Work Text:
There’s only one thing for it, humiliating as it is.
He’s pragmatic, he knows this, he will just have to bite the bullet. His dignity be damned, cursed, left to rot back in the forest along with the now-dead youkai. For all he knows this could be permanent; he does not have the capability to alter the spell, and he’s— well, he just can’t, presently.
Gathering his scant amount of breath, Matoba Seiji— yowls.
There’s a clatter of activity from within the apartment, and it takes a moment before it’s opened by one Natori Shuuichi. Naturally bedraggled, naturally looking like he’s just risen from a nap in a thicket. He looks out at the hallway, frowning attractively, a tidy line marring the space between his eyebrows only (of course he frowns cinematically, too, Matoba thinks, put out).
There’s a loud hiss from the space by Natori’s feet, and finally, the great fool looks down.
“Oh hello there sweetie, look at you, you lost?”
Sweetie.
Matoba faintly wants to be ill, so he swishes his tail, bristling. Insulting. It’s insulting, but there’s nothing to be done for him now; he cannot return to his clan and he cannot go to anyone else— the Matoba clan would be the laughing stock of the eleven families if this got out. He’d be mocked, ridiculed. Surely, the clan would write this down in the history books of the Matoba bloodline. One Matoba Seiji: failure heir who got himself turned into a cat through sheer idiocy, endangering the entire future of his family and potentially the entire prefecture of Kumamoto.
There’s a grouchy “prrt” sound from Seiji at Natori’s address, and he looks up, stares the man down. Natori, of course, does not really cotton on that he’s annoyed, and reaches down to— stroke his back. Matoba stiffens, a low growl emitted from his throat, and Natori withdraws his hand with a bit of a start.
“Wow,” —literally: waow. In English. Really? Matoba wants to mock him. “You’re not very nice are you, I should introduce you to Nyanko-sensei, you’d make a nice girlfriend for him, huh.”
Girlfriend. Girlfriend.
He’s always known Natori was something of an idiot, but the man is attempting to not only prove Seiji correct, but also go beyond his expectations.
He’s been both insulted and called female.
Where does it end.
He strides between Natori’s legs, and into the apartment, stopping at the lip of the genkan’s step to peer into the place. Ah, well, he’s never been here before. Of course. Natori’s never invited him, but then again, he’s never invited Natori to the clan home either. Their teenage days of running around after youkai hardly count. It’s a lot smaller than the clan home, obviously, and it looks as if Natori has been sleeping on the sofa. He’s not surprised at all. It would explain the mess of the man’s hair. He hopes that there are no errant women lurking about, though, that may be beneficial. If anything, he assumes that he makes a handsome cat; he had run here (four legs are rather efficient), and hasn’t had a chance to check his reflection.
Anyway. He walks in, and turns to study Natori, who shakes his head, holding the door open.
“Sorry, kitty, you can’t stay here. I haven’t got time for pets, we’re going to find your owner,” Natori walks over, a bit cautious when he leans down to try to pet him yet again.
Matoba permits it, for a moment, but meets the man’s eyes after that, irritated, and Natori seems to get the message, withdrawing his hand once more. He appears to think that Matoba is going to injure him in some way, and Seiji considers it— he has rather useful, retractable claws. Perhaps a warning cut would be wise. Preventative. He can’t have Natori touching him so inappropriately, not in this weird body (not in any body, but— well. There are layers to that particular point, where human Seiji is concerned).
Matoba tried to voice this to Natori, but instead of his attempted “Watch the hands”, comes a series of pathetic meowing sounds.
Natori smiles (stupidly, Matoba adds, not for the first time), and taps Matoba’s nose gently with the tip of his finger, “You’re lucky I like cats. I’ll let the building manager know you’re here, maybe someone’s looking for you.”
Seiji deflates, finally, and slinks away from Natori towards the coffee table, stomach low to the ground, ears flattened. It’s an impulse, he thinks, to hide, but he can’t think of any other way to currently confront his situation. He’ll begin research in the morning, but for now, it’s too late in the day to even attempt to correct his gross error. This curse, surely, cannot last for more than a week (though, Matoba knows better than most how troublesome these curses can be— how persistent. He has no way of knowing how long he’ll be stuck in this form, and right now, Natori’s hospitality is the only thing that’s going to keep him from the inevitable scorn of the exorcist community. Luckily, Natori already has earned himself plenty of that scorn, so he should be safe here).
One large red eye flicks over to where Natori is crouching down, and they make eye contact. The man looks concerned, which is a look he’s— actually never seen on Shuuichi’s face, not turned towards him, at least. This entire day has been one long series of failures, Matoba thinks, and tucks his (rather scrawny) tail around himself, paws folded beneath his chest. Sometimes, he thinks, there is not much more that can be done for a youkai curse, outside of simply enduring it— he’s heard of transformations into beasts, has heard of memories being altered, timelines being tinkered with. Those creatures certainly do like their mischief. He hates them, possibly more fiercely than he has in quite some time. And he’s a man who deals with the threat of losing his eye monthly.
Speaking of, he can feel the tightness of his right eye has persisted with this body, too. So, a scar remains, then. Pity, he’d have thought that perhaps the beast would have had the courtesy to present him as an unscathed cat. But, no.
There’s energy to be conserved, however, and Matoba finds his eyes blinking shut, and his nose gravitating towards the carpet. He pulls his legs in beneath himself (funny, how instinctually one finds that the feline body can be moved to conserve warmth), and power naps.
///////
He took issue with the cat food first.
