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Hikaru wasn’t the same.
Yoichi wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t like he looked Hikaru in the face and thought everything was the same. How it should be. Return to the past, share treats during the summer heat, fumble over tests and their classmates and say nothing of the fact.
Hikaru was different.
He knew why. It was—easy, in a way—to say how Hikaru was different.
There was something in his eyes. Not to be poetic or dramatic, but the colors had changed just enough for Yoshiki to notice. Hikaru smiled often, but this Hikaru smiled—when he wouldn’t have—there was some kind of disconnection between himself and everyone else, too. People said it was because of hypothermia, what it did to the brain. Yes, the brain changed. The body, too, when exposed to the cold for that long. But hypothermia couldn’t change the soul, could it?
And that was what had truly changed.
Hikaru’s soul—Yoshiki didn’t know who he was looking at. Really.
The body remained the same, mostly, and Yoshiki wasn't bothered by how Hikaru walked or rode his bike, or tried to eat a popsicle before it melted onto his knuckles. Hikaru was right in front of him. Yoshiki wasn’t an idiot. He knew what he was looking at: his best friend. But his best friend had died this winter, and the person in front of him wasn’t the real Hikaru, but someone or something else.
Because the soul had changed. Because there was a gap—or seventy—in this Hikaru’s memory, and his emotions were wired in odd places, for odd things.
Yoshiki waited.
He waited, and waited, and waited, and then he stopped waiting and started laying there—his bedroom wasn’t his tomb, or a grave, or the place he would die—but the fan was off and the air was stuffy. He laid on his side and curled towards the window. The sunlight didn’t help, even as it bled from behind a thick curtain. He didn’t read his books, didn’t touch any of the manga that sat on his desk. Brand new, too, but Yoshiki had lost the desire to indulge in them. The fan was off. The room was dark. He wouldn’t touch the light switches, wouldn’t bother trying to feel awake when all he wanted was to lay down and stay there. The blanket wasn’t soft enough, and the pillow was too lumpy. Yoshiki wouldn’t complain. He waited for his lungs to collapse, for his mind to start throwing away photos of the real Hikaru—his chest got tight, his mouth watered uncomfortably. His skin was clammy.
“Yoshiki,” the not real Hikaru whispered, and his voice was very close. “You okay?”
But Yoshiki was tired. And maybe, just a little, scared. There was something wrong with this entire situation. He shouldn’t have invited Hikaru over today. He shouldn’t have offered his room, either. He shouldn’t have stayed so close to the walking corpse of his best friend.
Yoshiki mumbled something—he didn’t even know what—and closed his eyes. The sun was kissing his temple, even through the curtain. It wasn’t even Eve mining yet and he was already halfway asleep—sluggish, unprompted.
“Yoshiki,” Hikaru repeated, again and again. “Yoshiki, c’mon.” Said his name like a mantra. “Yoshiki?”
Like a prayer.
But what other option did he have? Any kind of Hikaru was better than no Hikaru at all.
Hikaru’s hand touched his shoulder, shaking him back and forth. Just a little. The contact was warm, sun-sticky, and Hikaru was complaining about something. It was all very mundane, very lighthearted. “Yoshiki,” Hikaru wheedled, “Are ya sure you don’t want to read with me? Not even one chapter?”
“Huh?” Yoshiki mumbled. “What book?”
His mouth was dry. The touch on his shoulder wasn’t expected—not really—but he didn’t roll away. He didn’t think he had the strength to do that, really.
“Any of them,” Hikaru said, like lightning—and the bed creaked. “You have so many, right? Surely one of them is good.” Another creak, and this time warmth spread along Yoshiki’s back. More contact.
Hikaru must have finally sat down next to Yoshiki’s limp form, his ribs pressing sharply into Yoshiki’s spine. The angle was wrong. The situation was wrong. Hikaru had died that winter, and the person sitting next to Yoshiki was now wearing his skin, using his face, and cherishing his memories. Yoshiki didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know, so he stayed quiet, breathed out slowly into the pillow his face was crushed into.
“Read what you want,” Yoshiki mumbled.
“Without you?” Hikaru complained, and his hand touched Yoshiki’s shoulder again—a thumb dug into his bone, rubbed insistently against the blade.
Yoshiki’s shoulder spasmed, and he muttered something unhappily. He curled closer to the wall, dragging the blanket higher up around him. Maybe the coverage would stop the fear. Maybe the coverage would soothe the ache and the sting and the burn and the kiss of the sun that he had begun to hate. Summer wasn’t any better than winter. It wasn’t so dreary, but the heat was oppressive, and school was too much, and Hikaru was still dead, and there was nothing to do in this town that hadn’t already been done a hundred times before.
