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“This isn’t real.”
Matakara rasps, voice barely over a mumble as he draws his arms in closer, head tucking into his duvet with a sense of desperate fervor like no other as he tries, desperately, to block out the foreboding shadow mere inches away from him. Wisps of blue encase him, a cursed circle of penumbra as his body shakes, a fever ravaging his very soul as he lays tucked against his small futon.
His room feels oppressively small, each wall seemingly too close together, ceiling all too low as the large, foreboding figure above him smothers him in dread.
“This isn’t- you’re,” his voice hitches, saliva choking him as each breath comes out more ragged than the last. “You’re not real.”
The previous night’s experience continued to taunt his every abstruse thought as his joints ached and muscles burned.
When that thing had appeared in front of him- an awful amalgamation of the shadows that’d been haunting him, now materialized into a terrible, semi-corporeal being Matakara had nearly screamed.
And then it spoke.
Voice low and chilling. It introduced itself as a magi- a honki person- and Matakara would have nearly laughed at that if he wasn’t absolutely terrified. The entity- ‘Ichiya,’ it’d said, voice deep and rich as it perched in front of the terrified boy. Eyes a deep swirl of blues as it seemed to stare through his very soul as it proposed some sort of ‘merge’ between the two.
Matakara had burst out of the small shrine not long after its chilling speech, not bothering to answer the entity as his feet scuffed against concrete, bruising and scratching his hands in an effort to escape.
Yet he’d soon find that no matter how hard, how far, how fast he ran- the creature would stay nonetheless. A cursed second shadow to his own.
So when the slow, sinking realization that it may never leave him- Matakara, hopelessly, gave up.
His exhaustion had caught up to him, both physically and mentally. His legs ached, every ligament in his body burned as the lack of sleep finally caught up to him, yet more than that, far more than that, Matakara was so utterly beaten.
His head had been nothing but a cacophonous hymn of misery and despair and begging that entire day, so utterly ruined by the news of his brother that he felt as though he could barely function. His feet dragged him wherever he went, his head lay low.
The utter wretchedness of the situation left a gaping void in his being- and then, as if to spite him, Arajin, someone who he’d looked up to and hopelessly relied on for comfort those 5 years between them had told him that he’d abandoned him.
Matakara could feel tears spring anew at the reminder, hands gingerly wrapping around his middle as his feet slowly stumbled across familiar streets, sneakers chafing against cemented bricks as he tried his hardest to ignore the odd sensation of metal in places where metal should never be.
Everything around him purled and meshed together as he crept onwards, each shop and house awfully grainy and dull. His head pounded, nausea creeping in on him, before enrapturing his entire being in a vice-tight grip.
When he’d finally arrived at the small bathhouse, Matakara finally collapsed, eyes rolling to the back of his skull as he collapsed barely two steps past the entryway, much to his relative’s horror.
Afterward, they had rushed to get him medication, scarves wrapped around their necks as they set up his futon and encouraged the feverish boy to clean himself of the grit that’d gathered on his skin throughout the past day and a half.
Matakara weakly promised he would, tongue thick and throat cotton-filled as he spoke, only to immediately curl up in his bed the second he heard the car leave.
He didn’t want a shower, didn’t even want to change if it meant he’d have to actually see that horrible piece of metal embedded deep into his chest. That terrible, terrible alloy that seemed to pulse with rue and weigh the heft of a skeleton twice his size.
His head ached, nausea shredded every single frayed nerve until forming a single, cohesive thought felt near impossible. His body shivered near uncontrollably despite the raging heat tearing at his skin, his flesh, his being. A weak noise left Matakara’s lips as the dreadful sensation of something stirring next to him pricked at his ears.
Ichiya drew near, and then nearer still, until Matakara was sure he could feel the dreaded specter's breath ghosting over his exposed ear, prompting a soft, miserable whimper to leave his lips. The sensation is a horrid combination of hot and cold, leaving the poor boy’s senses queasy and ill.
Matakara squeezes his eyes shut harder. Lips trembling.
“Nnh- none, none of this is real.” He’s barely able to rasp out, voice cracking and pitching as he tries to pull himself further into a compressed ball, praying that the thick fabric smothering him would swallow him whole.
The sudden pressure of a hand against his ear is enough to trigger Matakara’s entire body to lurch. Body instinctively flinching away from the touch even as the action made Matakara’s stomach lurch and head spin horribly.
“Don’t-“ The brunette’s barely able to force out, “don’t touch me.”
Matakara can feel tears gather, saline drops pearling against his lashes as he weakly shakes his head, smothering his face into his blanket even more as his hands dig into his sides, knuckles turning white from the pressure.
“The further you choose to reject me, the worse you will feel.” Ichiya’s voice is a deep rumble in Matakara’s core.
It’s a terrible, almost slimy sensation as he feels the magi’s hand settling against his side over the covers, mere inches from his own hand before it slides to his sternum, fingers delicately smoothing over that cursed piece of metal.
The sensation leaves Matakara- if possible- even sicker than before, lightheaded and ill as his saliva chokes him. Bile burns his throat as Matakara struggles to breathe.
“Don’ touch me- you’re- nnh, not real. You’re,” Matakara’s lips tremble, voice crackly and weak as he draws in a pained breath, “this isn’ real.”
“How many more times will you repeat that until you give in?” It’s less of a question than it is a statement, but Matakara still answers.
Or at least tries to.
As Matakara’s mouth opens, body trembling and hot, a terrible wave of nausea seizes him, causing his throat to spasm and bile to build as his head pounds against his skull. The horrid hand against his chest doesn’t move even as he shakes and writhes underneath its touch.
