There was this thing called self-sabotage.

That was what the internet said it was, at least, but it wasn’t like Yoshiki was online long enough to ever do much research. Not like he would, even if he could, mostly because he didn’t care about all that—not the way he should. He cared, but he also didn’t, and that meant he clicked out of Google search pages with complicated expressions and turned off his phone afterwards. No good results.

There was this other thing called coping, right, and Yoshiki knew better than anyone—especially the people in the town—what it meant to be in a bad spot. His parents fought all the time, his little sister didn’t go to public or private school, his mom was a stay-at-home mom but didn’t know him at all, and his father was some bitter and distant creature that haunted his memories, and also the halls and the house on the occasion he was actually ‘round. Yoshiki knew that his house had thin walls, that the neighbors heard things. They have heard things since forever, he assumed, because the old lady that lived to the left of them used to offer to babysit Kaoru and Yoshiki back in the day, back when they were both small, and back when Toji was around more. And more violent.

This, of course, stopped when Yoshiki turned eleven and the old neighbor passed away. She had been kind enough not to ever mention the bruises past a few questions about ice or bandaids.

So, it brought him to this conclusion: coping and self-sabotage.

His mom didn’t get it. She didn’t have to, though, and it wasn’t like Yoshiki could explain that awful fear in his chest. The grossness. He didn’t know what to call it, and she didn’t really believe that it was rational, so she didn’t even have a place to stand. Not that she would. Because she was his mom, and she never stood for him, she just kinda floated around unless Toji started putting his hands on the kids. Mostly Kaoru.

Because Yoshiki was older, now, so he didn’t need that kind of protection. Because Kaoru was sick and thin and a bit odd, a few marbles loose, not enough oxygen to the head when she was a baby, right, so she needed that extra level of caution and gentleness. Yoshiki didn’t. But he understood. He knew it, he got it, so he tried not to mind. Tried not to want his mom to still protect him on the occasion Toji wanted to be around, to get to know his kids. Tried not to. Still failed.

(Yoshiki.)

Hands on him. Hands on his shoulders, doors banging against frames, his mom yelling, his sister crying, his father staring impassively and then getting up calmly only to slam a door. Hands on his wrists, his face, his throat. One time. And now he was terrified.

(Yoshiki, he’s your father, he would never hurt you like this on purpose, he wouldn’t, this was an accident.)

Bloody nose. Harsh breaths. His father looking at him with rage in his eyes and nothing else, nothing, his face blank like stones and his expression too controlled. His father grabbing him by the hands, holding his wrists, speaking harshly and sharply and with a tongue made of steel, like whiplash, like ice, like the way he must’ve been talked to. Generational. Contagious when it was used in the house, a disease, a virus of abuse.

(Yoshiki, are you okay?)

Broken door knobs, scared, quiet, bruises on his wrists, a bad split lip that only happened once, cut palms when he dropped a bowl in Toji’s presence and the man nearly lost it; eyes wild, expression perfectly calm, Yoshiki’s mom getting up and telling the man to get the hell out, turning to tell Yoshiki it was okay, failing to help. Being told that he was old enough to tell his dad to just stop. Being told.

Being lied to.

(Yoshiki, isn’t it about time you grew out of this?)

Being so scared he would take Kaoru to the backyard and hide near the bushes and show his sister the ant hills while their parents argued. Telling her about nature, when he could, to try and distract her from the sound of anger and hate.

(Yoshiki, don’t fuckin’ run.)

Being scared of their father. Being scared of hands. Being fucking terrified.

(Yoshiki.)

And no one understood, they said it was irrational, they said Toji was better now that he didn’t drink so much, if at all, they said he shouldn’t be scared of his own father, that he used to love Toji picking him up and would laugh for hours with his dear dad, they said—

Well, they said a lot. Everyone said a lot. They’ve been saying things since Kaoru was born, and maybe a little bit before that. Yoshiki was seventeen, and it got worse and got better and stayed blank. Stone hedges. Useless. People talked, the new and old neighbors conversed. Yoshiki let his hair grow out, didn’t cut his bangs. He listened to people and nodded along and stuck close to Hikaru, used to, before Hikaru died. Before. People talked. People knew how shitty the Tsujinaka household was half the time. They knew. Or they assumed, ‘cause gossip traveled fast and so did the way his parents’ voices ricocheted in the neighborhood.

Hence: self-sabotage.

He had been doing it since forever. Or since as long as he could remember.

As soon as he started to put his foot down, started to feel better—he remembered why he used to keep his feet off the ground in the first place. So he took them back, have room, got hurt. And he knew it. He had to make sure things were still predictable, and if he wasn’t around to be scolded or dismissed or looked at weirdly, then, well, what was the point, right? Hikaru was dead. Hikaru was an eldritch horror straight out of one of Junji Ito’s mangas. His mom didn’t know him. His sister was always worried and they shared space but she was just a kid and she didn’t need to know ‘bout all his problems.

So he fucked stuff up, sometimes, to make sure it didn’t get better.

Hence: coping.

It got bad when his father was around. Then it got better, a little bit, because he and Hikaru became fast friends and they were close and Yoshiki wasn’t home all that much anymore, and neither was his father, so it worked out. So it got better, back then. Vanished. It got worse again when Hikaru died.

There was enough information in his head for him to know what was going on. He didn’t talk to anyone about it. His mom didn’t understand, hell, she barely knew about it.

He scratched at skin and locked his bedroom door. He refused to be alone in the same room with his father, if his father was actually home—which was rare these days—but he never said no when asked. He couldn’t. The words never left him. He let his father yell and slam and raise his voice and berate him, sharp and dull and worthless in nature; let pain wash over; let his heart thunder; let his lungs go tight and his chest start throbbing, face turn red, blood draining away as the world spotted with blacks and flashes of light.

It happened.

Yoshiki knew that people knew about it.

Back when he was younger and less aware of his surroundings, he’d pick at his hangnails until the point they wept red and stung if he touched the raw skin underneath. He scratched at the creases of his limbs, had red welts on the tops of his shoulders—no scars, none, nothing ever broke skin that violently—but his classmates saw it in middle school, back in the lockers rooms. He knew that people knew. His age and older.

Hikaru had known about it. The real Hikaru, the one that died back on the mountain in winter. Hikaru had known that Yoshiki’s home life was kinda shitty, kinda rough, not really safe. So they hung out in town or by the creek or at school or at Hikaru’s house. They hung out at Yoshiki’s if Toji wasn’t there. It worked, mostly. Yoshiki never felt so alive, so real. So good.

But then Hikaru died. On the mountain. During winter. Alone.

And then got eaten by an eldritch horror and now the Hikaru Indou that Yoshiki knew and wanted to know the most out of anyone, ever, was gone. The thing in Hikaru’s place wasn't Hikaru, but he was close, he had the memories and most of the personality and was around. He must know. He must know, ‘cause he had all of the real Hikaru’s memories, and it wasn’t like Toji was dead.

So things happened.

So Yoshiki still scratched, still scrubbed at his skin until the bruises throbbed because the skin went raw under the ministrations of a soap bar and hot water and fingernails.

But he was here. And he was quiet. And he didn’t fight back or kick up a fuss or cause any trouble during school. He was kind enough to others and helped when he was asked. He had decent grades, on the higher end, and studied in his room when he had the energy. He made sure Hikaru wasn’t lonely and wasn’t murderous. He didn’t say anything about Hikaru not being the real Hikaru. He kept his mouth shut. He kept his hands to himself, so everyone else kept their hands to themselves, too. Yoshiki was here. He didn’t cause anyone any problems, stuck to himself, stayed quiet, stayed polite, stayed as nice and helpful as he could.

None of that really mattered when you were dealing with Hikaru, though. Because Hikaru didn’t care about any of that. The silences, the long sleeves, the ignorance and the fact no one brought up the red.

That just wasn’t how this or the original Hikaru worked. Unfortunately.

—

Pale, around his neck. His face. His hands. The skin that pulled at the knuckles, going red and tender. Livestock. Not that, not like death or violence—

Deep breaths, deep breaths.

The bath not helping. Ice water. Hot water. The fact he couldn’t stand himself was enough of an issue. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t. Hikaru’s face haunted him. Cold mountain, fucking fever, angry father. Blood. He was looking at himself in the mirror and he couldn’t breathe all of a sudden, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe at all.

Terrible complexion. Long hair, longer than the other boys’ hair, because they trimmed and cut and styled theirs. Yoshiki didn’t. He didn’t like his face, his eyes—his circles didn’t go away, neither did the moles or beauty marks.

Struggling, how do you not struggle? How do you not struggle?

—

“It’s not so bad. It’s just a lil’ scrape,” Yoshiki mumbled, checking Kaoru’s knees again. She sniffled. He sent her a comforting smile, because out of everyone in the world, he couldn’t be mean to her.

