Work Text:
When Natsume woke up, he was overheated and dazed. His stomach was cramped, and there was an ache throbbing behind his eyes. He sat up, blankets pooling around his thighs, and swayed with sudden vertigo. His sweat damp pyjamas clung to his skin.
Nyanko-sensei sat at the end of his futon. His yellow eyes watched Natsume silently.
“Good morning,” Natsume said around his dry throat. He swallowed once, twice, and offered up a waning smile.
“Go back to sleep,” Nyanko-sensei said.
Natsume shook his head and got to his feet. “I have school.”
“Touko would let you stay home.”
The idea of anyone finding out about his thumping headache and rolling stomach—anyone that’s human, anyone that’s an adult; anyone that Natsume lived under the same roof as, with his life in their palms—sent an instinctive rush of panic through his chest. The Fujiwaras didn’t seem like the type to ignore (or punish) him for being sick, but because of that, Natsume wanted to hide this from them even more. He couldn’t bother them. Worse, he couldn’t worry them.
He shook his head and didn’t look at Nyanko-sensei.
Natsume spent too long in the bathroom, wiping off accumulated sweat and trying to cool himself down with cold water. It paid off when Touka tutted and pressed a quick hand to his forehead and didn’t immediately catch on to the fever that Natsume could feel building.
“You’re a little warm,” she began, worrying at her bottom lip.
“I’m fine,” Natsume said. Now, the flush in his cheeks was not because of his temperature. “Thank you.”
“Hm, you don’t look good,” Shigeru commented. His eyebrows were pinched. Natsume offered him a small, close-lipped smile.
“I’m sorry, I slept strangely.”
Touko hummed. “You’re welcome to stay home.”
“No, thank you,” Natsume said. He stayed very still when Touko brushed her fingertips over his cheek, feeling for lingering warmth there. He must have pass her test, because she only returned his polite smile and moved away again.
His skin must’ve been blistering hot when he first woke up this morning. The cold water had done him some good, but he would only get worse the longer he stayed, so he ate quickly. His stomach was cramped up like an injured animal curled in on itself, but Natsume made sure to clear his bowl of everything in it.
His mouth grew wetter. The heaviness of his tongue and years of experience told Natsume that he needed to leave now, get as far away from the Fujiwaras as he could, before he vomited his breakfast back up.
“Thank you,” Natsume said with downcast eyes. He missed the silent glances that passed between Touko and Shigeru. “I need to go now.”
He left with a lurching stomach and a bento box he knew he wouldn’t be able to eat. Nyanko-sensei seemed to have disappeared. Natsume was almost grateful for the opportunity to trudge to school by himself, no weight against his shoulders, no keen eyes watching his every stumbled step, no comments about the tremor developing in his hands.
It was better, this way.
Natsume fell to his knees. He choked on the salvia that filled his mouth, gasping in shallow breaths. His stomach rolled. The nauseous made him want to lay down on the pathway and never get up.
Through his school slacks, he could feel the dampness of the dirt pathway. Touko would notice the stains.
The morning sun was rising in the sky. If Natsume was late to school, he might get detention (a thing he couldn’t afford, like this; he needed to get through the day so he could crawl somewhere empty and dark and sleep off his climbing fever). Even if the teacher was feeling generous, a late entrance would draw the attention of his classmates. What if they noticed how pale and sweaty he was and sent him to the nurse? What if they called Touko?
Adults don’t like being called during the day. Not even by fretting school nurses and sick, blurry eyed boys. Natsume had learnt this lesson again and again over the years.
He didn’t think Touko would ever react harshly. She was even tempered and soft in a way that Natsume wondered, in the murky haze of his fever, if she had crawled out of his many dreams about his parents and came to life. That would be the worst kind of youkai.
Still, there was no reason to bother Touko. Sicknesses were things Natsume had to weather on his own.
Bent over on the dirt path, half hidden in the bushes, Natsume threw up his breakfast. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and rinsed out the bitter aftertaste with a swig from his water bottle. Then, he climbed to his feet and retrieved his bag.
He threw up once more on the way, amongst the thick bristles of a bush. Twigs stuck to his legs and there were stray leaves in his hair. When Natsume entered the school grounds, Tanuma saw him and hurried over.