“You must’ve understood by now that the sooner you accept me as a part of you, the quicker you will recover. I can provide you with power- more power than you could ever dream of.” Ichiya’s voice is low, yet uncharacteristically strained as he leans down, free hand attentively moving the shivering boy’s bangs to the side, fingers carefully smoothing against his sweaty, palid, forehead. “I can help you if you will simply let me.”
“No…” Matakara tries weakly, tears finally breaking and painting arcs against his nose and temple.
The being above Matakara sighs, long and gentle before the hand on his forehead moves to thumb away at the tears against the bridge of his nose, smearing it across the line of his eye bags before it returns to threading itself through his hair.
A long silence follows, one that’s only filled momentarily by the stray sniffle or shudder from Matakara as his fever only worsens. The empty box of expired fever medication lay mere inches from the two, useless and discarded.
“I simply don’t understand your reasoning behind this.” Ichiya’s voice cuts through the silence like a knife through warm butter. It startles Matakara from his hazy consciousness, causing him to flinch slightly. Yet the energy to move or even jerk away has been long reduced. Sapped away by each terrible shiver and wave of nausea reducing the sick boy into nothing but putty in the Magi’s hands.
“We are one in the same, are we not?” Ichiya muttered, hand finally moving from its tortuous movements against the parasitic piece of metal embedded in Matakara’s chest to smooth against the length of the brunette’s arm.
“Nnh… no, don’- we’re not.” Matakara’s barely able to murmur out, the fever reducing his thoughts to a thick haze. “I’m- m’ not…”
“Are we not? We’ve both been betrayed by someone close to us. Both been hurt and discarded. Lied to.” Ichiya says. His voice is deep and rich and for a second it’s almost comforting. “I know you are hurting Matakara, do you not wish for it to stop?”
The responding silence is near deafening.
Ichiya’s hand stalls against Matakara’s arm, before it slowly moves to the brunette’s knee. The line of movement against Matakara’s side feels like a combination of being cut open with the cool precision of a surgical scalpel and having each burning nerve combust into a wild flurry of flames. It’s awful. It’s sickening. It hurts.
The being’s fingers, calm and firm press against the back of his knee, and the sudden clench of ache that grips his entire leg is enough to force a choked cry from Matakara’s lips.
“The wound has scarred over, hasn’t it?” Ichiya states, plainly, almost impartial if not for the slightest tinge of hurt coating his voice.
“Don’t. Don’t,” Matakara’s barely able to grit out, “don’t touch me, just leave- leave me alone.”
His voice borders on a sob, voice shaky and weak as his facade of determination crumbles at the horrid sensation of Ichiya’s fingers pressing that much harder against the scar spanning across the back of his knee.
“You received this after trying to protect that boy,” Ichiya says, voice sharp around the edges as his finger lightly trail against the contour of the wound, fingers inadvertently smoothing across the fabric of the blanket, “you were scarred and beaten and that boy did nothing to protect you, to even acknowledge you.”
Matakara’s throat spasms, defenses and retorts dying in his throat as each harsh press and brush against the scar has the entirety of his leg seizing up and clenching in painful aches and spasms, throat drying and convulsing at each slight of the magi’s hand.
Coupled with the hand still ceaselessly dragging across his hair, tugging each strand with uncaring rakes, fingers brushing against his flushed forehead and his ear-
Why it’s all far too overstimulating, too overwhelming for the poor boy to process, mind sparking and fraying as Ichiya continues, ministrations continuous and cruel as they press sharper still.
Matakara feels like he’s going to go insane.
“How could you have not realized the signs earlier? How could you not have-“
“I don’t- I don’t know! Okay?” Matakara’s voice comes out in harsh, ragged bursts, “I just didn’t want to- I didn’t want to think- or I didn’t want to- to have to- I just- I, I thought he was still- I don’t know ! Okay?”
The outburst leaves Matakara reeling, throat seemingly shredded to bits at the simple increase in volume and pressure, leaving a dreadfully dull ache in place of his esophagus.
The silence that stretches on between the two feels horribly drawn out, however, much to Matakara’s overwhelming relief and delight, the hand against his knee finally draws back, fingers lightly trailing against his thigh before retreating completely.
A beat of silence follows the actions, and then another.
Ichiya is the one to break the silence yet again.
“You and I are far closer in nature than you may believe,” Ichiya states, voice low and hushed as his hand teases a rather stubborn curl of Matakara’s hair, hand still occasionally moving to brush against the other’s forehead, smoothing against pale, feverish skin.
Matakara simply shakes his head, action weak and half-hearted as his eyes finally crack open the slightest bit, vision bleary with tears.
The slow, thumping crescendo of his heart, beating against his head reaches an all-time high, the rest of the world seemingly drowning out into nothing but a flurry of colors and vague sensations before Matakara sharpens his gaze to a hazy focus on the others face, pupils peering at the other through the corners of his eye as the other fixes him with a calm, almost eerily solemn stare.
Ichiya’s hand shifts, fingers moving to trail against Matakara’s flushed cheeks. His skin is hot to the touch and Matakara flinches away at the contact, eyes fluttering shut once more as he desperately tries to coax his throat to work.
His throat barely manages to work itself past a few meager syllables before it completely dies out, but the message is still conveyed, if the slight stilling of Ichiya’s hand was anything to go by.
“You will have to accept me sooner or later, boy.”
And Matakara knows that. He knows that possibly better than anyone else .
Worse yet, though, must be the slow, bubbling acceptance that blooms within his chest- and Matakara thinks it must be synonymous to the creeping acceptance that must come from a host watching its own body be consumed by a parasite.
Eyes hazy, limbs twitching as it’s devoured whole from the inside out.