable was the skinny trunk of a Japanese cypress that reached upwards towards the ceiling as a roof beam, from where your eye trailed down to the pristine grey walls—back and forth on the near-empty shelves, and then further down to the tatami floor.
It'd look much nicer if the blinds were open and the light was in, but even as it was, the composition of the entire room was so unreasonably attractive and over-designed you could only assume it was decorated by someone payed specifically for that reason.
Before taking a seat beside Todomatsu at the couch, you took your shoes off and stepped onto the tatami in your socks. "Sorry for not taking them off earlier,” you said. “Again, I really did think you'd be dead."
“Right,” he said, and glared at your feet with a viciousness that suggested he was two steps away from cutting them off and hanging them on a mantelpiece. “It’s fine, I’m sure they’re clean.”
“I mean, I walked through your garden, so probably not.”
Todomatsu didn’t respond to that. You took it as cue to sit next to him, as far away as the couch would let you, and since you were content to give Todomatsu some time to work through everything in his head, the silence dragged until he was ready to speak.
“So…” he started after a while, seemingly unsure of how the conversation should proceed, “First thing's first; maybe shutting myself in my house for three months isn’t ideal.”
“Yeah, maybe," you said sarcastically.
“And maybe, just maybe, it might have something do with spirits, or demons, or things that probably don’t exist.”
“It sure might.”
“So now what?” Todomatsu asked, glossing over your derision. “Do you need to do some sort of voodoo magic? Should I give you a minute to get your weird dolls? Or is it more of a ‘take a strand of my hair and boil it into a cauldron' type of thing?”
Though it was a little forced, you laughed. “It’s more of a ‘sit and talk about your problems’ kind of thing.”
If it wasn’t for the stone mask of his shifted face, you were sure he’d look wholly unimpressed. “Oh, I see. Here I thought you were some kind of anime protagonist, but it turns out you’re just a therapist looking to shill money out of gullible people.”
This time, your laugh was genuine. “Are you always this cynical?”
“Only when strangers break into my house and claim it’s haunted.”
With a real sense of amusement, you crossed one leg over the other and gave Todomatsu a mischievous half-smile. “Well, the job’s free. Not looking to shill any money out of people today.”
"Then why are you even here?" he asked.
"Because something’s up. People possessed by kitsune always end up having flourishing social lives. They don't disappear for months on end."
You could tell he was judging you inside out from the way his eyes darted over your person. His hollow, expressionless face did nothing to ease you.
"Look Todomatsu,” you continued, “I'm not here to force you to do anything. I'm not going to take away your shape-shifting and you really don't have to do anything I say. But—”
“But what?” he snapped at you. “But people are worried about me? Did one of the girls in town say she was willing to give you her father’s inheritance if you managed to get me out of the house again?”
"No," you said honestly and smiled mischievously at him, "though that does give me an idea."
Todomatsu looked wholly unimpressed with your joking around (half-joking around, really. The commission for this job was done on a discount, and it certainly wouldn't hurt to make some extra money on the side), so you evened out the smile on your face and tried a more sober approach.
“Seriously Matsuno, all joking aside, anyone can see that you're wearing yourself out.”
This, Todomatsu found, struck him a little harder than he might have liked to admit.
Three months, give or take, trapped in a house with drawn blinds and empty guest bedrooms—with only the rapping of the wind for conversation and the muffled sound of his phone’s music from under his pillow as a lullaby (for dark nights when sleep did not come easy).
“And honestly?” you continued, gesturing in his direction, “same goes for the kitsune possessing you. They’re playful spirits, and if you keep it separated from social contact for much longer, it’ll get bored enough to leave you and take its shapeshifting ability with it.”
He thought about the bin in his kitchen—overflowing with leftovers of the same, take-out food, day in and day out. The inside of the fridge, completely empty save for a stick of butter and an empty carton of milk.
“I just think that whatever it is, you're doing something wrong, and it's made you so sick of talking to people you've given up on it altogether. Weird introduction aside, I’m not trying to cause you trouble. I’m here to look after yokai, and that means I’m here to look after you.”
When Todomatsu looked into your eyes, he was frustrated to find them full to the brim with nothing but sincerity. If there was some sense of flightiness, he could have grappled onto it and retreated into his little corner. A boring, albeit safe place to be, where everyone aside from him was a snake in the grass—poised and ready to take advantage of him. But there was no such thing, and the expectant lights in your eyes only continued to glint impatiently.
“You don’t have to decide now,” you said, as you reached into your pocket to take out a phone. “But you should write down my number in case you want to give it a go."
He looked at your outstretched hand attempting to pass him the phone (and wow, how in-character was the fact it was a Nokia brick), before giving you one, last, suspicious glare.
"Just think about it, is all I ask.”
With a deep sigh, Todomatsu resigned himself.
“I'll consider it,” he said, taking the phone from your hand, because the uncertainty in your voice had to be quelled. Because there was nothing else to say. Because this was the first conversation he'd had in three months. “Just use the door next time. You scared the shit out of me.”