“What…” Tanuma glanced around at the students walking past. He dropped his voice to a whisper; “What happen? Did something grab you?”
Natsume blinked up at him. “Huh?”
Tanuma plucked up dry leaves and flattened Natsume’s messy hair. Natsume’s breath hitched at the small gesture. It seemed such a normal thing, a friend pulling sticks out of another’s hair. Natsume was unbalanced by it.
“You’ve got dirt on your pants, too,” Tanuma said.
“Oh.” Natsume brushed twigs off his school slacks. Tanuma waited patiently. “Yeah, something happened. It isn’t big, though. Please don’t worry.”
“Can I help?”
Natsume shook his head, his gaze lowered.
Tanuma waited again. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Natsume disappeared at lunchtime. Nishimura whined when Natsume got up to leave. Natsume excused himself with a polite smile and a vague, well versed lie—Natsume had to help a teacher; he had promised—and left before Sasada could rush over. Natsume didn’t hear Nishimura’s offer to come and keep him company. His ears were full of static.
Natsume found a quiet corner at the back of the school. He laid down in the shade of a thick tree and closed his eyes. He would head back to class once his thoughts had calmed.
“You’re worse.”
Natsume startled upright. Nyanko-sensei sat in front of him. His yellow eyes studied him.
“I’m fine,” Natsume said.
“You’re all sweaty—more sweaty than normal for a teenage boy. Your eyes are glassy. You’re overheated.” Natsume laid back down, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light. Nyanko-sensei put a paw on Natsume’s hand. “Have you been cursed again?”
“It’s just a cold, sensei.”
“Hm.”
Wind blew through the tree’s branches. The leaves swayed noisily.
Nyanko-sensei was quiet by his side. He didn’t take his paw off of Natsume’s clammy hand. Natsume concentrated on that small point of contact, and breathed deeply, and tried to stop the world from spinning.
Natsume had been hiding away during his lunch breaks—to bathroom stalls, and broom closets, and deserted corners of the school—since he was very little. These lonely, liminal spaces were a refuge. He would retreat there when he was pursed by youkai; when the classroom of the month became cramped and hostile; when too many questions were slanted his way, peers and teachers asking after Natsume’s bruises or shaggy hair or the absence of his lunch, like Natsume was a normal boy who could just ask for lunch from the people who housed him.
Natsume had spent lunch breaks like this when sick, too. He would focus on the lullaby hum of cicadas, feverish and dizzy and trying to just make it through the day.
It was easier now. These days, lots of things were easier. Natsume had so much now. It was frightening; it could be taken away so easily.
“What’re you thinking about, moron?”
Natsume stirred against Nyanko-sensei’s side. “Nothing.”
“Liar.” Natsume flinched. Nyanko-sensei sighed and climbed onto Natsume’s chest and curled up there, paws kneading gently into Natsume’s skin. “Stupid, stupid.”
“Sorry.”
“Go to sleep.”
“I have class.” Natsume tried to get up. Nyanko-sensei pushed back against him. “Sensei, I can’t skip again.”
“You should go home before you pass out. What if someone nabs the Book of Friends from you while you’re unconscious?”
“I won’t let that happen,” Natsume promised. “I can do this. Please, let me.”
Nyanko-sensei got up. Natsume, light-headed and unsteady, went back to class.
Natsume fell asleep during class. Nishimura kicked him awake when the teacher looked their way. Natsume rubbed grit out of his eyes. He managed to pull out a rubbery smile and apologise.
Nishimura hissed at him, “Natsume—Natsume, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Natsume whispered back.
Nishimura made a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. “Natsume—”
The teacher looked their way again, eyes narrowed. Both boys quietened. Natsume couldn’t see Nishimura’s uncharacteristic frown as he studied his friend with pinched brows.
Natsume wasn’t fast enough to escape Nishimura after class ended for the day. The other boy stood in front of his desk, arms crossed. The class filed out behind them.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
Natsume blinked. “Nothing.”
Nishimura blew out hot air. He seemed tired. Natsume’s stomach turned; he didn’t mean to exhaust his classmate. This illness simmering beneath his skin wasn’t something to be shared. It was Natsume’s burden.
