Chapter Text
Rain tapped against the windowpane, blurring the lights of the evening city. Inside Yoshiki’s room, only a desk lamp glowed, casting long shadows across the walls. Yoshiki sat on a chair, staring at the floor, when a soft knock sounded at the door. He flinched. He didn’t need to ask who was there. That knock—so measured and precise—could belong to only one being. When Yoshiki opened the door, Hikaru stood on the threshold. His hair was slightly damp, and that same familiar, warm smile played upon his face. "Hey, Yoshiki!" he said cheerfully, stepping inside. "What a downpour out there. I’m glad you’re home." "Hi," Yoshiki replied softly, closing the door behind him. Inside, his stomach clenched. Every one of Hikaru’s movements—his voice, the way he tilted his head—was exactly like that of his childhood best friend. But Yoshiki knew the truth. The real Hikaru had died in those mountains. And the thing standing before him now was an ancient, eerie monster that had simply taken up residence in another’s shell. A monster that was desperately trying to *be* Hikaru. And—what frightened Yoshiki most of all—a monster he still couldn’t bring himself to push away. Without a word, Hikaru walked deeper into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, patting the mattress beside him. "Why are you just standing there frozen? Sit down; let's chat. It’s been ages since we’ve had a proper conversation." His eyes—deep and unnaturally vivid—gazed at Yoshiki with unwavering devotion. Yoshiki swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat. His legs felt like cotton, but he forced himself to walk over and sit on the very edge of the bed, leaving a palpable distance between them. "What do you want to talk about?" Yoshiki asked, trying to keep his voice from trembling. He avoided looking Hikaru in the face, instead studying his own fingers. "Oh, just about everything." Hikaru leaned forward slightly, closing the gap. He smelled of summer grass and something else... something barely perceptible, alien, and damp. "You’ve been so gloomy lately. You hardly ever look at me at school. Did... did I do something wrong, Yoshiki?" The question sounded so sincere and vulnerable that it stole Yoshiki’s breath away. That was the true torture. The creature before him wasn't merely mimicking Hikaru—it genuinely loved Yoshiki with that same mad, pure love. "It’s fine," Yoshiki lied, finally lifting his eyes. The lamplight fell upon Hikaru’s neck, and for a fleeting instant, it seemed to Yoshiki that the skin there gave a fractional twitch—as if something black and fluid had stirred beneath the surface. The boy clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palms. *This isn’t him. It’s a monster,* he repeated to himself, like a mantra. Hikaru caught his gaze. For a moment, his smile faltered ever so slightly—the corners of his mouth twitched upward a fraction too high, baring his teeth—but he instantly regained his composure. "You’re still afraid of me, aren’t you?" Hikaru asked softly, almost in a whisper. He reached out and, with a gentle, barely-there touch, laid his palm over Yoshiki’s clenched fist. His fingers were icy cold. "I know that I’m not him. But I’m here, with you. And I will never—do you hear me?—*never* hurt you." Yoshiki gazed at that pale, cold hand. He wanted to scream, to flee, to shake it off. But instead, he remained seated right where he was, feeling a solitary tear roll down his cheek. An interspecies chasm separated them, yet right now—on the edge of this bed—they were bound by something far more eerie and powerful than ordinary friendship. This impulse—born of years of suppressed pain—momentarily erased all boundaries between the past and the present. The air in the room grew unbearably stifling. Yoshiki felt a wave of heat wash over him, his breathing growing erratic, ragged, and heavy. His heart pounded in his chest so fast and loud that its beat seemed to fill the entire space around him. Slowly, he shifted his gaze toward Hikaru. The truth—which Yoshiki had for so long buried deep within his subconscious—was now burning him from the inside out. He had harbored feelings for Hikaru for a long time. For the *real* Hikaru. For the boy he had grown up with. And to see that face now—so close—to sense that achingly familiar silhouette was a true, exquisite form of torture. An inner voice—fueled by a deep-seated, ingrained homophobia—screamed furiously that this was wrong, shameful, and perverse. Yet, in that moment, his body refused to obey his mind. Suddenly, Yoshiki’s palm rose of its own accord—quietly, cautiously. His hand trembled