Natori, imbecile that he is, had returned from (he assumes) the convenience store with several different types of the foul stuff, and Matoba had taken one look at the packets, and fled into Natori’s bedroom. He’s chosen to hide himself beneath the bed lately, and despite Natori’s cooing (honestly), he’s been remaining right in the far back corner, against the wall.
There are other humiliations, of course, too great to even voice, which he will never admit to. He can only pray that Natori will remain ignorant of this whole incident, and he can escape from the man’s home in cat form before he returns to his human body. That may preserve some of his remaining dignity.
Luckily, the cat food issue had been resolved by Natori himself, who noticed Seiji grouchily eyeing his sandwich. He’d been amused that he now owned (well, temporarily; he’s still posting on the apartment building’s notice board, trying to find the cat’s non-existent owner) a cat that would not, under any circumstances, eat cat food. Google, of course, had been no help in the matter, as now he’s stuck eating bland rice and whatever added, unseasoned meat products Natori had bought for his dinner. It’s better than processed tuna and whatever those foul pellets consisted of, he decides; at least Natori is making an effort. He wonders if the man has ever owned a pet in his life before.
Probably not.
A small mercy is that he’s left to his own devices in the apartment much of the time. Free to browse (snoop around) as he wishes. Opening doors is a tedious exercise when one is all of about one foot tall (he’s not even a large cat, much to his chagrin, and his paws are dainty rather than fearsome; which is insulting, once again), but he’d managed to slide open the door to the exorcism-items broom closet. A quick look around there had proved fruitless; Natori and his paper, he’d thought, bemused, and stretched out a paw to bat at one of the tiny paper shiki. Natori’s bathroom has been a source of amusement for him, too, as the array of hair products that line the shelves near the sink are far more in number than he could ever have anticipated.
He’d invoked a kind of weird, abrasive side of Natori when he smacked several off the counter and onto the floor with his tail (he’s still mastering having such a strangely useless appendage).
Outside of his explorations, and, in order to not be thought a timid, pathetic creature, after his initial spate of hiding, Matoba has made himself a fixture of the apartment. He finds that the arm of the couch is favourable; he can see the whole room, and get a decent view of the window (Natori kindly leaves the door of the balcony cracked open for him, so that he can at least breathe fresh air). It also puts him at a better height for staring down his host, who always calls out, rather sadly to his empty apartment: “I’m home”.
Like now.
“I’m home!” Natori’s carrying a lot of packets, and Matoba picks his head up from where he’d been sleeping at the ruckus that he makes, ears turning towards the source of the noise. He watches the whole keys on the counter, try not to drop the packets routine with interest, all as Natori attempts to remain upright while toeing off his shoes, into the house slippers at the genkan.
Matoba meows at him.
“Oh, hello you,” Natori’s kneeling down next to him in a second, dumping his shopping onto the floor, instead reaching to— hug his cat, “are you happy to see me? Give me a kiss.”
Foul.
Natori kisses his cat face. The humiliations never do cease. Of course, he doesn’t actually scratch him, though, and permits the degradation (the smooches. From an attractive, internationally adored J-pop idol. There’s no use dwelling on it, he thinks).
He runs (trots, with dignity) over to the couch, and seats himself there once Natori is finished smothering him with affection, to wait for the man to place whatever takeout he’s picked up on the coffee table. It’s unheard of in the Matoba household to do something like eat takeout by the television but, this seems to be the routine that Natori is most happy with. In the name of remaining fed and alive, Matoba has compromised by joining him.
///////
“It’s okay, it’s me, relax, relax, here—“
He’s frozen, pressed up against the wall of the shower (he’d run in here in fear, not that he’ll admit this), and the beast (it’s not a beast, actually, he’s just been— on edge, lately), reaches for him. Natori’s wearing something on his face, and sure, maybe he’d overreacted, but his mind had instantly gone to that dogged, awful youkai that wants his eye. The actor reaches up and peels off what seems to be a sticky mask, revealing his face; perfectly moisturised and smiling softly. He sets the mask aside and reaches to pick up the stiffened, growling Matoba, and holds him against his chest for a while, dropping his nose and mouth down to bury it between the cat’s (the exorcist’s) ears.
“It’s all right, pumpkin, don’t be a stupid cat,” There’s this, too: Natori adores him, “I’ve got you, it was just a face mask.”
He also has a whole list of nicknames, all humiliating, that Natori lavishes upon him.
“Sorry, that gave you a fright, didn’t it?” the man is murmuring to him, and fine, yes, he does relax, much to Natori’s obvious joy, and he finds himself carried out of the bathroom. Being picked up is still an affront, but Natori is very— careful to ensure that he’s secure; keeping him firmly held against him. He still digs his claws into the fabric of the other exorcist’s sweater with every ounce of his feline strength (this has presented him with some amusing yelps from the man), but finds that he’s never once been dropped.
Now, Natori’s taken him back to the couch, and placed him in his favourite location (this week), which is between Natori’s thigh and a deflated-looking throw pillow. The actor covers his back with a hand, and, still looking amused from their little sheet-mask run in, turns on the large, flat-screen television.
This has become a shameful pastime of theirs, Matoba’s finding.
Natori possesses some interesting, time-wasting technology that enables them to watch any number of films or television dramas simply at will. Matoba, as a human, has never grown up with a television, and has never indulged in the mindless hobby. Staring at screens for a long time tends to give him a headache (depth perception; he’s always wearing the talisman— it’s a bit of a hindrance when one is required to concentrate on a specific, close-up surface), but he finds that he can simply drop his head and sleep against Natori’s leg, if he so wishes, in this form.
