Rating: K+

Summary: "Natsume Takashi is fifty-two years old when Madara leaves. It's not a spontaneous decision, but it's not a well-thought-out one either."

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Yuki Midorikawa.

Hi every day I think about Madara and the way he will deal with Natsume's death :'))

One-shot: ever here

Natsume Takashi is fifty-two years old when Madara leaves.

It's not a spontaneous decision, but it's not a well-thought-out one either. Living with a human for almost forty years looks like the blink of an eye for a youkai, but this same span of time is half of a human's life—Madara knows that much, and he curses himself to have let down his guard enough to be lulled into the illusion of security.

There is no meaning behind that age. It could have been forty-seven, fifty-three, or even sixty. Madara hasn't pondered on it much outside of the fact he can sense life force flickering, losing their brightness to let darkness consume it. He's seen and sensed that many times, for years and decades, watching the phenomenon unfold with both curiosity and disinterest. Human lives are short and fleeting, nothing worth paying attention to, as they will disappear sooner than you expect.

(Reiko vanished and next thing he knows, she is no more.)

He retreats to the mountains farthest from Yatsuhara. He doesn't tell anyone. He doesn't let anyone know where he is. The peaceful and soothing rustling of the tree's leaves and the river's water help appeasing his heart in a frenzy, and receding his swirling thoughts. It's pathetic, somehow, to let himself affected by so little. It's not like it's the first time he's been in contact with a human before—and he still believes that not meddling with their affairs is less troublesome and more beneficial to his sanity.

(He thinks about the mess left by a lonely woman, that a brave boy tried to fix then.)

Madara spends his days napping. He frequently finds a new patch of grass to sleep on, right under the sun to keep him warm, and at night he would take walks or watch the sky to chase away unpleasant thoughts. He pointedly ignores any scent he recognizes, as they never travel close enough for him to get worried. Not that he's worried about anything, not really, it's just more convenient that way. Being alone is much easier to deal with his own pitiful state than being seen by some fool and having to explain something he doesn't want to think about.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a familiar voice tells him he's running away. He tucks it away.

It has only been forty years, but he's already forgotten how silent life is when he isn't surrounded by idiots and accident-prone kids. He's a great beast, someone who holds power over low-class beings and rivals most of the strong youkais. And just for a second, one vulnerable moment, he wonders what good there is to possess such tremendous power if he doesn't have anyone to protect anymore.

Madara stops in his steps, and howls, cry piercing the sky until it cracks and lets the untold messages squeeze through them.

Human lives are short and fleeting.

He doesn't know how much time passes. It can't be more than a handful of years, though, because the scents are the same and the landscape hasn't warped, not yet. Nobody reached him either, and he doubts that no one is able to track him if they try hard enough—even if he's escaped to far away mountains, he's not impossible to find. He knows for sure that Misuzu will be smug about finding him, and Hinoe is too stubborn to let him disappear without a word.

Days resemble each other. Madara misses manjuu and dango.

Then one day, the wind feels different; there is a quality to it that almost spells familiar, breezing through his fur and sending shivers down his spine. He catches the whiff of a strong smell and overwhelming power, one that gently pushes at him with care, mindful and kind.

It's kind and familiar.

Madara jolts and scrambles up, mind racing and heart beating too loudly, eyes scanning the area like he's watching for a prey he's waited for weeks, wild and cautious. Only does he realize this aura isn't alone, and of course it isn't, of course it would come with two other ones that announce trouble.

He does not stare. He absolutely does not stare when the gigantic silhouette of Misuzu comes into view, his grin ever plastered on his face, not quite landing (Misuzu never lands) but he lowers his hoof to let his passengers get down. Madara stays still.

"Geez, Madara, if you wanted us to leave you alone, you could have asked," Hinoe sighs with fake casualness, as she takes a drag from her pipe, pinning him with a hard glare.

But Madara doesn't listen to her. He's too focused on the second figure stumbling from the landing, like he hasn't done that a hundred and a thousand times, wincing when Hinoe has to put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Madara can't tear his gaze off him.

"Sensei," Natsume says, something akin to relief and desperation in his voice, and Madara chokes on his own words, unable to dig into his arsenal of insults to deal with the situation. Instead, Natsume takes a step forward, and another, and another, until he's standing right in front of him. "Were you here all this time?"

His eyes didn't change—that damn kindness is still lurking behind them, the fervor of faith shining through it, like he hasn't found any reason to stop believing he could help anyone coming his way. Eyes never lie, eyes are what differentiate the humans from each other.

Natsume's trembling hand tentatively reaches up to stroke his snout and—Madara lets him, lets this light touch wash away his countless worries, and he closes his eyes. If he tries hard enough, he can be transported back to the youthful days of returning names and being wary of any youkai approaching them. He can invoke the smell of Touko's tenpura and the tatami of Natsume's bedroom. It is comforting, wrapping him in a blanket of tranquility he wishes could last forever, but when he opens his eyes he sees Natsume's tired face (tired but never broken), features drawn old, his once light hair taking a shade of gray only age can paint.

He releases a breath, tickling Natsume, just like he once did, and this time Natsume smiles.

"I missed you, Sensei."

