Warnings: rapist POV, implied rape, implied drugging

An acquaintance. A prospective student. A friend. An interest. A forbidden interest. A desire not to be acted upon. Mine for a night. Now lost — bygone.

Crossing such a peculiar presence would alert any medium. It's nearly otherworldly. He would be a strong ally. What exorcist wouldn't want him as part of their group? To have him show his skills, participate in sealing an ayakashi, perform jutsu; perhaps these will help enlighten him.

There is no progress, but he understands and accepts my perspective. We see this hidden world, and we experience it, manage it in our way. He doesn't want to meddle with spells and exorcisms, he remains kind and peaceful. (How has he kept such an attitude in this world?) As much as I ache for a strong student like him, he will never relent, will he?

Instead, he wants to be friends. A hopeful smile catches my eye. (When has a smile ever done that to me?) Friends spend time together, have tea, go to movies, eat lunch, build stronger connections. Friends don't use each other like tools; they make an effort to understand and empathize, to grow and improve. It's a different kind of intimacy, it's something wanted, not facilitated with false smiles and begrudging outings.

When I brush my hand a bit too close to his (his hands so small, so warm, so soft, so empty), it's alright; we're friends, close friends. I find that I cherish this kind of relationship with him — a friend who can see the hidden world, who has also experienced the pains of solitude and torment in childhood.

It would be a shame to lose that friend.

But then there are the times I slip. Just little things, like touching his hair, moving closer, hands tempting just the slightest touch (his shirt looks soft). They happen without conscious thought; I immediately pull back after I notice.

This is not the right territory. This is something else, an inflating density that swallows me, expanding my throat into an uncomfortable tightness. It overwhelms me, casting musings and fantasies over me, thick with bewilderment and uneasy excitement. It continues from awakening to my dreams. The intensity eases over time. I manage my consciousness at debilitating costs, having to indulge in a thought or unnoticeable touch of him. (If he doesn't know, he wouldn't mind.)

Dreams and thoughts linger throughout the day and at work. Now I pay them heed with reason. They are not all bad. He smiles when I ruffle his hair, he doesn't move away when I move close, he doesn't flinch when my fingers graze his sleeve (or arm, if I'm lucky). It must be okay. We're close.

Although, I am not able to find any amorous cues to justify it anymore — he thanks me, invites me, appreciates me. But I'm still cut off from deepening our relationship. It's frustrating, and defeating, but I endure as long as I can, before I have to pull away. He wouldn't want to hear or to know or to experience this from me.

I don't want to lose a precious friend.

But when he takes to the sake, the first virgin sip, it becomes a miraculous opportunity. This can be it: the poisonous savior.

Please don't tell your aunt.

He likes it, doesn't he? (Have more; doesn't it taste good?) He drinks more, slides his cup forward, cheeks tinged red and warm, looking away. I can't help but indulge too. We both enjoy the drink, warmed and loosened. I glance to his chest (imagining the dip in his collarbones and unmarked shoulders). With a lick, I taste the alcohol on my lips and think about escorting him home.

When he hastily reaches for the tokkuri, I pull it away. He looks nervous, almost begging for the drink. Too warm. Too buzzed. He doesn't need any more (no, no, maybe he should, just in case). I look away, bite my lip, and ask for the check.

Upon leaving, I let him wear my jacket, brushing his flushed cheek against the collar. I then realize a harsh skip in my chest. (He looks good like this; warmed, subdued, unconcerned. I want to hold him.)

But he walks forward. Steps off-balance.

(Chance chance chance.)

He shouldn't go back home. Not like that. I never should have offered.

I have him come back to the apartment with me.

Perhaps I have gone too far too quick. Perhaps I should tell him "I like you" before kissing his lips. It might be a little better. Maybe he'd understand. I don't tell him, only whisper it in my head, and instead say something lustful, unexpected and stupid. I feel him twitch after disclosing it. He never gets to know, doesn't acknowledge that he wants to know (turns his head, breathes out, chokes, sweats, pulls away). He doesn't receive my genuine intentions. (Care, admiration, trust, like, lust, like, love love love.)

