just like blood
Mar. 29th, 2019 09:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seleniasTitle: just like blood
Fandom: Natsume Yuujinchou
Characters/pairing: Natori, Natori/Matoba
Rating: all audiences
Word Count: 567
-
Natori listened for sounds in the house, heard nothing, and drew an ink jar from the bottom of his desk drawer.
Rumor had it that this youkai dug deep; it aimed for second cousins, remote relations, and trickled down through lines twice removed.
It’s lucky that what remained of the Natori family existed all in one place.
It was also lucky that his calligraphy had improved ten-fold since he’d learned the proper way to hold a brush.
He took a deep breath and started the first stroke...
Slowly, he thought.
It came out crooked.
“What is this?”
Natori swiveled around in his chair in the kitchen. In his father’s hands was a crumbled piece of paper, blotched ink staining it. He blinked in disinterest, considered the offender around a mouthful of rice.
“Garbage,” he said flatly.
“What are you up to?”
Natori turned back to the table. He hadn’t made it very far through dinner yet.
“I was practicing my hand at calligraphy earlier. It’s for a play at school.”
“You’re wasting a lot of paper.”
It takes practice, he wanted to snap. He burned his tongue on too hot tea instead.
“If you’re going to pursue something, try to find something that’s consistent with your personality.”
Some truth lied in that statement -- he wasn't the patient sort -- but by the swivel of his father’s head in the reflection on the glass closest to his hand, Natori knew he wasn’t a very practiced liar yet, either.
That was something they both lacked. Somehow, the thought was comforting.
“Why are you sharing this with me?”
Matoba refolded paper sheets into a small rectangle. He’d torn them from a notebook without a backward glance, and the blue lines became invisible with the saturated light sweeping across its surface. “You asked. It would be in poor taste to let you continue without this.”
Natori tore up several strips of grass and tied them together. “How basic is it?”
Matoba didn’t look up, simply pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket and started drawing the characters. “I suppose it wouldn’t be obvious if you haven’t seen it...”
Natori frowned. “That’s...”
“...Was I wrong? This was for your home, right?”
“You weren’t,” Natori breathed. Seiji watched him, red eyes assessing like the birds in the river behind them. Something startled flashed across his face, maybe -- just briefly, and then it disappeared.
Natori stood, brushed the dirt from his legs. He felt wobbly. “Thank you for your help.”
Matoba grinned, but whatever smart comment he wanted to say was smothered by a swift and heavy breeze.
I know you won’t appreciate this.
Natori smoothed his fingers over the ward, tucked in the places he knew made his father’s knees ache to bend down and search; the backside of a chest drawer, the underside of a lamp; the storage space below the kitchen floor where they stored the rice. Part of it was spite. Part of it was that he knew his father’s limits on the matter. Part of it was -- necessity.
He was going into the business, whether his father objected or not.
Will he ever...? No.
Later, Natori scrubbed the ink out from the pads of his fingers with a bristle brush. Gray water ran down the porcelain and disappeared in the drain.
The front door opened and closed -- he heard the echo down the hall. He dried his hands on a towel, considered the wards in the house, the warm thrum in his skin from the magic running through.
Safe.
“Welcome back,” he called.
No answer.
It was fine. He had learned not to expect much these days.
Fandom: Natsume Yuujinchou
Characters/pairing: Natori, Natori/Matoba
Rating: all audiences
Word Count: 567
-
Natori listened for sounds in the house, heard nothing, and drew an ink jar from the bottom of his desk drawer.
Rumor had it that this youkai dug deep; it aimed for second cousins, remote relations, and trickled down through lines twice removed.
It’s lucky that what remained of the Natori family existed all in one place.
It was also lucky that his calligraphy had improved ten-fold since he’d learned the proper way to hold a brush.
He took a deep breath and started the first stroke...
Slowly, he thought.
It came out crooked.
“What is this?”
Natori swiveled around in his chair in the kitchen. In his father’s hands was a crumbled piece of paper, blotched ink staining it. He blinked in disinterest, considered the offender around a mouthful of rice.
“Garbage,” he said flatly.
“What are you up to?”
Natori turned back to the table. He hadn’t made it very far through dinner yet.
“I was practicing my hand at calligraphy earlier. It’s for a play at school.”
“You’re wasting a lot of paper.”
It takes practice, he wanted to snap. He burned his tongue on too hot tea instead.
“If you’re going to pursue something, try to find something that’s consistent with your personality.”
Some truth lied in that statement -- he wasn't the patient sort -- but by the swivel of his father’s head in the reflection on the glass closest to his hand, Natori knew he wasn’t a very practiced liar yet, either.
That was something they both lacked. Somehow, the thought was comforting.
“Why are you sharing this with me?”
Matoba refolded paper sheets into a small rectangle. He’d torn them from a notebook without a backward glance, and the blue lines became invisible with the saturated light sweeping across its surface. “You asked. It would be in poor taste to let you continue without this.”
Natori tore up several strips of grass and tied them together. “How basic is it?”
Matoba didn’t look up, simply pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket and started drawing the characters. “I suppose it wouldn’t be obvious if you haven’t seen it...”
Natori frowned. “That’s...”
“...Was I wrong? This was for your home, right?”
“You weren’t,” Natori breathed. Seiji watched him, red eyes assessing like the birds in the river behind them. Something startled flashed across his face, maybe -- just briefly, and then it disappeared.
Natori stood, brushed the dirt from his legs. He felt wobbly. “Thank you for your help.”
Matoba grinned, but whatever smart comment he wanted to say was smothered by a swift and heavy breeze.
I know you won’t appreciate this.
Natori smoothed his fingers over the ward, tucked in the places he knew made his father’s knees ache to bend down and search; the backside of a chest drawer, the underside of a lamp; the storage space below the kitchen floor where they stored the rice. Part of it was spite. Part of it was that he knew his father’s limits on the matter. Part of it was -- necessity.
He was going into the business, whether his father objected or not.
Will he ever...? No.
Later, Natori scrubbed the ink out from the pads of his fingers with a bristle brush. Gray water ran down the porcelain and disappeared in the drain.
The front door opened and closed -- he heard the echo down the hall. He dried his hands on a towel, considered the wards in the house, the warm thrum in his skin from the magic running through.
Safe.
“Welcome back,” he called.
No answer.
It was fine. He had learned not to expect much these days.
