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They're at the pond that afternoon - the one a good twenty minutes walk out into the forest, because Yoshiki can't deal with everyone in the village watching them. It's quiet out here. Or, at least, as quiet as it can be in the peak of summer, surrounded by the drone of insects and the birds crying in the trees. The pond itself would be a serene enough sight, except for Hikaru wading through it, barefoot, with no regard for the mud or common sense. Yoshiki sits with his back against a tree and squints in the sun, wishing he'd remembered to bring his hat.
Hikaru pauses and looks over his shoulder. "You're really sure you don't wanna catch a frog?"
Yoshiki makes a face. "It sort of loses its appeal after the hundredth time."
"Oh, yeah. The two of you did this a lot as kids, right? I remember."
Yoshiki's heart pangs in a sudden, sharp ache. Hikaru continues, heedless, "Still, it's my first time. Oh - "
He lunges for something. Water splashes everywhere, and he splutters, standing up.
"Missed it," he says, turning to Yoshiki. The front of his shirt is streaked wet.
Yoshiki snorts. "If you keep moving around this much you're just gonna scare everything off."
"Right, right, I gotta be still..."
Hikaru shakes himself and wades another step out into the pond. He leans over with his hands poised just above the water, frowning, so off-balance it looks like a gust of wind would be enough to topple him over. A smile nearly makes it to Yoshiki's lips before he crushes it down.
"Once you do get a frog, you should be careful holding it," Yoshiki says. "They absorb things through their skin, so it'll make them sick if there are toxins and stuff."
"Whoa, cool, really? You really do know everything."
"No, I don't," he mutters, and looks away.
The heat is starting to make him drowsy. Yoshiki closes his eyes and lets his head rest against the tree. This far out from the village he can almost relax, with no one there to look at him except the frogs and Hikaru, who are both too preoccupied with each other to bother with him. It's sort of pleasant to sit here with the sun in his face, listening to the breeze and the hum of cicadas above. There's another splash of water, followed by Hikaru's gleeful cry, and then more silence.
A shadow blocks the sun. Yoshiki looks up, frowning. Hikaru stands over him with a grin, his hands cupped together, water dripping from his fingers as something moves inside.
"Come on, let the frog touch ya and it'll absorb your poisons!"
"What? No, Hikaru -"
There's a brief scuffle as Hikaru grabs at him with one hand - the other still holding the frog - and Yoshiki tries to slap him away. Pond water splatters on Yoshiki's head. He scowls and shoves Hikaru back. Hikaru bursts out laughing, his eyes squinted shut in delight, teeth flashing in the sun, and all at once he is so perfectly, painfully like the real Hikaru that Yoshiki cannot breathe.
He doesn't even realize that he's frozen until Hikaru plops the frog down on top of his head.
"There," Hikaru says smugly. "You're cured now, or something."
Yoshiki stares up at him, unable to speak. Hikaru picks the frog up again and takes it back to the pond to let it go, humming a tune under his breath. Yoshiki watches, helpless. A wave of grief rises to consume him, and he shoves it down with violent effort. Not here, he can't. Not now.
His hands are shaking. He lifts one to touch the top of his head where the frog was. A drop of water runs down the back of his neck and soaks into the collar of his shirt.
"Anyway," Hikaru is saying, ankle-deep in the pond again. He leans out over the water, eyes fixed down among the mud and duckweed. "I kinda like the way the frogs feel when you hold 'em. They're all cold and slimy and stuff." He pauses. "I guess that's what all the gross bits inside me feel like to you?"
Yoshiki pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. "Why do you always talk about it like that?"
"Hm?" Hikaru glances at him. Then his attention flickers back to the pond. His hand darts out to snatch something wet and wriggling from the water, and he straightens up, holding another frog out triumphantly. "Look, this one is even bigger!"
His smile droops when he sees the way Yoshiki is looking at him. "What? Why do I what?"
Yoshiki looks away. "You calling it gross, or whatever."
"Oh." Hikaru blinks. "I mean, well..." He hesitates. "You think it's really creepy and ugly, right?"
Yoshiki's grip on his knees tightens. "So it's just because of what I think?"