She didn’t know how to ride a bike. Dad wouldn’t teach her. And Mom, well—

“It’s okay,” He repeated, and her eyes were wide and wet. “I’m not mad. We can get some bandaids, and you’ll be all better.” He smiled again, couldn’t help but try and make it better, because she should at least know how to ride a bike, right, because it would be a while before she was able to get out of town. If that was what she wanted. So riding a bike was an easy form of transport, and she should know how. She should have the option.

“Yeah?” Kaoru hiccuped, scrubbing at her eyes. “This is dumb.”

“It’s not dumb,” Yoshiki reminded her gently, and he got up from the ground to extend a hand. He was trying to be positive, reassuring. Dad had taught him to ride, after all—it was strange that he wouldn’t teach Kaoru.

(It probably had to do with the fact that Kaoru wasn’t like Yoshiki at all.)

“I can’t bal—ance,” She said, sounding out the word with a small frown. She glanced at him, pausing, “Bal—ance,” and when he only smiled and nodded, she nodded, too. “Balance. I can’t balance.”

The only times Kaoru ever acted sad was normally when their parents argued. Learning how to ride a bike was probably a new experience that she hadn’t thought of. Yoshiki used his bike all the time, ‘cause of school and Hikaru and Maki and Asako and Yuuki. ‘Cause he had to do those things.

He smiled again and helped her up.

“It’s okay,” Yoshiki said quietly, because it wasn’t a necessity right now, it was fine. “No one starts out good at it.”

“What ‘bout Hikaru?” Kaoru huffed, like Hikaru was an average kid and not some kind of prodigy bike-rider or whatever. Maybe she knew more than everyone said she did. She knew Hikaru, after all, and that meant something ‘cause Hikaru came around the house a bunch. Because Yoshiki and him were friends. Because Kaoru was his sister, and Hikaru never yelled at her. Because Hikaru was able to do tricks on his bike.

Yoshiki laughed, squeezed his sister’s hands. “Hikaru’s just like that. He used to struggle too, like me.”

“Huh,” She smiled a little, barely there. Glanced at the discarded bike in the grass, one wrong tumble. Kaoru looked at him again, hopeful. “I can go again. Do ya think?”

Yoshiki brightened as best as he could. “Yeah,” he cheered, “You can, see? Let’s try again.”

—

“Why’d ya do that?” Hikaru asked again, demanded it with pointy teeth and grabby hands. He wasn’t gentle, not really, and he was grabbing Yoshiki in jumbled motions. Yoshiki’s arms ached. The sleeves were shrugged upwards, awkward, and Hikaru was staring intently at the skin and frowning.

“What?” Yoshiki was slow to process.

Hikaru was not.

“Yoshiki!” Hikaru yanked on his arms, pulling. His eyes were wide. His voice came out wrong, and there was wetness at his tear ducts. He was mumbling fast, jittery movements. “Why’d you,” the not-real Hikaru gasped, grip tightening, “Why? Why’dya do that? You’re bleedin’ and—”

“What?” Yoshiki asked again, slow, exhausted. His head was throbbing and he felt wrong, sick. He glanced at his arms—scraped up, bright red, but they weren’t bad. Swallowed spit. “Hikaru,” he mumbled, “It’s fine.”

“No,” Hikaru shook him a little, eyes stuck on the red, petulant—desperate was the better word. “No, no, you’re not.”

“It,” He corrected tiredly.

He didn’t have the energy to push Hikaru away, not even when he was jostled. He tasted bile.

“Yoshiki, ya gotta be realer than this,” Hikaru was saying, rattling away, “You can’t just do stupid shit like this, c’mon, you can’t, what if—hey, what if ya didn’t heal?” Yoshiki’s boy was mumbling, his boy—not anymore—was saying, and he was cold but warm and genuine and not quiet wher, a few marbles lacking. His breaths weren’t natural, but they brushed over Yoshiki’s face and Hikaru’s voice was a whine, a wail, “What if you didn’t get better? You gotta stay good, this isn’t good, Yoshiki!”

Shook him again, stared into his eyes. Yoshiki blinked again, felt his head throb.

He tasted acid and bile and what he ate for breakfast this morning, but his stomach was in knots, but Hikaru was dead and his mom hates him and his father was a piece of shit and everything was—

And his hands were so fucking cold and Yoshiki felt stupid, dumbed out—like licking the Mongolia flowers, like biting the petals, like losing himself in the pollen of a bad dream. Being slept on, warmth of the summer, way before this nightmare began. He didn’t want to be called less than real. He was all wrong. Wrong, so wrong, and his wrists throbbed and images thrashed in his head, bad dreams, bad meanings—he bit his tongue and let Hikaru shake him silly.

“It’s fine, Hikaru,” Yoshiki said, because he was tired and the redness wasn’t that bad and it wasn’t even raw. His heart felt raw.

Not his arms, which Hikaru was holding.

The boy’s nails weren’t quite digging in, but it was like claws anyway.

“No,” Hikaru swallowed, brittle, “It’s not, it’s not, it’s not,” he hitched his breaths and his eyes watered and he gripped Yoshiki’s arms tighter, held them, sobbed and his tears came and his eyes were grey and dotted with neon red, trained in, fixated. His nails dug in, now, and Yoshiki flinched and Hikaru didn’t notice and the boy was a bloody wall of flushed tint and wet gasoline.

“I can’t fix it,” Hikaru gasped, “I can’t fix it, I can’t—”

“Hikaru,” He was walking on eggshells, he didn’t know, he didn’t know. Yoshiki swallowed, barely opened his mouth, but—

(Don’t do dumb stuff, the real Hikaru used to say, fake pouting, eyes always on Yoshiki’s face and never on the blood, you can’t survive all ‘at anyway, so don’t do it.)

Hikaru cracked open down the middle in a messy spill of yellow and gold and chartreuse and bright pink and blood red and the gushy kind of red that came from split tongues, cracked heads, ripped stomachs and bloody mouths and the deepest dark like a black pit, an endless kind of void, bones, teeth—tongues, spillage, a thousand words, a million radio waves, a nuclear fission, kaleidoscopes and a microwave beeping and the summer sun and then a graveyard and a ghost town and someone dying and someone screaming and there was the sky and the clouds and the world was saturated, so saturated, and the explosion of something bright and colorful and—

Sharp, all of a sudden. A collision, and Hikaru was colliding with him and they went down hard, into the grass and dirt on the side of the road—rolled down the small hill, too—Yoshiki gasped, eyes going wide but he wasn’t seeing it. He wasn’t seeing much of anything, just the world, just his nerve connecting and splicing and oxygen flowing and Hikaru spilling open and tendrils moving and grief, grief, rage, anger, hate, begging, desire, pleading, begging, begging, begging.

Yoshiki was on the ground, not breathing, he wasn’t breathing. His throat burned. Hikaru was above him, split colors, static, broken and globbed white noise.

Bittersweet, gasping for air, choking on animalistic sounds.

You’re not mine, you’re not real, and his stomach twisted, his head throbbed, his mom and sister were blurry images in his head like Hikaru’s cold and dead body, the real body, out on the mountain. I’m not real. Blank faces, so many faces, the strangest feeling and a god with no teeth and only spare bones, like coins, change, no money and no heart and no need to breathe.

There was a giant cavern between Hikaru’s sternum and jaw and throat and going up his chin, his eyes were spilling over.

(Cry, cry, cry, cry, cry—)

He was kneeling on top of Yoshiki, and the boy was cold, not mean, but cold and desperate and his hands came to grasp at Yoshiki’s shoulders and slide up his face and they rested there, and the tears fell down the not-real Hikaru’s face, flushed cheeks, a breakage in calamity.

The colors resided. Abrupt.

Yoshiki gasped for air, hot his head on the dirt—a flash of white-hot pain, another seething remark that battered his skull and screamed like bloody murder, same way he screamed back in the dark of his backyards porch when he realized Hikaru wasn’t coming back, wasn’t, wasn’t, wasn’t.

“Yoshiki,” the not-real Hikaru had tears and snot all over his face, “You can’t do this again, ya just can’t.”

“Hikaru,” Yoshiki blinked fast, eyes watering now, pain radiating. C’mon, he begged, silently, silently. Hikaru. “Hikaru, let go, you gotta let go.” His hands moved, flimsy, and they came up to try and tug at the hands that pressed against the sides of his neck and corralled the delicate skin there like holding him down in a patch of dead grass was a gift, a meaningful thing.

And Hikaru froze up, face red at the edges, and the static and calamity-like feeling of nuclear war was gone. His lips wobbled, and his hands pulled away fast, and Yoshiki sucked in air. Watery, long-gone. His arms fell uselessly to his sides, and he just breathed, breathed. His head throbbed. He tasted bile, spit was in his mouth and made him want to gag. There was a weight at his stomach, and Hikaru hadn’t gotten up, he was still pushing his weight down on Yoshiki. Still there. Not the real boy. No.