The eye thing had unfortunately lead to a confrontation between himself and Natori— he’d thought it was a skin disorder (it’s not that hideous, though it does look a bit— painful), and tried to take Matoba to the vet. He’d put up the fight of his life, and left Natori with several bleeding wounds, and he’d hidden beneath the bed for a good seven hours. He’s still suspicious that the man may attempt this for a second time, but for now, he seems to be fine to leave him as he is.
“Oh look I’m in this.”
He looks, glancing over at Natori first, and then over to the television screen. Ah, Natori is, indeed, in this television drama show. He has his shirt off, and seems to be running after a sports car as it drives along a deserted beach road (maybe— Okinawa, he thinks). A woman’s hat flies out of said sports car, and Natori catches it. He keeps running towards where the car is slowing down, hat in hand. Matoba glances up at Natori again, and finds the man watching with a dopey smile. Pathetic.
He allows his head to fall against Natori’s leg once more, and, as soon as the man has raised a hand to pet him, turns his muzzle and bites him clean through the track pants he’s wearing.
Natori jumps. “No, Seiji, bad cat.”
Right, that.
He’s been named Seiji.
Again.
He’s relieved, yes, as prior naming options were far from favourable. The man finally discovered that he was indeed male, so at least the options had improved faintly. It had taken some time, but one look at the eye, and after getting significantly scratched, Natori had looked at him for a long time, finally shaking his head and declaring that his new cat reminded him of “that weird guy” (how dare he, he will never forget this), and had called him by Matoba’s given name. So, he is once again Seiji. Not that Natori ever uses his name when he’s pleased with him. The abhorrent nicknames and the sheer lack of creativity— well, he shouldn’t be surprised.
Hiiragi has been another problem, in the already growing list of them. Like now.
She enters the room in her usual puff of smoke, and Matoba stands up aggressively in his place, thrashing his tail.
“Now, now, it’s just Hiiragi,” Natori pats him rudely on the head, and reaches to pause the B-grade movie, “Did you check up on the Nakamura family home?”
“Master,” comes her monotone, and Matoba stands straighter, growling. She looks at him with her ugly mask, and he hisses.
“There have been no reoccurrences of their infestation. The wards that we laid have held. This is all I have to report.”
She stares at Seiji, and he stares back. Youkai filth, truly. He thinks she suspects him, though she has mentioned nothing of it. Evidently that youkai did such a good job of turning him into a cat that even other youkai now believe it. Also: leaving sub-par wards around a perimeter after cleaning out a youkai infestation will only hold them off for around seven years. It’s a temporary fix and smacks of shoddy workmanship. Typical Natori; the man knows the bare minimum and survives based in some part, he thinks, on his faint skill with paper, and mostly on his looks. Which are considerable, now that he’s seeing them up close, but nevertheless, he’s about as B-grade an exorcist as he is an actor.
Hiiragi stares at Matoba for a bit longer than is proper, and Matoba, having tucked his paws beneath himself once more, stands.
Natori eyes the icy staring match between the two of them, and laughs, waving Hiiragi off, “Don’t be jealous, he’s just a bit nervous of youkai. Quite remarkable,” Natori gathers Matoba up (he stiffens, digs his claws into the man), and places him in his lap, “I didn’t know cats could see them. He’s special.”
Special. Of course he’s special; he’s not a cat.
“Let me know if I’m needed,” Hiiragi gives Seiji a final look, and he can’t really read her mask, so he lets her go with a long hiss. She leaves the same way she came in. Matoba narrows his eyes.
“My, you’re in a mood today, hmm?” Ah, Natori is going to be condescending towards him. Well, he’s above it. Matoba stands, feet balanced on natori’s legs, a little precariously (his balance is somewhat hindered by the bad sight in his right eye, so he’s a little— wobbly in situations where a cat would have absolute control). He pauses, regains stability, then turns, curling against Natori’s stomach.
It would seem, Seiji thinks, blinking slowly as the man starts to stroke his back, that Natori is weak. For cats. He’s able to turn him into an utterly soft fool with just the slightest sliver of affection. He wonders, sometimes, if this works for humans, but he doubts he’ll ever have the opportunity to try that out. The last time he saw Natori, he thinks, tucking his tail more tightly around himself, and emitting a soft purring noise, was at the Miharu household. They’d ended things on, well, on fine terms, but there had been no resolution to their quiet little cold war. He wonders, perhaps, if he ought to have approached Natori’s line of questioning with more patience. The man can surely not be annoyed with him over giving him advice on unsealing that room. Matoba was very helpful, when Natori clearly didn’t know what he was doing.
In fact, Natori actually ought to have thanked him.
The man did throw himself in front of a knife for him, of course, and then, again, in front of an attacking youkai. Perhaps he should have said something about that. And, there was the loquat thing, too. But, it’s best that Natori not know that he was dwelling on that. Natsume, of course, had to involve himself, and Seiji had rambled a bit, maybe. He doubts the boy would say anything— at least Natsume knows when to keep his mouth shut. He could still threaten to tell the boy’s foster parents about his youkai adventures. He’s still got that card to play. Once he’s figured this mess out, that is.
Whatever the case is, his immediate difficulty is not repairing or damaging his relationship with Natori— well, Seiji the Cat’s relationship with Natori would seem to be thriving. His main concern is getting back to the clan in human shape— the time of month for that youkai to rear its ugly head is approaching, and he has no idea if it’ll wreak havoc on the clan grounds, or come here, looking for him.
He digs his claws into Natori’s sweater, kneading it thoughtfully.
He can’t allow the thing to attack him here; that would be immensely problematic for all parties involved. He has no way of defending himself, and Natori would have to take the brunt of the thing. However, he has also considered that perhaps— perhaps it would not come looking for him at all. Perhaps the creature would not recognise him, perhaps— if Hiiragi cannot see him, then that thing would be unable to see him too. He may, inadvertently, have found the most inconvenient way of remaining hidden from the eye-snatching youkai in all of his clan’s famous history. This does not comfort him, though— he’s still going to have to solve this issue one way or another.
