"Come here," his foster father ordered in a stern tone. Kitarō shrugged his shoulders, his feet didn't move. "Come here. I won't say it again, Kitachan."

The boy felt his back tingle and finally took a step forward, then another and another until he was facing Ikkokudo.

"Lie down," the man said and patted his own lap twice.

The smell of incense left on Ikkokudo's shirt after being at work at the university all day made Kitarō lick his lips for a moment, then he settled on his stomach: belly on the man's lap and knees bent. "I'm not a little boy anymore," he thought in confusion.

But it wasn't a quick punishment like the previous times, when he was a child. This time his foster father pulled down his pants along with his underwear. He felt his little bottom exposed and blushed, embarrassed.

"Oto-san...," Kitarō was about to get up but Ikkokudo brought his wrists behind his back and held them tightly, rendering him immobile. "Oto-san, I'm sorry..."

"And I accept your apology," he replied, "but we'd better do something to make you reflect on your behavior and think things through better before you throw another tantrum, Kitachan. Don't you think I'm right?

A blow landed on his left buttock, hard and concise. Kitarō let out a low groan and bit his lip hard as his entire face began to turn the color of lychee just like his punished butt.

Ikkokudo paused briefly between blows. He could appreciate the sound of each smack, the whimpers Kitarō tried to stifle and the frus frus his lowered pants made when he moved his feet. It was strange, as humiliating as it was... pleasurable?

"Oh, no..."

Soon Ikkokudo would notice that adolescent hardness against his lap.

Mizuki had put some of his cologne on Kitarō for the date. Medama gave him a couple of tips that Kitarō took with care, after all his dad had only been with only a Ghost Tribe woman over a hundred years ago and he didn't think he was very up to date on how to impress modern young ladies. Still, that familiar little move filled Kitarō with confidence.

“Where do you want to go, Kitarō?”, Neko-chan asked, her voice always soft and melodious, a caress to Kitarō's ears like the purr of a cat.

“I was thinking of a coffee shop”. Where he had already made a reservation with Mizuki's help. “Do you like sweets, Neko-chan?”, his hands were shaking, he was nervous, about to forget how to speak.

“I've never been to one. I think it would be fun, I've always wanted to try cakes or the sweets that go with tea.”

A smile lit up Kitarō's face, inside he was elated. Things were coming together perfectly and naturally.

All the kids he had come across made fun of him or pushed him away commenting on how ugly and unpleasant he was, but Neko-chan was always different and now Kitarō was more than sure it wasn't out of pity or formality. She really wanted to be there with him.

They entered to the coffee shop. The place had an attractive mix of Japanese and Western style, it was small but almost every table was occupied by groups of two or three people tasting towers with cakes, European breads or Japanese sweets. The smell of everything being served was delicious and Neko-chan's eyes sparkled with excitement.

They sat down at the corresponding table and two menu cards were left for them. Neko-chan decided on a small wagashi tasting accompanied by matcha tea for two. Kitarō was not very fond of sweet things, but he was eager to try and discuss with her which one was more or less delicious.

They were served an elegant set of teapot, cups and small plates with different colorful and variously shaped sweets: mochi varieties, chestnuts, steamed buns and bean jelly.

“Look at this one”, Neko-chan commented, touching her fork to a pink mochi wrapped in a green sakura leaf. “It looks like a rice flower. It must be like tasting a mouthful of spring, don't you think, Kitarō?”, and she gave him a tender smile.

And what did spring taste like? Kitarō had never thought about the seasons in that way. Maybe because when money was tight, every day, every month, tasted like cold, toasted, hard or freshly bought koppepan.

He knew well that, on the sly Neko-chan would fall into the instinctive desire to eat the mice that got caught in the traps in the apartment Mizuki rented, and then she would be so embarrassed that she would not be seen or heard for the rest of the day. That's why Kitarō wanted to do something special and fancy, things that classy people who didn't let out unearthly meows like her did.

And from time to time, Kitarō could play that he was a gentleman with a full purse to invite Neko-chan to nice places with delicious things, without rats or anything that would threaten his yōkai side (which she would never recognize as such). They could not think about what human society demanded of them and enjoy what they normally couldn't do without fear of having their secrets discovered or having nasty things yelled at them.

“It's delicious.” Kitaro could hear a very low purr. “We have to come back another time, Kitarō.”

“I'd love to, Neko-chan.”

Spring had never tasted as good as it did that day.

"Let's meet! I want to tell you something in person!"

That was the last time they spoke on the phone. After that night, Toda tried his best not to be alone with Matsuoka or talk on the phone as they used to do almost every night before bedtime.

He was upset but mostly hurt.

If he hadn't gotten sick that week, if he hadn't missed classes... maybe Ikkokudo sensei would never have had a chance to get close to Matsuoka.

But it's too late.

Toda knows what his friend wants to tell him is what he saw secretly after school, on the school's terrace.

The kiss.

And there was no more chance Toda tells his dear —secretly beloved— friend how he felt.

“Stop complaining already, kid”, he asks beginning to lose patience. “The wound is closed, it shouldn't even hurt.”

“I know”, Kitaro replies uneasily. “It's just that you make it rough!”

“Aham”, Yamada scoffs and finishes removing the last piece of thread binding Kitaro's skin and thus finishing the healing of the wound. “Mhh…”

Kitaro had been injured by a yokai, Yamada had no details of that fight but he was sure that the area between his shoulder blades had been torn with something sharp, perhaps a fang or claw.

Although the skin on that small, young body healed in a matter of hours, there must have been a poison or something that prevented it from healing. That's why Kitaro ended up going to see Yamada and cashing in on the favor after the New Guinea incident. Of course, Yamada was never going to object to anything that involved watching his healing processes or putting his fingers on him.

The doctor disinfected the wound and made a perfect suture. If the stitches didn't undo themselves, he would have to return in a week to have them removed. To the surprise of both of them, a scar remained, similar to a rhombus no more than three centimeters long, pink, barely a relief.

Yamada brushes it with his forefinger before instructing Kitaro to put on his shirt. The fabric is warm and barely rough when he slides his finger. Kitaro's body shudders and Yamada feels a shiver.

“What are you doing?” he protests nervously. “Are you done or not?” There is no pain in his tone of voice, rather....

Yamada touches the scar seconds again, presses for a few, as if it were a burning button, and Kitaro lets out a moan. He needs to be sure he's not imagining what he thinks.

“A-ah, stop that!” Kitaro stands up and pulls on his blue shirt and his chanchanko. He avoids looking the man in the eye, but he can't hide the blush on his cheeks from him. It is just as Yamada supposes.

It is not pain. It is pleasure.