draw my gaunt spirit to bow
Jan. 11th, 2019 12:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seleniasTitle: draw my gaunt spirit to bow
Prompt: 23. scrape it down to the clean bone unbreaking
Fandom: Natsume Yuujinchou
Characters/pairing: Natori/Matoba
Rating: T
Word Count: 1721
Notes: Title from Joanna Newsom's Leaving the City. Not the worst I've written, but not great.
-
-
“You’re an ugly person sometimes, Seiji.”
“What?” His laugh sounded of oil, tepid purples and golds in the puddles of runoff water on the asphalt. Grease swirled in the yellow lamp light, made the streets dark and soaking. Wisteria loomed from low decks to their left, the vines bleeding into the north lane and the close swinging bike racks. Some bees still clung to their innards as the night yawned on; if Shuuichi brushed too close, his skin grew alarmed at the sound of their hum.
“You make it sound like I’m a monster. Perhaps you should clean your glasses?”
“Tell me the difference and I’ll leave it alone.”
“You’re very confrontational tonight.”
“Yeah, well.” His retort dried up.
Seiji spun playfully on his heels to watch him and continued walking backwards, shoes soundless over petals and browning leaves. Even from this distance the tilt to his mouth was obvious; how he had called Shuuichi’s name that evening, disguised as a careless jaunt and not a summoning, not the reel that brought him back to whatever this thing was, over and over again -- it was the same human spell of compulsion that made him wonder what sort of reaction Seiji might have had if Shuuichi sought him out instead. He entertained that thought at his lowest hour, then realized he had no intent of finding out.
“Give a demonstration, I’ll follow.”
Natori sighed. “It goes like this: you drag some poor kid from his bed, then use him as bait to lure a furiously hungry youkai--”
“A poor complaint: you put yourself in that position.”
He squawked, indignant. “Me-- your reputation was worth my night’s sleep?” Seiji’s lips twitched and he laughed, short and sweet.
“Shuuichi-san, I jest. I believe I apologized already?”
“Doesn’t change what you did. I’m still mad.”
“Of course. You really should have stood behind me, you know.”
Seiji stopped walking and so he stopped too. They stood observing each other, Seiji smiling with his pointy mouth and angular edges, eyes black and sloping like coals from a banked fire. They were, Natori knew, a very dark brown -- red and softer at a closer distance. His mouth could be sweet, too -- it wasn’t sweet now, but mischievous.
“Would you have me do something else to make up for it?” he murmured, almost demure.
“No. The youkai -- what are you going to do with her?” Shuuichi continued wearily.
Seiji’s lips curled up, the motion lost. His hands slipped into his pockets. “Are you asking because you really want to know?”
He lighted on the question with a kick of his shoe into a pebble. It crossed the middle lane and bounded off the guard rail, sharp and echoing in the gray of night.
Shuuichi watched Seiji’s eyes trace his form into memory, observing him like some curious window shopper. Shuuichi reminded himself frequently: Seiji came back because he thought he had something worth taking. He was thought of as someone he could use -- a resource, if a poor one. Whatever magnetic pull Natori Shuuichi exerted it took it’s toll on Matoba Seiji. He was beginning to wonder who followed who anymore; if Shuuichi pressed into his space, would Seiji take a step back?
No, the last time he’d tilted his chin up --
“Not really. If she won’t work for you, I’ll try my luck. That’s all.”
“That’s assuming a lot. This youkai hasn’t even heard the story.”
They’ve all heard the story. No one is ever going to join forces with you of their own volition.
Shuuichi crossed the last several feet of space, leaned against a concrete wall. Seiji still smelled lightly of sweat and dirt, the spell circle that had cracked them nearly clean through made less powerful by Shuuichi’s gentle hand. How could I have lent it to you? Not for holding, but for twisting; dirt under his nails he’d have difficultly scrubbing, a more difficult time explaining when he stripped his shoes and socks in the genkan later -- how Seiji convincingly coaxed him from his bed and onto a night train bound for the next town over was easy to solve, in retrospect. There were things to learn here.
Except -- the youkai’s face had looked to him for help, nearly snatched him by the throat with the force of it -- Natori hadn’t realized they could make those faces. But that wasn’t it.
No, he was only shaken by the fact that Seiji wasn’t suffering at all. He’d pressed his lips together to chant and his eyes were wide and curious by the end of it -- a jar spun into his hand as if hooked and he clamped the cork shut before turning to face him, a thank you dying on his lips.
Shuuichi-san. Shuuichi-san. What’s the matter? Are you hurt?
“--What, after that display? That seal has to be burning you.”
“It’s warm, but that’s all.” He tugged the little brown jar out of his coat pocket. “Want to hold it?”