The lizard skitters past, along Natori’s wrist, and— he can’t help himself.
“Ouch! Not again, what’s the matter with you?” Natori’s wrist is bleeding. He feels— maybe, perhaps a flicker of guilt. The exorcist is— being very nice to him, after all. And he ordered decent sushi on his Uber eats phone application. Matoba leans in, pauses, then embarrassingly licks the small scratch with his rough cat tongue.
He truly has figured out the workings of Natori, he thinks, because he smiles (stupidly) at his cat, and picks him up, placing him on his chest.
“See, be nice. Who’s a beautiful boy?”
He is. Obviously.
///////
Natori, he has been discovering lately, has very interesting sleeping habits. The man comes home at all hours of the night, once or twice reeking of alcohol, it’s true— though those nights he seems to just collapse on the couch and sleep for many consecutive hours. There seems to be no actual organisation in his schedule, and sometimes, to his great dismay, he finds Natori still sleeping on the couch at lunchtime. Broad daylight. Not daybreak. Midday.
Matoba himself has always woken up at around 5:30am, sharp, and proceeded with his morning routines. Stretching, meditation, something fresh and efficient for breakfast. In the clan household, he’d have a meeting by 8am, and then move on to his tasks for the rest of the day after that. Natori, on the other hand, is more functional by the time it’s evening, and when he does rise from the sofa cushions, he staggers into the shower, staggers out, and goes to his night shoots. He does also appear to answer some exorcism job offers, but those don’t roll in as frequently as the modelling jobs.
It’s difficult to remain unamused at the man’s failure of an exorcism career, and Seiji watches daily as Natori listens to multiple curse mails on his answering machine, sorting through them to see if there are any actual calls for jobs. The curse mails have been a bit perplexing to him, because Natori has never mentioned this before. It strikes a chord in him, perhaps now that he’s spending all of this semi-quality time with the man, and he will, out of thanks for Natori’s sort-of hospitality, put and end to them once he’s back in his human body (all he would need to do, would be to answer one of those curse calls instead of letting it go to voicemail... one utterance of "hello, Matoba Seiji speaking" and, doubtlessly, Natori would never have to deal with them ever again).
Today (yes, today), Natori is in a dead sleep on the couch once again.
Matoba, who had risen from his slumber about five hours ago, eaten, patrolled the house, partaken in his humiliating feline ablutions, stretched, meditated, and then eaten once more, stands on the arm of the sofa, watching.
Natori has a very decent face, he thinks, and walks along the back of the couch, standing over the man. He has a strong jaw. Nice— features. Well, he thinks, swishing his tail in thought, he is an actor. If he were frightfully ugly, his career in acting would be as dead as his exorcism business. The actor looks tired today, he considers, and peers at him, stretching a paw out and bracing it on Natori’s chest, before stepping down lightly.
To his surprise, the man does not snore; which is a blessing. However, he does— mumble in his sleep, sometimes. It’s not cute, he thinks, surely, but it’s not— it’s not offensive. Bloodshot, red-brown eyes crack open and consider the feline face that’s currently staring at him. Natori blinks twice, then smiles, lopsidedly.
“Hello my love, you here to say good morning?” No, actually, he’s here to say good afternoon.
Natori reaches to pet him, scratching his ears gently, then reaching to press him offensively against his chest so that they’re kind of—cuddling. He hates it and struggles. Natori groans.
“Can’t I hug you? You’re an awful cat, look I’m suffering.” No, Seiji thinks, you’re hungover. It’s different.
But, he relents, because Natori does look miserable, and slides around until he’s curled up beside the man’s head. Natori turns a bit, and kisses his fur. Ah, at least he is adored. It is, perhaps, not the most distasteful thing— Natori’s complete, unwavering devotion is refreshing, true.
He’s a little surprised at the purr that emits from his own throat, actually, because it’s loud and whirring and Natori smiles against his neck fluff (he’s not in possession of the technical names of his anatomy, so), a hand coming up to (annoyingly) play with one of his small cat feet. He tries to pull it from the man’s grasp, but Natori makes kissing noises at him and he thinks fine, fine, and places it on the actor’s face. A click lets him know that Natori’s taken a photograph (on the backwards camera…) of the two of them. It’s fine, he does not have an online connection; the clan mansion only has dial up anyway, for emergencies. Such a waste of precious time, that.
///////
There are some— motor issues. With his new, four-legged body.
They present themselves on several occasions:
First, most humiliatingly, is that his depth perception is a bit spotty. He’d thought to flee from Natori’s arms to the balcony for a bit of peace (the cuddling thing is not worth noting, he’s become shameless in his sharing of the man’s bed. He sleeps next to his blond head and Natori has not once made him leave or gotten tetchy with him. It’s miraculous). He’s a lot faster as a cat than he was as a human (though he had supreme agility as a human, naturally. Naturally superior, you see).
He’d smacked snout-first into the sliding glass door.
In front of Natori. Who, being awful and cruel, had laughed at him.
Matoba had staggered off to the side, dazed, to the sound of Natori trying to regain his breath, before sending a wounded look over his shoulder at the gasping exorcist. At least, he thinks, the man had recovered himself and walked over to pick him up, checking his nose for injuries and telling him that: “it’s fine, you’re a bit blind, I love you anyway”. He’d been too out of it to actually become annoyed at this, and he’d let Natori baby him. Sometimes, a physical blow to the face can be the same as a blow to the ego, and in this case, both were dented. Natori had carried him around on his shoulder for the remainder of the evening, and he’d clung there, embarrassed.
