Chapter Text
“You’re the witch?”
Hitoshi knew exactly what his newest ‘client’ thought of with that tone. He knew the image he made—with his stereotypical hat (that kept falling into his eyes, and he had to keep readjusting it), and his small stature (compared to the heights of the rest of the paranormal, that is), and his young appearance (by paranormal standards, given Hitoshi barely reached his early 200s), and that soft cloy of baby drenched around him.
“I am,” said Hitoshi, peering over the edge of his spell book. “Did you need something?”
“Uh.” By the client’s shifting, Hitoshi knew they were uncomfortable with whatever request they had. Some people were like that, when Hitoshi revealed himself and they were hit with the reality that, technically, Hitoshi was just barely edging out of his childhood. “You’re, like, the – the apprentice or something, right? Where’s the, um—.”
Hitoshi smothered his urge to roll his eyes. “I’m not the apprentice.” He flicked his wrist and his spell book closed and floated to its’ place on the bookshelf. A quick hum beneath his breath pulled his cauldron near him, potion ingredients bobbing along. “I’m the only witch here. If there’s a problem with that, I’m more than happy to refer you to—.”
“No, no, it’s just . . .,” his client stuttered, pausing, and then swallowed. “I need to, uh. Unwind a curse.”
Hitoshi blinked and tilted his head. His hat chose that moment to fall, obscuring most of his vision. He muttered a curse beneath his breath and fixed it. His client grimaced, an unreadable expression crossing their features. Hitoshi didn’t care, really. “What kind of curse is it?”
“. . . It’s a, uh . . ..” His client trailed off, staring at Hitoshi with that incomprehensible expression, and Hitoshi resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“Would you like me to refer you somewhere else?” Hitoshi offered in the kindest voice he could muster. Relief scrawled over his clients’ (ex-client?) face as they nodded with eagerness. Figured. Most of the clients who stayed were ones that wanted something “easy” and “nonthreatening” to Hitoshi, whom they perceived to be baby™.
“Yes, please.”
“No problem,” said Hitoshi, and masked his (slight!) bitterness with a smile. After Hitoshi made a few calls to some other witches he knew that were in the area and reasonably priced, he turned to his ex-client with another smile. “Kayama-san said she’ll take care of your curse. She’s just two blocks away from here.”
Quiet settled into his little shop as the man left. Hitoshi hummed over his bubbling cauldron, dropping the proper ingredients when the instructions called for it. He didn’t really need the instructions at this point, but they were good to have open, nonetheless. Just in case.
“. . . That was sad,” spoke a voice from behind, a shadowed silhouette stepping from behind the staircase. Hitoshi wasn’t surprised at their presence, having sensed them the moment they decided to park themselves there.
Hitoshi rolled his eyes, a darker scowl setting on his lips as he turned. “Go away.”
“I live here,” Tokage protested, a soft pout on her lip. “S’not like I can go out into ‘polite society’, after all.” She quoted polite society with her fingers, all bone and stark, off-putting white. Her mirage shifted, flickering to a magical image of how she’d look to humans.
Mostly.
“We’re working on that,” Hitoshi reminded her, taking a softer tone than before. Tokage only sniffed again and reached for one of his spell books.
Tokage had been cursed—by what, or whom, Hitoshi was still trying to figure out—and essentially walked around as a skeleton. Magic swirled around her, casting that mirage, but it flickered in and out too randomly for her to risk being outside for longer than thirty minutes. She hated it, having had to ‘disappear’ from the rest of society.
(Her family still looked for her, Hitoshi knew.)
By the time she stumbled into his shop, shoulders drooping with exhausted desperation, it had been five years since the curse had been cast. It hadn’t helped that she’d been struck when disoriented, not having seen the witch who’d cursed her. Hitoshi didn’t know what she’d done to aggravate the witch, either and sensed it was a story he didn’t have the emotional energy to listen to.
She settled down into one of the armchairs while Hitoshi coaxed the potion to a froth. “So.” Tokage drawled out the ‘o’ and clucked her tongue. Her mirage flickered in and out, disorienting to anyone who wasn’t used to it. “What’re we doin’ for the hapless little humans this year?”
Hitoshi raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you a hapless little human?”
Tokage scrunched her nose. “What’s your point?”
Hitoshi snorted, and then shrugged. “Dunno.” He reached for the ladle and lowered the heat before he began scooping the potion into his mason jars. He loved those jars. He decorated each one to fit the potion inside of it. “Hmm . . . maybe a haunted house?”
Tokage blinked slow. “A . . . A haunted house?”
“Yeah.” Hitoshi filled one jar, screwed it shut, and reached for another. The potion he made typically filled up to six jars. “We can have our magic stuff out and pretend it’s all stage effects or whatever.” He stirred the potion a bit before he scooped out another portion, and then paused. “And, well, I think it’d be nice for Hanta to interact with people besides me, y’know?”
“Hanta?” Tokage echoed, puzzled. “Who the fuck is that?”
“HEY!” shouted a voice, distorted and smothered by static. Tokage jumped, book fluttering to the ground. Hitoshi was nonplussed, accustomed to the sound of Hanta’s voice. “DON’T CURSE AROUND THE BABY.”
Hitoshi pointed the ladle in a random direction. “That’s Hanta.”
Tokage stared. Hitoshi got the feeling she was stunned, but it was difficult since she didn’t have . . . skin. Or a face. Just cracked bone and a hollowed space where her eyes should be. She was quiet for a moment, likely processing the interaction, before she picked up the book from the ground. “You could’ve told me we’re being haunted,” she hissed out. Bones rattled from her lung area, signifying a heavy intake of breath.
“Hanta’s nice,” Hitoshi defended. “He’s not, like, an asshole—and we’re not being haunted.”
“There is a ghost,” deadpanned Tokage. “Living here.”
Hitoshi raised an eyebrow and echoed her earlier words: “What’s your point?”
He expected Tokage to throw the book, and ducked in time, stereotypical cackles spilling in the air as another round of curses spewed from Tokage’s mouth.