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The first thing Madara had done was to check that it wasn’t the work of some vengeful spirit.
The kid’s too soft. Too kind. Too easy to take advantage of. He had been sick in bed for a week now, with a fever that refused to break no matter how much Natsume stayed in bed and how many bowls of nutritious broth and rice porridge Fujiwara Toko brought him.
Natsume had smiled when his friends from school had visited, telling them it was just a bad combination of the change in weather, exam season, and exhaustion from having to ‘run around the countryside’.
Madara had curled up on the comforter, pretending to snooze, and had waited for his friends to leave and for Natsume to crawl back into bed before brushing a paw over Natsume’s feverish brow.
“Nyanko-sensei,” Natsume murmurs before falling asleep.
He doesn’t mean to stay away from Natsume for long. Especially not with Natsume in the state that he is. But Madara can’t resist a piping hot cup of amazake as he picks up several freshly steamed manju for Natsume when he wakes.
The little bench outside Nanatsuji is raucous; the yokai had called an impromptu party to enjoy season’s end. Madara sips slowly on his amazake, intent on staying fully sober that afternoon. The sun kisses the peaks of the blue mountain range in the distance, low, slanted rays of gold lighting up the surrounding forest and farmlands in crimson and coral flames. Rice paddies gleam like slates of mirrors on earth. Crisp leaves whisper secrets to each other with every chilly gust that blows through them.
A maple leaf flutters into his cup, rippling where it lands on the surface.
Yes, Madara thinks to himself. It would be nice if Natsume could be around forever.