A/N: My first Nura fic. I only finished the anime a short while ago, so I'm extremely proud I typed this up as quickly as I did. Feedback is greatly appreciated. I hope you all enjoy!

Disclaimer: Nurarihyon no Mago is not my property. I'm just taking the characters out for a joy ride.

Mildly revised on January 19, 2015.

The resemblance is almost frightening. The same confident stance, the same lean-muscled shape, the same arrogant look in his eye. The only notable difference is the hue of the iris, gold rather than garnet.

Yura swears she's looking at her friend's doppelganger, and not his grandfather in past glory.

"Scary, isn't it?" She shifts her gaze to his, and the symmetry between the ancient portrait and the present is almost bewitching. Yura blinks, and for just an instant scarlet becomes gilded, silver becomes flaxen, and her heart skips with trepidation.

With a roll of the parchment and a snap of the band, Nurarihyon disappears. One self-righteous 'Lord of Pandemonium' is enough.

Rikuo retrieves the portrait with a smirk and lounges against the wood-paneled wall. When he discovered the painted scroll in the storage room of his manor, he couldn't resist the temptation to show the image to the woman who knew the former commander as little more than a cheeky old man.

Her reaction was well worth the midnight trip.

"How long ago is it?" Despite her best efforts, Yura's curiosity shines through, and Rikuo smiles.

"Around four hundred years. He had just overthrown Hagoromo-Gitsune and married my grandmother."

Yura recalls the imagee again and reluctantly acknowledges the casual strength that Nurarihyon seems to emit, so similar to the man lounging only feet away. Her eyebrow reflexively twitches.

Too similar.

"Just out of curiosity," she begins, and Rikuo answers the wariness of her tone with casual innocence, "Did you really come all this way just to show off some dusty old picture?" Her friend shrugs.

"I thought it might interest you to know that the old man wasn't always a senile quack who steals food from the neighbors."

Yura lifts a disbelieving eyebrow. "More like you came for a free meal."

Rikuo regards her with a calm tilt of his chin. "It may have crossed my mind on the way here." His lips curl. "I can think of no one better to spend my nights with, Yura-chan."

Her eyes narrow at the endearment. Ever since Hidemoto took up permanent residence at her side all those years ago, his cavity-sweet treatment of her had become an unfortunate regularity. And unlike the rest of her clan, who were too afraid of her temper to tease her for it (her brother being the exception), their yōkai allies have had no trouble addressing her with the same disturbing familiarity.

And this ass only makes it worse.

Even now, Rikuo chuckles at her irritation, completely unafraid of the repercussions that come with mocking the head of the Keikain Clan.

I've gotten too lenient with these people. Before you know it, we'll be having sleepovers and karaoke competitions.

The acidity of her thoughts is only half-hearted, she knows. After all, it's through her actions of keeping close ties with the Nura Clan leader that the opposing groups have maintained peace with one another through the years. These days, it's fairly common to see amicable relations between those of her people and his.

Even more customary is the sight of the two clan heads wandering through the territories of either of their estates, as content in each other's company as their predecessors were 400 years earlier.

A gentle tap is felt on her forehead, and Yura lightly smacks Rikuo's hand away, her thoughts interrupted by his pestering. He snickers and takes a seat next to her, places a small saucer in her hand and follows with a generous pouring of sake into its depths. He raises his own large portion and takes a sip, apparently comfortable with his place by her side.

Yura regards the swirling liquid for a moment before lifting it to her lips. The mild sweetness is pleasant, and the alcohol leaves only a slight burn as it travels down her throat. She's never had much of an affinity for spirits, but the tranquil atmosphere of the night sways her to make an exception, just this once.

It's no surprise that the only time I feel like drinking, he and his gang are somewhere close by.

She smiles at her own joke, and Rikuo glances at her with curiosity before lowering his gaze to the cup in her hands. He grins teasingly.

"Too much for you, Yura? Perhaps you should call it a night."