“Egh,” Yoshiki shuddered, not really sickened, but not willing to indulge any more of Hikaru’s handiness. “Quit that…”
“It helps, though,” Hikaru huffed, and his hand left Yoshiki’s shoulder to instead start brushing—twisting, in a way- through Yoshiki’s hair. “Otherwise you’ll just lie there quietly and not do anything for hours.”
Through the fog of Yoshiki’s brain, he came forth with a coherent, “What?”
“You’ll lie here and do absolutely nothing,” Hikaru repeated, only a little sideways. “And that’s boring, y’know? And I’m…” His hand finally settled in Yoshiki’s hair, and just like that, the buzz of cicadas outside overtook whatever noise could possibly exist in this room. Yoshiki lay frozen to the mattress, Hikaru sitting next to his forgotten form, and neither of them moved or said anything else. “I’m, like, right here,” Hikaru finished, after the buzz lasted for a few minutes. “You asked me to pop over and I was like, oh that’ll be great, for sure, but you’re just stuck in a… gooey human ball.”
“I’m not gooey,” Yoshiki replied, tiredly, but shame burned at his ears, climbing.
“You might be,” Hikaru said, as if he knew anything about humans. He knew several things about Yoshiki in comparison. “I dunno,” he said, next, “If ya wanted to just sleep all day, you didn’t have to text. I’d have been fine.”
But they weren’t fine. Neither of them were fine.
(Mixing. Mingling. Not whole. Not there.)
There was dirt in his mouth and something wrong with his knees. Turned weak. Turned sour, then, in his mouth—nothing rotten in the house, but he looked at his sister and it took her a minute to see him. Mom didn’t recognize him—pushed buttons—papers scattered in his school bag. Who the hell was he? Who the hell was Hikaru, anyway? And this was bad. This wasn’t fine. And Yoshiki had always been like this—hiding in his room, crawling into bed and staying there. He didn’t feel better in the sun. He didn’t feel better in the snow. Nights didn’t help. They were long, boring, and humid. The town was suffocating. Hikaru was fresh air, but Yoshiki couldn’t get enough—he was selfish, too—and it was a very difficult balance. Salt in the wound. Every single memory, every single day, and he couldn’t place half of them and he couldn’t keep the ones that didn’t fit on his mental shelf. He tasted sand, felt it in his shoes, and every mistake—misspoken word—unsent text—it cajoled and cajoled him, and he could see blood and Hikaru’s life—all that power—he could see it split open and consume the air, spread out like jams, oil on water—and no amount of dish soap could rid the world of it.
“I wanted to hang out with ya,” Yoshiki said, and his mouth moved but his mind didn’t. I didn’t want to forget you. I need to see you. I need to know you’re still here. His skin crawled. It wasn’t like he ever said anything about this—utmost fear—it just creeped up on him sometimes, got louder on certain days. “I wanted to, so don’t act like… it’s not like I planned to… sleep all day, Hikaru. I’m just…”
Hikaru was quiet for a moment. “Long day?”
“Huh?” came the echo, because Yoshiki really didn’t understand why Hikaru would even ask that.
I don’t want to forget you, he thought. I don’t want to be forgotten. Mom forgot me. It’s scary. It’s wrong. We’re mixing in all the wrong ways. I’m being forgotten, like the real Hikaru.
He wished he had the guts to trace the scar on Hikaru’s throat.
But the fake Hikaru huffed again, and clarified without any lapse. “Did ya have a long day?”
“No,” Yoshiki muttered, “I don’t ever do.”
“Eh,” Hikaru blinked, and then he laughed a little—hiccups past lips—and then he leaned down and his bony chin rested on top of Yoshiki’s shoulder. The blanket did little to soften the sharpness. “Yoshiki, maybe you’re just sad, y’know? It happens ‘n shit. It’s not so bad. It’s just there.” He snuffed, next, like it was just that simple. “Not sayin’ that it’s easy, but…”
“I wanted to hang out,” Yoshiki said again.
“‘Kay,” Hikaru laughed, and his chin was still digging into Yoshiki’s shoulder. “Do ya care if I turn on the fan? Or open the window? Or go through all your manga?”
“No,” He mumbled. “I don’t care.”