He’s also developed a little habit (harmless, of course; Natori thinks he’s a cat, after all) of watching his new caretaker in the bath.
He'd mused that, Natori, as an actor, has also perhaps gotten himself a trainer (he hypothesises, because of extensive research and observation), because his body is in— fine condition. Matoba follows him to the bathroom, usually, and seats himself on the rim of the tub. Natori will then go about his skin care rituals, hair care rituals, and various other beauty up-keep regimens, all while making one-sided conversation with Seiji.
Matoba enjoys the view.
The motor problem had been brought to the fore when Natori had lightly splashed him, trying to initiate some playful back and forth, and his now-small cat heart had clenched in fear. He’d scrambled to escape the water, slipped when misjudging the jump from bath to floor, and clattered backwards, back legs first, into the tub. Of course, he’d made enough noise to panic Natori, who had tried to rescue him as he struggled— he’d also sunken all of his claws into whatever surface of the man he could reach to prevent drowning. He hadn’t known Natori capable of such filthy language, but clearly, there are sides to Natori that he’s never seen before (backside not included; he’s seen it often in their cohabitation. It’s decently shaped).
He’d spent the rest of his evening next to the heater in abject humiliation, the actor having found a dishcloth to wrap him in.
Of course, when Natori had seen him (small, soaking wet, fur spiked with water, shivering beneath the couch after his speedy retreat) he’d had the nerve to laugh. Seiji had growled, low and guttural at the insult, and Natori had apologised and coaxed him out over the space of an hour.
Jumping is a bit of a problem too.
He can’t quite tell how far an object is, and the power required to make it from point A to point B requires a careful judgement of distance. Now, he likes the fact that he’s so agile, and light on his feet, but, the issue comes when he— overestimates. Instead of sailing gracefully from bar counter to kitchen counter, he’d smacked into the wall, knocking over the unused coffee machine, along with the paper towels that Natori buys because he’s too lazy to wash a washcloth (he’d seen that, yes).
He underestimates, too, and will simply leap from his perch into— empty space.
Natori seems to find this the source of endless amusement, and frequently videos him. On his phone. What Matoba does not see, is Natori, on set in hair and makeup, telling the various ladies fussing over him how much he “misses his cat”. The videos have been circulated extensively around the internet, too, and there are several fan pages dedicated to “Natori Shuuichi’s cat Seiji”. The comments have been somewhat defamatory. It’s not his fault he looks like a void cryptid, of course; Natori will frequently defend his beauty to those who challenge it. Not that he knows this either.
Anyway, he’s working on the jumping thing. He’d mastered archery with his eyepatch, so there’s no reason for him to be unable to figure the distance thing out in this, too.
For the moment, however, it would seem that he is cursed to act as a comic relief for Natori.
///////
Not too far into their cohabitation, Natori gets him a collar.
“I’m home!” he calls, and Matoba walks over to greet him, tail raised in the air in a pleased sort of greeting. He’s had a productive day; he’d read through the newspaper and mulled extensively over his current predicament. He’d further investigated the exorcism closet and despite finding that fruitless, had perused some interesting texts from the Natori family library. No useful information, but certainly some curious little spells that he’s committed to memory. It’s not often that one has the chance to read, unencumbered, the texts of an enemy clan. He’d napped several times, regaining his energy, and he’d partaken in an instinctual ritual of self-cleaning; a prehistoric sort of impulse that had lead him to ingest— a staggering amount of fur. Regardless, he’s beautifully clean.
“Hello angel, how are you today, look what I got you,” Natori bends down to kiss him on the head, and Matoba blinks, slowly, purring at his foolish roommate (boyfriend, perhaps, they are committed, surely. Natori loves him; most ardently). He buckles the nice, red collar around Seiji’s neck, and the exorcist gets a glimpse of the tag attached to it.
“Natori Seiji
If found, please return to:
[redacted address]
[redacted phone number]”
Ah, a gesture of commitment.
Matoba purrs loudly as the man buckles it on him. This is not unpleasant, he thinks, and swishes his tail, tipping his face up to receive the scratches behind his ears.
Natori appears to think that the collar looks very smart on him too, and he picks him up, fishing for his phone in his pocket, and taking several photographs of Seiji’s face. Without adequate lighting, the pitch black fur absorbs all of the light, and Matoba looks like a— void. In a nice red collar.
Natori finds him adorable.
The photos end up, once again, on Instagram.
///////
“Oh yeah, come over— he’s really cute, you’ll love him. But maybe— don’t bring Nyanko-sensei, okay? I don’t want him to get scared, I don’t think he’s great with other cats. He’s kind of— territorial.”
Who is this. On the phone. Matoba is desperate to know, he only hears fragments of the conversation before he runs into the room, sadly announcing his arrival with the jingling of his tag on his collar. Natori looks over to him and stretches out a hand, inviting him to join the discussion. Perhaps, he thinks, clambering up Natori’s leg and into his lap (ignoring his “ouch” as he uses his claws to do so) he misjudged Shuuichi. The man treats him with adoration. He feeds him (he’s gotten lazy with the whole ‘cooking for your cat’ business, and now, thankfully, he shares his own food. Far more fitting), he cleans the shameful plastic tray without mocking him, and he shows him affection every evening.
Living with Natori has turned out to be, despite the various indignities of being a cat, quite calming. On a whole. His day to day life is far removed from his time as a clan head, and while he is biding his time, and still trying to figure out how to return to them, he is also finding— that living with the other exorcist is not entirely unpleasant.