He grimaced. “No thank you.”
Seiji’s face inclined by degrees, just enough to see the pale bone of this throat, the collar of his shirt. Shuuichi had placed his hand there once and jerked away, face burning, because he’d convinced himself that Matoba Seiji could not feel warm or alive under the hollow of his palm. That he had the capacity for sameness burned into memory harsher than the sting of some half-assed attempt at whatever Seiji’s wide eyes had said or mouth had done next, hand tripping up the back of Shuuichi’s neck like a snare, mouth soft and pulling his -- he'd shoved him away. He didn't think he had been wrong to do so, but Seiji's face had said something else.
Shuuichi rubbed the collar at his throat, felt the swell in his lower lip with a thumb. He shoved his hand in his pocket, left over paper catching against the ridge of his cracked fingers, reassuring in its presence. He smelled like pollen and grass and electricity, something faintly burned. Seiji was looking at him still, shredding a wilted bloom with nimble fingers -- Natori refused to believe he was anything but another curiosity along a shelf of them. Even if Seiji’s eyes continued to say otherwise, it was only a trick of the light. “I’m not assuming. I’m just stating facts.”
“Not needed, but thank you.”
“If you didn’t need me, why’d you bring me?”
“...You don’t seem to like being at home,” he offered.
Natori gaped, then snapped his mouth shut. “That’s -- not your problem.”
He shrugged “You’re correct. It’s not.”
Seiji settled against the back of the bus bench, legs pressed flat and wide against it. His clothes hung on him, but Shuuichi knew -- had seen his archer’s arms flex in memory of the thing, sinew and muscle drawn taut like electric wire. His hands were meant for holding weapons, had been trained under conditions he couldn’t relate to; Seiji strung him along like a second bow and didn’t seem to know that the draw still bent him in unnatural ways.
Were you worried about me? Was the youkai just a coincidence?
Seiji shuffled his backpack to rest on his knees and pulled out a small candy bar. The vending machine hummed with power beside them -- it was too close to the wall for Shuuichi to slink behind and hide. He checked his watch -- twenty minutes of waiting, at least, if the last bus hadn’t come and gone already. A forty minute walk, if he was desperate enough to put the whole night behind him.
“Shuuichi-san, some advice: when there are things you want, you should take them. If you wait too long, you may not get a second try.”
“...That youkai. What will you do with it when it refuses you?”
Seiji grinned. “You are very defensive about this. I feel I should maintain the mystery. Isn’t there something else you want to ask me?”
“At least give me something,” he muttered. “What will you do with it?”
“Repurpose it, I suppose. Exorcise it if it bears a grudge.” Seiji’s mouth thinned out pencil sharp. He tore a scalloped plastic corner between pinched fingers, the plastic shiny in the light. “It’s humans or youkai. I choose us. What kind of exorcist doesn’t know who they’re working for?”
“I know what I’m doing, thank you very much. But I don’t think you always do.”
Seiji’s exhale was loud. His voice didn’t change though, soft and certain. He took a bite of his candy. “Was that a jab at my house? ”
“No, not at -- whatever,” Shuuichi snapped. He wrapped a hand around the shoulder strap of his bag and stepped forward. “Just -- I don’t care what you do with it. I only wondered. I’m going home now.”
He quirked his head at him, jaw working. “You’re walking?”
“I’m not waiting here with you.”
Seiji’s expression was as cool as a statue. He crumbled the wrapper and stuck it back in his pocket. “I see,” he said. “Well, maybe next time then, Shuuichi-san.”
“I don’t know.”
He did know. Magnetic poles worked both ways.
Seiji didn’t talk again -- the smile he wore was the one he reserved for river watching, like something had slipped under and out of reach; the kind of look Shuuichi didn’t want to know he could wear, much less share with someone like him. No wrongs had been committed tonight, he told himself. And yet.
Seiji checked his watch, raised an eyebrow when he hadn’t moved from his spot.
Natori started up the street.
The rumble of the last train could be heard for only a minute before it tapered off, silver streak narrow and barely moving in the dark. When the bus lights came upon him a half hour later, turning him white-washed against a steel rail and suddenly blue again, Shuuichi didn’t look to see if Seiji had bothered to watch him from the window as it carried him north and out of town. Their magnetic points yawned and separated under the laws of the earth; the only pull that drove him now was the one for sleep.
Do you feel anything at all, he wondered. You can’t be oblivious. ...Do you actually mean any of what you say?
Later, Shuuichi brushed his teeth and laid his palm over thread bare pajamas, gray buttons pressing against the fold of his chapped fingers. Warmth came through, slowly but surely.
Somehow though, he wasn’t convinced that Seiji had ever felt warm to him at all, or that he'd pushed him away, or any of it.
