Title: 3 Days.
Rating: PG.
Word Count: 1,743 words.
Summary: Madara doesn't like the cold, and neither does Natsume.

3 Days.

On nights like this, Madara remembers the shrine and how dark it was during the cold winter months. He remembers how ice splinted through the old wooden boards, swallowing the damp offerings of moonlight and offering instead a shiny, sickly blackness.

He remembers how winter stole away even the shadows, leaving behind a dull world of nothingness that gave neither sound nor interest, let alone something more tangible like a thick wool blanket or the body heat given so freely by a quiet, useless boy.

His useless boy is elsewhere tonight, and the blanket on its own is not enough to starve off the strange memories that creep now through his thoughts instead of remaining locked away in the little shrine he has built especially in his mind for intrusions like these.

Three days. Natsume will be back in three days.

A snarl that is less a cat and more a disgruntled god tears itself from Madara's lips.

HA! Like he needs some ridiculous human beside him just so he can do something as natural as sleeping! He is a god even amongst gods, not some hot water bottle that deflates into uselessness when it's devoid of hot water.

Clearly, he just needs a drink or three. And maybe some fresh salmon. Now all he needs is to trick some half wit spirit into catching him one …

With a grace that belies his short, stout legs and vaguely round rest-of-him, Madara slips from beneath the blanket. There's no reason for the keen sense of loss he feels as it catches briefly on his tail and then slides to the floor. It's just a blanket, really, there is no magic in it that Madara is aware of, and even the lingering smell that is thankfully uniquely Natsume is already fading.

And he has sake to drink, salmon to cook over a burning hot fire.

"Nyanko-sensei, I know you plan on somehow sneaking your way onto the bus this afternoon." Natsume's irritable glare is only broken by the lazy snowball that Madara lobs in the general direction of his face. "But I need you to promise me that you'll stay here."

"I promise to stay here and not follow you on your trip," Madara sing-songs, all the while expertly rolling another snowball. The winter retreat that Natsume's class is going to has some of the best hot springs around, of course he plans on stowing away. After all his recent hard work, he needs – nay – deserves a holiday.

He keeps rolling his snowball when Natsume drops to his knees in front of him with a put-upon sigh, the damp snow instantly starting to seep through his trousers. This is why Natsume almost always comes off battered after a battle with a spirit; he lacks the tactical brilliance of someone like Madara. At this height and angle, Natsume has placed himself in the perfect position for Madara to –

"It's just that that the spirit who came to reclaim his name last night left behind quite a large amount of spiritual damage." Quiet eyes flicker uncertainly to the main house before settling back on Madara. "I could set up the barriers that Natori-san taught me, but I'm not sure they will be strong enough to keep out a really determined spirit."

Madara waits silently as Natsume's determination to protect those he loves battles briefly with a quiet ache for something more. He supposes that the mere fact that Natsume is allowing some selfishness to drift into his decision making process is a sign of some growth, no matter how small.

"If I could just trust you to stay here to look after them while I'm gone-"

"You don't really think that I planned to go on your stupid trip, do you?" Madara scoffs, his attention still focused on his latest weapon of mass destruction. "I think you forget sometimes just how little your shenanigans with your friends interest me."

Out of the corner of one eye, Madara notices how Natsume clenches his teeth before letting out an almost inaudible sigh.

"Thank you, Nyanko-sensei," Natsume says simply, bowing his head slightly and his eyes respectfully down turned.

He gets a (perfectly formed) snowball down the back of his winter coat in reply.

With a sigh that is neither that of a cat or a god but which sounds disgustingly human, Madara pat-pat-pats his way to the window and settles down there, sans blanket. With heavy-lidded eyes that contain a piercing sense of stealth, he watches.

And waits.

In the dark.

Alone.

Always cold.

For three days, Madara gets very little sleep.

On the forth, sometime just after dusk and once the plum red sky has misted through to orange and faded into a vague grey, Natsume returns. Madara is a god, and so he is not at the door to greet him. Because he is a god, he simply feels the familiar presence of his boy as he moves through the darkening street below and slowly up the porch steps. Madara doesn't need supernatural senses to realize that the boy's noisy friends have accompanied him home – anyone with a pair of working ears and currently within a half mile radius knows that.