"Because of... no? Um." Hikaru's head tilts to the side, eyes flickering away in a strange expression that Yoshiki doesn't quite know how to read. Hikaru says, very slowly, "It's bad when all that stuff leaks out of me when I get upset, right? Every time it happens I almost really hurt you."
He looks down at the bruise on Yoshiki's arm. Yoshiki has the sudden impulse to hide it, like it's something shameful. He presses his fingernails into the side of his leg, and says, "Have you ever tried it when you weren't upset?"
Hikaru lets out a small, nervous laugh. "What, like, just anywhere? I don't think..."
His voice trails off. The hand holding the frog squeezes tighter, and it wriggles in his fingers. He doesn't seem to notice.
"You don't want to see me like that," he says at last. "I know you only like me 'cause I look like him."
It slides between Yoshiki's ribs like a knife. He is too stunned to speak or do anything but sit there, looking up at Hikaru, his mouth open. Vaguely, he is aware that he should be saying something - no, that isn't true, something that sounds good - but his throat won't let him form the words. The silence left in the absence of a denial is so much worse than anything else.
"So, it really is better this way," Hikaru says, too fast, into the obvious void. "You don't have to deal with all the gross stuff in me, and I won't have to be scary. Or at least I'll be less scary, anyway, which is good, because then you don't need to worry as much about me, right?"
His voice is high, almost frantic. He's squeezing his hands hard again, hard enough that the frog starts to thrash. Yoshiki startles back to himself and scrambles up from where he's sitting, splashing out into the pond, and grabs Hikaru's wrist to wrench his fingers apart.
The frog squirms free and lands in the water with a splash. Hikaru blinks after it. Yoshiki is still holding his wrist; he lets go quickly, his cheeks going warm.
"See," Hikaru says, sounding defeated. "I'm just going to hurt things even when I don't mean to. Living beings are so easy to break."
Yoshiki glances away. "Okay. Sorry for bringing it up."
They both stand in the pond, staring down at the surface as the ripples fade.
"There's water in my shoes," Yoshiki says.
"Sorry."
"I can rinse them out later."
"Sorry," Hikaru says again, and winces. "We can go back home if you want."
They're both quiet as they pick their way back through the forest in the direction of town. Yoshiki keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of him. The sharp thing in his ribs hasn't gone away - instead it's lodged there, worming its spines in deeper the more he tries not to think about it. He can't stop seeing that moment of Hikaru laughing. The way he speaks is so like the real Hikaru, indistinguishable perhaps to anyone but someone who spent shameful years cataloguing each small inflection of Hikaru's voice to search for any glimpse of hidden meaning. I know you only like me cause I look like him.
Behind him, Hikaru's footsteps trample through the grass. Yoshiki fights the impulse to look over his shoulder. He shoves his hands into his pockets and ducks his head away, teeth grinding.
"Yoshiki," Hikaru says.
He turns. Hikaru has stopped walking. Framed underneath the trees he looks oddly small, an awkward teenage body hunched in the shadows. The canopy stirs in a gust of wind above him, making the patches of sunlight flutter and sway across his shoulders.
"I'll do it," Hikaru says. "If... if you really won't think that I'm disgusting."
Yoshiki's pulse stutters. Before he can stop himself, he says, "I promise I won't think it about you if you won't think it about me."
Hikaru's whole face furrows in bewilderment. "But no one in the world would think you're disgusting."
Yoshiki's cheeks are hot again, burning through his face, the guilt blazing up even as he shoves it back down. There's a flash of pain in his mouth - he realizes suddenly that he's biting the inside of his lip, hard enough for a tooth to shear through the top layer of flesh. He flinches at the abrupt taste of blood.
Hikaru is still looking at him, perplexed. Then his expression clears. "Okay," he says. "So, I guess this is a good enough spot?"
Yoshiki jolts. "You're going to do it right now?"
"We'll have to be alone, and this is far enough from the village that no one else is gonna come walking through here, right?"
His heart is beating fast, fast enough that he's starting to feel lightheaded. "No," he says, "no, I - I guess you're right."
What is he doing? He doesn't even want to see the thing inside Hikaru again. The brief encounters he's had with it this far have been bad enough. But Hikaru is watching him so intently - to reject him now seems so much crueler than if Yoshiki had just never brought it up in the first place. He clenches his fists and tries to make his face blank.