Nishimura put a hand on Natsume’s face. It wasn’t the delicate affection Touko had shown him this morning, slender hand brushing over his cooled forehead. Nishimura shoved his entire hand over Natsume’s face, palm squashing Natsume’s nose, fingers getting into his eyes.
Natsume flailed and pulled away. “Ow—!”
“You’re burning up,” Nishimura accused, and retracted his hand. “Why didn’t you go home?”
“I’m going home now.” Natsume looked pointedly at Nishimura, stood like a wall in front of him, stopping him from leaving.
“Oh.” Nishimura cleared his throat. “Well, don’t come back tomorrow, okay! I’m telling Kitamoto. We’ll carry you back home if you try.”
Natsume didn’t feel quite real. Gravity pulled at him differently. The ground beneath his feet was unsteady, like Natsume could unbalance at any moment.
Nishimura beamed and poked him in the side. “It won’t even take both of us. Sasada could carry you back by herself. You need to eat more, you twig.”
Natsume nodded and excused himself before the other girl could appear and actually try and carry him. Nishimura called after him, “Remember what I said, Natsume! Take care of yourself, you bastard!”
Nyanko-sensei was waiting at the school gate. He didn’t say anything as he fell into step with Natsume.
Each step was hard. His legs wobbled beneath him. The distance between school and the Fujiwara’s home had never felt greater.
Natsume decided to rest in the shade of a bridge. He collapsed heavily by the edge of the river, legs splayed out haphazardly. He cupped his hands in the river and tried to splash water on face. His hands shook violently, his whole body wracked with tremors. It took Natsume three tries before he managed to wash the sweat off his face, his arms, and the back of his neck.
“We should hurry home,” Nyanko-sensei told him.
Natsume swallowed. His tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth. “Let me cool down first, senesi.”
“The house will be cool. The sooner you get back, the sooner you’re out of my hands and into Touko’s.”
Nyanko-sensei shoved against Natsume’s side, trying to coax his teenage charge to his feet. Clumsily, Natsume got to his feet. He only managed a few steps before an uneven pile of rocks tripped him up. Natsume lost balance and sprawled over the hard ground. Pain spread along his arm, and Natsume cried out.
“Natsume, you idiot!”
Nyanko-sensei was there, just before Natsume’s eyes. The ground was cool against his cheek, even with the sharp outcropping of rocks poking into his back.
“I’ll get up in a minute, sensei,” he said, barely audible.
“Natsume! Enough games!”
Natsume hummed and closed his eyes. “It’s okay, sensei,” he said. “I’m just resting…”
“Natsume! Natsume!”
Natsume woke to Touko leaning over him. A damp cloth dabbed at his cheeks.
He looked around blearily. “Wha—?”
“Takashi, you’re awake,” Touko said with a small, tired smile. “I found you unconscious in the entryway. You must have gotten that far and collapsed.” She touched a hand to her face. “Ah, I shouldn’t have let you go to school. How could I be so careless?”
Nyanko-sensei was curled up on the edge of the futon by Natsume’s head. There was something very focussed about his eyes that Natsume, drunk on his fever, couldn’t understand.
Touko dipped the cloth into a near empty bowl of water and placed it on Natsume’s forehead. “I’m going to go get more water, I’ll be right back.”
She picked up the bowl and disappeared into the hallway. Natsume looked at the ceiling and thought, she knows, she knows.
He’d made a mistake.
“She wants to look after you,” Nyanko-sensei said. “Let her, you brat.”
Natsume stared at the tuff of fur uncomprehendingly. The panic was almost gone—his thoughts were hazy and slipped out of his head quicker than they came, like koi fish wiggling out of his hands—before Touko returned and the fear came rushing back.
In one hand, she held the full bowl of water. In the other, she had a pair of sewing scissors. “Takashi, do you know why these were in the bathroom?”
Natsume’s ribs felt tight around his lungs. He swallowed, or tried to, and said, “I’m sorry. I was going to return them.”
“I’m not scolding you, I’m just curious. Do you have something you need fixing? I’m always happy to mend things for you.”
Natsume wet his lips, and said, “I was going to cut my hair. I was going to wash the scissors before I put them back, I promise.” He ducked his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken them without asking.”
Touko knelt by his side. Her fingers carded through Natsume’s shaggy hair. He couldn’t help but close his eyes and lean hungrily into the touch.
