Warnings: stalking, injury, blood, obsession, panic attack, psychosis, hallucinations, choking, self-harm, self-choking, assault, vomit, delusions of persecution, dark, suspense, non-sexual nudity, unreliable narrator

Notes: Happy Halloween! This work contains potentially triggering content. Reading past these notes, you have acknowledged the tags and warnings. Please proceed with caution.

Playlist: Playmoss - hakuzo/playlist/pure-as-i-want-to-be

Pure As I Want To Be

They both left their mark on each other.

Natsume looks his body over in the mirror, from head to abdomen. His focus stays on the neck, fingers visibly bruised on once unmarked skin, still damp and warm from the bath. Both of his hands drag down, testing the severity of the bruises from gentle to harsher prods. It smarts, but not in the usual way. A sting of blood, dulled down with pleasant tingles. A fading purple, discolored green outlining.

The wound on his upper arm from the arrow has healed nicely into a scab. The slice stung, but it wasn't deep, not nerve or muscle damaging. The only thing that may remain from the wound would be a faded scar.

Confusion or not, he was attacked. This person is dangerous. Being actively pursued crosses Natsume's mind.

'You're interesting.'

A shiver crawls up from his shoulder to his neck and beneath his jaw. It can only be much worse from here. Golden-brown eyes glance back to the reflection of his neck. There will be other 'accidents', won't there? A graze to the right side of the bruise. He could be planning something now. Right? Matoba is particular with his interests, Natori said, and once decided, he pursues. It's done in unconventional ways; the head of the Matoba clan is smart but is peculiar himself.

Face up close. Aura dark and suffocating. What was under the eyepatch? There was only a glimpse. Too dark, to brief, to see. And the voice remains haunting. Dark and low. A violating whisper perking ears.

Shivering, Natsume finally begins to dress in his sleepwear.

Natsume tries to steady and calm his breathing before leaving the bathroom. He can't let the Fujiwara or Nyanko-sensei worry. He will take responsibility of this dangerous person. He cannot allow them to be hurt (again).

The night is chill. Natsume buries beneath the blankets, securing them around his neck, fingers gracing the bruised skin into sleep.

And throughout the day to night, the fingers continue to absentmindedly play along the neck, pressing from discoloration to the bob in the throat. A little more crushing, and always contemplative.

Matoba is driven in a black 2013 Acura RLX. There's at least two (or maybe three) stationed at the branch in his area. Matoba never drives. More so likely that he cannot due to the seal over his right eye. It's the most luxurious option.

There's always at least three subordinates with him. Some are more commonly assigned than others. One man-made shiki is always about as well. A handful can be summoned quickly.

For the most part, Matoba doesn't travel for leisure. It's business. His mannerisms are never violent, but comes off cold yet well-mannered.

Times where he does have some time, he will request keemun black tea and a croissant from a popular local cafe. No milk or sugar. The tea leaves cannot be burnt by the water and cannot be steeped longer than one minute. Sweets aren't his favorite; he typically likes a hint of it. On certain days, he will request a powdered sugar kouign-amann.

Matoba is much more lax with the subordinates that act as both assistants and bodyguards. But because of the nature of his work, he cannot afford that much leniency. Taking a stroll to the requested work or minding an indulgence, he will pass a red eye around, survey the area. Natsume learns this early on. The exorcist nearly catches Natsume's followings, but the teen does retreat early. Fear of being found, being questioned and prodded and hurt.

Matoba hasn't engaged in anything illegal. Just his business—consultations and purifications and surveillance.

The observations Natsume has gathered for the day will suffice.

Or so he thinks.

It's a cover. Shady work. His clan is evil. Their practices, their morals, him. Dangerous.

There is only so much intelligence Natsume can gather by himself. With the help from a suspicious Nyanko-sensei and friendly ayakashi, a solid week of observing and notes have been constructed. Now Natsume can construct escape routes and avoidance.

Monday: purifications of the local branch and nearby shrines.
Tuesday: review of the week's agenda.
Wednesday: requests and bounties.
Thursday: typically a politician or businessman client in the city.
Friday: requests and bounties.
Saturday: meetings and gathering intel in the city; has tea and a treat.
Sunday: stays at the local branch; cannot get close due to surveillance.

Sometimes it changes, but that is the common trend. Sundays are always constant. And at anytime, if Matoba wanted, he could request or encounter Natsume. They are both within distance of the other.

The exorcist may be watching him as well.

Natsume's throat hurts, throbs. This is for his own protection. This information should be comforting. And for the most part, it is. More or less the schedule is consistent. And to make sure, Natsume will check upon that.

The usual cafe, tea, and pastry.

