VII. Master's Gift

Part of the demon's (self-assigned) routine is to brush his master's unruly hair from sleep. The amount of time spent on the brushing averages to ten minutes. Not crucial, but it can be harrowing to the human's schedule of dressing and eating. It is when the master oversleeps or is in a hurry, that that task is taken from him. Matoba will comb through his hair, too roughly in Natsume's opinion.

It's never with care and it greatly upsets Natsume. The groan of the brush ripping through precious, smooth hair grates the demon's ears. The words burst out of his mouth without thought.

"Don't mistreat it! It's mine."

Although still drowsy from sleep, Matoba blinks down to the troubled shiki. The concern and pout the shiki wears, along with the furrowed brows, is endearing. It causes a small smile to tug at his lips. Because he isn't completely coherent, the hair brush is easily snatched from his hands and an audible gasp is heard.

As suspected, there are broken strands, both perfect and damaged, caught around the bristles.

Sensing the demon's grief, Matoba interjects, hoping that it may ease the oncoming scolding. "That's inevitable. It will happen no matter what."

But Natsume continues staring at the brush in frustration, dismissing Matoba's words. No matter what they do, the strands will come out every day; that is the way it is, the human says. The frown on the demon's face only deepens, pondering what can be done.

Well, he'll have to take this hair situation into his own hands, Natsume decides.

With a swat to Matoba's outstretched hand and a fierce look, Natsume presses close to overpower the exorcist, causing them to collapse to the floor. Matoba hisses when his head collides with the wooden flooring, but Natsume is too determined to assess his master's injury in favor of climbing on top. He will stroke the promised hair his way. Sharpened nails scoop the long black hair, pulling it forward to stroke through. But the gesture and motion must have been too fast, too rough. Some strands get caught on a talon, and they snap.

Natsume halts and stares incredulously at the broken hair in his hand. His light green eyes are blank and distant, not wanting to accept the reality of what happened by his own hands.

Unphased and knowing, Matoba sighs. "See?"

The youkai unwraps the hair from his nails, tucking it safely into his palm, before straightening himself. With a huff and a harsh look down at the human, he berates again, "You don't appreciate it. You don't savor it."

Exasperated and fatigued, Matoba exhales. He knows that he cannot sway or win this battle. They seem to match each other in stubbornness. If Matoba wants to make his appointments on time, he will need to swallow today's pride. "I don't have time to savor it."

And he knows both his schedule and Natsume's mood will be getting worse from here on.


Some days Matoba becomes absorbed and bombarded with requests and work. And those days, Natsume isn't able to meet with his master, at the very least to tug at the end of the black ponytail. They're lonely days. Boring, too. Even at night it's difficult to mind Master's hair. He's dead tired, slipping into a futon with a faint 'goodnight', hair wet and skin cold from a shower and no bath.

"Ow," Matoba hisses, pulling away from the hands that slipped through his hair. This has been happening as of late. It's becoming too much for Matoba to keep dismissing. Sending a sideways glare to Natsume, he informs, "That hurts, you know."

Due to the contract with this demon, Matoba's hair has gotten longer. It's past the middle of his back now. He likes to keep it in a ponytail to keep it out of the way, but with Natsume's constant rituals of brushing and minding, oftentimes it is left splayed on his back. Unfortunately the issue isn't something as simple as allowing him to tie the hair back.

It's Natsume's nails, coupled with his excitable aggression, when stroking his hair. It's dangerous to not be wearing a top when he is in one of these moods. Even then, a common shirt's thickness won't stop the tear of a talon ripping down his back.

Natsume pouts his lips, pausing his hands and staring at Matoba's back. For everything this exorcist makes him do (hunts and surveillance and meetings and bounties and blessing houses), he can endure such a simple tribulation. Natsume pulls his hands the rest of the way through the hair, purposely digging a nail in. Another hiss in reply.

"Our contract did not state there would be an absence of pain, Master Matoba."

Cheeky, Matoba thinks to himself. "What did I do to warrant this pain?"

"This is not pain," Natsume immediately snaps back. "This is my happiness. Do you not want me to be happy, Master?"

Matoba stifles a curse, then a groan, at another frenzied stroke. The tone is anything but happy. The last swipe is intentional. "No, I want you to be happy."

"Then don't… forget about me." The stroking stops, tugging the hair at mid-length.

Nodding proves to be futile. Instead, Matoba has to admit the response aloud. "I won't forget you."