Despite my enthusiasm to delve into this intimate relationship with him, I am not granted anything more satisfying than my own release. I never see his golden eyes, that are angled away and buried into sheets. Instead of praises, I hear pleas and questionably pained grunts and gasps. He still tastes good with the fumes of sake, despite the amount of drool. The only time he touches me is to leave a mark on my body — a scratch, a bruise, indentations.

It's enjoyable, but something's missing.

Morning hazes in. A fuzzy static assaults my eyes. White and gray and darker gray, grey.

There's no one beside me when I rise. I hoped that someone would be there, otherwise it would be like it didn't happen. ...But then that would be a good thing, a great thing, wouldn't it? Crisis averted. Dirty little secret under wraps, suffocated and suppressed; it would have been best if it disappeared, dissipated. But I'm here — in reality — with wrinkled sheets, my body plainly marked. I don't want to acknowledge the heavy smell (anguished and desperate), relentless in its proof. But it's nothing easy to hide. ...As though it could ever be truly hidden.

I bunch the stained sheets into my arms and bury my face into it (now perspiring and flushed and tearful), trying to keep out the sinking dread of realization. Breathing in the sheets only amplify the problem, scratchy against my cheeks and nose.

Why didn't he at least pretend? I was gentle, accommodating, and careful enough. We're close friends; he should understand that, understand me.

Instead, I lost something. I lost something very important. I want it back, a piece of it, a bit of it, a glimpse of it.

Groaning, I wrap the sheets around my head from the intruding sunlight. I don't want to see the gray-tone noise, stains, or empty bed any longer.

I feel like I've been drugged ever since I met him.

'It's up to you if you'd like to inform Natsume.

Happy apprentice hunting.'

I don't want Natsume as an apprentice, and he has made that clear himself. He doesn't want to hurt others (but he neither sides with youkai or humans in the end.) I just want him… to be happy. I can't continue that first instinct, that first thought, that led me down this path, where I not only damaged myself, my relationships, but Natsume entirely.

So when Natsume received an offer from Matoba, I didn't think or suspect he would accept. A faint darkness looms on a branch above Natsume, resonate of their agreement. The heavy presence of the ayakashi is unmistakable, boring me with a challenging aura. No doubt it's a mocking counter from Matoba. I won't be able to approach Natsume much closer than this. And why would I need to; I can't even gather enough bold stupidity to step forward or to properly express my grief. (Not like he would want to hear my desperate regret, that what I did could be forgivable.)

Even now, I'm not allowed to see his eyes. The last I recall of them was when we had dinner, when I escorted our inebriation to the apartment, when I carelessly indulged in the first kiss between us. The final time, after I demanded to see them, they were moist and scared and darkened — forever a chilling memory.

I depart bitter, unfulfilled, and concerned that the promise really isn't genuine; Matoba isn't kind or generous.

(But neither am I.)

I haven't seen or sought Natsume since that encounter.

A few months have passed since, and I find myself in the company of Matoba. He exhales after taking a large sip from his ochoko, dragging out the silence and time. Finally, he speaks with restrained amusement. "It's unfortunate that he doesn't like sake. His fat cat is often irritated these days. I'm sure that beast really needs to unwind with his exasperating surveillance."

He dangles that bait so bluntly in front of me, amplified by a challenging grin. I hate being mocked by him and take to it too easily, too quickly. "Be quiet." My defenses have been worn down — regret and guilt and reasoning and anxiety (why hasn't he told anyone yet? why why why).

Unfortunately, he picks up on my irritation, quirking his lips before blinking his glance away. The ochoko is brought to his lips, and I wring the bottom hem of my shirt.