violently, his fingers moving uncertainly, fumbling through the air. In that moment, the young man felt as if he were under a spell. The emotions surging within him—a blend of years of longing, forbidden desire, and despair—completely paralyzed his will. His hand reached out slowly, centimeter by centimeter, toward Hikaru’s cheek. Yoshiki’s gaze was locked immovably upon him, his eyelids growing heavy, as if he were sinking into a deep, viscous slumber. He simply wanted to touch him. To pretend—if only for a second—that everything was just as it used to be. Hikaru froze. He did not move—did not even breathe—holding his breath as his dark eyes watched, mesmerized, as Yoshiki’s palm drew near. For a split second, something primal—triumphant and hungry—flashed within those eyes. And that was precisely what snapped Yoshiki back to reality. As if struck by an electric shock, he abruptly broke free from that "trance." The sudden realization of WHO stood before him—and WHAT he had just been about to do—washed away all his feverish heat in a freezing wave. Yoshiki jerked his hand back sharply, convulsively, as if he had scorched himself on red-hot iron. The surging emotions gave way to sheer, wild terror. Reverting to his usual state, he began to scramble backward across the mattress in a panic, until his back hit the very edge of the bed. His eyes flew wide in absolute, sheer shock. His heart pounded even more furiously—though now, it was out of horror at himself. He had nearly given in. He had nearly embraced a monster, mistaking it for the one he loved. Hikaru remained seated exactly where he was. The hand that had just held Yoshiki lay motionless on the bedspread, now empty. The smile slowly slid from his face, leaving behind only a polite, disturbingly perfect mask of disappointment. "Yoshiki...?" he called out softly; in his voice resonated a strange, barely perceptible echo—as if two people were speaking at once. Hikaru froze, gazing intently at Yoshiki, who had huddled into a corner. The monster lurking beneath human skin possessed an uncanny sensitivity to the emotions of others, yet in this very moment, something entirely different was unfolding within it. The creature was not merely sensing another’s fear or passion; it suddenly realized that deep within its own body—copied down to the very last cell—beat that exact same feeling. The *real* Hikaru, during his lifetime, would have given everything for such a tentative gesture. And the monster—having inherited his memories, his soul, and his devotion—felt that love surge through him from within, overwhelming him with an irresistible force. Had Yoshiki not pulled his hand away, Hikaru would have reached out to meet it. He would have gently captured those trembling fingers, pressed his cheek against them, and then—yielding to that shared, overwhelming impulse—he would have leaned forward and kissed Yoshiki. He would have kissed him just as the real Hikaru had dreamed of doing for years, yet never dared, for fear of shattering everything. But Yoshiki knew nothing of this. To him, the situation appeared entirely different—grotesque and terrifying. Sitting on the very edge of the bed, breathing heavily, he felt the crushing weight of guilt descend upon his shoulders with immense force. His own homophobia, commingled with grief, was devouring him from the inside. It felt as though if he were to succumb to this hypnotic pull—if he allowed himself to touch this empty shell, or, God forbid, to kiss it—he would be committing the most heinous of crimes. *I just want to use my dead friend’s body for my own pleasure*—the thought seared through Yoshiki’s mind, leaving him gasping for breath in a paroxysm of self-loathing. He felt as though he were desecrating the memory of the *real* Hikaru by yielding to weakness in the face of a monster—a creature merely wearing another man’s clothes and another man’s face. He felt filthy, selfish, and infinitely guilty toward the boy he had lost in the mountains. Hikaru slowly lowered his head. In the dim light of the room, his eyes flashed for a fleeting moment with an unnatural, glossy blackness. He watched Yoshiki tremble with shame and guilt, and the chasm of misunderstanding between them tightened like a suffocating noose. The monster loved him with a pure love—albeit one that struck terror into the hearts of humanity—while the young man sitting opposite him was being driven to the brink of madness by his own hatred for his own feelings. “Yoshiki…” Hikaru whispered his name softly, almost pleadingly, making a barely perceptible movement toward him. “Are you… in so much pain because of me?”