Hikaru holds out one hand, and hesitates. "So... I guess, I can just -"
His fingers dissolve into a clot of black.
Yoshiki inhales sharply and wrenches his gaze up to Hikaru's face. The stuff of Hikaru's insides creeps up to the shoulder, neck, overtaking the side of his head. There's something about it that hurts to look at, a glint of maddening things shifting below the surface. It moves in a slow dance, folding over itself, nauseating.
Hikaru's cheeks have turned a faint pink. His focus slides away from Yoshiki and to the side. It's such an unusual expression on him that it takes several seconds for Yoshiki to understand: he's never seen this version of Hikaru look self-conscious before.
Hikaru does another nervous laugh. "I told you. It's bad, right?"
And it is, it really is so bad - but there is something terribly vulnerable in the way Hikaru isn't quite looking at him that makes the sharp thing in Yoshiki's ribs twist again. He can't just stand there silent and gawking like he did before. He can't run away either, even though that's the one reasonable option his mind is offering for him to do. There's nothing good he can do, so he does the only thing left: he reaches out to touch the place that used to be Hikaru's hand.
The first sensation is cold. Cold, and then the slithery wet of Hikaru's insides against his palm. Yoshiki's stomach heaves; he almost jerks his hand away, horrified, except that he can see Hikaru's shocked stare in the periphery of his vision. He bites down on his tongue until the wave of nausea ebbs. When he glances up again, heart racing, half of Hikaru's face is gone, covered in swirling black. The remaining eye watches him, wide.
"See," Yoshiki says, trying to keep his voice neutral. "You aren't hurting me like this, right?"
"No..." Hikaru says.
He blinks a couple times, as if coming out of a daze. He lifts his arm - what was his arm - a bit. It slides sickeningly in Yoshiki's hand.
Hikaru frowns. "You hate this," he says. "I can see it on your face."
Yoshiki flushes. "I'm fine."
He grips tighter, harder than he intended. The stuff of Hikaru's body squirms under his fingers, flooding his mind with a dizzying starburst of vertigo. Hikaru's mouth jerks open in surprise - a flash of pink tongue, and then Hikaru's chin tilts up, unbidden, as if towards the heat of the sun.
Something slumbering and terrible shivers in Yoshiki's chest.
He slides his hand further up what was Hikaru's arm. There's more texture to him than Yoshiki first thought: ridges and soft lumps and membrane that folds under the pressure of his fingers. Each brings a new lurch of revulsion, horrible and enthralling at the same time. He has the sudden, panicked urge to laugh that he barely chokes down.
He chances another look at Hikaru's face. Hikaru's remaining eye is half-closed, unfocused.
"If I come out," Hikaru says, slowly, "all the way, you promise you won't be scared of me?"
Yoshiki swallows. "I promise."
Hikaru lets out a breath. "Okay," he says. "Okay, then I'll..."
His voice slurs as whatever makes up his vocal cords comes apart inside him. His eye flutters shut, and then the rest of his head blooms into a thousand moving parts, whorls and vacuoles dividing in a hypnotic mitosis, rippling out from each other, bright, vivid, obscene. The stuff underneath Yoshiki's hand writhes against his skin, curling around his fingers. Yoshiki is paralyzed, unable to move or look away, unable to hear anything but the rush of blood in his ears.
He knows - has known - rationally, that the thing pretending to be Hikaru isn't human. Of course he knows that. But with how much time Hikaru spends looking like a person, it's easier for Yoshiki to tell himself that, if not human, at least Hikaru might be something kind of close. Whatever comfort he might have taken from that thought is wiped clean away - everything of Hikaru's body from the shoulders up is gone, simply taken apart and discarded, the mass within unfolding itself in a spiral of black viscera. Yoshiki's gut wrenches. Despite everything, even though he knows it's not true, some deep, resisting part of him has still been thinking of this Hikaru as his Hikaru. But it isn't Hikaru. It can never be Hikaru. Hikaru is really, truly, dead and gone, and this is the nightmare that wears his skin.
The human parts of it regress even further. It is shaped like a person only from the waist down now, and still it unfurls, an impossible topology spilling over itself and ever outward. All thoughts of pretending not to be afraid are forgotten. Yoshiki stares up at it, stricken, feeling himself instinctively searching for something like a face, eyes, anything familiar to anchor onto to make it less horrific. There is nothing. Just the seething, shifting mass of the thing's body, looming above him.