I hate that I listened to Matoba's request, but he mentioned something important (something about him). I swallow anxiety; it tastes like saline, a bad cough syrup. I said I would stay away, yet here I am with nothing to gain but my own selfish piece of mind.

He always moves quickly to puppeteer and reap the best result.

"He's such a good student," Matoba chimes after placing down his empty cup. I pick up mine so I won't have to look at him. "I began with some common protection jutsu for him. He learned rather quickly. He was very eager; I could tell he needed something to focus on." My eyes follow his hands that arrange the tokkuri to pour into his cup. I regard the spicy taste of the sake, appreciating the heat that passes down my throat before breathing out the remaining burn through my nose. "Natsume has been progressing quickly. I now have him practicing minor exorcism rites. He does very well with it, despite his reluctance if it hurts the ayakashi." He chuckles at the end.

It's strange how compliant Natsume is. I glance at Matoba's hands, now pulling away from the tokkuri. I swallow the rest of my sake before placing it near the flask as a silent gesture for Matoba to pour. Faintly, I hear him make a 'hmm' noise in his throat before pouring. I watch his hands, anticipating for the sleeves to slip (just a little).

"That the boy's beast constantly loiters. Its presence sometimes tampers the practice we're doing. It's annoying." The ochoko is near full, and Matoba tips back the tokkuri, causing his sleeves to fall to the middles of his forearms. My heart stops, and I clench my fists, expecting to see something accusatory, something that determines that this is not right, that Natsume wouldn't be obedient with exorcist practices.

But his arms are free from marks or bruises (unlike mine — faint, but permanently scarred, fixed and haunting). Humiliation heats up my face when I look up to his: amused and disdainful. I don't take the ochoko, so he pushes it towards me. "You really are disgusting if you think I have done something like that to Natsume." The unsleeved arms mock me, even when they're out of sight. I fist my trousers — angry, humiliated, frustrated.

What am I wrong about? Is Natsume really doing this of his own free will? I don't want to consider, don't want to believe, that Natsume is doing these things because he thinks they'll help him, or at least the person instructing him will. Anyone who has come to know Natsume knows that he avoids hurting people, including youkai, to the best of his abilities. He can say no this. He no longer has to have this exchange with Matoba—

"Wouldn't you like compensation for helping me acquire such an excellent apprentice?"

My fingers around the ochoko tighten (chokedhotsweaty) and I hastily look to Matoba's face. He holds his cup near his mouth, far enough for me to see his curled lips. "What?" comes my dumbfounded rasp, unable to comprehend at first.

...What I did wasn't to benefit him.

It was a selfish desire.

"That's… not what it was. That was never the intention." I just wanted to be with Natsume — maybe it would have been alright, I was hoping it would have been. It was supposed to be fine, reciprocal (at least a secret. After it was finished, after I helped him, he flinched when I laid him down one last time, attempted to pull away when I wrapped my arms around him upon sleep. I couldn't even thread my fingers through his hair; every movement from me caused a harsh tremor, a hesitation in his breathing).

"You really should not have done that, then."

He drinks and I narrow my eyes at him, increasing my heart rate by swallowing the oppressing shame. That's it then, this is my closure — unpleasant and mocking and still so unfulfilling. Yet there is still the yearning for unattainable things, even when there's no longer a chance. But that's good, it's gone, chance lost, temptation removed, but I'm left so achingly empty.

"I can arrange something for you," he cuts in quickly. By turning my head to look at the wall behind him, I dodge his inquiring eye. He's not doing this out of gratitude. As an exorcist, and as a Matoba, it provides a benefit for him.

"There's no need to." Mustering boldness, I direct my gaze at Matoba, his own attention fixed on me, unwavering as always. I shake my head before continuing. "You shouldn't reward unforgivable offenses."

I rise from the chabudai, refusing any further discussion. Matoba minds me for a moment before sipping from his cup. "...ah, you're right." He sighs, sounding reluctant and disappointed, like I didn't meet his expectations. A cat-like grin, curious and clever and all-knowing, smooths onto his lips.