“Takashi,” Touko began, “we would have gotten you a haircut, if that was what you wanted. I’d love to cut your hair if you’re uncomfortable with strangers.”
“I don’t mind,” Natsume said. “I forgot.”
It was easy to ignore his fever like this, Touko petting his hair, a cool cloth pressed against his forehead, Nyanko-sensei curled against his side, pretending not to care about the scene unfolding above him.
“Forgot?”
“I’m sorry,” Natsume said. His eyes slipped closed. He was only half conscious. “I’m not used to this. It’s been a long time since I was able to ask for something like that without…”
Natsume didn’t see Touko press a hand to her mouth. He barely heard the thickness of her voice as she said, “It’s just a haircut. A haircut.”
“A haircut.” Natsume smiled, crooked and delirious and so, so happy. “Touko wants to cut my hair…”
The fingers moved away from his temple and Natsume’s breath stuttered in his throat. He tried to follow the touch, but gentle hands pressed him back into his blankets.
“I’m not going anywhere.” There was something about the quality of her voice—something bordering steel edged determination and watery regret—that Natsume’s foggy thoughts couldn’t decipher. “I’m just going to clean your scrape. You must have taken a tumble on the way here.”
Natsume squinted at the ceiling. “But… my haircut…”
Nyanko-sensei stood and moved closer. He curled up in the gap between Natsume’s chest and his head, face pressed into Natsume’s neck. It tickled. Natsume felt delirious with the warmth.
“When you’re better,” Touko promised. She worked Natsume’s arm out of the blankets and pulled at the bandages hastily wrapped there. Gently, she started dabbing at the wound and Natsume choked on a whine.
Natsume winced, teeth gritted. He wasn’t well enough to not physically react to the pain. Touko murmured nonsensically and rubbed little circles into the sore skin around the scrape.
“Hurts,” Natsume managed.
“I know. I know.”
Natsume threw his head back. Long, sweat damp hair was tossed back, revealing fever bright eyes. He had spent years and years building up walls—he’d spent most of his life constructing these barriers brick by brick, ever since his parents disappeared from his life and he was tossed into household after household full of people who saw through him, never directly at him. The illness pulled back Natsume’s layers, and left him helpless beneath Touko’s hands.
If he were clear-headed, Natsume would hate this. In the past, he had crawled into bushes and forest clearings to avoid being seen like this, small and ill and vulnerable.
“I’m sorry,” Natsume said through the lump in this throat.
“There’s nothing to apologise for.” Touko rubbed a hand over his upper arm, away from the cut. The cool skin-on-skin contact brought tears to Natsume’s eyes. He wanted to lay there forever, dizzy headed and dangerously warm, soaking in the physical contact offered to him.
At the same time, he wanted to slink away somewhere empty. He wanted to be somewhere quiet and alone, so no one could see him in this state.
Touko took the damp cloth from his forehead and replaced it with her hand, and Natsume thought he never wanted this moment to end.
Touko rinsed the cloth in water. She worried at her lip, and said, “You’re too warm…”
She looked so concerned. She was stuck at his bedside when she should be elsewhere, doing something more productive. Shame enfolded him like a blanket. He wanted to crawl into the youkai infested forest, and fall asleep in a hollowed out tree, and maybe, if he was lucky, never wake up.
The switch between hating this—being an uncomfortable burden, draining everyone’s money and time and energy—and adoring being taken care of, drinking in each brush of Touko’s fingers over his hot skin, was nauseating. An emotional roller-coaster Natsume couldn’t get off of.
“You really are delirious.” Touko’s hand rested on his jaw. Natsume leant into it. “I wish there was more I could do.”
“Stay,” Natsume said into her fingertips.
“I won’t leave you.”
Natsume closed his eyes. This was nicer than sleeping amongst the brambles, he thought. Sometimes the foster family he was staying with would fuss over him, but there was always an undercurrent there, an ephemeral patience that would eventually end in Natsume packing his bags.
Being responsible for a sick child was a burden nobody wanted. Even if it wasn’t spoken out loud, Natsume knew. He could always tell how much people hated being in charge of his wellbeing.