His arms were red, scraped up. Hikaru’s arms were still Hikaru’s, unbothered, not damaged at all. These days, at least.

But Yoshiki wasn’t like that, and he couldn’t heal himself whenever, and it wasn’t bloody like it used to be and he wasn’t a delicate creature and he was here, right, he was still around and his own best friend wasn’t so what did it matter?

“Yoshiki,” Hikaru mumbled, weak, emotional in that non-human way, “Don’t do it again, I can’t fix it. I can’t.”

(Don’t fix it.)

Hikaru didn’t know what he was talking about. He didn’t have what Yoshiki had. Not when he was real and not now, as a puppet, as something not-quite Hikaru but not much else. Don’t fix it. Yoshiki scratched deep, sometimes, made blood swell in tiny droplets. He didn’t fix it, either. No one did.

“Not your job,” Yoshiki winced. His back hurt. “‘S fine, Hikaru, really.” Tumbling to the ground, being split down the middle—he wasn’t like this Hikaru. He was never like the real Hikaru, either, or anyone else in the village.

He was quiet. He stayed in his room. He didn’t do much. He was in the photography club, but he didn’t make many friends, didn’t expand his social circle. He was at home a bunch, only paired with Hikaru because it was them agsinst the world, right, not anyone else. Yoshiki was quiet. He had moles. His hair grew long, he didn’t cut it, didn’t want to, and the days went by and he stayed in bed and scratched at skin and breathed out when the summer heat got bad. Hikaru loved the summer. Yoshiki hated it, more and more. Made things real. Hikaru died in the winter, but Yoshiki knew in the summer. This summer. He hated it.

And this Hikaru wasn’t helping.

Wasn’t.

(Never would. Because Yoshiki’s Hikaru was dead. Because this Hikaru was strange, wandered too close at times, was a devastating thing, was strong, was emotional, was lost, was clingy and Hikaru but not, not really. Because the Hikaru that he knew was gone, and the one that was on top of him wasn’t the same, not a carbon copy.)

The grass was dead, itchy. His school uniform provided him no comfort right now, rendered useless.

“No,” Hikaru snapped at him, wet and awful-sounding, and when Yoshiki winced again, Hikaru froze. Eyes wide, face red, fingers digging into Yoshiki’s shirt. Because he didn’t get off of him yet. Because he still had his hands on Yoshiki’s chest, not the sides of his throat.

Itchy, he reminded himself, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

Listened to the distant birds, crows or ravens, whatever. He listened. He didn’t hear Hikaru’s breaths. Then again, Hikaru didn’t breathe anymore. His heart didn’t beat unless he made it, manually. He did, though, hear his own breaths, short, labored—ignored the way his blood heated, his face the same way; his body flushing and his head pounding and the weight on his stomach making him feel like crying, like dying. After school troubles. No point in avoiding Hikaru, beyse Hikaru never avoided him, and Hikaru always texted or called or just showed up and didn’t leave for a long time, the longest time, because that was what this Hikaru did. No more random hikes. None.

Yoshiki thought about the real Hikaru. He thought about his mom and her nervous energy, sharp, angry at times. He thought about his sister. He thought about his father’s angry and wandering hands, thought about the sky.

How long until dark? Wasn’t it dusk?

He ignored it, then, breathed in, breathed out. His hands gripped the dead grass strands and tugged a little. He didn’t want to get up. He was just supposed to walk home—Hikaru as his shadow—and curl up in bed, uncharacteristic when it was just him and the corpse of the one he really liked—but it was normal now, right now, and Hikaru wouldn’t have minded too much. Because Yoshiki would be there, awake and fine, and he would listen to whatever nonsense Hikaru had to say.

The boy peeled his eyes open again, blackness to bright orange, the setting sun that he couldn’t see. But he saw grey and bright red, no more static, but a glossy look. Hikaru was drowning, maybe, like the oceanic pressure of the deep sea.

Please, don’t go, Yoshiki thought, drowsy, what do I do if you’re not here?

Hikaru’s hands flexed, a nervous tidbit, and the words came out of him like a winter stream, wet and awful. “Yoshiki,” he mumbled, really mumbled, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean, I didn’t, ya know I didn’t, I just—you’re here, you’re here, and it’s,” the words jumbled, mixed like oil and water and got scooped into human hands; malleable, pliable, useless. “I’m sorry,” Hikaru hitched, frowned harshly, his face red. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make us fall. ‘S my fault.”

“Nah,” Yoshiki demurred, still on the ground, flat on his back. It made the hairs on his neck stand on end. It made him feel bad. He swallowed thickly, sour. Deep breath in, slow, slow. “Just—it’s fine. Ya don’t have to fix it. Okay?”

Colors, the smell of burnt food. Char. Ash.

No fires, but fireworks—New Years. Might be fun. Might be awful. I hate summer. Yoshiki wanted to go to bed, tuck himself into his room. I hate winter. I hate me. I hate you. He didn’t want to talk to anyone anymore. Not until tomorrow.

“I have’tuh,” Hikaru said, blubbery and wet still. He sniffled hard, sucked in the snot. Blinked and tears fell again. He hiccuped. “Ya can’t keep getting hurt. That’s why—that’s why…”

Smoothed out face, tired. The dark. The store. Yoshiki and Hikaru, kids, just kids. Eating, quiet, laughing, not so quiet and not so tired and they lived. Doing their homework, trying to plan their futures, trying to make things look nice when it obviously didn’t. Yoshiki scrubbing at his face and debating with himself in a foggy mirror. Thinking about cutting off his moles, smoothing them out—thinking about letting his hair keep growing, thinking about eating popsicles in the heat and walking to school and walking back to one of their houses or the convenience stores.

“That’s why?” Yoshiki muttered, tired. “That’s why what?” He blinked, frowned again. Hikaru sniffled. Yoshiki breathed out. “You don’t have to do anythin’ about it.”

“I gotta,” Hikaru insisted, now, and his hands pressed down on Yoshiki’s chest and it stung briefly, like a pressurized ache, “Wha’dya think everyone else is gonna say? They’re gonna get into your business!” His eyes were burning up, “What about your lil’ sis? She’s gonna think what you're doing is fine!” Hikaru’s voice raised, got louder, and Yoshiki froze underneath him again. The not-real Hikaru sniffled, wet and sad, “But it isn’t, and ya can’t, Yoshiki—ya just can’t, ugh.”

No, she wouldn’t.

Their mom had a whole fit the first and last time she ever saw Yoshiki’s damages. After that incident, dubbed the stupid kitchen knife incident, Yoshiki never let anyone see his skin bare.

It just wasn’t worth the risk. It was why he was careful.

Kaoru didn’t come into his room that often, and it wasn’t like she went to school—she didn’t know much at all. Yoshiki was quiet. She was also, by extent, quiet. With the way their mom was, and the way their father was, well—it was hard to be loud. It was hard to be opinionated. It was hard to cry, too, hard to live. Hikaru had known about some of it, not all of it, but enough to invite Yoshiki over to his house more than inviting himself into Yoshiki’s.

The entire town knew. It was rural, small, and everyone knew that the Tsujinaka household was a problem-child household, a bad one, a loud one. Parents yelled, the mom more than anything.

Kaoru got so sick so often when they were young, nervous, terrified—Toji once picked her up the morning after a heated argument with their mother, and she cried so loudly that Yoshiki was woken up from across the house—she had been young, she had been scared. Yoshiki had raced to get her before their father did something that would scare her worse. Yoshiki used to have bruises on his exposed skin, but that stopped after he turned eleven.

Mostly.

And people just went with it. Because saying if you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask wasn’t the same as saying if your father hits you or your mother again, you can come and stay with us. It wasn’t the same at all. It wasn’t. And that meant the bruises vanished, that meant the yelling increased, that meant his father’s presence got worse, and—

“Kaoru doesn’t know,” Yoshiki said, short and to the point. “And she’s not gonna, so it’s okay,” he took a breath, holding it in his chest for a long moment. “Don’t worry about it, Hikaru.”

“I’m not worrying!” Hikaru yelled, loud, so loud, the loudest kind of loud. “I’m not worrying at all! Ya just don’t know when to quit doin’ dumb stuff!”

Yoshiki’s exhaustion was weak in comparison to the flood of anger, sharp, “Get off me!”

“What?” Hikaru was baffled, a shocked and split thing. His hands spasmed, and the boy got up abruptly, kneeled next to Yoshiki with a glittering face. His uniform had dirt on it. He was scolding, still red in the face. “Ya were fine a minute ago!”

