Chapter Text
Know ye that within the Great Tapestry, the threads of Witch and Familiar are spun by the Norns themselves. While a Weaver of Craft may entwine their soul with many Spirits, a Spirit may anchor itself to but one Weaver alone.
This Cord of Fate is blind to the heart’s design; it may burn with the fire of the lover, the devotion of the kin, or the quietude of the friend. The Bond provides the foundation, yet the architecture of the soul's dwelling is for the pair to hew as they will.
Mark this well: though many a Witch walks the earth unshadowed, a familiar without a witch is a rarity that bodes a strange and heavy omen
_ From the Book of Tethers -
☆
The city was already humming when Yuma stretched along the café’s sun-warmed sill, tail flicking lazily. Morning light caught on hovering charms and enchanted signboards, painting soft halos around the people below. Witches hurried by with familiars trotting at their sides, foxes, birds, some even in their human forms, all moving in comfortable, easy sync. It made Yuma’s ears twitch, watching them.
“Someone’s brooding again,”came Maki’s voice from the sidewalk, cheerful. He leaned casually against the sill, wagging invisible dog energy even in his human form. “Counting all the witch–familiar pairs? Or just wishing you had one of those matching pendant things?”
“Please,” Yuma said, stretching, then smirking. “If I wanted to share jewelry, I’d start a brand, not a bond.”
“Bold words for someone who was complaining about being alone just yesterday,” Harua commented lightly as he joined them, carefully balancing a cup of carrot juice. His floppy bunny ears twitched in the wind. “Yuma the Witchless Philosopher, observing life from the high ground.”
“Witchless sounds almost poetic when you say it,” Yuma replied. “I’ll try not to take it as an insult.”
“Not our fault it’s accurate,” Maki added, grinning. “And a little tragic. Just like you.”
Harua laughed, gentle but mischievous. “Don’t listen to him. You’ll find a witch eventually. Besides, not everyone has their match right away—”
“And yet,” Maki cut in, “every time I open the familiar board, someone’s making bets about you and Taki.”
That made Yuma’s tail freeze mid‑swing.
He turned his golden eyes on them, expression perfectly flat. “Excuse me?”
Harua folded his ears back with an awkward half‑smile. “You know how people talk. You, a familiar without a witch; him, a human without magic. It’s… cute, in a tragic‑symmetry kind of way.”
“Cute?” Yuma repeated, the word dry as dust. “What’s next—are we a romantic metaphor?”
Maki chuckled, unbothered. “I’m just saying, people love a good story. Two anomalies, one destined connection. You both even argue like a married couple.”
Yuma groaned, sinking further into his seat. “You realize how ridiculous that sounds, right? Just because we’re both kind of abnormal doesn’t mean we belong in the same box.”
“Box?” Harua echoed.
“Yes—the ‘oddity’ box,” Yuma said sharply this time. “The one people label when they don’t know what else to do with something that doesn’t fit their categories.”
Maki paused, his grin softening. “Hey, we didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know,” Yuma said, softer now, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry. Just tired of people acting like they know better than fate.”
For a moment, silence settled between them; the comfortable kind only real friends could manage. Then Harua, ever the peacemaker, broke it.
“Well, even if fate is nosy, it probably has taste.”
Maki brightened. “Exactly! And honestly, Taki could use someone to manage his chaos.”
Yuma let out a pained groan. “Doesn’t mean it has to be me.”
They laughed, and the moment passed.
As the conversation drifted back to harmless gossip, Harua’s witch’s latest cooking disaster, Maki’s obsession with walk‑and‑talk podcasts, Yuma started to relax again.
When Maki mentioned a coven gathering hosted by Kei and Fuma, Yuma feigned disinterest, swirling his drink. “Sounds noisy.”
“Which means you’ll go,” Harua said knowingly.
Yuma rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “Maybe I’ll stop by,” he said casually. The truth was, being around all those witches and familiars, even when it stung, just a little, made him feel closer to what he wanted, even if he’d never admit it aloud.