Right now, he’s uncertain of who Natori is inviting over (there had been an unfortunate incident with a woman; she’d been allergic to cats, and had been wearing some scandalous underwear; Matoba had seen her off in record time, much to Natori’s exasperation— some friend of his, it seemed. He’d always assumed that Natori was free with his affections, this only confirmed it. Slut).
Anyway. He forgets the phone conversation, as Natori initiates a cozy evening of watching some film or another together, and he orders pizza— a new experience for Matoba, whose diet, in his human years, had been mostly rice, miso and whatever else the clan chef cooked up for him (his sweet tooth aside, of course; the convenience store runs are a bit of a little— habit). Natori watches him, amused, as he gnaws on a crust. Natori seems absorbed in the film, which he finds endearing, and he glances from the man’s face to the screen. People chase each other through an airport to soaring orchestral music (illegal, surely— and poor work on the security team’s side. The whole ordeal cannot be factually correct). They embrace. Natori swipes at his eye with a thumb, smiling wistfully.
Perhaps, he thinks, returning his attention to the pizza crust, Natori will watch a film with him once he is human again.
Perhaps.
///////
Natsume visits, thankfully, without his demonic entity in cat form, and takes one look at Matoba, before recoiling.
“Natori-san, I think something’s wrong with his eye.”
Natori has been preparing for the visit for the better part of the morning, and for once, there’s more than an assortment of spare teabags in the kitchen cabinet. Matoba had gone to the door to inspect whoever had the gall to intrude on his alone time with Shuuichi, finding, to his surprise, young Natsume-kun.
Natsume drinks his tea, sitting on the other side of the sofa.
Matoba sits on Natori’s lap, watching him.
“No, no. I think it’s scarred. He— probably fought a lot before I found him.” And he will fight again, if you continue bringing women over, Seiji thinks, glancing at Natori with a you wouldn’t believe it if I told you sort of side-eye.
Natsume eyes him, nervously, “I think he’s— listening to us.”
Matoba looks up at Natori, who beams at him.
“He’s remarkable, isn’t he? I sometimes think he understands exactly what I say to him. But—“ Natori sips his tea, crossing one leg over the other and forcing Matoba to reposition himself; he tucks his paws beneath his chest, looking like a charred loaf of bread, “he’s not that smart sometimes. He fell in the bath twice. He walks into things a lot— ouch, Seiji stop it, watch the claws.”
“Seiji?” the teenager’s eyes widen.
“Ah, well. Doesn’t he— look a bit like Matoba-san?”
Natsume considers him, seeming wary, “I guess.”
“Seiji— Matoba that is, used to follow me around when we were teenagers. Did you know that? We must have been about your age.”
Natsume listens, with a polite oh?
“Mm, yes. We were friends, sort of, for a while.” Friends. Matoba wants to sink his claws into Natori once again. Bringing up the embarrassment of his teenage crush in front of the boy is insulting. Besides, Natori had been the one to make things awkward on their loquat picking date.
Natsume keeps studying him with something like suspicion, and, when he meets the teenager’s eyes, he thinks that perhaps there was a flicker of recognition. He’d stared him down, and the boy had broken eye contact, instead reaching for one of the biscuits that Natori had purchased from the international supermarket near his fancy high rise. Such lengths for this boy, he thinks. Perhaps Natori wants to take him on as his apprentice. The Natori clan is— a little thinned out.
“Anyway,” Natori continues, reaching down to stroke Matoba’s head, “I wanted you to meet him. You know, I’ve never had a pet. Aside from a goldfish, once. It died.”
For the first time, Natsume smiles at the actor fully, and Natori radiates his usual sparkles. Perhaps, Matoba thinks, kneading the man’s legs, Natori is lonely. After all, he does say “I’m home” to an empty apartment each time he returns, as if hoping to invoke a spouse or significant other through wishing alone. Matoba’s taken to answering him with a loud cat yell; the undignified sound is all that he can do to alert Natori to his continued presence in his home. It’s fine, though, he thinks, blinking at Natsume for a while, then rubbing his chin on Natori’s knee, it makes this foolish actor just about brim with affection for him; as it should be.
When he returns to his original form, he decides, tuning out the uninteresting conversation between the sub-par exorcist and the idiot child who walks around with a bunch of murderous demonic creatures that he calls "friends", he’ll see about recruiting the pair of them for the clan. It could not hurt to have more people around with the sight— and besides: perhaps, if Natsume-kun were to join, then Natori would follow.
Natori, he thinks, could stay in his wing of the clan house— he has enough space. He would not want Natori to think he was just bringing him on to swell the ranks. They are not an item yet, but they most certainly will be— given time and a shared bed (and a human body, of course). He stretches his cat arms, paws spreading, claws extending, and rolls over in Natori’s lap, gazing up at the exorcist.
Natori looks at him and makes a stupid kissy face.
Natsume watches the exchange with an expression that’s more than just faintly suspicious.
///////
“Yes, that’s my cat.”
The on-set assistants gather around to look at the photographs on Natori’s phone— which he holds over his shoulder for them to look at, while the make up artist finishes with touch ups. He’s being given a black eye, for this next scene (he fights Satomi Ishihara's character's cruel and manipulative ex-boyfriend in a dramatic showdown at their wedding) , and he has to keep having it retouched; the lighting makes him sweat.
“Oh, he’s— adorable,” says Ayako, his hair stylist, leaning over to squint at the photo of Seiji. He doesn’t quite trust her tone— it’s almost as if she’s trying to sound like she finds him cute, but is only doing so politely.
“Yes, he’s— very handsome,” the make up artist agrees.
