Chapter Text
A smooth breeze blows through the bedroom and rustles the curtains a bit, disclosing a scent of freshly cut grass somewhere outside. The air remains warm and thick, even though it is almost twilight.
Summer is cruel, and its warmth envelops everything, suffocating every corner of Kubitachi and its surroundings—from the narrow alleys between family homes to the distant shrines near the forest, and from one heart to another.
Yoshiki has spent the last few months growing accustomed to the aching feeling of missing someone who seems to be there but isn't.
He had thought that once presented with the truth, the crash would be loud and ugly.
Instead, he quietly falls apart; like someone used to hiding, doubting, taking up as little space as he could—whether to avoid being bothered, or bothering someone else.
Glued to the comfort of the bed, he runs a hand over his face as his eyelids droop wearily, finally allowing the day to weigh heavy on his chest.
Dad isn't home. His sister is probably in her bedroom, too, or doing her very own thing in the living room—he doesn't really know. And Mom hasn’t called him for dinner yet. Maybe she won’t call him at all, hoping he’ll show up on his own. Or not. Maybe not. Maybe he isn't expected at all.
Today, he is glad of it. There is more than enough space here, even if he feels trapped inside most of the time.
Besides, the rest of the house has its own heavy, strange coldness, as if it harbored its own grudges against the Tsujinaka family. Perhaps its just the ambience created by his own parents and their pointless arguments. Kaoru would probably say the same thing.
Whatever. He doesn't really want to see anyone right now, so it changes nothing. At this time of the day, there is no energy left in him to keep up a believable act.
Today has already been exhausting at school. The extra choir rehearsals are demanding, exams are coming up, and his friends are starting to worry about the constant look of exhaustion painted on his face.
He can tell that Asako wants to ask him about it, but she hasn't. At least he'll have time to come up with some kind of excuse.
Other than that, the day has been… normal. As normal as it can be now. Not normal at all. Now, not a single thing can be normal.
All of it is starting to take a toll on his body and mind even if he doesn't like to show it. Not at school. Not at home. Not even in the privacy of his room.
Internally, he hopes that what’s going on with him right now looks, from the outside, like a typical teenage crisis. Otherwise, he wouldn’t know how to explain it. He just can't.
He has to hide it. He can't tell anyone. Not about Hikaru. And least about Hikaru.
Telling anyone would be like confessing a crime. He feels like a criminal disguised as a boring high schooler who still has growing pains.
No, not a criminal. He feels like a monster—hanging out with another.
The moment he welcomed whatever monster was wearing his best friend's body now, he became one as well. Or maybe he had always been one, and from now on, everything he feels is a punishment, or perhaps a consequence of that choice. Of all these choices, made together an archive of inadequacies and flaws always pointed out by strangers stepping hard on the fine and delicate line between honesty and cruelty. Those who don't really know anything about him.
They don't know about it. They don't know anything. But if they did, however twisted it may seem, as painful as it is to admit, sometimes he sees himself mirrored in this weird, mysterious entity who at times seems to know him by heart. Just like Hikaru did.
All these villages and the town were already rather dark places in their normalcy. They seem to be quiet, sunny spots in the countryside. Cheap rent, small retail shops and entertainment chains, green crops and nosy people. Even stupid tourists who sometimes set foot on this shoebox.
Everywhere felt out of place–or he felt out of place everywhere. It might just be what comes with being a quiet, weird kid in a place where you are expected to be like everybody else.
Of course, he wasn't the only one struggling with the prejudices and demands of being raised in a rural area. Of course he wasn't. He already knew that. Of course he knew that.
But Hikaru's light used to make everything feel easy.
Easier.
Maybe, in time, everything eventually could feel normal again. He wishes to feel normal again. He may be able to forget that he... that it... isn't Hikaru. To keep going along like this until he just truly believes it himself. But that isn't going to happen, right?
Hikaru is gone, and he won't come back. No matter how many sobs he carefully stifles into the pillow at night, trying not to wake anyone, nothing will change that. Still, he hopes for it not to be true.
Because he hates with all of his heart that life itself can just go on without him.
And he feels guilty. Extremely guilty all the time. For denying it. For going along with this. For mourning alone. For acting like everything is fine when it's not. Not at all.
To everyone else, the boy standing next to him every day is still Hikaru, and all of the lies slipping through his lips leave him empty as a discarded Papicco wrapper. But what else can he possibly do but lie?
Either way, it seems like everything is screwed. Everything sucks. He probably sucks, too.
This disgusting sin is his to carry alone. But it's messing with his sanity more than he is willing to recognize.
Some nights he just silently expects not to wake up anymore, hoping that maybe the stress will finally get him. Or perhaps the monster will soon consume him entirely, giving in to his deep predatory desires, so he would not need to worry any longer about his future self.
Neither of those has happened. Not yet. It's partly true that a big part of him still doesn't want to find out what Hikaru would say, or do, if Yoshiki ever asked him to take it out of his own human hands.