"Shut your trap. I'm fine. It's not like I could properly settle down, anyway. You always seem to turn up on the nights when I actually find the time to sleep."

"I 'turn up' to make sure you don't drive yourself into the ground."

"And yet you're the one keeping me awake now, you pig-headed jerk."

Rikuo opens his mouth to make a retort, but stops before any sound can escape. Yura watches with narrowed eyes as he adopts a look of contemplation before finally giving her a guiltless smirk.

"You've got me there."

She rolls her eyes at his careless admission and lifts her gaze back to the half-moon shedding cool light on the compound's grounds. Truth be told, she often finds herself here even without his intrusion. When Ryuuji (bossy nag that he is) finally forces her back to her room, she spends at least an hour sitting on the veranda that opens to the gardens at the back of the Keikain estate. The illuminated landscape does wonders in calming her oft-times frayed nerves, and more than once she's fallen asleep to the view only to wake at dawn with a terrible crick in her neck.

A small draft breezes through the open shoji, and Yura shivers and tightens the sash holding her yukata closed. The thin material is perfect for hot summer evenings, but the approaching autumn makes the robe less than ideal.

"It's getting chilly, huh?"

She nods absently, brown eyes still trained on the moon visible through the wispy clouds.

"You're sure you don't want to turn in?"

A small smile comes to her lips as she shakes her head. "Not yet. Since you are here disrupting my sleep, I might as well make the most of it."

Rikuo favors her a bland look; Yura ignores him out of preference for the glowing scenery. For a time, all is quiet, and Yura feels her eyelids growing heavy when a thick indigo robe is dropped on her head with a heavy rustle. She yanks the fabric away with a loud grouse, her eyes already set to glare daggers at the smirking man next to her.

"Don't think I didn't see that shiver. If you get sick, it's me who'll catch hell for it."

She growls at his reasoning. "You could've just asked."

He snorts back with skepticism. "Like you would've accepted if I had."

"You didn't give yourself the chance to find out!"

"Right, because you've been so accepting of my help in the past."

This time, it's her turn to open her mouth before closing it with a snap of her teeth. He's absolutely right, and they both know it.

"Just shut up."

That doesn't mean she's willing to admit it.

The triumph in his voice rings clear. "Right."

As Yura readjusts the large robe around her small frame, Rikuo takes the still-full saucer from her hand and places it on his other side, safe from possible spilling. When she's settled, he plants a sturdy hand on her head and leans into her, resting his chin next to his fingers. Yura does nothing but shift slightly to accommodate his weight, emitting only a soft grumble.

He can't identify the exact moment the two of them became so accustomed to each other's touch. The tenuous alliance between their clans always kept them at close proximity as they worked to maintain a successful partnership. They both knew they were more powerful as a combined unit than as opposing forces.

That unity, combined with their friendship, seemed to catalyze a change: she gradually became tolerant of the insistence of his touch, and he learned to soften that touch enough to give her the support she would never ask for.

With a low sigh, Rikuo presses closer and welcomes the silent camaraderie. It's rare for him to experience such quietude; even now, he can hear his Night Parade making a mess of the Keikain grounds, their ruckus matched only by the equal fervor of the onmyōji trying to keep them at bay.

"You know your gang is responsible for any property damage, right?" Yura's voice is thick with exhaustion, and she involuntarily eases further into his hold.

He smirks and ruffles a few fingers through the short strands of her hair. "I can't make any promises."

"Some leader," she mumbles back, releasing a short, lazy breath.

Rikuo grins softly and leans more fully against her. "Of course, Yura-chan. I'm the best there is."

Yura responds to his tease with only even breaths, prompting her companion to conclude that, at least for now, their fun is over. He lowers his hand from her hair to wrap around her narrow shoulders, securing a more comfortable hold, and raises his gaze to the same half-moon that earlier arrested her attention. He feels his own lethargy slowly taking hold, and decides that the onmyōji can handle one night of demonic revelry, if only for the sake of their beloved leader.