He wasn’t. But Yoshiki didn’t want to say that. Because he hated winter and hated summer and popsicles didn’t make it better and being quiet didn’t help and his father was a mess whenever he came home and his mom didn’t know how to be kind to her son and Yoshiki’s best friend was fucking dead and there was an eldritch horror living in a near-copy of the body of said best friend. It wasn’t fine. He wasn’t fine. He would never be fine because he didn’t know how to live with a shadow, but the absence of a shadow would clearly be worse.

A deep ravine, a crack in reality, in understanding. The colors swirled together and there were tears in his eyes and he was a mess, but he wasn’t the real Hikaru, because the real Hikaru would never have tackled Yoshiki down a small ditch while walking home.

As soon as Hikaru was off, the sky was orange, and Yoshiki sat up fast. His arms throbbed, stung in the buzzing of the air. They still had to get home. Fuck.

His back throbbed once in reminder.

“Seriously,” Yoshiki groaned, voice quiet. “Don’t make it a big deal. ‘S not like it happens often.”

“Too often,” Hikaru smudged, lifting his hands up to scrub at his face. His tear-stained, wet, red face. Crying. This Hikaru said he didn’t have emotions. He had also said that he couldn’t stop his feelings for Yoshiki, whatever those feelings were—possession, maybe? He didn’t like…

Well, Yoshiki didn’t want to think about it.

The blood and damage and threat of it all. This Hikaru didn’t like it. He got mad, possessive, sharper and split into a million things; static, fuzz, blood, sunsets, life, death, the color of pitch black of pitch black could be perceived, red, static again, white noise, a thousand words, a war. Hikaru didn’t like him like that, because he wasn’t human, because a human body didn’t mean a human mind. He was just—there. And Yoshiki knew that.

“Whatever,” Yoshiki muttered, just to try and appease the other. He breathed out, glanced at his uniform. He would have to put his pants and his actual shirt in the wash. So would Hikaru, too. “C’mon,” he said, less sharply, “We can still go to my place, ‘kay? Let’s just go.”

Hikaru looked at him as Yoshiki got up.

And Yoshiki stood there, awkward. He tugged his sleeves back down to cover the raised scratches, head pounding, a sound like a freight train. When he glanced at the other boy, Hikaru had yet to move, still kneeling at the spot he jumped too after getting off of Yoshiki’s stomach.

Hikaru’s eyes were grey. His pupils were black dots, covered up and overwhelmed by neon red. Spliced. Circles. They were unnerving, almost, but if he ignored it, then—

“Hey,” He mumbled, little raw, “I’m good. Ya saw, yeah? These,” paused, now, because he didn’t know how to explain that these would go away soon. So Yoshiki just shrugged, gave a bare-bone smile, “These’ll go away soon, Hikaru. I’m good. You don’t have to fix anything. It’s good.”

His friend—would-be friend, would-be love, would-be not dead and not an eldritch being—just looked at him for a long moment. His face was complex, this time, sharp nd bitter and deep.

Falling through.

Yoshiki waited, then stuck his hand out to help Hikaru up. He didn’t say anything this time.

“‘Kay,” Hikaru agreed, very slowly, and he reached up with one hand and accepted Yoshiki’s own. Pulled himself up while holding onto Yoshiki’s hand. Didn’t let go. Stayed that way, and the two of them just stood there for a moment staring at each other. Sharp, not sharp, bittersweet, not bitter and not sweet. Hikaru wet his lips, glanced at their conjoined hands. “I’m not lettin’ go,” the boy said, determinedly. “Not ‘til we’re at your house.”

“Sure,” Yoshiki nodded his head. “That’s—that’s fine.”

His palms were clammy. He ignored it. He also ignored the way Hikaru squeezed his hand, an instinctive sign of stubbornness, of passion, of truth. I’m not lettin’ go. He glanced back to the road they had been walking on. Swallowed. Looked back to Hikaru.

Hiarku was looking at him, too.

(When was he not?)

“Wanna go now?” He asked quietly. “You can—stay the night. If you want.” Because it was gonna be dark soon. Because Hikaru would be fine if he walked home in the dark, probably, but he didn’t have to. Because Yoshiki’s mom would be angsty if Yoshiki came home alone, covered in dirt, and with tear tracks on his face. At least if Hikaru came with him, then they could have a believable lie. Probably. More like his mom just wouldn’t ask more than once, in that light voice, kinda far away.

The boy smiled with sharp canines, just like the real Hikaru used to. “Yeah,” he said, cheerfully, his own face still red and a little wet. “Let's go.”

—

His father wasn’t a cruel man.

Or, well, he wasn’t meant to be a cruel man. He was impassive, calm, collected more often than not. He didn’t stay in the house for long. He came by, worked, stayed for meals, sometimes even watched shows with Kaoru and his wife before leaving again when it was dark, or leaving early in the morning. Once he left, then Yoshiki let himself sleep.

So his father wasn’t a cruel man, because his father was complicated and hard at work and never actually here to be cruel.

Yoshiki knew that Toji didn’t mean to be angry. That when he slammed doors or broke hinges, he always replaced them within a day or two. He cooked every now and then. Sometimes he would ask about Yoshiki’s studies, or his books—make small talk out of nothing, even though his son would be tense and Toji could clearly see it.

He knew.

He knew all these things, so he tried to put everything else behind him.

He tried to ignore the ache, the distrust, the memory. He pushed past his fear, the nauseas; ate dinner with the family, smiled, nodded along and went with whatever his mom or father asked of him. Because that was what a good son had to do. Because to be kind and polite was expected of a kid like him. And if he put his mind to it, ignored his rolling stomach, the taste of bile—if he did all that, then it was simple. It could be simple, he thought, if he let it be simple.

(It was simplest when Toji left envelopes of money, a few sparse words, and the slightest lingering scent of cigarette smoke in the kitchen.)

—

“Hey,” Hikaru looked at him, really looked at him—

Yoshiki glanced backwards, pausing at the side of the road. The dirt crunched. The cicadas were buzzing, so loud, and his heart was a freight train. His bike had a flat tire, and though Hikaru could have kept biking, he chose to walk his bike with Yoshiki. Maybe he should have expected that. Hikaru was keen on doing things and being with Yoshiki as often as possible. Like magnets. Or something.

“Yeah?” He asked, questioning, because Hikaru didn’t leave things in silence for too long. It wasn’t a thing. Not a real one, at least. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’,” Hikaru grinned, “Your hair is just really long.”

His eyes sparked and he looked at Yoshiki, really looked, and that kind of thing would always make Yoshiki’s stomach drop. Made him shudder, tense up, because to be seen was too much for him these days. Hikaru looked and never looked away. Like magnetism, like being pulled, like the Earth rotating around the sun.

Yoshiki’s face was warm, “It’s not that long.”

“It is!” Hikaru disagreed, light, easy. His eyes crinkled and he smiled, skipping ahead so they walked their bikes side by side. “But it’s good,” he reached out with his free-hand, barely brushed his fingertips over Yoshiki’s bangs, “Yoshiki shouldn’t cut it, it looks good as it is.”

“Shut up,” Yoshiki huffed, and his shoulders went up to his ears. He looked away, way too fast, and Hikaru laughed lightly as Yoshiki picked up his pace. Embarrassment. Knowing. Being known.

—

“Why’dya do that?” His friend asked him, for the first time. It was the most obvious and non-subtle way to ask, really, because Hikaru was looking right at him and frowning with a furrows to his eyebrows.

Yoshiki barely paused, just blinked wryly. “Do what?”

“That,” Hikaru repeated, quietly, and his eyes were stuck on the red lines, scratched in, etched. His eyes narrowed, confused. “‘S it supposed to help?”

(No, maybe, I think, I want it to. I want it to.)

Not like he could say any of that. Hikaru wodulnt understand the urge, the need. He wasn’t human-enough for that kind of explanation. Not to be malicious. Yoshiki huffed, gently shouldering past Hikaru and out of the classroom. They were the last ones to leave again. If they kept this up, it would probably get more and more awkward to come up with real excuses.

“It’s no big deal,” Yoshiki ended up saying, and he looked over his shoulder to make sure Hikaru was following. He swallowed thickly, because the cured ness had faded since the last time he caused it, and no one else ever mentioned it. “Help or no help.”

“But it’s,” Hikaru said, and then didn’t finish. He kept up with Yoshiki, and then with Yoshiki’s shadow. The other kid didn’t slow down. Hikaru scowled. “It’s just—”

(A snap of color, bright red.)

“It’s nothing,” He shrugged, looked away and kept walking. “Really.”

—

“When’d you get here?” He asked, because that was the most important question.

He tried to remember getting a text, or even a casual remark about Hikaru dropping by, but his brain turned up empty. Pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to give me a warning even if you tried, Yoshiki thought, but it floundered. His mom must’ve let Hikaru in. Maybe out of worry or glee, he didn’t know. She was snappy today so it must have been unpleasant.