The same is ordered and Natsume sits on the upper level of the cafe. Matoba sips his tea, Natsume does the same. A portion of the pastry is pinched off, the gesture is mirrored. Both chew and swallow.

'He doesn't know I'm watching,' Natsume thinks to himself, hands warming around the cardboard-hybrid cup, Matoba thumbs his own. Golden-brown eyes focus in on the other's hands. Pink and chilled, warming from the rainstorm outside. In contrast, Natsume's hands have been dry and warm, courtesy of Touko supplying him with gloves before heading out. The cup is brought to Matoba's lips (now moistened and red from the heat and refreshments), throat bobbing when taking a sizable gulp.

Natsume releases a stopped breath, his own throat tingling, mouth salivating. Looking away and taking a drink stops the feeling from becoming nauseating.

Does Matoba also examine his scars? Natsume thinks to himself, assessing the long since healed cut on his arm, the bruises on his neck gone for months.

Looking in the mirror, Natsume replicates the thoughts. A scar on his right eye. (A touch to the right eye.) Another on his left arm. (A hand crosses over, imagining the scratch left by his nail.) Both are marked by two separate happenings and beings.

When would he do this? After a bath like Natsume? Accepting and using that vulnerability to inspect and wonder. Fingers still careful and delicate, as if they still aching and bleeding, across and down the pale skin. (Is there still a residing pain? From closed eyelid down cheek, past the skin of shoulder and chest warmed by bath, to the frenzied scratch that left much more than intended.)

Natsume's breath shakes, hands retreating to the sides, heart racing. Unclothed, free to access all before him. Truly, truly vulnerable. A chill tickles his neck, Natsume immediately reaches up to coax it—but it's not his hands, not his warmth, a sickening dread. Bare, like him. A pressure pushing into his throat before him. A dark red eye meets his in the reflection, static and determined.

They're both naked.

"No!"

But panic seizes Natsume, immobilizing him from moving, and the exorcist's hands squeeze his neck. Choking, fingers and nails scrabble to remove the other's hands. He tightly shuts his eyes and sways, struggles, digs nails into the palms and wrists. Although his breathing is obstructed, Natsume could feel the hiccups rise, the crawling of the heart in his chest lodging in his throat. Peeking open an eye, Matoba keeps in intense focus on him, but his eye is no longer in the mirror.

Eyes rolling back, shattered lungs heaving and labored, Natsume presses into the figure behind him. Maybe, hopefully, the motion will disrupt this. The body is a solid smoothness, cold and dewy from the bath's perspiration. Bodies shouldn't feel like this. Realizing this, Natsume's eyes fly open, his red, contorted face reflecting in the mirror. His chest is heaving, heart thundering—but there are no hands tightening his throat. No one is behind him. (Matoba isn't behind him.)

Relieved there is no danger, Natsume closes his eyes, takes a few moments to gather air. It was an illusion of obstructed breathing. His pounding heart hurts. When reaching for the sink counter, the cool marble grounds the frayed nerves.

But he can still recall how real it felt. The pressing aura against him, the heavy breath, the oppressive heat and confinement, tightness on his throat and desperate hands.

Interesting.

A shaky inhale. Interesting. Matoba said he was interesting. (Why? What that word? Why does it bother him so much?)

A deeper wave hits, a hiccup of shuddering and nearly escaping sobs.

More notes, more thoughts.

'Interesting. Interesting. Interesting,' is written in a notebook. The word sticks with him, harrowing and frightening and intriguing.

Their encounters are decided by fate. But fate's plan is too slow.

There is a feeling of pressure below his jaw. A warning to be quick. Natsume doesn't come to this place voluntarily. It is too dangerous for him (company is out of the question; they could get hurt and Natsume wouldn't allow that), but exceptions must be made. The Matoba clan's schedule has been erratic; it's difficult for Natsume to configure his routine.

Take a breath. In and out.

Recently, Matoba happened upon him again. A smile from him.

'A coincidence.' 'Fate.'

No. He is planning something. Matoba still can't stop thinking about their initial meeting—choking and struggling and a scratch to his arm. Natsume is interesting—strong and different with high potential. A great asset.

Natsume shudders, swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth. That won't happen. That is why Natsume is here—he will make sure of it. Their agenda, their plans, their black magic, their conspiracies against and for Natsume. There's a burning in his throat, wetness blurring his vision.

Supposed bounties and meetings and invitations scattered about the room. Some kanji catches his eye—his surname. Dread drops his heart into his stomach. Hastily, Natsume swipes the papers across the table, not conscious of where they'll land. The document doesn't hold his name as he suspected (as he morbidly hoped). The content describes an incident from the summer. Not about him.