From then, Matoba learns the differences of Natsume's strokes. Excited, calm, withdrawn, irritated, shy, absentminded. Unfortunately, there are still instances when Natsume scratches his back. But on accident. He's just excited to be minding his master again.

For the time, it seems like Natsume has forgiven Matoba.


Now that the busy spell has died down for Matoba, Natsume is able to return nightly greetings. The door is always opened quietly, toes careful across the floor. There's a pressure, a presence, on the other side of the futon. It descends down, finding its place behind Matoba's back. Although the hair was minded not too long ago, hands slide up the back, curling into the strands. The hair is pulled down and straightened, the ends curled around a finger.

Funny how these gestures once gave Matoba much anxiety and now it lulls him to sleep. He breathes, even and slow.

Comfortable, Natsume thinks, remembers. He watches the rise and fall of the man's shoulder from his breathing. He is, too. Shutting his eyes, hair in hand, Natsume tips his head forward, letting the horns graze the back. With no reaction or scolding, he pulls closer, continuing the motion, and sighs. The hair is gripped tightly in hand; he doesn't dare tug it and alert Matoba what he is doing.

Despite how comfortable this transaction is for them both, something is off. There is a spike of spiritual power in the air. Matoba blinks his eyes open, now more aware of a pair of something prodding him in the back. It's solid and smooth, the end of the tips rounded sharp. With a soft exhale from behind, he can make a very well-educated guess. He doesn't interrupt right away. He will let Natsume enjoy this for some moments before having his curiosity staved further.

Natsume sighs again, a little heavier. Hands leave the hair in favor of gripping the kimono, the hold securing the pressure he strived for.

When the horns begin to press deeper into his back, Matoba then decides that maybe Natsume won't notice. Half turning his body, twisting his back and head, he regards the demon nuzzling into the bottom of his shoulder blades a little longer. It has become more aggressive. Are they itchy?

Due to the heat and feeling, the cheeks are reddened, eyes shut in a combination of content and need. Natsume didn't realize how satisfying this could be. He wants to fall asleep, but also stay awake and continue the pleasure. A deep hum vibrates from his throat.

It doesn't seem like Natsume will notice.

A hand reaches around. Only an inch away, and a growl starts. The movement stops.

"Don't touch them."

Matoba narrows his eyes and pushes his lips into a pout. Almost. He almost wants to defy that snarl, brush a finger on the oddly sensitive bone, because of that commanding voice. Shiki do not command—they listen, they follow, they serve. A frustrated sigh much like a demon's. The hand is pulled away and he returns to face the other way.

It's slight, but there is one last nudge of the horns before the sound of content breaths lull Matoba into sleep.

"In the case that more instances arise that I will be absent or preoccupied, I want to offer you something."

Natsume looks up from a spellbook, familiarizing himself with rituals developed by the clan, to blink at Matoba. His master is willingly offering something? As interested as he is, Natsume furrows his brows, a little suspicious. There is a catch to it, isn't there?

"What are you offering?" But he won't dismiss it. What could the offer be?

"A cut strand of hair."

The silver-haired shiki furrows his brows deeper. Angry. "No. I do not want cut hair. If you do that, I will leave."

The exorcist chuckles, expecting this. "I figured as much. Here, then." A hand is offered out, an iris-colored silk ribbon on the palm. "I listen to you, you know. You say it's soft, 'like silk.'"

Natsume, mesmerized by its subtle shine and beautiful color, takes the object without a word. Pinching it between his finger and thumb, he runs his other fingers down the ribbon. Silk.

It's beautiful and wonderful, despite being so simple. Natsume wants to express his gratitude, but he bites his lip, represses a strange shudder.

"I will determine if this suffices."

At first Natsume holds the ribbon, rubbing it between his fingers. There are times when he accidentally drops it, so then it is moved to his wrist. But if the wound ribbon is too loose on his wrist, it would get caught on a wood splinter or snag. The solution ends with it tied around his neck, wrapped around several times. It's always in reach and gentle against his skin.

Even when they are in each other's company, Matoba notices Natsume absentmindedly kneading the silk ribbon.

"The silk ribbon has kept you company."

Natsume jolts from his stupor to look at his master. A blush of embarrassment is clearly painted on his cheeks before looking away. "Master has been busy. Even though this isn't enough, I will accept this for now."

The offer is granted.