“A min’ ago,” Hikaru grinned, paused, “But—wow, you’ve been here all day?”

“Shut up,” Yoshiki frowned, face red, shoulders cramped. He was still on the floor and he didn’t plan on getting up any time soon. “Where would I have gone?”

He was gonna lay here until Hikaru went home, probably. Or it was dark enough and cold enough for him to dare to get up. He didn’t skip breakfast or lunch, but he knew Toji would be home tonight. He knew. Yoshiki hated it, so here he was. He didn’t feel like sitting up. It was afternoon. Late. He was late to everything, mostly, getting screwed over by nightmares and an awful feeling in his chest. Like bitter watermelon. Bitter melon in general, or peanut brittle that had no sugar to it. Dinner was going to be an awkward, tense thing.

His mom would probably want him to stay the whole meal, though, because she would probably be making enough food so there would be leftovers tomorrow. Yoshiki was selfish. So. But he also knew better. Kaoru didn’t need to be alone with their parents at the table. So he’d go. He’d deal with the awkward talk and casual conversations and topics, ignore his arms, ignore the nausea that often appeared when he was at home with the whole family. Awkward. Not pleasant.

It wasn’t going to be any better, even if Hikaru stayed right up until dinner took place. Hikaru must know by now that home wasn’t quite the same as safe. But he also wasn’t human, wasn’t just a boy anymore. Hikaru was something and someone else entirely—memories stayed, the actions didn’t, they wavered.

(It wasn’t so bad, maybe.)

Yoshiki stayed on the floor, sunlight trailing in the room. Golden spews.

“Yoshiki?” Hikaru was looking at him. And around the room, like the shelves and rumpled bed and the backpack that was sitting next to Yoshiki’s desk. But mostly him. “Why is it so hot in here?”

“The AC is out,” Yoshiki said, and he closed his eyes again and didn’t move an inch. For the sake of survival, he didn’t want to move an inch. There was no point. He was tired, his shoulders hurt, he kinda felt like curling into a ball and not getting up for the rest of the week. It was summer. It was hot. It was hot and humid and there wasn’t anything in the fridge right now and the not-real Hikaru was leaning over him with a curious expression, so.

“Oh,” Hikaru huffed, and then he was flopping down on the floor next to Yoshiki. His eyes were wide, a little glossy, and he gave a big smile. “Well, ‘kay, but I’m not gonna go anywhere.”

The fan whirred again, smacking Yoshiki in the face with fast-paced air. Hikaru’s hair ruffled when the air hit him, but he didn’t even blink.

Yoshiki squinted, chest hurting already.

“You don’t even like the heat,” The boy said flatly, mostly unbothered. He peeled his eyes open. Hikaru was lying next to him, shirt rustled, hair messy. The not-real boy squirmed, laughing with a sharp noise.

Like copper.

(Broken bones, the gaping flesh, a void, a dark place, a bad man, a bad dream, waking up, dreaming again, dreaming, breaking and cracking and brushing his teeth until his gums bled, dragging nails up skin, down skin—all over, everywhere, everywhere he can reach—clawing his ribs, breathing too fast, not breathing at all, the dark, the blood, his blood, Hikaru’s blood, a moat tin, a bad day, a worse one, upcoming, where was he born and why was he born and why did his parents keep him if they didn’t want him and broken bones, a bunch, and heatstroke, and never missing a meal but sometimes vomiting the meals up, if it was bad enough, if he was bad enough.)

“And?” He beamed when Yoshiki met his gaze. “That’s fine! ‘Cause you like it, so it’s fine.” He rolled over, curled onto his side just so he could show off his sharp teeth, his bright smile, his happy go lucky attitude, that one that also came from not caring about life, not knowing life—what life could the not-real Hikaru live, anyway? He looked at Yoshiki like that was all there was to have. To like.

Yoshiki swallowed thickly, sweat at his brow, heat at his skin.

He didn’t mind the fact that Hikaru was here, not really, but today it was broiling out. They’d probably due better if they were down by the river or something. Even getting ice cream and enjoying it as it melts off the sticks.

The fan whirred.

It was one of those floor-fans, with the stylized-stick stand, and it was a loud, wumbly noise in his ears.

Hikaru didn’t seem too bothered, seeing as he wasn’t bothered about much of anything these days. It was a good thing, Yoshiki thought, because if Hikaru was bothered then it probably meant Yoshiki got hurt somehow and Hikaru was upset. Tearing up, frantic—that kind of thing. So the not-real boy laid on the floor, smiling goofily, and Yoshiki kept looking at him. His cheeks felt hot, hotter than the air outside, hotter than the tinted glass of his bedroom window. He breathed out, sharp, tasting copper and spit.

“Hey,” Hikaru sing-sang, like he was about to bring up a really good point. He blinked, grey and neon red. “We should, like, totally go swimming! It’d be fun!” He saw the look on Yoshiki’s face, the briefest look of disbelief, and then Hikaru’s smile turned sheepish, laughing it off, “Or something? It’s so hot, Yoshiki, don’t you think water’d be nice right now?”

Hikaru’s hands clutched his own stomach, and he rolled back onto his spine to stare at the plain ceiling. He was still laughing though, and the noise was almost good to hear, a relief.

The window was open, the fans were all running, and Yoshiki was in a tank top. He hadn’t worn one of them in so long,but by this point he was past caring—Hikaru saw him in a bunch of ways. It was hard to hide skin when the boy was willing to grab Yoshiki and wave him around like a flag or a ragdoll. Not maliciously, because Hikaru was specific and hadn’t hurt him before—not intentionally, which was probably why dealing with Hikaru’s violence was the most disturbing thing, excluding dealing with Toji’s drunken wrath. But Hikaru was a shell of the real kid, and an eldritch, and not quite human in all the ways he should be. So, yeah. Okay. Things were a little complicated.

School was as uneventful as it always was. Life went on. He did his schoolwork, came home, helped where he could. Hoped his father wasn’t. Hoped his mother wouldn’t. Sometimes he read a book on the couch with Kaoru, and other times he didn’t come home at all because he was out with Hikaru—biking, hiking, walking.

Busy.

Busy or not busy or sad or not sad or in the store with the cashier and they would just keep talking about his house, his parents, his little sister, his long hair, hs bangs, his everything.

“I dunno,” Yoshiki mumbled, and he didn’t move from his spot on the floor, and Hikaru groaned in complaint.

“C’mon,” The boy hedged again, and this time he leaned closer and elbowed Yoshiki’s ribs with his arm, laughing brightly, “It’s not hot enough to stay inside, c’mon, c’mon, don’t’cha think it’d be fun? We could get popsicles!”

It stung, barely, because Hikaru had the strength to kill and destroy and consume and maim but he didn’t do any of that with Yoshiki. The not-real Hikaru wasn’t the same. They couldn’t be. A perfect imitation? No. No. Because Yoshiki knew his best friend had died, had seen the body, had been lost. So sick, fevered and sick and cold and heartbroken.

Grief didn’t leave.

That was something this Hikaru couldn’t understand.

“Yoshiki,” Hikaru bemoaned, poking him again. “Yoshiki!” His hands were cold, way colder than Yoshiki’s burning skin. The boy prodded Yoshiki’s arm that was closest to him. “I got money, so I can pay! Shouldn’t ya come out once ‘n a while? Staying here all day gets boring.”

Warmth, the splay of hands; the not-real Hikaru was a bright thing, very bright, but he was also staticky and surreal and too similar to a bloodhound.

“M’ dad is coming home tonight for dinner,” Yoshiki said, at last, because Hikaru kept poking him in the ribs and his body was tensing up and he felt wrong, felt weird, and the heat in his face normally went away when he thought about things—like his father, who he didn’t want to see. He finally sat up, his head throbbing, and he shot Hikaru a frown. “I’m not really feeling good. I wasn’t planning on goin’ anywhere.”

(I can’t stand him, eleven years old and gasping and crying and Hikaru patting Yoshiki on the back very fast, very urgently, Yoshiki in tears, I don’t know what I did wrong, I don’t know, I don’t know.)

Hikaru paused.

Frowned, too, but his face slowly turned blank and icy. His gaze was sharp, too sharp. He barely blinked and didn’t breathe, he had no heartbeat.

“Huh?” Hikaru looked at him blankly, now, and it was an abrupt change. “The geezer?”

Yoshiki swallowed thickly, dragged himself into a better position. His lungs struggled. His back complained, and his face was red and his eyes burned and the whole room was hot, stuffy. The fan whirred. He didn’t feel any better. God, was it really so hard to feel better? Yoshiki knew how his family worked, way better than anyone. Kaoru didn’t go to school. He did. He hated it more and more. He hated winter, hated summer—he felt best in the summer but that was when everything turned out wrong, so now he hated both main seasons. He hated his father’s working hours. He hated his mother’s lack of affection, her treatment—but he didn’t hate her. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

“Yeah,” He decided on saying, and he looked away from Hikaru and down on the floor. His knees were pulled up, awkward, uncharacteristic, and he let his arms drape over the kneecaps as he breathed. “Y’know he works a bunch, so he’s coming home tonight. It’s just been a minute.”