Natori turns his phone back around, beaming at the barely discernible image of a scrawny black cat with the tip of its tongue sticking out from between his teeth.
“Yeah, he’s wonderful. You know, he greets me when I get home? I don’t think my heart has ever been this full,” Natori sparkles, the ladies smile at him, “I never knew it was possible to love a pet this much.”
Thanks to the entrance of Seiji into his life, he’s also become the most instagram famous cat-owning celebrity across the entire archipelago of Japan, and has gained even more fame across the rest of the globe too. There seems to be a correlation between female attention, and becoming a cat owner, he thinks, though he really is— mostly just happy to have another living being in the apartment that waits for him to return home. Seiji has become a joy in his life, and he’s only had him for around two months.
“Here, look at this one,” he thumbs through another batch of photos, holding the phone out again, “he was drooling in his sleep.”
There’s a giggle from both women, and they lean in once more. Seiji is on his back, paws in the air, yes, drooling. It’s probably to the benefit of Natori’s health and lifespan that Matoba is not present for his little show and tell session, as the reaction would probably be— dangerous.
He continues scrolling. By now, both women have stopped what they were doing (his hair, and the blue patches on his black eye), to indulge him in his cat diatribe.
“Here he is, uh, just before he knocked over my television— ha, ha— don’t worry, he didn’t hurt himself. Or the television, I just had to set it up again, he didn’t mean to,” Ayako giggles.
“Oh, and look, he’s wearing a little hat. I didn’t get him one, he’d have bitten me for that, it’s just a filter. You know, that Snow mobile app picks up your pet’s face too? Here, he’s wearing reindeer antlers,” the actor says.
“Where did you get him, Natori-san?” the make up artist has returned to dabbing at his black eye.
“I didn’t get him, actually. He got me,” that line could have been smoother, Natori supposes, but he’s preoccupied with scrolling through his bank of Seiji photos, “I found him outside my door, I think someone abandoned him. How could anyone do that to an animal?”
There’s a chorus of agreement from the women. Natori is, they have both decided, a perfect man.
///////
Back in the Eastern Forest, there’s chaos.
Matoba-san has been missing for the better part of two months, and has left no word or trace for them to follow. Nanase has managed to keep the upheaval quiet; they’re on lockdown— no clan head means no leader, and no leader means being open to all kinds of attack from enemy youkai (and the occasional enemy clan member).
Nanase, who is currently sitting in Seiji’s office, is trying to go through his documents. Naturally, she can replicate his signature without any issue (forgery is the least of their crimes), and she knows their tax evasion/off-shore 'investment' situation like the back of her hand. In fact, she’s the one that handles most of the financial business of the Matoba estate, so at least they’re not in danger of going broke. Seiji, she notes, is also meticulous in his paperwork (he never used to be, however, in his years as clan head, he’s matured into quite the organised businessman), so she’s had an easy time of finding this or that permit or contract.
There’s a knock at the sliding screen door, and Nanase looks up, “Enter.”
The exorcist hovers for a while, bowing at the waist before addressing her, “We have found no trace of Matoba-sama in the city. He does not seem to have taken up a personal mission.”
“Thank you, and noted,” Nanase dismisses him, and takes off her glasses with a frustrated exhalation.
This is quite unlike Seiji. He had the shadow of a rebellious phase when he was in high school, just for the first year or two, but outside of his running around with a certain Natori, he was a dedicated student and a committed heir, particularly after the loss of his father.
Natori is a thought that crosses her mind. She’d noticed the two of them sneaking around at the Miharu mansion (stuck in a room together, for several hours— due to some paper magic charms. A dubious excuse at best, she’d thought, but not mentioned it to Matoba again. And, straight after that, the Natori boy had thrown his entire body between the clan head and an attacking youkai. Interesting). She’s reluctant to make contact with the actor, but he truly is the only un-researched lead that she has. The possibility that Matoba has run off with that hopeless idol fool does not even enter her thoughts; she knows Seiji, raised him herself when his mother had become ill, and seen him through from a narrow-eyed, odd looking child to his adulthood.
If anything has happened, she thinks, it’s because he is unable to return, not because he does not wish to.
He must be safe, she thinks, and begins reorganising the papers that litter his desk, carefully setting them aside, next to the brushes that Matoba uses now and then, in his scant free time, for calligraphy. He has a steady hand and an eye for detail, she thinks, looking at the few pieces that hang on his walls. He was always a talented child, in so many ways. A sharp tongued brat, yes, but gifted; special in his uniqueness and strangeness. He’s lucky he took after his mother in looks, too. He’s got her shrewd eyes, and her sweep of ink-black hair. Seiji grew into his angles.
Nanase’s gaze wanders out to the garden.
The time for that youkai’s attack came and went, the first month, but as the second of his absence draws to a close— well, she cannot be certain that wherever he is, it will not seek him out. It’s stupid, true, but it’s not so stupid. It has its senses, the ones that even perhaps Seiji tends to underestimate (he underestimated it once; his scar is a testament to that), and there is a chance that it will find him again.
She just hopes that he is in good company, wherever he is.
///////
His happy life with Natori all comes crashing down, of course, when the youkai shows up.
It bursts through the living room’s sliding door, and wreaks havoc, pursued closely by Hiiragi, Urihime and Sasago.
Matoba, who had been sleeping quite contently on the arm of the sofa, springs from his perch, hissing, only to take one look at the beast and flee— he’s a cat; there is no way he can fight that thing off. It'll consume both himself and his eye, and that'll be that for the Matoba clan's considerable power.
There’s no chance for him to remain in possession of his eye unless he escapes.
So, he does just that.
