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Yoshiki peeled the wrapping of his popsicle, his eyes never straying from the page of his comic book. The sound of plastic crinkling interrupted the humming of the fan, but nothing could drown out the throbbing whines of the cicadas outside.
The summer had reached its peak, each day hotter than the day before. Hikaru had no air conditioner in his room—just a small pedestal fan that paused and clinked as it oscillated. Flat on his stomach, he tried to draw what little coolness lingered on the floor.
“Why is it this hot? This is like hell on Earth,” Hikaru whined, pushing himself up from the floor as his plans to soak in the coolness of the ground had backfired with him soaking in his own sweat instead. He had a sketchbook in his hand, and even though he knew it would make the heat even more unbearable, he hugged it against his chest, guarding it against any prying eyes.
Yoshiki peeled his popsicle’s wrapper further, the plastic scrunching underneath his fingers. “It’s always stupid hot around this time. I thought ya gotten used to it.”
Hikaru probably did get used to it, but he was not him. Sure, he had Hikaru’s voice; he had Hikaru’s face; he had Hikaru’s memory, but he was not Hikaru. This was his first summer —his first heat wave— with Yoshiki.
“I think I’m dying,” he said. He realized belatedly that these words were probably uttered by the real Hikaru, and if Yoshiki knew —if he understood the nature of his existence—, he probably wouldn't be glued to his comic book. But, that scenario was a hypothetical, and Yoshiki did not know.
“Why don’t ya eat one?” Yoshiki gestured to the popsicle in his hand, finally looking up from his book to meet Hikaru's eyes.
Yoshiki didn’t —couldn't— know, but in the small timeframe where their eyes met, Hikaru had devoured every detail of his face: the bead of sweat trickling down his nose, the cracks forming on his lips, and the moles hiding in the vast expanse of his skin. The moment Yoshiki looked away, Hikaru scribbled the details onto his sketchbook, his hands moving as fast as the wind, trying to race against time as the fleeting image would fade from his memory.
He realized when he became human —when he began acting like one— that memories were important. No matter how short or long, how passing or significant the memory was, they were worth remembering. But, even with this realization, he couldn't stop himself from forgetting the small details, from missing the complete picture, because despite what he is—he was still wearing the flesh of a human. Humans were flawed. They forgot things because memory was intangible, but what if he turned it into something that wasn't?
“What are ya drawing?” Yoshiki asked.
Hikaru looked up from his sketchbook. Once again, he met Yoshiki’s eyes. Round and dark and bottomless. Like he could see through him.
“None of ya business,” Hikaru replied, a mischievous smile plastered on his face.
Yoshiki didn't seem to like that answer as his lips curved into a slight frown. “Ya starin’ at me. How is that not my business?”
The mole underneath the left corner of Yoshiki’s lips moved with his every word. Hikaru couldn't help but trace it.
“Stop looking.” Yoshiki averted his gaze, looking away but not yet returning to reading his comic book. His voice was laced with an unnamed shame, and Hikaru couldn't begin to understand what Yoshiki saw when he looked in the mirror. At times, he wished he could give Yoshiki his eyes. Maybe then the truth would be as clear as day, and instead of a hideous beast, Yoshiki would finally recognize himself for what he was—the breeze that eased the summer’s heat, the soft glow that lingered at dusk, and the quiet radiance of moonlight shining over a sea of sunflowers.
“Your moles’ pretty.” The words spilled out before Hikaru could stop them.
The miniature fan whirled, spinning as fast as it could, but it was still so hot. Hikaru’s shirt stuck to his back, and he had to tug at his collar to allow air to his lungs.
Yoshiki was still not looking at him, “Guys ain’t pretty.”
Hikaru would beg to differ, but he didn’t argue. It was far too hot to get worked up over nothing. The cicadas outside seemed to agree as they wailed even louder, crying from the oppressive heat. Their cries took over the house, and everything else seemed to stop —the whirling of the fan, the shuffling of the dishwasher, and even the distant voices from the TV—. The world stopped spinning, and it was just them, the cicadas, and the pounding heat wave.
“That’s something that's said to a girl,” Yoshiki said, interjecting the cicadas.
Now, it was just them. And the goddamn heat. Hikaru raked his hand through his hair, feeling sweat pooling in his palm, “Have ya said that to a girl?”
It was a simple question. With a yes or no answer. But, Yoshiki was stuck on it, his voice parched, and only after a few minutes did he finally shake his head. “Have you?”
Yoshiki looked at him, waiting for an answer. Sweat trailed from his temple to the slant of his neck before pooling at the indent of where his collarbones met.
“Nah.” Hikaru hungrily ate up Yoshiki’s gaze. The fan blew towards him, blowing particles and dust into his eyes, but he couldn't flinch away. Yoshiki was looking at him. He needed to brand the image underneath his eyelids. “Just you, I guess.”
Yoshiki gulped. He turned his gaze away, but it was too late. The flush spreading on his cheeks was undeniable, and Hikaru drank up the sight, his fingers tingling by his side. Pressing his cold fingertips against Yoshiki’s blood-filled skin would be so warm, and even though the last thing he needed was another source of heat, he couldn't help but long —crave— for Yoshiki’s warmth.
The moment passed, and the earth began to spin on its axis again. Yoshiki returned to his slumped position, his eyes glued to his comic book, but Hikaru would not let the memory fade. He sketched the scene onto paper, reliving the moment with every stroke of his pencil. The blood in his body scattered underneath his skin while his heart pumped like it was alive for the first time. It was so unfairly hot. He blamed it entirely on the heat wave.