Hikaru didn’t reply this time. Yoshiki hated the silence, hated the unnerving feeling that settled in his gut.

(Yoshiki, aren’t you too old to be doing this?)

The answer was that he wasn’t too old.

He was freaked out. The people in the town knew he was freaked out, but he remained polite and calm and alone and quiet and he never talked out of turn and no one had any room to talk shit because he tried. He really fucking tried. He dealt with his mom’s inadequacy and his dad’s absence and drunken states, poor fumes, bittersweet drinks in the fridge. He dealt with his sister, tried to show her things, at least keep her up to date. Read stories and science books with her when he had enough energy.

“Not like it’ll go bad,” Yoshiki mumbled, poorly, because he knew what Hikaru was thinking. He knew. He fucking knew and it made him think twice. It made him want to gasp for air, drown, die. “Mom wouldn’t let it.”

“Why’s he back?” Hikaru asked, bitterly, and his eyes burned holes in Yoshiki’s spine. “Ya shouldn’t have to stay for him, he’s stupid.”

Yoshiki winced.

The not-real boy went quiet again, didn’t say anything else.

Because Toji was Yoshiki’s father. Because Yoshiki wasn't cut out for anything else. Because Yoshiki didn’t have anyone else, his only family was his mom and sister and his dad, who he didn’t think of as a dad, who he struggled to bond with, who he struggled to understand. Because this Hikaru had memories and feelings of the real Hikaru, but made his own ideals based on his own, current, present perception. Because Toji Tsujinaka wasn’t around often and wasn’t in the house often, but that meant the kids were okay, it meant Yoshiki was okay, too. Because he could take his mom’s issues and handle them, but not his dad’s, and his dad was his father with angry hands and an impassive face.

“I just have to,” Yoshiki said. Shrugged, rolled his shoulders forward. Glanced back to Hikaru, weak, hesitant. “Can’t go anywhere else, either. But—uh,” he paused, couldn’t formulate any words, so he ignored the feeling in his stomach and pushed on, “I don’t know. I just have to. It’s okay.”

(You can stay if you want to.)

Hikaru’s eyes bled red and dark and they were staticky, the world was ending, Yoshiki knew it. Ending. Falling down. The fan whirred. Yoshiki’s heart hammered in his chest.

He breathed, pressed his nails into his knees. They dug in.

(If you want to eat dinner with us, you can, but only if you want to, only if you want to.)

Squeezed, felt the blood rush.

Hikaru noticed it, and his eyes were normal again, he was normal. Frozen up, shaken. He reached out abruptly, in record time, and snatched Yoshiki’s hands away from skin, scowling, eyes too observant, lips ticked downwards. “Please don’t,” the not-real boy said, quietly, and it wobbled at the edge. “Don’t do that, Yoshiki.”

“Ah,” He mumbled, felt the contact. Cold to warm, clammy; sweat. His head throbbed. He didn’t say what he wanted to, just smiled drearily, “Yeah, sorry. I won’t.”

“‘Kay,” Hiakru frowned, more, because today he was frowning a lot.

His hands were cold. Yoshiki’s were warm. It went like this: warm-blooded, quiet, unmoving, warm, overheating, sweating, laying on the ground. It also went like this: warm-blooded by nature, not by design, not so quiet, not so similar, only a little warm, mostly ice cold, mostly shadowy and far away at heart, giggly, just got here, not at all bound by heatstroke.

Because that was how it was, now. That was how this kind of thing worked. Hikaru was dead, and the Hikaru now holding onto Yoshiki’s hands with an unreadable expression wasn’t the same.

Yoshiki looked away. His heart thundered. “If ya wanna stay,” he breathed out, “—you can. I’ll just tell my mom.”

“Yeah,” Hikaru agreed, airily. His thumbs smoothed over the expanse of Yoshiki’s knuckles, the top of his skin. His smile was crooked, not quite there. “How’d ya know I was gonna stay?”

The skin barely moved, but it thrashed, and his pulse beat like a wild drum in his wrist. Thundered, thundered. He swallowed again, a useless endeavor. Tender. Delicate. Because Yoshiki was just like that. And everyone knew it. Saw how easily he tore, he burned. Like flicks of ash from a fire pit, except the smudge of Hikaru’s power littered over his forearm, indents, never to be undone. Mixed. It was fine.

He winced, “Dunno. I was just offering.”

Hikaru looked up, his eyes no longer stuck on the skin of Yoshiki’s hands. His nails weren’t long, either, but enough pressure and they’d still bite into skin. Same way they always did.

But Hikaru didn’t like it. Hikaru was just—well, like that.

“Really?” The boy asked, curious. He didn’t drop Yoshiki’s hands though, even leaned a little closer. Yoshiki’s breaths could reach his face by now, just because of how close Hikaru was leaning. There was a glint in his gaze. Yoshiki didn’t know what to call it, how to read it. He didn’t want to.

So he huffed, looked away from Hikaru’s face, the expression. Looked around his room instead. Didn’t pull his hands away just yet, because there wasn’t a point. The fan whirred. His desk called to him, his unfinished homework, his unstarted manga volumes and books. Looked everywhere but at the boy who was holding onto his hands easily, maybe too easily, but that was fine.

That was normal. It was normal and that meant it wasn’t a big deal.

(Don’t’cha think there’s a better way to deal with your feelings?)

“Yoshiki, don’t ignore me,” Hikaru whined, laughed, and that odd tone had been replaced by something lighter. He swung Yoshiki’s hands around, shook them, still light, “Obviously I’ll stay for dinner! Who’d pass up that chance?” and his voice was bright and Yoshiki had to make sure it was real, so he looked at Hikaru again, flustered, and Hikaru just grinned again, yanked on Yoshiki’s hands until they were too fucking close to be casual. The boy laughed, “It’s gonna be fun, seriously, I’ll sit right next to ya and eat all your yummy food.”

Yoshiki blinked fast. His heart thundered. That awful feeling came back, the one in his stomach, the one he ignored and indulged within hours of each other. He bit at his cheek, eyes wide, breaths too shallow.

All for a few seconds.

He finally pulled his hands away, scowling, and Hikaru barely blinked before laughing again.

“Laugh all ya want,” Yoshiki rolled his eyes, breaths rattling in his lungs. “But I’m not gonna give you my food, you’ll get your own.” His voice was weak, quieter, and he felt a piece of him chip away. He glanced at his hands, at the delicate way they stood out; wiry, not strong, not calloused. He felt like a stranger in his body at times, and he wasn’t even new to it.

For a moment, it wasn’t so hard to think that this was okay.

Hikaru giggled, laughed—he clutched his stomach; knuckles whitening, eyes squeezing shut as he found humor in the smallest things. A noise, a whistling sound, the urge to bury his face behind his hands as Hikaru kept laughing.

It was okay. Yoshiki’s lips quirked upwards, just enough.

—

It went like this: Yoshiki was quiet. He didn’t cause any trouble. He didn’t loiter around campus. He didn’t litter. He didn’t yell. He was a good student, his grades were above average, his words were never malicious on purpose, and he looked after his little sister. He never uttered a singular bad word about his parents, even when the rest of the town did. Nosy. So loud. Always poking around, always.

And he never told them not to, because that would be rude. They were just concerned folk.

That was all.

That was what everyone said, anyway—I heard that you were—something, something, something. Always something with his family, his sister, his parents. They didn’t talk much about him. He was grateful, in a way, because the most anyone ever said was that his hair was getting long or he should look on the bright side or smile more, something like that.

Yoshiki was quiet and punctual and kind, as kind as he could be, and he didn’t talk out of line. He went along with plenty of things. He never really minded. The world never really threw him a bone, so he didn’t chase it, and so he just nodded along and tried to make sense of the void in his chest. The one that screamed all the time. The one that was angry, so angry, and so, so, so very scared. That one. Because he wasn’t like Hikaru. He had never been like Hikaru, and the real Hikaru was dead, so now Yoshiki could never learn the pulses the way he once dreamed to.

Now he was with the corpse of his best friend, puppeteered, and his eyes watered a bunch and he was still quiet, still good. He never uttered a single thing against his family. He never said a single thing against Hikaru.

Yoshiki was quiet.