He crouches in the corner, beneath the bed, listening to the commotion in Natori’s living room as the ladies attempt to repel the creature. Natori, who had been in his room of exorcism paraphernalia, joins the struggle. Matoba himself is frozen in place, fur puffed out, looking around three times his regular scrawny size— his heart hammers in his small chest, and he thinks, with mounting dread, that there is no way for him to contact Nanase— he must try to get a message to her again (his previous efforts have been fruitless).
After around ten minutes of sudden silence, Natori enters the room.
Matoba can see his socked feet.
The actor bends down.
“It’s alright, it’s gone now.”
He looks exhausted, seems a little— roughed up, too. It’s a decent look on him, Matoba thinks, slinking out from beneath the bed and going over to the actor, bumping his head against the man’s knees in gratitude.
There’s no answering pat to his head.
Matoba looks up, affronted.
Natori seems— off.
“I know that youkai,” the exorcist says, watching the cat, “there’s only one person I’ve ever seen it come after.”
Uh oh. Matoba shrinks a bit, eyes narrowing. Well, it was a nice situation while it lasted— he will be forced to cut Natori from his life, surely. He cannot have this humiliation repeated to anyone that may come into contact with him in the future— no one can know. At least now, the man can help him seek out a cure.
He meows.
There’s something in Natori’s face that softens, and he gives in, picking Matoba up.
“You’re— him.” Yes, he is. Only took you two months to figure it out, Matoba thinks. Was it so hard to tell? He meows, because his vocal range is very limited. He assumes that Natori will understand the lack of a spoken response.
He wonders when the realisation will dawn that he’s seen Natori naked more times than any of his actress hook ups. The only solution will be to never speak to him again; after all, the man has cleaned his litter box. There is no greater shame.
Shuuichi carries him to the living room, seeming kind of— shell-shocked.
“How did you— get turned into a cat?” Natori places him on the arm of the chair, sitting down next to it, and staring ahead at the blank television, “Why didn’t you go to Nanase, she’s basically your mom.”
Seiji meows, because Natori’s a fool and he still can’t reply without the use of his human vocal chords.
Natori looks at him, a bit pained, “You were— my cat.”
No, actually he was Matoba Seiji, some people just lack observation skills.
“I’m calling Nanase.”
Matoba snorts, huffing out a breath through his nose. Well, this situation cannot be helped, he supposes. If the clan aren’t having a collective heart attack already, they most certainly will now. But, he supposes, tucking his paws beneath himself (Natori’s staring at him with a watery frown, he wonders, is he going to cry?), this is his last chance. Between Nanase and Natori, and the rest of the clan, they should be able to get him right again. He’ll just— have to come up with some excuse that makes the whole ordeal seem heroic, rather than just flat out embarrassing.
He wonders if he still gets to share Natori’s bed.
Probably not.
He pulls his chin back, making himself in to a small, unhappy ball, flattening his ears and pulling his tail tightly around himself.
///////
Some time later, the clan phone rings, and— Natori Shuuichi requests to speak to the clan leader.
Matoba was not expecting any phone calls, and he picks up with curiosity; a silken ‘Good afternoon, Matoba Seiji speaking,” uttered into the mouth piece.
Natori hesitates, and the phone crackles.
“Yes?” Matoba asks into the silence.
“Uh, hi,” Oh, he thinks, it’s Natori.
“Natori-san.”
“Um, yeah, hello— Matoba. Are you busy? Could we talk?”
“Well, I did pick up, so please, go ahead.”
Natori clears his throat, and Seiji waits, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m— sorry. For freaking out when you, well— for the cat thing. It wasn’t your fault.”
My, my, he thinks. An apology. From Natori Shuuichi. Truth be told, Matoba had not expected anything of the sort— in fact, he’d anticipated radio silence for the next twenty odd years. Natori had taken him back to the clan the following morning, much to the shock of Nanase and company. He’d parted from him with nothing more than a sad look, escorted off the grounds by Nanase herself who— he thinks— perhaps offered to pay for his silence. Whether Natori accepted Nanase’s offer or not, well— the cat debacle never did get beyond the clan walls, so it would appear that Natori held his tongue.
“Yes?” Matoba says.
“That’s all. I just— wanted to tell you. And—“ another hesitation, it seems that Natori is wrestling with something, here. Seiji can’t pretend that he’s not curious. He wonders if Natori still wears Korean sheet masks while he drinks his red wine on the evenings that he’s not filming. He wonders, too, if bath time is dull without him to spice things up by falling in the water (that was humiliating, though, he won’t allow himself to be nostalgic about those floundering, pathetic attempts to claw his way up the side of the bath).
“—would you— if you have time, of course— like to come over? Whenever suits you, and me, but— you know my filming schedule by now, don’t you.”
There’s a bit of snideness in Natori’s voice, he notes, at the end there. The fact that he knows Natori’s filming schedule could easily be swapped out for something like: “you know that I wear Calvin Klein briefs”, or “you know that I don’t fold my laundry”, “you know I cry during dog movies”, etc, (not even mentioning the more risqué options about masturbatory habits that Matoba had been sure to walk in on, only to be shoved back out the door with a disgruntled yell).
“I could— perhaps— make time for that, yes,” he says, voice light, leaning back in his desk chair.
“Well, good.”
“Excellent.”
“I’ll— call you again, and let you know when, okay?” Natori says.
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“Seiji—“ Ooh, first names. Matoba’s intrigued.
“Yes?”
“You weren’t a bad cat, you know.” There’s— something warm there, perhaps even— wistful. It reminds him of when he’d watched Natori cry during Love Actually.
“I’ll see you soon, Shuuichi.” the exorcist smiles, something feline in the curve of his mouth.