(Why wasn't it about him?)

Natsume furrows his brows and pulls at the skin of his bottom lips with his teeth. Glancing down, the papers and writing tools are scattered across the table and floor nearby. Matoba will know someone came into this room. (Matoba will know it was Natsume and Natsume's heart pounded and ached.) Hands move to gather them, carefully put them in place and order before the chaos.

Where's the information on him? Hasn't Matoba looked into his history? Delved deep? Relatives and orphanage and rumors. Did he stop? Why would he stop? Wasn't he interesting?

"You're interesting."

A stuttered breath, a brief moment where lungs filled with nothing. Breathless. In mind, he hears and listens to the low, attentive voice intended for just him. His hands shake. When air returns to his lungs, Natsume coughs, then swallows.

Recollection is for him to be reminded of the purpose of this. This is not, nor can be, intrigue of fascination or allure. Instead of relying on memories and contemplation, perhaps a keepsake will assist. Moist eyes dart around the room. Something insignificant, but persuasive.

When Natsume places his hand on the table to rise, something sharp stabs into his palm. Flinching with a curse, the teen pulls away. Whatever it was cut the skin—a slice from the lower palm to the side, blood creeping up to spill from the wound. Looking back and down, Natsume finds a fountain pen lying on the table with a fine, sharp nib. Even in the darkness of the room, he can see his own blood on the sharp edge.

The ring and middle finger run along the wound, spreading the blood, pressing to feel the sting. It is real. With the uninjured hand, it is picked up, marvelling briefly, before a thump down the hall shakes him from the trance. The heart in his throat pounds in urgency. Both hands grip against the table to steady the shaking of his body and mind. The wound stings harsher—crimson now pushing through.

A part of him will be left behind with Matoba. With that thought, Natsume exhales shakily, his heart and eyelashes flutter. A pleasant churn rolls inside of him, from chest to stomach. It weakens his legs. What if he left more?

Footsteps.

With that sound, Natsume jolts out of the exhilaration. No. Not now. Fountain pen gripped tight in the bleeding hand, he slips out the shoji that leads outside.

Matoba has tried to poison him multiple times. Even if they were ill jokes, there is intent on the thought, of 'what if there is poison there'. When offered a beverage or food, of course Natsume doesn't accept it—it's tainted. But then the exorcist ingests it, he is fine. He carries on with corrupt words. Natsume is mesmerized by his lips instead, how they are not draining moisture or dribbling blood. Maybe he is immune to his own poison. (Maybe the poison is a lie.)

The poison needs to be something that can kill them both.

A peace treaty for the time being: some manjuu from Nanatsujiya. Nyanko-sensei promptly objects; the exorcist isn't deserving of such a delicacy. Some of the sweet is put aside for the trouble Natsume has caused him. Only a bit needs to be used after all.

The clan head is amused at the gesture, but the smile is genuine and he warmly welcomes Natsume inside. Being so close, in the manor, next to this man, makes Natsume burn up, breath quaking, heart rattling. His fingers nearly crush the paper box. They sit across from each other, green tea already upon the table between them, a plate with the jelly and kuromoji for each of them.

The youkai were enthusiastic with providing the poison. A natural plant that is potent to humans. Crushed and ground into near dust, sprinkled atop and carefully melded in the manjuu.

Because it is such a generous and unanticipated gift from Natsume, Matoba indulges in the first bite, corners of his mouth twitching up. Natsume's heart jumps, feels himself mirror the man's grin. Maybe he does like sweets. This kind of sweet. The tea and treat in front of the teen remain untouched. His golden eyes are trained on the other.

Another bite. A minute passes. Matoba chokes.

The hand discards the wooden pick in favor of coaxing his throat. Labored coughs and breathing. Shattered wheezing. Sweat cascading down pale skin. A pained look, parched and agonizing and begging for a cure.

Oh no no no no no no. He doesn't want that, doesn't want this. What a mistake. Only a little, not this much. He looks too sick, too deathly.

Adrenaline inflames Natsume's nerves, moving him quickly over to Matoba. More choking and gagging and crackling breaths. With both hands on the exorcist's arms (he feels so much stronger), he's turned around. His lips are chapped and paling white to blue. A pleased shiver runs through the blond. He can't have him like this. The hands move to Matoba's face, prying open his mouth. Fingers are forced into his mouth, to the back of his throat. (Wet, hot, gross fascination being able to violate inside of him like this. Willfully and enthusiastically, he ate the poison Natsume gave him.) Pulling back, Matoba vomits, manjuu and tea and poison leaving his body.