He'd only wonder why Seiji didn't come for him again.
Prompt: 23. scrape it down to the clean bone unbreaking
Fandom: Natsume Yuujinchou
Characters/pairing: Natori/Matoba
Rating: T
Word Count: 1721
Notes: Title from Joanna Newsom's Leaving the City. Not the worst I've written, but not great.
-
-
“You’re an ugly person sometimes, Seiji.”
“What?” His laugh sounded of oil, tepid purples and golds in the puddles of runoff water on the asphalt. Grease swirled in the yellow lamp light, made the streets dark and soaking. Wisteria loomed from low decks to their left, the vines bleeding into the north lane and the close swinging bike racks. Some bees still clung to their innards as the night yawned on; if Shuuichi brushed too close, his skin grew alarmed at the sound of their hum.
“You make it sound like I’m a monster. Perhaps you should clean your glasses?”
“Tell me the difference and I’ll leave it alone.”
“You’re very confrontational tonight.”
“Yeah, well.” His retort dried up.
Seiji spun playfully on his heels to watch him and continued walking backwards, shoes soundless over petals and browning leaves. Even from this distance the tilt to his mouth was obvious; how he had called Shuuichi’s name that evening, disguised as a careless jaunt and not a summoning, not the reel that brought him back to whatever this thing was, over and over again -- it was the same human spell of compulsion that made him wonder what sort of reaction Seiji might have had if Shuuichi sought him out instead. He entertained that thought at his lowest hour, then realized he had no intent of finding out.
“Give a demonstration, I’ll follow.”
Natori sighed. “It goes like this: you drag some poor kid from his bed, then use him as bait to lure a furiously hungry youkai--”
“A poor complaint: you put yourself in that position.”
He squawked, indignant. “Me-- your reputation was worth my night’s sleep?” Seiji’s lips twitched and he laughed, short and sweet.
“Shuuichi-san, I jest. I believe I apologized already?”
“Doesn’t change what you did. I’m still mad.”
“Of course. You really should have stood behind me, you know.”
Seiji stopped walking and so he stopped too. They stood observing each other, Seiji smiling with his pointy mouth and angular edges, eyes black and sloping like coals from a banked fire. They were, Natori knew, a very dark brown -- red and softer at a closer distance. His mouth could be sweet, too -- it wasn’t sweet now, but mischievous.
“Would you have me do something else to make up for it?” he murmured, almost demure.
“No. The youkai -- what are you going to do with her?” Shuuichi continued wearily.
Seiji’s lips curled up, the motion lost. His hands slipped into his pockets. “Are you asking because you really want to know?”
He lighted on the question with a kick of his shoe into a pebble. It crossed the middle lane and bounded off the guard rail, sharp and echoing in the gray of night.
Shuuichi watched Seiji’s eyes trace his form into memory, observing him like some curious window shopper. Shuuichi reminded himself frequently: Seiji came back because he thought he had something worth taking. He was thought of as someone he could use -- a resource, if a poor one. Whatever magnetic pull Natori Shuuichi exerted it took it’s toll on Matoba Seiji. He was beginning to wonder who followed who anymore; if Shuuichi pressed into his space, would Seiji take a step back?
No, the last time he’d tilted his chin up --
“Not really. If she won’t work for you, I’ll try my luck. That’s all.”
“That’s assuming a lot. This youkai hasn’t even heard the story.”
They’ve all heard the story. No one is ever going to join forces with you of their own volition.
Shuuichi crossed the last several feet of space, leaned against a concrete wall. Seiji still smelled lightly of sweat and dirt, the spell circle that had cracked them nearly clean through made less powerful by Shuuichi’s gentle hand. How could I have lent it to you? Not for holding, but for twisting; dirt under his nails he’d have difficultly scrubbing, a more difficult time explaining when he stripped his shoes and socks in the genkan later -- how Seiji convincingly coaxed him from his bed and onto a night train bound for the next town over was easy to solve, in retrospect. There were things to learn here.
Except -- the youkai’s face had looked to him for help, nearly snatched him by the throat with the force of it -- Natori hadn’t realized they could make those faces. But that wasn’t it.
No, he was only shaken by the fact that Seiji wasn’t suffering at all. He’d pressed his lips together to chant and his eyes were wide and curious by the end of it -- a jar spun into his hand as if hooked and he clamped the cork shut before turning to face him, a thank you dying on his lips.
Shuuichi-san. Shuuichi-san. What’s the matter? Are you hurt?
“--What, after that display? That seal has to be burning you.”
“It’s warm, but that’s all.” He tugged the little brown jar out of his coat pocket. “Want to hold it?”
He grimaced. “No thank you.”