It's unusual for Natsume to do something so normal, but perhaps it's for the best. The sting of jealousy that spikes through him at the thought that Natsume has friends who are becoming more than that – becoming companions – is ridiculous and unwarranted, and therefore Madara decides that he has been spiked through with a vicious hunger pain instead. He hasn't eaten in at least half an hour, after all.

Still, it is unusual for Natsume to allow-

Touko-san's cry of dismay cuts through the air, and Madara is on his feet and dashing down through the corridor in an instant. He morphs briefly into his true form to gain the kind of speed and agility that his cat form is stripped of, but shrinks back into his more familiar shape when the scene that greets him in the front room is domestic instead of dangerous.

"It's nothing serious, I promise!" Natsume protests from where he stands in front of Touko-san, a quiet, desperate shame in his eyes as she frets over the nasty parade of bruises that spill down Natsume's cheek and slip under the turtleneck that fails to hide the true extent of the injury. Madara watches on with interest as Touko-san's hands flitter around Natsume's face and neck without daring to press close enough to touch – to sooth – without some sort of invitation from Natsume.

Natsume's eyes remain fixed miserable on the floor, and so Touko-san's hands flitter and flitter but remain distant.

The silly boy.

With a sigh, Madara lazily stretches and pads across the floor. Natsume's gaze flickers instantly to him, and the relief that rises through the shame adds a cocky bounce to Madara's step.

Clear the way, please. Madara is here.

"We can't take Natsume anywhere!" Nishimura jokes, elbowing Natsume in the ribs. Natsume winces, but it isn't enough to prevent him from bending low and sweeping Madara up into his arms. "You would think that a field drip to a forest lodge would be pretty safe even for Natsume, they take the preschool kids there in the summer!"

Madara leans in against the warmth of Natsume's winter coat and presses his nose against a couple of the deep purple bruises. They smell of pinecones and day-old snow, but little else.

"- but yesterday afternoon while we were out on a hike with –"

Hmm.

His tongue darts out and roughly laps at the closest bruises, partially in sympathy but equally so in curiosity. Natsume glances down at him oddly, although his arms tighten around him just a touch.

"- only Natsume would manage to fall into a hole that no-one else even knew existed."

"You don't taste of youkai."

Natsume's gaze slides away, a faint flush of heat rising to his cheeks.

Madara blinks in interest, and then smirks.

Who needs spirits on your tail when you possess two left feet?

"It wasn't like that," Natsume protests with more annoyance than heat once Nishimura has gone on his way and Natsume has excused himself from the compassion that Touko-san offers but which his ridiculous human cannot yet accept. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going, that's all."

Now in his bed clothes and with his exhaustion strangely evident, Natsume folds down quietly onto his tatami, one hand reaching for his blanket while the other –

Madara stills under Natsume's touch, before rolling in closer until he just happens to curl up across Natsume's hip and nuzzle against his chest. It's not a particularly god-like position to take, but his human is so stupidly warm.

"I … It was just that it was so cold up at the lodge at night," Natsume finishes, his voice suddenly distant. "And so I couldn't sleep."

Madara lets out a puff of air. There are bruises beneath Natsume's eyes, but it is only now that he realizes that they are not from his fall. Looking closer, he sees that they are more grey than purple, more smears of color than splatterings.

"Idiot. If you were too tired to go out with the others, you should have said so. If I'd lost my chance at getting the Book of Friends because some slugs got at it first…"

He is rewarded with a tired smile, but the ghosts still linger. Madara's eyes narrow at the tightness around Natsume's mouth and the peculiar fragility that Natsume wears like a cloak in moments such as these, when the shadows have retreated and all that remains is the stark coldness.

Then, the distance in Natsume eyes dulls and his eyes flutter closed. With a huff of surprise, Madara realizes that his human has chosen now to finally catch up on his sleep.

Tch. As always, Natsume's timing is terrible. Madara is going to have to save the nice and long speech he has prepared about how many evil spirits he's had to slay (or maybe more appropriately, not go and get drunk with) while Natsume has been away for the morning.

With another puff of air – this one just maybe laced with a touch of exasperated warmth – Madara slides in between the blanket and Natsume, resting his head against his human's shoulder.

Perhaps, perhaps he'll just close his own eyes for a few minutes as well ...