I make haste to leave, not wanting to submit myself to any more jives, suggestions, or debriefings. I hear it though, the last remark, shaded with meddling amusement.

"We really shouldn't."

I receive an unexpected phone call from Matoba a few days later.

"I'm glad that you picked up. I really wasn't expecting you would." Surprisingly, he apologizes for his rude behavior from before, but insists on his gratitude. There's a pause on the other end, and I hear a shifting of papers. "Please come by a week from now."

Against my better judgment, I accept his request.

Matoba meets me upon entry, smelling of archaic dust, dirt, and ink. (Fresh from an exorcism. He still hasn't changed out of his business clothes.) I've come at great timing, he tells me, before leading us through polished halls to a room located in the back.

Both a blessing and a curse, I am able to see Natsume again. Palpitations start in my chest and I take in a quick breath. It's been so long. How is he? Has he had better sleep since I've been gone? Has his anxieties and distrust subsided? How much has he progressed in jutsu and seals? He looks incredibly exhausted, just barely propped up on a chair (arms visibly weak with one in his lap, the other slumped beside). His eyes are unfocused, blurry, but manage direction towards me (his eyes, he lets me see his eyes). Do exorcisms have this sort of toll on him?

I'm speechless, unable to form any sort of greeting. (Maybe he'd rather I say nothing.) But he remains silent from my entry.

That's when I realize something is off.

The door clicks shut. A dense dread fills my limbs like sand, breaking my anxiety into a hot sweat. (I can't leave I can't leave.) I become stuffy in my clothes and feel the sweat reach the back of my neck. Matoba brushes past me, bringing with him a breeze more unsettling than cooling. I watch his ponytail wisp behind his back as he approaches Natsume.

Breathe. Breathe.

Matoba places a hand on Natsume's shoulder. The boy leans into the touch and tilts his head, eyes closed for a few moments. "Natsume doesn't have any objections. He's a little tired, but very accommodating. He might not remember who you are right now, but that isn't a problem." Natsume's head falls onto his shoulder when Matoba pulls away to remove his blazer and tie.

Matoba interjects when he notices I haven't moved, keeping my gaze on Natsume. "He doesn't know it's you."

There's a quiver in my hands that won't stop. I feel like my body lifts and floats off, but I remain grounded by imaginary weights (this is real, this is reality, I won't wake up, I'm not asleep). I shuffle closer, but even my breath begins to weigh me down and stall me further. I want to ask why doesn't he know it's me. He couldn't have forgotten me completely. What I did, what I was to Natsume, couldn't be completely erased.

Matoba has already loosened his trousers, the belt removed. He grabs Natsume by the arm to remove him from the chair (limp, fumbling, but no outbursts). He seats himself before placing Natsume in his lap, beginning to undo Natsume's trousers. Natsume is placid like a movable doll, not even flinching against Matoba's hands passing down his hips exposing healed flesh.

Something is wrong because he is not here. Natsume is not entirely here.

Trembling, I fall to my knees and place my hands on Natsume's knees. I catch his eyes and my heart races, faster than anytime I exerted myself (his hooded eyes, clouded golden-brown). Warm hands, pulling down on pants and underwear, brush against mine. I drag them down the rest of the way to remove them.

Guilt, guilt, hot harsh heavy unrelenting guilt.

Natsume releases a quiet sigh above me (breathy, effeminate, lax — I missed this, I missed him). I press my face against his thigh, feel the softness with my lips, breathing in his scent before exhaling hotly against him.

We really shouldn't.

I wanted to expand a bit more on Natori. I feel like there would be much to cover on him and his motives though, so I hope I included everything I wanted to express.

This series wasn't intended to have a healthy resolution. I'm sorry if you were looking for that. The final part of the series will be added soon. It can be seen as a continuation or another setting separate from this (but it's heavily implied).