Seiji’s face inclined by degrees, just enough to see the pale bone of this throat, the collar of his shirt. Shuuichi had placed his hand there once and jerked away, face burning, because he’d convinced himself that Matoba Seiji could not feel warm or alive under the hollow of his palm. That he had the capacity for sameness burned into memory harsher than the sting of some half-assed attempt at whatever Seiji’s wide eyes had said or mouth had done next, hand tripping up the back of Shuuichi’s neck like a snare, mouth soft and pulling his -- he'd shoved him away. He didn't think he had been wrong to do so, but Seiji's face had said something else.
Shuuichi rubbed the collar at his throat, felt the swell in his lower lip with a thumb. He shoved his hand in his pocket, left over paper catching against the ridge of his cracked fingers, reassuring in its presence. He smelled like pollen and grass and electricity, something faintly burned. Seiji was looking at him still, shredding a wilted bloom with nimble fingers -- Natori refused to believe he was anything but another curiosity along a shelf of them. Even if Seiji’s eyes continued to say otherwise, it was only a trick of the light. “I’m not assuming. I’m just stating facts.”
“Not needed, but thank you.”
“If you didn’t need me, why’d you bring me?”
“...You don’t seem to like being at home,” he offered.
Natori gaped, then snapped his mouth shut. “That’s -- not your problem.”
He shrugged “You’re correct. It’s not.”
Seiji settled against the back of the bus bench, legs pressed flat and wide against it. His clothes hung on him, but Shuuichi knew -- had seen his archer’s arms flex in memory of the thing, sinew and muscle drawn taut like electric wire. His hands were meant for holding weapons, had been trained under conditions he couldn’t relate to; Seiji strung him along like a second bow and didn’t seem to know that the draw still bent him in unnatural ways.
Were you worried about me? Was the youkai just a coincidence?
Seiji shuffled his backpack to rest on his knees and pulled out a small candy bar. The vending machine hummed with power beside them -- it was too close to the wall for Shuuichi to slink behind and hide. He checked his watch -- twenty minutes of waiting, at least, if the last bus hadn’t come and gone already. A forty minute walk, if he was desperate enough to put the whole night behind him.
“Shuuichi-san, some advice: when there are things you want, you should take them. If you wait too long, you may not get a second try.”
“...That youkai. What will you do with it when it refuses you?”
Seiji grinned. “You are very defensive about this. I feel I should maintain the mystery. Isn’t there something else you want to ask me?”
“At least give me something,” he muttered. “What will you do with it?”
“Repurpose it, I suppose. Exorcise it if it bears a grudge.” Seiji’s mouth thinned out pencil sharp. He tore a scalloped plastic corner between pinched fingers, the plastic shiny in the light. “It’s humans or youkai. I choose us. What kind of exorcist doesn’t know who they’re working for?”
“I know what I’m doing, thank you very much. But I don’t think you always do.”
Seiji’s exhale was loud. His voice didn’t change though, soft and certain. He took a bite of his candy. “Was that a jab at my house? ”
“No, not at -- whatever,” Shuuichi snapped. He wrapped a hand around the shoulder strap of his bag and stepped forward. “Just -- I don’t care what you do with it. I only wondered. I’m going home now.”
He quirked his head at him, jaw working. “You’re walking?”
“I’m not waiting here with you.”
Seiji’s expression was as cool as a statue. He crumbled the wrapper and stuck it back in his pocket. “I see,” he said. “Well, maybe next time then, Shuuichi-san.”
“I don’t know.”
He did know. Magnetic poles worked both ways.
Seiji didn’t talk again -- the smile he wore was the one he reserved for river watching, like something had slipped under and out of reach; the kind of look Shuuichi didn’t want to know he could wear, much less share with someone like him. No wrongs had been committed tonight, he told himself. And yet.
Seiji checked his watch, raised an eyebrow when he hadn’t moved from his spot.
Natori started up the street.
The rumble of the last train could be heard for only a minute before it tapered off, silver streak narrow and barely moving in the dark. When the bus lights came upon him a half hour later, turning him white-washed against a steel rail and suddenly blue again, Shuuichi didn’t look to see if Seiji had bothered to watch him from the window as it carried him north and out of town. Their magnetic points yawned and separated under the laws of the earth; the only pull that drove him now was the one for sleep.
Do you feel anything at all, he wondered. You can’t be oblivious. ...Do you actually mean any of what you say?
Later, Shuuichi brushed his teeth and laid his palm over thread bare pajamas, gray buttons pressing against the fold of his chapped fingers. Warmth came through, slowly but surely.
Somehow though, he wasn’t convinced that Seiji had ever felt warm to him at all, or that he'd pushed him away, or any of it.
He'd only wonder why Seiji didn't come for him again.