The morning spun on, full of light and moving color. Yuma’s reflection in the café window—cat ears twitching once before vanishing—watched the crowd below with a small, unreadable smile.
☆
Taki had always thought mornings at Kei and Fuma’s apartment felt like waking up inside a spellbook that had exploded. The air shimmered faintly with leftover charm dust, the plants whispered gossip whenever someone walked by, and half the mugs in the kitchen could argue about whose turn it was to pour coffee. It was all normal here—just not for him.
He stood in the middle of it all, holding a jar of glowing powder and trying to remember whether Fuma had said “three pinches” or “three teaspoons.” He went with teaspoons. Five seconds later, the jar gave a violent sneeze of glitter, catching him square in the face.
“...I don’t think that was it,” he said to nobody in particular.
From somewhere behind the half-open door came Kei’s laughter—bright, teasing, a sound that always made Taki roll his eyes even as he smiled.
“Maybe you’re the human equivalent of a hazard warning,” Kei called. “The spirits see you coming and hide.”
Taki tried to glare, but it was difficult to look menacing when he was sparkling like a festival lantern.
“Pretty sure you’re supposed to encourage me. Brotherly support? Positive reinforcement?”
“Absolutely,” Kei said, emerging from the hall while sipping something that looked suspiciously like enchanted matcha. “I’m positively reinforcing the idea that you shouldn’t touch anything glowing.”
Fuma wandered past next, glasses slightly askew, muttering about potion calibration. He glanced at Taki, at the glitter storm still hovering in the air, and gave a long-suffering sigh.
“Teaspoons. You used teaspoons, didn’t you?”
Taki’s grin faltered. “Pinches?”
Another sigh. Then, without a word, Fuma flicked his fingers, and the glitter, all of it, vanished in a quiet whoosh. It left behind the faint smell of ozone and embarrassment.
“Thanks,” Taki mumbled. “Guess magic just doesn’t want me.”
Fuma paused, studying him. “Or maybe it’s waiting until you’re ready.”
That kind of talk always made Taki squirm, so he shoved his hands into his pockets and changed the subject. “So, this coven mixer thing tonight, what exactly happens there? More glitter explosions? Because I can contribute.”
Kei smirked. “Mostly witches talking, familiars gossiping, and you pretending you’re fine.”
Taki shot him a look, then laughed anyway. “That’s my specialty.”
Still, when Kei left the room, Taki’s smile softened. He loved this life—being surrounded by people who shimmered with magic even when they were doing mundane things—but some part of him wanted more. Not just to belong, but to fit, somehow, in ways that didn’t make spells implode.
He looked around again. The room pulsed faintly with magic he couldn’t touch, couldn’t feel, only admire from a distance.
“Yeah,” he said to himself, brushing one stubborn fleck of glitter from his hair. “Totally fine.”
☆
The event was already buzzing when Yuma arrived—music playing low, enchanted lanterns bobbing over tables covered in potions, charms, and badly labeled snacks. If there was one thing witches did well, it was turning casual gatherings into chaotic magic shows.
Yuma leaned against a pillar near the door, taking it all in with his usual air of mild disdain, and curiosity he refused to admit to. He spotted familiar faces: Maki chatting animatedly with Jo, Harua balancing two drinks like a skilled waitress. And then, inevitably, he saw him.
Taki.
Halfway across the room, Taki was… well, being Taki. He’d apparently taken up serving duties, moving between tables with the energy of an overly enthusiastic puppy. Given the trail of spilled punch and frowns following him, “helping” might not have been the right term.
“Oh no,” Yuma muttered. “He’s here.”
Harua followed his gaze and grinned. “Of course he’d be here, Kei is his brother.”
“Mmm.” Yuma took a sip of his drink.
Still, when Taki spotted him, Yuma’s mind went briefly blank. Taki waved, big, bright, all teeth and genuine excitement that made no sense whatsoever, and started across the room.