Natsume keeps his hand on his snout, and if he's pressing a bit harder than usual (when was the last time it happened?), Madara doesn't comment on it. Instead, he lays down, wraps Natsume with his tail, a silent invitation for him to settle in the white fur. This stretches Natsume's smile as he sits down and starts scratching Madara's chin.

"The Book of Friends is empty now, do you still want it?" he quietly asks.

And Natsume must have felt his jaw clench, because he stops, lowers his hand, and gazes directly into Madara's eyes, waiting, expecting. Madara hates the feeling of helplessness.

"I have no use of a tool stripped of its power," he croaks out, looking at a point past Natsume.

"...We've talked about it, Sensei."

"What do you want me to do with the cover of a book?"

"That's up to you. I'm still going to give it to you, so please come home."

Madara finally, finally meets Natsume's earnest eyes, after trying for so long to avoid reading his emotions when talking about the Book of Friends. He doesn't know what he expected; he probably expected nothing, except for the certitude that he would find something inherently Natsume in them, warm and affectionate, much like the stupid self he's always been. He's wearing the same expression as the one he does when he speaks about home. Madara basks in the safety it provides him.

He gently knocks Natsume's head with his snout.

"The Book of Friends is exactly the reason why I left, and you cheeky brat has the nerve to come and dump it on me."

There is no heat in his words, and everybody knows it. They all look at him without judgment, only pity, maybe, if he pays close attention to them, but he is not. He holds Natsume's gaze as best as he can—Natsume assesses him quietly, carefully, like he's expecting Madara to flee again.

He won't.

"I keep my promises, you know that," Natsume chides gently. "No matter how much time passes."

Natsume's hand comes up again to stroke the fur on his head. The movement is assured, but slow, nothing like it used to be; Madara swallows the uneasiness, the fear, and stops running away.

"How old are you?"

He doesn't register Hinoe shaking her head in the back. All he notices is the way Natsume's smile takes a hue of sadness, his aura enveloping them both in resignation. Madara is certain his own sorrow is seeping through the threads of his fake calm demeanor.

"It's July 1st, today." There is a pensive look on his face. "I'm turning seventy-seven."

Twenty-five years is nothing to youkais. They see them fly by without thinking much of it, but for humans it's enough to raise a new generation of people that will become their hope. Madara has a thought for Natsume's descendants, who probably don't even know why their father, grandfather (great-grandfather?), decides to take a trip to the other side of the mountains, visibly unaccompanied. He realizes with horror he doesn't know for sure that none of them has the ability to see youkai.

"It didn't feel that long to me," Madara whispers.

"I know. That's why we came to see you. According to Hinoe, you would have slept through a decade if nobody is trying to annoy you."

He knows there is no accusation behind these words, but he can't help bristling, sharply shooting a glare in Hinoe's direction—she waves her pipe, dismissing his irritation.

Natsume continues. "It's perhaps not my place to say that, but this is how life is, Sensei. Please let this old man have his one selfish request granted."

He wraps his arms around Madara's neck, burying his face in his fur.

"Come back home."

Madara is tired. He's tired of fighting all these emotions, all these worries that shouldn't exist (he's a great beast with overwhelming power), all these thoughts that cross his mind and twist his heart. He's tired of pretending and of the heavy lead settled in his stomach that puts him into lethargy and his ability to think rationally.

So he nuzzles Natsume, bringing his tail closer to completely protect him from anything else that can still happen, and lets out a deep laugh that sounds too watery and shaky to his own ears.

"Idiot."

It can't be that bad, if Natsume emits a similar laugh, purposefully keeping his face hidden in his fur even if Madara can feel something wet against him.

Natsume climbs on his back for old times' sake. And if Madara is flying a bit slower than before, Natsume doesn't say anything. Misuzu and Hinoe follow them close.

This might not be the wisest decisions. Many youkais would have chosen to stay behind to cut all ties with the humans, although it doesn't erase their memories of them. Madara thinks himself foolish to have gotten so soft and attached to one single human, so he might as well be stupid until the end.

(Is it worth living a boring life, when he can spend it with someone he loves?)

Reiko always said that people will regret doing nothing, and rarely regret doing something. Mulling over her words from forever ago, Madara finds himself agreeing, closing his eyes as he curls up at Natsume's feet, listening to the quiet conversation he's having with someone that is without a doubt his grandchild. There is a different air about that kid, and Madara immediately recognizes potential.

That night, Madara digs through Natsume's belongings, and retrieves the remains of the Book of Friends. The green cover is barely worn, defying time and deterioration. He traces out the kanjis with a paw, and is certain the Book retained some power, though very little.

"I'll protect your family."

Natsume finds him hunched over it, and naturally picks him up, acting on pure instinct.

"Old men should be sleeping," Madara blandly states.

"Then you should be sleeping too," Natsume retorts. He casts a quick glance at the Book. "It became a family treasure, I guess."

"Hmpf. Only you would consider something that put your life in danger as a treasure."

Natsume looks at him, and Madara knows it's useless to argue further.

Years later, the children of the Natsume household will always find the family cat curled around a green book by the altar. The cat doesn't age, is somehow always able to tell when one of them is in trouble, and only a handful knows the secrets he's keeping.

Madara never leaves again.