His mouth is dry. He tries to swallow, and can't.
Weakly, he says, "Hi."
The thing tilts forward. The sunlight coming through the trees doesn't touch it quite right, as if the space around it has warped, some fundamental inconsistency with the reality of the world. It must be able to see the raw fear on his face. Or, does it even see, or are its senses too far away from anything Yoshiki can imagine to include things like sight? Does it have Hikaru's memories still, or are those gone, too, transmuted into an incomprehensible form?
It moves closer to him, and Yoshiki cringes back instinctively. He understands, now, what Hikaru meant about it being easy to break living things - what can Yoshiki really be to a creature like this, other than something small and breakable? A toy, a plaything, prey?
He needs to run. It's a miracle he's even still alive with how many months he's been letting this thing tag along beside him. But if he runs, it will easily catch him. Will it kill him the way it killed Matsuura, the way it tried to kill Asako, fracturing his mind apart? Or maybe it will just tear out his soul. He knows it wants to do that - it's practically told him that already.
Oh, shit, he really is going to die.
A gust of wind rushes through the trees above them, scattering the leaves, and for an instant the sun strikes at the perfect angle - light refracting through the thing's body in a million translucent shards of gold and green and blue, an iridescent oil slick that blots out the sky. Yoshiki gapes up at it, in astonishment as much as fear. The loops of membrane curled around his palm contract, and he feels his whole body tense. A sharp point of heat vibrates deep inside him. Yoshiki looks up at the thing that isn't Hikaru, so awful and ethereal, and knows that he were smarter, or braver, or better, he would just run and take his chances.
But he isn't any of those things.
He presses his fingers into the soft substance of the thing's body. It yields, parting easily, and Yoshiki's hand slips through into something colder and deeper underneath. The wet-meat feeling of its insides closes around his wrist, filling his head with a flurry of disgust and sick, shameful thrill. The thing that isn't Hikaru convulses. Its guts squeeze, painfully tight, around Yoshiki's hand, making him hiss. The grip loosens, and from somewhere deep inside the thing's body comes a low, resonant clicking sound.
It's like nothing he has ever heard before. Yoshiki is transfixed, unable to look away, as the tendrils of the thing start to creep up his arm, a hundred tiny cilia splitting off, stretching to touch his skin, lingering there for a moment before being subsumed back into the whole. His entire arm feels like it's been plunged into cold water, except that if he moves it at all he can feel the texture of the thing's insides pushing against him. He flexes his fingers slowly. The resulting feeling makes his stomach flip in a burst of heat - revulsion and elation and that terrible, slumbering emotion that he can't bring himself to name.
Then it touches his shoulder, and the trance shatters. Yoshiki gasps and tries to yank his arm back, but the thing has engulfed too much of it for him to pull free. Its body ripples, skimming his neck, and he is flooded with a wave of fear so raw and deep it smothers everything else.
"Hikaru," he whispers, lightheaded. His own voice seems to come from very very far away. "I - I think..."
He isn't even sure what he's going to say - maybe that this is too much, he can't do it, he's going to be sick. Whatever it is, he doesn't find out. He starts to shape the words, and then the coils of the thing are there, unspooling into his mouth.
His mind goes a blank and perfect white. He can't think. The thing's guts are in his mouth, and he can't think about it, can't let himself think about it, or else he's going to gag or choke or bite or push his tongue against it, each option even more mortifying than the last. Nothing in the world exists but this, a bright point obliterating everything else - everything but the fear and adrenaline and the cold, slippery feeling of membrane and tissue.
It presses gently against the roof of his mouth. He makes an involuntary noise and feels his face tilt up with the pressure. More of the thing's insides slip in past his lips to curl against his tongue. It tastes like tar and brine and copper, dark and acidic. A piece of it finds the bloody place where he bit the inside of his lip, and tests the wound, almost tenderly. Warmth flares in Yoshiki's chest, and just as fast he recoils from the thought. He cannot like this, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't (he can't), he can't (he can't), he can't (does he?), he can't (oh god, does he?).