The fan hums to the rhythm of his scattered thoughts while the breeze still offers fragments of the outside world slipping trough the window.
His spiraling is interrupted by distinctive sounds indicating that Dad has finally gotten home—specifically, arguments coming from the kitchen.
He can hear Kaoru going back to her room, passing fast by his closed door, footsteps quiet but hurried, and doesn't think much of it in the end.
It is the usual, as it has been for a long time now, and he refuses to step into the domestic resentment warzone tonight.
Maybe he'll end up skip dinner, or go downstairs for a late snack if he feels like it. Just lying there doesn't feel so bad, getting a little bit of rest, even if it's just for a moment.
He hasn't slept well in a long time. The dark circles under his eyes are truly worse than ever.
Somehow the monster always notices when something is wrong.
And for whatever reason, that makes him furious.
But it's almost funny how different they look from one another.
A flickering thought crosses his mind once again, and lingers there.
Something dark surfaces with it, and has been taking up more and more space there for quite some time now. Not only today, but especially over the course of the past few months.
With a cold head, he'd never considered it a possibility. It wasn't something for someone like him, always pretty pain-averse ever since being a kid. Scrapes on the knees, bloody noses, and eyes full of tears could easily ruin an afternoon of children's games.
But now, pain lives within him. A different kind, but he feels it creeping into every room he’s in, through the cracks of his own mind.
And it stays there as his only constant company. Sometimes almost unnoticeable, sometimes unbearable.
So now it is, at least, familiar.
He often questions if others can feel it too, poisonous and contaminating when he gets too close.
He got used to being called a loner. With the passing of time, it didn't bother him as much as when he was younger. Most of the time, his vibe was rather dull, and he had just accepted it as it was.
Even Hikaru, rightfully, used to tease him about his quietness and self-loathing at times, grinning widely whenever he finally made him pull an upset face that only he got to see.
Now things are truly lonely, and there is no teasing anymore. This ugly feeling coils around his guts, making its way into his very self like a new part of him, pressing inwards with nowhere to go, yet begging for an escape. Even if all he really needs right now is something to hold on to.
Of course, he had never told him about any of this. He wouldn't have understood.
Charming. Confident. Authentic. Easygoing about everything. Hikaru had always been the opposite of him. And he liked it that way.
Through no real fault of its own, night is approaching, almost tenderly closing in, obedient to the passage of time; it will continue to suffocate him in the warmth of his room and within the confines of his mind, maybe even more than the day does.
He's failing. He has to hide it. He has to…
He finds himself on the floor now, rummaging through his backpack, searching in his rickety pencil case with barely anything inside, for a pencil sharpener.
He doesn't know how he knows, but slowly, he unscrews the little blade from it.
There is still some light up in the sky, since summer makes everything brighter. The day stretches as he finally throws his backpack somewhere and looks at the blade with care, shoving it into the nightstand drawer only to go after it again shortly after pacing back and forth across the room, with an overwhelming, twisted curiosity latching tight onto his skull.
He sits on the floor and hesitates, gritting his teeth. But he can't ignore it anymore. More like he doesn't want to.
Yes, he hates to be scolded. No, he doesn't want to get in trouble because of this.
Just to try. Maybe just this once. Maybe just this once is enough. If anything, he is tired of acting strong. He is tired of his pretending act. He had always been a coward, but he can still prove that wrong while lifting clothes and doubts, covering and uncovering himself. He stares at his entire arm, unsure. His wrists. His shoulders. His thighs.
And he doesn't know any better, because his mind helplessly goes to Hikaru once again.
Grey eyes with long, dark lashes. Disheveled white hair. A genuine, bright smile. One crooked tooth that he absolutely adored even if Hikaru himself felt self-conscious about it.
A joyful personality that contrasted with the way he carried himself like a true adult, with a maturity that sometimes felt almost too practiced, despite being younger than him.
The way he looked when excited about something, and how he looked when he was sad but didn't want to tell anyone what happened. And he rarely did. Instead, he always had a joke up his sleeve to make you laugh rather than worry.
He should have grown up and taken over his family's shiitake mushroom farm. Perhaps he would've earned a scholarship thanks to his football skills. He loved the countryside, after all. Walking barefoot, going to the river, catching frogs and all that. But maybe, maybe if he ever dared to ask it aloud, he would have liked to escape to the city along with him.
He just deserved to be here. He had such a beautiful smile.
Yoshiki had always wanted one of those.
Despite the situation, he can't help but curl his lips slightly. Even now, he is selfish, and tears begin to accumulate in his lower lids as a reminder. It’s an old habit of his, one that he is no longer trying to tame.
Hikaru was wrong: he is not nice. He is not kind. He'll try to bleed all these feelings away, one by one if he has to.
And he can't be entirely sure about it, but wherever his best friend is now, this would make him sad.