A bit of a loner. A bit too dark on his own, like the folk said, ‘cause he had a nasty look on his face when he looked at his own reflection and everyone said they could see it. A bit of an outgoing kid, maybe, when he could be and whenever someone dragged him around to actually do things. He wasn’t buddy-buddy with people. The only exception to this rule was Hikaru, but then again, Hikaru wouldn't stay away even if Yoshiki acted out; the boy just came back, pushed again, wet-faced and red. If he did. If he even tried—

So he was here, like this, and he didn’t mind it too much. He didn’t need to move away, not really, but high school would be over sooner than later.

He knew that was something to think about, really, but most of his future plans revolves around Hikaru or the silence or the mountain his Hikaru died on or his parents or his sister, because Yoshiki didn’t want to leave Kaoru behind like that, didn’t want to leave Hikaru alone, either.

Yoshiki didn’t want to be alone, on his own, so far away. It made him feel wrong.

—

Someone knocked at his door, and his stomach dropped, and he bleakly said come in. A small figure pushed in the dark, the hallway barely colored with yellow. The door swung open, creaking at night like it always did.

(Yoshiki.)

“Kaoru?” Yoshiki looked up, head throbbing. He glanced at the clock, late at night, way too late for her to be up. He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” She mumbled, but she pushed his bedroom door open further and waddled in. She glanced around, too, then landed on him like that was all she needed. Her eyes were narrowed, squinted, and they glimmered in the limited light. She just stood there, didn’t say anything else, so anything else. He frowned harder.

His voice was soft, “Ya sure?”

“Worried ‘bout you,” Kaoru said at last, only a few seconds delayed. She was holding onto her pillow—pressed at her stomach. “Dad was—he was, uhm.” Her eyes flicked up and down, and Yoshiki knew what she was doing here, now. He understood.

And she looked uncomfortable, so uncomfortable.

Yoshiki winced, set down his book and gave her as reassuring of a smile as he could. Because his little sister didn’t need to know the details. Because Kaoru didn’t need to be exposed to that right now, not ever. He wished she would never see Toji when he got like that. Not hear or see or perceive or share the same house. But Yoshiki didn’t have much money, and all his money came from his parents, anyway, because he was still in high school and still jobless. So he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t help Kaoru get out, either, and it made his heart ache.

(Yoshiki, isn’t it about time you grew out of this?)

“Hey,” He said, very quietly. He shoved his book aside, jutting it out of the way. He patted the open space on his bed, gentle, “You can c’mere, it’s okay. Just close the door. I’m sorry, Kaoru, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Kaoru turned around fast, going to the door and closing it shut. It cracked again but didn’t slam. She hurried over to his bed in a few sweeps, instantly crawling onto the messy covers and depositing her pillow against the wall. She turned to him, quiet, her hair messy. When they were younger they hid in the house all the time—bathroom, bedroom, backyard. They hid and moved and Yoshiki had always tried to help. He was scared to fail. He was scared that their father would get mean with her—

“Sorry,” She apologized, weakly, and her hands came up to his sleeve and she gripped the fabric. “‘M really sorry, Yoshiki, ‘m sorry.” Her eyes watered. She rarely said anything about this kind of thing. Kaoru would just appear, not leave his side, maybe utter a few don’t get lost’s to him.

“It’s okay,” Yoshiki whispered to her, and he carefully sat up so he could pull her into a hug. “It’s not so bad. I’m okay.”

Because sometimes that was what she wanted. Because she wouldn’t ever say it out loud unless it was to their mom. Because Yoshiki tried to be good, tried to be helpful, tried to be aware. Because their father wasn’t the best man, but he was still a man, and men made mistakes all the time. Because their mom couldn’t solve every problem, let alone protect Yoshiki or cater to him. Because he wasn’t a baby anymore, wasn’t sick, wasn’t hurt—only Kaoru was.

She hitched her face into his chest and he tried not to feel sick, tried not to feel wronged. Yoshiki wasn’t scared of Kaoru. Just for. And he shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t, because Toji wasn’t that violent.

He shouldn’t.

But he cradled Kaoru anyway, because she was little, because she didn’t have school tomorrow which meant she was going to have to let him go. She didn’t like doing that when dad got violent. She didn’t like it, she had said so, and even though Yoshiki couldn’t really change it—couldn’t fight it, couldn’t dare to make it worse—he could try and make sure Kaoru understood he was okay. It was one hit, one, and it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t. It was no worse than his arms, right? So it wasn’t that bad. He held onto his little sister because neither their mom or dad would be able to comfort her. They wouldn’t get it. They barely understood what she meant half the time, anyway. Yoshiki tried. He often succeeded.

“I’m okay,” Yoshiki croaked out, because Kaoru needed to hear it.

Maybe he needed to hear it, too.

—

“Hikaru,” Yoshiki breathed out, and he was shaking, and his eyes were wide, and he was wrong.

Issues. There were many issues that came with this kind of thing, and most of it was Yoshiki’s fault in the first place. It was his fault. He shouldn’t have said anything, should have just shrugged or offered to go into town or something.

Downplay, downplay, downplay, downplay—

“Hikaru,” Yoshiki’s voice was harder, and Hikaru stiffened, and Yoshiki’s arms throbbed but he grabbed Hikaru’s arms anyways and held onto him and looked into his unnerving eyes. “It’s fine,” the boy said, firmly, breathless, “I’m fine. Look at me.”

Hikaru’s eyes darted over him, at his face and neck and twisted collar and the barest trace of skin and collarbone. Then his shoulders, his sleeves, his shirt and torso. His face. Grey and red returned to his face, traced over the moles and sweat and the deep colored bruise that had settled in uncomfortably at Yoshiki’s left eye. Hikaru was splitting into two, static, built like a wrecking ball, a paranormal void, a million things shoved into one body; power, electrical, deadly—but Hikaru’s lips trembled and his eyes were unnervingly sharp, stuck on Yoshiki’s face.

Placate, soothe, make it better.

Jesus Christ. Make it better. His teeth hurt. Everything hurt, right now, and the way Hikaru was completely stiff made Yoshiki’s stomach threaten to spill.

“Look at me,” He repeated, not looking away. “I’m okay.” There was goo, staticky, electric—he didn’t know what to call it—stuck on his arms, his hands, and it was bright red and pitch black and endless. He licked his lips, struggling to form words. “I’m okay.”

It was a necessary white-lie.

Hikaru would calm down, probably, and would call him out on it in a few hours. An hour, at the very least. Hopefully.

Because this was the first time in two years that Yoshiki’s father had gotten violent. Because Yoshiki wasn’t sure what happened, either, just that he ended up taking a long bath after Toji left the house—and left money on Yoshiki’s desk, by extent, something Yoshiki only found out about after the bruise was a dark color. Because Yoshiki knew that Hikaru got violent sometimes, too, that deathly still kind of violence that wasn’t human at all. No knife or gun needed. Because violence, when directed to Toji, was the worst thing in the world. Because Yoshiki didn’t want Hikaru to kill his father. Because Yoshiki didn’t want Hikaru to kill Toji. Because Yoshiki didn’t want Hikaru to even make a light threat, a whisper of bloodlust, to Toji Tsujinaka.

“He,” Words jumped out from Hikaru’s lips, heedy, sharp. Blistered. “—hurt you.”

Yoshiki swallowed.

(Don’t you want him to hurt back? Don’t you? Can’t I?)

“I’m okay,” The boy said, because he couldn’t lie. He took a deep breath, made it exaggerated. His skin twisted, uncomfortable, and it stung like bees and ant bites. “I’m okay, Hikaru. Look. I’m okay.”

The bruise was very distinct. It was the first time in Yoshiki’s entire high school career, actually, that such a thing was so visible. Asako had audibly inhaled when she saw him that morning, had slapped a hand over her mouth. Maki had taken one look and then a second, then a third—jaw wide open—and had whispered, loudly, because the shock had washed away the guy’s sense of subtly—what the fuck, are you okay—which caused some of the others in home room to actually pay attention and see the bruise. See Yoshiki. Not as a whole, not as a real person, but as a fractional being who was exactly as the town’s rumors used to describe him: a hurt kid, hurt by his dad.

“Hurt you!” Hikaru yelled at him, now, and it echoed and resonated and Yoshiki tried not to flinch, tried not to see his father’s shadow, his mom’s cowering form.

(He’s my father, he’s my father, he’s my father, he’s my—)

“I’m—I’m still here,” Yoshiki said, because the words didn’t come to him, because he had no excuse and no reason.

He closed his eyes for a moment and regretted it, regretted the dark. He opened them, felt Hikaru’s hands on his shoulders, holding, digging in. Black and red and neon and bright and dark and cold and death and cold and splitting, splicing, carving and congealing and—

Hikaru was not his Hikaru, not the Hikaru he wanted to stay with forever, not the boy who laughed with him with ease, who once let Yoshiki stay over three nights in a row, little sister in hand, eyes wide, mouth saying dad’s home, he’s mad, I can’t stay there, Kaoru can’t, I didn’t know where else to go. Three nights in a row. The whole neighborhood had known by that point, how bad it had gotten, and hadn’t done anything. Hikaru’s family let Yoshiki and Kaoru stay over, quiet, in that house—had fed and housed them until their mom came to get them with an exhausted face and a wary smile.