On impulse he grabs for Hikaru's shoulder - whether to shove him off or to (worse, so much worse he can't even consider the idea) pull him closer, he honestly has no idea. It doesn't matter. There is no shoulder, only the soft, undulating mass of Hikaru's body, sliding under his fingers, impossible to grip. The thing that isn't Hikaru makes that rolling, clicking sound again, so close now that Yoshiki can feel it reverberating through his jaw. Its insides contract, pressing around him - another flash of pain - and the thing's guts squirm against the back of his mouth and down his throat.
This time he does gag. But there isn't even a second to think about it: the bruise on his arm goes very hot, the sensation spreading up his shoulder, liquid, shivery, and, oh shit, they're mixing again, aren't they? Which is bad, he knows it's bad, but - it doesn't feel bad. It's not like the first time this happened, when he could feel his body struggling to reject it. Instead it's a warmth filling his limbs, spreading into his chest, perilously good. He isn't even that afraid anymore. He's felt as much fear as his body can hold, and now he's blown past it into the quiet of the hurricane eye. In its absence he can suddenly feel the emotion buried underneath: a ravenous burst of longing, clawing at the inside of his skin. This is wrong. He's not supposed to like this. But all Yoshiki can feel is the pressure of the thing against him, familiar and alien at the same time, intoxicating, sweet, the delicate, squirmy itch of something coming home to nest within him at last.
The clicking starts again, everywhere now, in his skull and inside the marrow of his bones, and somewhere in all these vibrations is the shape of a vast, incomprehensible consciousness crowded against the edges of Yoshiki's mind. He has the sudden sensation of being nothing but a fragile vessel on a dark, churning sea, understanding for the first time the unfathomable depths beneath him. How small he really is, how easily crushed. And, somehow, too, a ghost sensation, not one of his own, echoing to him from across the abyss: the trembling thought of just how very hard the thing is trying not to crush him.
He reaches out to it through the entangling shape of their minds. He thinks, Hikaru?
In the distant part of Yoshiki still attached to his body he feels the membranes of the thing shiver and loop around him. Its insides aren't cold anymore. The spot in Yoshiki's chest burns, and he can't tell anymore if the feeling belongs to him or Hikaru or both - if he is Yoshiki inhabiting Yoshiki's body or Yoshiki inhabiting Hikaru's body or Hikaru dreaming of being Yoshiki or something else, different, entirely new. The vessel has capsized; he is slipping beneath the surface of the sea, a long stretched-out thread of consciousness unfurling behind him. The part of him capable of fearing this is too far away to reach. Why would he need to fear it, anyway? It feels so good to just give in, and sink down into the water's open arms. Black spots bloom inside his mind, swallowing him up, everything going fuzzy and soft. The only thought he can muster is: at least no one will have to find his body the way he found Hikaru's. He will be granted the mercy of simply being gone.
And then the tide is flowing away, out of his grasp, leaving air in his lungs once more. His body reacts before he even registers it, gasping so violently he almost chokes. All the meaningless physical sensations of his body come flooding back: the stabbing ache in his bruised arm, his skull throbbing, a million tiny needle points that sting all over his limbs when he tries to move. But much worse than any of the pain is the crush of overwhelming emptiness. A hollow place inside him where something was, and now isn't anymore.
He tries to claw it back. It slips through his fingers, going, going, gone, and he wails inside his head. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want to be all alone again.
His body moves; someone is shaking him. He tries to tell them to stop, but his mouth isn't working the way it's supposed to. It comes out as a groan. Hands clutch his shirt. They're going to stretch the fabric out - again, he thinks, very distantly - how annoying, it's not like he has many shirts - and somehow this is the thought that snaps Yoshiki back into himself.
He shudders and squints, eyes watering as the light and color around him resolve into blurry shapes. He is sprawled on the ground with his head in the grass. Above him sunlight dapples through the forest canopy, too painfully bright to look at. He moans and closes his eyes.
A weight on his chest shifts, hands touching his face. With great effort he cracks his eyes open again to look.
Hikaru is crouched on top of him, illuminated by the sun in a halo of gold - human once more. When he sees Yoshiki looking at him his face scrunches up like he's going to burst into tears.