Sometimes the foster family would outright ignore his hacking coughs. Sometimes they’d get angry at him. Most of the time, though, they would—
“Please don’t make me leave.” Natsume’s voice was very quiet. Tears puddled in his eyes and slid down his cheeks. He was so warm; the tears almost felt cool. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Touko made a sound in the back of her throat—wretched and wet, like she was choking on her breath. She inhaled shakily, and told him, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I like it here.” The confession fell from Natsume’s lips like overripe fruit from the tree, long overdue but spoiled and rotting. The tears came faster. “I like Touko and Shigeru and this big house; I like my school. I like having friends.”
Touko tried hushing his sobs. Natsume buried his wet face in Nyanko-sensei’s fur. He continued, shakily, “I like Nyanko-sensei.”
“I’m glad,” Touko said. “We want you to feel happy here.”
Natsume pressed closer to his bodyguard. Nyanko-sensei didn’t move away. “But—”
“We want you to stay here as long as you want.” Softly, gently, she said, “No one’s sending you away, Takashi.”
“It’s going to go away,” he slurred, delirious. Tears dripped into his mouth. “I can’t do it again. I can’t lose everything. I have too much now—I’ll break if I leave, I can’t—I can’t—”
Touko’s hands slid into his. “Slow down. Take deep breaths.”
“Please,” Natsume begged. He panted, open mouthed, and looked up at nothing. “Please don’t throw me away.”
One of Touko’s hands untangled from Natsume’s. He was too feverish to see how worked up she was getting, one hand clasped against her mouth, eyes brimming with tears.
She took a long moment to calm down. Then, with a voice far steadier than she felt, Touko told him, “You’re apart of our family now, Takashi. This is your home. We’re never going to make you leave.”
Natsume didn’t remember much about the night before. The details were lost beneath a haze of cloying, uncomfortable heat. He remembered crying at some point. Was he upset? What could he have been upset about with his scrape bandaged and Touko and Nyanko-sensei watching over him?
It was noon. Light flooded in through the gaps of Natsume’s curtains. Nyanko-sensei napped in a tiny patch of sunlight, curled up with his back to his charge.
Natsume was missing school. Nishimura would be happy, at least. Natsume wasn’t sure the other boy was serious when he threatened to bodily drag him home, but he didn’t want to find out. People had kicked up a fuss over Natsume’s wellbeing before. He knew, from experience, it often just made the situation worse.
He kicked off his blankets and headed out of the room. Climbing down the stairs was difficult with wobbly legs. Each step was a struggle.
Touko hurried out of the kitchen at the sound of unsteady footsteps, drying her hands on her apron. “Takashi, what are you doing out of bed?”
Natsume ducked his head. Hair slid along his cheek in the echo of a caress. It was getting too long; he needed to cut it. “I’m sorry.”
Touko’s gaze softened. She was so close to him. There were bare inches between them. Natsume’s stomach was a hollow, sucking pit—it ached in a way that had nothing to do with his illness.
“It’s alright,” she told him. “You look better today. I’m glad. But you really should go back to bed and rest, I’ll bring up some tea—”
She stepped in closer, ready to usher him back upstairs. Natsume, light-headed and drowsy, reached out before he could stop himself and grabbed Touko’s shirt in his fingers. The soft fabric was caught between his thumb and pointer finger.
Touko didn't pull away. “Takashi?”
“I—” Natsume said breathlessly. He blushed and dropped his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. Are you okay?” Natsume nodded at the ground. Touko hesitated a moment and then slowly, slowly, she cupped Natsume’s jaw with one hand. “I don’t like seeing you so sick. You only deserve good things, Takashi.”
His cheeks warmed. “I just,” he faltered and swayed into her space. She opened her arms and took the step he was too afraid to.
He was taller than her, though not by much (though he was going to end up tall; hopefully under this roof, being plied with home cooked meals every day, he could finally slip into a growth spurt). His head was pressed against her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him, but Natsume kept his by his stomach, clenching the fabric of his shirt as he fought back tears.
“Sorry,” he said again into her shirt.
Touko ran her arms over his back, up and down, gentler and gentler. “I’m glad you're here,” she said. She would say it as many times as he needed to hear. She would mean it every time.
“I’m glad, too,” Natsume said, and buried his wet face in the curve of her neck.