He couldn’t say those things.

He couldn’t say those things, not to anyone, and if he told them to this Hikaru then his father would get hurt. Then all those complicated feelings that Yoshiki felt wouldn’t ever get saved, wouldn’t get better. He was supposed to get better, you know? Because that was what a good son did.

“Hikaru,” Yoshiki said again, and he ignored the iciness traveling his arms, ignored the weird static buzz that felt strange and elated and cold all at once. His voice cracked. “Please.”

And there was quiet.

There was quiet, and the blackness ached, it subsided where it was. Yoshiki breathed out, rattling, and Hikaru’s hands gripped at his shoulders tightly.

It came like a breeze, like the threat of a spotlight. It was after school. Thank fuck Hikaru hadn’t done this in the middle of class, or lunch—or in any empty room where the door could be slammed shut. He was kind. He wasn’t real. He wasn’t the same. He was almost perfect but wasn’t, almost perfect, a near replica; but his innate lack of human-like understanding was palatable, it was obvious. It made Yoshiki sick and queasy. It made him feel small. Hikaru wouldn’t understand it.

“Don’t go home tonight,” Hikaru whispered, raw, and his hands dug in and his eyes were too wet. Tears flowing; his voice brittle, sharp, a demand. “Don’t go back tonight.”

“I,” Yoshiki started to say, but stopped. Stumbled. “I can’t leave Kaoru alone,” he mumbled, and it was a weak thing, so weak, but it was also true. He couldn’t.

Hikaru nearly shook him, head falling down. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t hyperventilate. His heart didn’t thunder, either, because he wasn’t capable of it. Or he simply didn’t make the real Hikaru’s heart thrum anymore. It was quiet. Everything was quiet but the goo was loud, the power, the strange static of dying men and blistering suns and a million things and colors and neon explosions and the crystallization of life itself—

“She can just come with,” Hikaru said, fast, and he abruptly yanked Yoshiki forwards until Yoshiki and him collided together. “Don’t go there. Don’t.” Hikaru’s grip was tight, his words muffled.

Yoshiki was stiff, his own heart hammering too fast. Fear, not fear—he wasn't scared. He wasn’t scared.

(There was this thing called sabotage. Harm. Death. Things that were self-inflicted. Plenty of people knew that Yoshiki’s parents argued a bunch. Impassive, cold, sharp, hot-headed, brash, angry. Rarely drunk, but still drunk enough to hit. There was this thing called self-sabotage, and another thing called self-harm. Self-whatever. Yoshiki was fucking exhausted and fucking terrified and fucking uncomfortable, but he was here, he was still here.)

“Hikaru,” Yoshiki mumbled, stiff, unreadable. “I—I don’t know.”

Like full volume: I don’t know.

But Yoshiki didn’t pull away, didn’t fight, didn’t move a muscle. His heart was beating loudly and Hikaru’s face was under his chin and it was awkward, it made his skin crawl.

It made him feel useless, not polite, not good, not real. Something else. Someone else. His lips always moved before his brain did in moments like these, flushed, bruised, not right in the head. He moved and he didn’t catch up with himself. It was a problem. It was a problem because no one noticed but the only one who did notice was Hikaru, and right now, that meant—

“Yoshiki,” Hikaru hitched again, over and over, because he wasn’t human and the things he experienced were new, in a way, because he only had memories of these emotions and situations. “Please don’t go tonight, ‘kay? I got ice. We can ice the—the thing, no parents, no bad-mouthin’ or anything. Just don’t go back.”

Swallowed, breathed in. School was out. Toji was in.

Yoshiki’s face was burning, his heart was a storm cloud with a mind of its own, and Hikaru was holding onto him tightly.

“I’ll try,” He said, quietly, and his words wobbled and his head throbbed.

—

Hikaru’s eyes were fire, like fire, burning and smothering all the goodness that could ever possibly exist. A low voice, the blankest of all, flint to steel to stone. “If he does it again, I’ll—”

“No,” Yoshiki shook his head fast. “Don’t. God, Hikaru, don’t.”

(Don’t kill him. Don’t hurt him. Don’t do anything to him. Don’t.)

The not-real Hikaru was silent, so fucking silent. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t right.

Yoshiki took a deep breath, screwing his palms into his eyes. The bruise ached, a distant throb. He hated it. He hated everything about this. When could he learn to be careful if Hikaru followed him so closely, watched so closely? Every moment, every second. He couldn’t make it better, no one could, this was the norm. Bruised. Once in a while, not always, and not forever. Just every now and then.

Kaoru had wanted to stay home with their mom, so she didn’t come with Yoshiki and Hikaru this time. Her eyes had lingered on Yoshiki’s face for a long time before she decided on staying at the house, quiet, chewing on her lip. She hugged him goodbye when he left. Said not to get hurt anymore.

He just said goodbye.

“He’s my dad,” Yoshiki said, very quietly. “I don’t want him to get hurt.”

He was still Kaoru’s dad, too, still the father of both the kids. Still their mom’s husband. He made the most income for the household. He wasn’t always distant, he did try to be around. He just got angry sometimes. That didn’t make it okay, but it was normal—like the arguments with mom. Toji was just like that. Yoshiki knew that already, had known since he was young. He had known since before Kaoru was born, probably.

Hikaru was quiet. Yoshiki’s arms ached, back muscles worn out. Too stiff. Not smooth enough. Not good enough. But he squeezed his face, ignored the way his skin crawled, ignored the discarded bag of frozen peas that was next to him on the bed.

“He hurt ya first,” Hikaru said, and it was dull, like a light that was out and wouldn’t be turned back on for a long while. Hikaru’s body language was unreadable, now, hard to understand. Yoshiki didn’t know how to make this situation go away. He didn’t know how to make it stop hurting. Maybe there wasn’t a way. Maybe it was just one of those situations. One of the ones that Yoshiki would have to lie about, later, act clueless about for the sake of avoiding future arguments or tension with anyone, especially Hikaru.

Yoshiki exhaled, long and slow.

He exhaled and hated the way his shoulders shook, hated the way he dragged his hands down his face just so he could slide his gaze to Hikaru, who sat on the floor—still staring at him, eyes unmoving.

“I know,” Yoshiki muttered, wary. That didn’t change anything. That didn’t change how he felt. “I still mean it.”

His eyes were burning again.

Please, Yoshiki thought, a little desolately, this isn’t helping.

The bruise on his cheek throbbed, too, and he blinked fast to try and ward off that awfully familiar act that he partook in so often. ‘Til his eyes were reddened, ‘til his cheeks were damp, ‘til his vision blurred out. He cried and cried and cried. He stayed silent. He stayed around. That was what he was supposed to do. That was what he was supposed to do all the time.

“Are you gonna cry?” Hikaru asked, the barest topic change; and his eyes were peering at Yoshiki’s face, very intently, very sharply. He frowned, looked away with a sense of solemnness, “‘M sorry, Yoshiki, I didn’t mean to hurt ya. I didn’t mean anythin’ by it, ‘kay?”

“No,” Yoshiki huffed, but the wetness in his tone wasn’t helping his case. He looked at Hikaru, then back to the bag of frozen peas. He pulled it back up to put on his face, gnawing on his cheek. “I’m not.”

The not-real boy looked back, eyes flashing in the dim light of the room.

Hikaru frowned, “Ya suck at lying.”

Yoshiki hiccuped, and the weakest smile grew on his lips. It tasted like salt. God. The world was mocking him and his awful tastes, his awful existence. His smile wavered, and his eyes watered more. He hated it. His heart thundered in his chest and he squeezed his own leg with his free hand, shaking his head slightly. “Whatever,” he said, lightly, even as he felt his tear ducts spill over. Light, easy, don’t make it a thing. “It’s not a big deal, anyway.”

His best friend—or would be best friend—looked at him, really looked at him. His eyes were grey and red, sharp, real. Real in the way the sun and the moon were real. Ethereal, huge, grounding, something to rely on even if it burned through your sockets.

“‘Kay,” Hikaru mumbled, finally, and his cheeks were a little red at the edges. “I can leave the room or—or somethin, if ya need space?”

“Your house,” Yoshiki reminded, knocking his own knees together and blinking hard so the tears would fall. They did. He glanced at Hikaru, then the door, the the window. It was late enough for the sky to be dark. It was early enough to go to bed, probably, and still wake up at a reasonable wake-up time. “You don’t gotta leave, Hikaru. I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” Hikaru asked, doubtful.

Yoshiki took a deep breath, staring at his whitened knuckles. He hated his hands. He really hated them. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.”