He'd like to think it isn't true. He knows it is. As always, he's being selfish after all.
So selfish after all.
"I'm sorry"
The edge of the blade is carefully placed upon his skin. He presses down, still unsure, then looks at it again. His jaw clenches. Breath caught unintentionally, his skilled hand now unsteady, fingers trembling in protest against such an unnatural behavior as hurting oneself.
A warning delivered from the same brain that chose this anyway.
He draws it in a fast motion just out of fear.
For a moment, his face contorts into a wince, and the air caught in his throat tightens his chest.
There might still be yelling coming from downstairs, but he doesn't hear a thing. His perception of reality has narrowed to the distance between himself and the tiny tool in his hand.
His breath finally comes, uneven, shallow. With eyes wide open and his mind elsewhere, the sting settles, and he stares as it blooms into bright, liquid red. As if a distant part of himself were still trying to save him, he hesitates one more time before drawing it again and again, now bracing for it.
With a restless heart pounding fast against his ribs, his whole being is supported by already sore knees on the tatami floor as dark strands of hair begin to stick to his forehead in the stifling heat of a room that now feels too small and too big at the same time.
A strange numbness floods all of his senses. His loose mind wanders to Hikaru instead.
Same eyes. Same hair. Same crooked tooth. Still, looking at him is not the same.
He is not reserved, nor mature. It talks slower, like he couldn't find the right words to say. He laughs louder and cries a lot, even over small things. It doesn't understand emotions very well—if at all.
Sometimes he is bold. Sometimes he needs to be scolded. Sometimes he needs help with their homework. Sometimes he fixes his eyes on something, or someone, just like a predator sizing up its prey.
It moves on instinct, like a wild animal.
Deep red pupils give it away, along with everything else, even if others fail to notice.
He is scary. Stubborn. Dangerous. Childish.
Still, a powerful, larger-than-life creature that seems to cherish him as if he were worthy of it. Like he were someone special. Like he wasn't himself at all.
But the monster stares. At him. A second too long. A heartbeat too much.
And smiles with the same genuine smile on his cold face. Beautiful yet stolen. Ironically full of life.
His skin burns—blaming the wounds would be easier, safer. It isn't that but an unraveling deep realisation.
It is obviously not him. Not Hikaru. Not even human.
He knows it, he is the only one who knows it, and still…
He really wants him to stay.
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His chest rises and falls slowly, letting the air properly fill his lungs, exhaling deeply at the end.
The wall sure is interesting to stare at, the blade still in his hand. He opens the drawer again and throws it into the back, as if hiding it could erase the consequences of what he did.
Pipes murmur softly as someone washes dishes in the kitchen, mixing with the clattering of steel, plates, and unsaid words.
Body too sweaty to ever be comfortable. Knees weak from the effort. Numbness has faded by now.
Fingertips brush the skin, curious, and he has to acknowledge that, in fact, it hurts a little bit more than he thought it would. If he even thought about that before it became hot and angry against the same fingers that made it possible.
It's a chosen pain, but just because it is doesn't mean it hurts less. And knowing that hurts more.
He ends up getting up, taking a shower, brushing his teeth, and spending a good amount of time staring at his reflection in the mirror, unsuccessfully trying to fix his damp bangs. He finally climbs into bed again, early for once, deciding to skip dinner for tonight.
Now the pain is diffuse, even in his head. His tired body sinks into the mattress, soft and welcoming despite the rumpled cotton sheets that could use a change. The slight mess of used cups and notebooks piled up across the desk is undeniable proof of his futile attempt at studying earlier, but right now, none of those things bother him.
Still, another type of guilt threatens to nest in, and uncertainty about tomorrow morning makes him sigh and shift positions over and over. As if there were something inside him that had been expanded, contracted, and at one point, fused all at once without permission asked. And it might be just true.
If he didn't feel like he was totally losing it more and more with each passing day, he would admit that it could even be a good thing.
Maybe even someone like him could be capable of living a normal life in time.
The bedroom is colder at last and everything is silent.
Not really: the open window allows the lull melody of frogs to fill his mind. The all-day-going cicadas have given way to the fervent singing of crickets, and fireflies light up the overgrown grass along the train tracks. Stars finally make their appearance too, as small glimpses of light.
In the distance, the mountain decorates the horizon. All-knowing, all-remembering, hiding in the gathering darkness yet rising above everything and everyone.
If the countryside has anything to offer, it is a beautiful sky. It serves as an apology, perhaps, although you’ll never be able to see it the way you used to.
Night has fully settled and become a witness, rather, an accomplice, to their many crimes.
His phone chimes and the cold light now glows in the unlit room, spreading across his face. The name appearing on the screen is obvious already.
—Are you still awake?
The message is left unread. For the first time in a long time—one that had turned out to be far too long—his eyes are closing on their own, giving in against his will.
A quiet surrender, or relief, as this time he accepts the defeat.