A darkness slowly settles itself deep inside of his churning, swirling, constricting abdomen.

Shielding arms are ripped away from Matoba. A hand is forced down again.

Before Matoba is able to vomit again, Natsume blinks his eyes open, sweat coating his forehead and chest. Nauseous, the ceiling swirls in his vision. The room is uncomfortably warm and congested. Legs struggle to kick off the comforter to give needed air to his enflamed body.

Sick.

Natsume licks his parched lips. He enjoyed doing that, putting his fingers into Matoba's mouth, forcing him to retch. The fearful look on the other's face, desperate, losing life. A shuddering inhale.

In both his mind and body—sick.

There's no ink at home. Natsume has to use a substitute. Sometimes dragging the sharp edge of the nib along an index finger will slice the skin. Sometimes it doesn't. If it does by chance (by intentional pressure), the blood spills down the metal point's tip. It's like a blessing—a permission, a command, fate's plan—to create words and drawings.

Often, it is just lines. Drag top to bottom. If the blood runs enough—"Interesting." Maybe a hand. Often there are eyes. But the eyes are more frightening than the choking hands ever will be. The red is pretty while it lasts. If only his blood would remain that color forever.

Pen nib down, Natsume lies on his back. Hands brushing jaw to neck, a damp trail follows from the cut finger. Pressing against the major arteries of the neck, not the throat, incites a dizziness. Eyelashes flutter, eyes dilating to watch the ceiling's shadows cast by the setting dusk. Not entirely satisfying in remembering, in re-living, in depleting the oxygen, but he can pretend.

The room distorts, bending and folding, pushing out noise and air and light. Golden eyes shut.

He knows where to find Matoba. Ever since that earlier scare, the exorcist is diligent with his schedule. He tries to linger at the manor more, but there are errands and jobs to be done. Natsume's appearance seems to surprise him, but that's a lie. There are tabs on Natsume too; he knows when the teen is able to come by. It is only in attempt to dupe.

Kill him kill him kill him kill him kill him kill him kill him kill him. The hands are so tight and squeezing on that man's neck. (Like he did to him.)

Matoba's face is paling. An eye flutters, mouth drooling, cheeks flushed, hands frantic to remove the ones around his neck. About time. It is fate, isn't it? This is their fate. This is what they are meant for.

Natsume has dreamt of this. The pinched skin between his palms—choked gasps, gurgling spit, pleas easily crushed away. Although his eyes are already shut, Natsume feels them roll back with a gratifying pulse within him. Weaker hits. On top—he won—dragging down, slipping hands, collapsing—

He won.

With enough practice with the fountain pen and blood, Natsume decides to write a letter. It isn't much of a letter with formed sentences and thoughts and questions. He conveys what he can. Words, phrases, a blot and swirl. To him, it makes sense—from him, sharing himself, offering himself, with the red oxidizing brown ink.

Like Matoba has done to him before, the letter is hand delivered in the mail. It's a Thursday; most of the property is vacant to allow him this opportunity. Peeking into the mailbox, there's other envelopes. Natsume slides them out, eyes scanning over the addresses, taking guesses at what the contents could be. Requests, likely. (What about him?) Licking his chapped lips, he puts them back, heart thumping with disappointment. His letter is mixed between the rest.

He wants to stay. He can't stay.

Oh, Natsume wishes he could see Matoba's face. A mixture of interest and evil, a refocus on the gifted teenager again. The exorcist will read it, think of him, plan to see him again, write him a letter. Write back in blood. Maybe a lock of hair. The letter will smell like him.

The scarf around his neck is brought up to his mouth and nose. Natsume inhales the soft wool, needing to calm the adrenaline and his heart.

Too thrilling.

It's much too far from those selfishly suggestive thoughts.

Matoba receives the letter. No return name on the envelope, no stamp. He has received these sort, but not often; nothing concerning. The ink is different though—brown, not the usually opaque black. Opening the sealed letter, a nervous nausea fills him. A skip in his heart, stomach souring, skin prickling hot and cold. The handwriting isn't professionally practiced and the contents both confuses and worries him. It feels threatening, but there's no way to be sure.

Swallowing down the discomfort and shiver, Matoba folds the letter away into personal desk drawer. A lot of other curious occurrences have been happening. It could be connected, but sabotage of seals and curses are commonly the work of ayakashi. The most concerning is the boundary field shredded and manor being broken into. Curiously, only his room was the target, not the storage room of equipment or the library. The papers were askew, something taken, and blood spilled on the desk.

Matoba swallows again when feeling his throat muscles constrict. He rubs a hand on the side of the neck to coax the dull throb.

For now, it is only a very strange letter.