Millennium: A Noragami Fanzine

Hiyori strode across the kitchen, plucked the can out of his grip, and emptied it straight into the sink. “You have a problem.”

Yato smacked his lips unrepentantly. “It’s not my fault your dad has fantastic taste in booze.”

Hiyori cast him a withering look as she sat down. “How many bottles of coins do you think it would take to cover all the alcohol you’ve ‘borrowed’ off various members of my family?”

Yato winced at the prospect. Hiyori, however, had at last noticed what was missing from the room.

“Where’s Yukine?” she asked.

“Daikoku didn’t kick him out.”

Despite his dejected tone, Yato didn’t look particularly sad. He cast his eyes sideways out the window, where the sky was the color of an old bruise.

As if on cue, a single raindrop struck the window. Several more followed, plinking harmlessly against the glass. Seconds later, the sky seemed to swing open, unleashing a cascade of water that hammered the roof like ammunition. Hiyori shuddered at the thought of venturing outside.

Yato seemed to have the same idea, because when he looked back at her his eyes were as full of innocence as a sacrificial lamb’s.

“You wouldn’t make me walk home in this, would you, Hiyori?” he pleaded.

Hiyori just shivered and scrubbed her shoulders. The temperature in the kitchen had already dropped by several degrees. A warm drink would soon fix that. She rose from the table and went to the cupboards, rummaging for a cup.

“Hiyoriiii…” Yato whined.

Hiyori sighed and brought out a second mug. After all, her mother had raised her to be courteous.

As she moved around the kitchen pouring water and lighting the stove under the kettle, the ferocity of the rain outside seemed to fade, if only in her own ears. She could feel Yato watching her. His attention, though obvious, wasn’t unpleasant. At times, Hiyori got the sense that he was a little fascinated by this sort of domestic ritual. She wondered how many others had ever offered him such simple favors.

From the corner of her eye, Hiyori saw the whipping branches of trees outside the window. The wind had risen to a boisterous gale, battering the windows with sheets of water.

“I hope everyone is safe inside,” she murmured, with a thought for her traveling parents and for Masaomi, who was probably holed up in one of his friend’s leaky apartments. Carrying the two mugs over to the table, she again sat down across from Yato.

“Can you believe this, Hiyori?” he held his phone up at her, the screen bright in her face. She blinked.

“…What?”

“No texts! Not even one angry voicemail! Does he care if I get struck by freak lightning and die?!”

Hiyori’s brain slowly caught up with Yato’s chaotic train of thought.

“I’m sure Yukine knows you’re here,” she said comfortingly, unable to suppress a smile at his indignation.

The volume of the wind outside rose sharply. It howled around the eaves of the house like a starving animal. The mournful noise shuddered down Hiyori’s spine, and she curled her shoulders inward around her cup.

“It sounds horrible out there,” she murmured.

At the very moment Yato opened his mouth to respond, the kitchen plunged into darkness.

Before Hiyori could do more than gasp, there was the soft click of a cigarette lighter. Yato’s face appeared, bathed in flickering yellow.

“Well, isn’t this creepy?” he asked. His voice was full of barely repressed mischief. “It’s okay Hiyori, you can cling to me if you’re scared.”

Hiyori’s cheeks grew warm. She pushed herself out of the chair with a clatter and marched across the kitchen.

“This happens all the time,” she shot back at him. “The house is old. We have candles in every room.”

“Then what’s taking you so long?” Yato asked. She could hear the smirk in his voice and Hiyori grit her teeth, fumbling in the kitchen drawers for the expected candles.

When she returned, pointedly not making eye contact with Yato, she set her findings on the table: a single, well-used tea light that, based on the remaining wax, promised fifteen minutes of illumination at most.

“Not very disaster-prepared, are you?” Yato asked. A question Hiyori did not dignify with a response.

Yato lit the candle, then snuffed the cigarette lighter and replaced it in his pocket. The anemic glow did very little to dispel the shadows in the room, but it was a more steady source than the lighter’s open flame.

“This is almost as bad as one of Kofuku’s,” Hiyori observed, staring out the window into the roaring storm. The old house was sturdy enough, but that didn’t stop its ancient bones from shivering and groaning with each savage gust.

Yato eyed Hiyori’s white-knuckled grip on the mug. He leaned over the table toward her, and she felt her cheeks heating up again under the keenness of his gaze.

“My offer still stands, you know,” he said. Hiyori blinked.

“Your offer?”