"I'm sorry," Hikaru pleads. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it, really, Yoshiki, I'm sorry -"
He breaks off with a strangled sound and throws his arms around Yoshiki's shoulders. Yoshiki is too dizzy to do anything except lie there, breathing hard, waiting for the spinning in his head to stop. Hikaru's body is warm against his. Nothing about it feels out of place, nothing to suggest the terrible thing that lives inside him. Yoshiki can feel the pulse in that body against his chest. Not real, he thinks, not a real heartbeat, and his head goes woozy again.
He squeezes his eyes shut until the nausea fades. When he finally trusts his muscles not to collapse on him he pushes himself into a sitting position. He presses his tongue against his teeth, grappling with the memory of how to speak. His mouth still tastes like tar, and brine.
"I told you," Hikaru sniffs, gripping Yoshiki's shirt. "When I'm like that I'm just gonna hurt you even when I don't mean to. If I kill or eat you it'll be all my fault..."
He lets out a tiny gasp and presses his forehead to Yoshiki's shoulder. "I swear I'll never do it again. I'll keep all the really bad stuff inside me, and you won't have to look at it or even think about it, and I won't ever ask you to put your hands in me, either, if you just won't hate me. Please, Yoshiki," he whispers. "I don't want to be ugly or scary to you."
He looks so vulnerable hunched over himself like that, so pitifully small and human. How can it be possible for something as horrifying as what he is to be clinging to Yoshiki, begging for forgiveness? It shouldn't even matter. Yoshiki knows the truth of what's underneath; just because it looks like Hikaru shouldn't change anything. But all he can think about is Hikaru, Hikaru holding that frog out over his head, Hikaru with ice cream dripping over his fingers, Hikaru falling off his bike when he was nine and skinning his knee, Hikaru holding onto his arm on their very first day of school, Hikaru laughing with his teeth flashing in the sun. It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't matter. Right?
Yoshiki tries to speak, and doubles over in a coughing fit. He winces and wipes his mouth. His hands shake a little as he lifts them, slowly, to rest on Hikaru's back.
"It's okay," he rasps. "Even if you're ugly and scary I'll still like you."
Hikaru shudders and tucks his head closer, the nose pressed against Yoshiki's collarbone. When he speaks, his voice sounds like he's going to cry. "You're a good person," he murmurs. "Really really good."
But that isn't true at all. If Yoshiki were a good person he would never have allowed this monster to stay with him knowing full well all the unforgivable things it's done. Oh, god, Yoshiki really is disgusting, isn't he? Every selfish decision he's made just to keep this Hikaru close; every mistake, and hurt, and want; all the years of his sick, shameful desires, averting his eyes so he never has to acknowledge the terrible buried things inside him. He isn't good. A good person would not have let a monster put its guts in his mouth, or have to hate himself for liking the way it felt. A good person would not be cradling the fucking corpse of his dead best friend in his arms and pretending it's the real thing.
He chokes down a sob. Hikaru shifts to look at him, and Yoshiki turns his face to the side. The deep well of longing inside him howls, so loud and raw now, so close to the surface that he doesn't know how he's going to shove it back down again. He should let go of Hikaru, but he's too weak to do it. He holds his breath and leans in, just for a moment, to press his cheek to the top of Hikaru's head.
He allows himself three seconds. He counts them. Hikaru's hair is warm from the sun and soft against the skin. Yoshiki squeezes his eyes shut. It feels so good to hold him like this, and even this thought makes him recoil with shame. He doesn't deserve this, after everything he's done. Does he even want the body he's holding to be the real Hikaru, or the fake one? Does he know anymore? Does it matter?
Three. He pulls away as fast as he can. Hikaru's face turns up towards him, dangerously close, and Yoshiki ducks away without meeting his eyes. He stumbles up to his feet, brushing dirt and dead leaves from his clothes. There's a long grass stain on one sleeve he's going to have to scrub out. His shoes are still wet from the pond, and he almost laughs at that. It becomes a small wail instead, immediately stifled.
Hikaru crouches on the ground, staring up at him. For an instant the leaves part again, painting his face in sunlight, gold glinting off of his eyes.
"Yoshiki," he says. "You're really okay now?"
Yoshiki hesitates, then holds out his hand to help Hikaru up. The bruise on his arm is purple, livid.
"Yeah," he lies. "Come on, let's go home."