“Yuma!” Taki said, stopping just short of bumping into him. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Clearly,” Yuma replied, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve. “I thought you’d be banned from magical spaces after the glitter incident.”
Taki groaned. “You heard about that?”
“I think the city heard about that.”
There was a pause, then both of them cracked small, unwilling smiles. It lasted about three seconds before Yuma tilted his head and added, “You look like you lost a fight with your wardrobe.”
“Better than looking like I lost a fight with sleep,” Taki shot back instantly.
It shouldn’t have surprised Yuma—Taki had always given as good as he got—but somehow it still did. The rhythm between them was too easy, too practiced, built from years of mild irritation and habit.
Maki and Harua exchanged knowing looks from across the room. Fuma passed by mid-conversation, his gaze catching briefly on the two of them. For the tiniest moment, the amulet hovering above the table beside them flickered, once, as if reacting to something unseen.
Neither noticed. Yuma was too busy pretending not to be amused. “I’ll give you credit,” he said. “You’ve at least learned how to stand without falling over.”
“Ha-ha,” Taki said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave before my ‘human aura’ offends your delicate cat senses.”
Yuma smirked. “Promise?”
But even as Taki turned away with a mock salute, there was something unspoken in the air—something that hummed faintly, like static caught between two wires. Yuma blinked, shrugged it off, and muttered, “Weird.”
Behind him, one of the floating lanterns flickered again. Fuma, across the room, lifted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. Whatever that was, it wasn’t just a trick of the light.
☆
By the time the enchanted lanterns dimmed and chatter dissolved into soft goodbyes, Yuma found himself lingering. He wasn’t sure why, habit, maybe. Or reluctance to return to an empty apartment that echoed just a little too much. The room was half-cleaned, but still very messy. Taki was there too, sleeves rolled up, balancing an armful of empty glasses with the careful focus of someone trying not to make another mess.
Yuma watched him for a minute before speaking. “You realize there’s a cleaning charm for that, right?”
Taki jumped, nearly dropping everything. “Holy—! You can’t just appear behind people!”
“It’s called walking. People do it.” Yuma leaned against a chair, smirking. “You planning to clean this whole place by hand?”
“Well, someone has to,” Taki muttered. “The witches already vanished off to discuss philosophy or whatever it is you magic people do after midnight.”
Yuma tilted his head. “‘You magic people’? We’re species-categorizing now?”
Taki shot him a look but sighed. “Sorry. Long day.” His tone softened. “I just didn’t want to leave Fuma’s place a mess.”
For some reason, that disarmed Yuma more than any argument could. “You’re too nice,” he said quietly, like it was an accusation.
“I get that a lot,” Taki replied, smiling without looking at him.
They worked in silence for a bit—Yuma pretending not to notice that he’d joined in, idly swiping his hand to vanish crumbs and spills. Taki hummed under his breath, some cheerful tune that made the emptiness feel less hollow. When they were nearly done, Taki spoke again, voice lower.
“Do you ever wonder what it feels like? That connection witches and familiars have?”
Yuma hesitated. The question landed too close to where he didn’t want to look. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Though for some, it looks more like a leash than a bond.”
Taki laughed quietly. “Figured you’d say that.”
“Figured you’d ask,” Yuma countered, eyes flicking toward him.
Their gazes met, unexpectedly caught. For a heartbeat, the air seemed to thrum—soft, magnetic, almost warm. Then a candle on the table beside them flared once, its flame stretching toward the ceiling.
Taki startled, breaking the moment. “What the—?”
Yuma blinked, covering his surprise smoothly. “Probably just leftover spell residue. Don’t overthink it.”
“Right,” Taki murmured, though the hair on his arms still stood up.
They finished tidying in shared, uneasy quiet. When Yuma left, he caught his own reflection in the window—a pale glimmer, pupils slit faintly like a cat’s. Outside, Taki waved from the doorway, grinning in spite of himself.
Yuma didn’t wave back, but his tail—half-visible in the reflection—flicked once before disappearing into the dark