An odd expression flashed across Yato’s face. It was almost sheepish, but gone before Hiyori could make anything more of it.

“The offer for you to cling to m—”

“Oh, that one,” she said. “No thanks.”

Yato clapped a hand to his chest in exaggerated fashion, collapsing back into the chair with a defeated exhale. Hiyori hoped the darkness of the room concealed her raging blush.

“One day, Hiyori,” he said, stirring his tea. “You’re going to beg for my godly favor, and I won’t be there to help you.”

She almost laughed in his face.

“Yato. I have.”

The corner of his mouth tugged downward.

“I would definitely remember that,” he said, and Hiyori narrowed her eyes.

“You don’t remember when you took my money, evaded my calls, and used my vulnerabilities to your own advantage?”

Yato winced. “‘Used’ is a harsh word.”

“Would ‘exploited’ be more accurate?”

He fell silent at that, which bothered her. Hiyori wasn’t used to getting the last word.

“I guess it would,” he said. His voice was light, and if Hiyori could have seen his expression she might have believed it a joke. But his eyes were in shadow, and the shape of his mouth was flat and humorless.

“What I meant…”

Her words trailed off. Hiyori desperately wished for Yukine to be there. She didn’t know why the mood had altered, nor why the air seemed to thicken in her mouth when she tried to speak.

“I just meant that…you’ve already helped me.”

Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper at the end, and her scalp tingled with shame. Why was this such an awkward admission? She’d told him as much before. Hiyori’s ears grew impossibly hotter as she remembered how effortlessly—how proudly she’d claimed him as her god of fortune.

This was different.

The struggling flame from the tea light had been barely enough to illuminate their faces, and as the seconds ticked by, its glow was weakening.

She dared to hope Yato hadn’t heard her.

“Hiyori.”

Her head snapped up. Yato’s voice was startlingly close. He leaned toward her again, both elbows resting on the table. Hiyori made the mistake of meeting his eyes. She wondered, sometimes, how anyone could think blue eyes cold.

“You’re kind,” he said, simply.

Hiyori made an embarrassing sound in the back of her throat. To escape Yato’s eyes, she hid her steaming face in her mug and took an ambitious gulp of what turned out to be very cold, bitter tea.

Spluttering, she set her cup back on the table and reached for Yato’s, horrified when she saw he had already consumed its entire contents.

“Why did you drink the whole thing?!” she wailed, brandishing the empty cup in Yato’s face.

“I thought it was fine,” he said.

Hiyori glared at him, inexplicably furious. She wasn’t sure toward whom that anger was directed, but it felt more substantial than a dispute over cold tea.

At that moment, the candle went out.

Yato cursed—colorfully but quietly—and she heard the lighter flick again. The candle flared once, then went out.

Hiyori blinked rapidly, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the absolute darkness. Outside, the tempest was amassing its forces. There was no lightning in this storm: only rain, wind, and utter dark.

It was the kind of storm that spawned monsters, and Hiyori, despite herself, was afraid of it.

“I’m sure we have a flashlight,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

Before Hiyori could even lurch out of her chair, a set of fingers closed around her wrist. She froze. Surely, surely, Yato could feel the wild hammering of her blood beneath his thumb.

“Is this all right?” he asked.

Hiyori didn’t immediately respond. She was stunned at how unexpectedly warm his hand felt against hers. Interpreting her silence as a denial, Yato immediately withdrew, and Hiyori’s stomach plunged horribly at the loss of contact.

“No, w—”

She barely had to speak before his hand returned, closing gently around her wrist. She allowed him to move her fingers so that they interlocked with his. The tension began to drain out of her body, and Hiyori dared not question why.

“This doesn’t count,” she heard herself blurt.

She couldn’t see his face, but she knew Yato was looking at her, confused. Gathering herself as best she could, Hiyori said:

“This doesn’t count towards your offer.”

Yato didn’t respond immediately, but his fingers tightened around hers. A conversation like this really would be impossible if she could see him.

“Of course it doesn’t,” he replied. “That’s why I’m not charging.”

The fondness in Yato’s voice set her ears aflame, and she lost any ready response she might have had. She was almost glad that she couldn’t see his expression

The pressure of his hand around hers was gentle. He cradled it like it was an exquisite thing. Tingling warmth seemed to spread from her chest through her whole body: not the heat of embarrassment, but something tender and protective. Something that made moisture spring to her eyes, and urged her to curl her fingers tighter around Yato’s own.

A little longer, Hiyori thought. She held Yato’s hand tight in hers, and she prayed to the storm.