“Cool,” Hikaru said, brightly—and then he reached over Yoshiki, mattress creaking all the while, and dragged the thick curtains open with one hand. Sunlight spilled into the room freely, hitting Yoshiki directly in the eyes. “Tada,” said the eldritch horror, like a kid would say. His laugh was genuine and kind and sappy, not so bad, but Yoshiki was a puddle of human goo and ugliness—mixed wrong, lumpy batter—and the heaviness on his arm wouldn’t go away even if he put a knife to it and tried to cut slices off.
He squeezed them shut, groaning.
“Sorry,” said Hikaru, who didn’t sound all that sorry. But he did pat Yoshiki’s shoulder a few times in consolation. “I’mma get the light, too. Keep your eyes closed if it’s too bright.”
Yoshiki wished it was that easy. He wished it was that easy. (Not sayin’ that it’s easy, but…) He wished it could be simple. He wished murders didn’t occur and wished human values didn’t cloud his mind when he looked at the imposter next to him, but he couldn’t help it. Just like how Hikaru couldn’t help how or what he was. That was just how it was. Right? They were like this. Hiding, waiting, talking, moping, breathing, going and going and going until they were both gone. When would they—
Hikaru got off the bed. The mattress squeaked, as did the floorboards, and then there was the distinctive click of the light switch being turned on. Yoshiki kept his eyes shut, though, muffling his sound into the pillow. His hair fell into his face, too, tangled from not washing it in two days—not moving from his bed, really.
The bedroom wasn’t his grave, but his bed was like a coffin. He wanted to stay in it. He didn’t want to be robbed out of it.
There was a shuffling sound. “I’m gonna read volume six,” Hikaru announced, easily, but he didn’t say what series it was. Yoshiki didn’t ask him to clarify. The not-boy came back over, thumping and sitting back down on the bed. He shuffled closer, rustling the blankets. His back pressed into Yoshiki’s back, next. “I don’t think you’ve read this one, actually,” he commented. There was a sound like he was skimming through the pages rapidly. “I’ll read it to ya! And describe all the pictures. It’ll be cool, yeah?”
But Yoshiki didn’t know. He didn’t mind—his stomach sank further than a stone in a lake, and he just sighed into his pillow. “Sure.”
“Sure,” Hikaru echoed. Maybe there was a nervous tone, hidden, tucked into his lips. “Hey, wait, do you want to sit up first?”
Yoshiki kept his eyes shut. “Why?”
“To drink water?” Hikaru said, but it sounded more like a question. A lack of knowing, even after playing human for so long. He just did things, not needing to, not really—but Yoshiki needed to, because he had a real mortal body, made of flesh and blood and arteries and stuff—womp womp—and to not drink water was to dry out and die. “I dunno,” Hikaru added, only a little nervously, mostly jokingly, “How long have you just been lying there, huh? Maybe you need to drink a lot of water, eat something, and sit up before snoozing.”
“I’m not snoozing,” Yoshiki huffed. That was almost insulting. Like he would just sleep.
Ha.
“Coulda fooled me,” Hikaru quipped, but his hand was warm when it smacked at Yoshiki’s shoulder, unseeing at the angles they were pressed together. (Back to back.) He made another sound. “Want water? It’s iced. I added ice. Remember?”
And his skin crawled, and the sun was smothering his skin. He felt warmer, with both the lights on and curtains opened fully. Hot afternoon, humid and stuffy and unfair to both of them. Not quite like the peak of summer heat, but still enough to make everything feel muggy. Ultimately, unpleasant. But Yoshiki was good at staying in bed; handling the heat with blank tolerance; wearing a light shirt and then staying in one place for hours if not a day or two. (Plural. Days.) But his mouth was dry. And he didn’t want to forget, he didn’t want to. He remembered Hikaru getting here, brining water up and like four bags of chips. He remembered it.
(The idea of not remembering made him want to cry, all of a sudden, like it was so terrible to forget the small things.)
“Uhuh,” Yoshiki said. “I know.”
“‘Kay,” came the reply, “Want some?”
(In the grand scheme of things, wasn’t he a small thing?)
“Not now,” Yoshiki mumbled, and pressed his face further into the pillow. His throat was all closed up. “You can just read, I’ll listen.”
“Hmm,” Hikaru hummed, contemplative, only half-fake. Like he’d listen to me, said a mean thing in the back of Yoshiki’s brain. But his mouth was dry, and the ghost on his bed sighed loudly before clearing his throat. “If ya say so. But don’t fall asleep early, ‘kay?” Faux kindness, but Hikaru meant it, Hikaru wasn’t saying it to lie—he was real enough, he was the only real Hikaru left. “We gotta get at least halfway through the manga before passing out.”
(There would never be another.)
“Yeah,” Yoshiki said, because that sounded normal enough. “Okay.”