Archive of Our Own ^beta

He was pulsing behind the eyes of this borrowed body. Squirming and shifting tirelessly, pulling and snapping. He could see sparks, small pops and echos of flashing light in the dark of Hikaru’s room. Something was eating at him, tugging him away from sleep and into that dark space that existed in the depths of his newfound consciousness. He didn’t remember feeling this way, ever, in his entire existence. Honestly, he didn’t quite remember ever really properly feeling. It was all instinct back then; consume, move, listen, answer. There was no proper thought behind any of it, he just operated. Sometimes, he thought, the awareness he had now felt like a curse. He knew things now, he was aware, he was awake from the dream he had been in for who knows how long. He missed that soft empty place sometimes, that gap where the monster was and where he began. 

The burning of resentment for that connection that now bridged that gap rushed through his body. The sparks flew more aggressively, and his eyes began to hurt from how tightly he was pulling them closed. He shifted, pushing and tensing this body into a tighter ball. Somehow he thought that maybe if he became small enough the hunger would go away. The desperation, the cold, the great black emptiness that threatened to take him completely. He was so fucking cold. 

His eyes still closed, he uncurled and lurched Hikaru's body into a sitting position. He bit his lip in frustration, why did it feel so wrong now, it had been fine earlier. For the weeks he’d occupied the corpse it barely felt different at all from the way he was before. Obviously he was exposed to like a million new amazing sensations and that was different but, the body had felt like a gift. For some agonizingly fleeting reason, tonight the body felt like what it truly was, a corpse. Heavy, unseeing, not breathing, cold, empty, it was dead fucking weight. It felt wrong, tight in some places, loose in others. It was as if all of a sudden something needed to remind him that he was a thief. A dirty freakish thing that had crawled out from some dank pit in the fabric of the world. He yanked the body’s hands to cover its ears in a futile attempt to calm the storm inside of him. It was reaching and retreating, pulling and pushing, crushing inside him like a wild animal. What was he, what is this thing inside of him? Was the creature that lived on the other side of the bridge that separated them, was that creature him? Or was the thing he’d become in the weeks he’d spent here in this body, with Yoshiki, was that him? Was he both, or neither?

Yoshiki…

Unthinking, he hoisted the body to its feet, and as if moving on its own it shuffled its way to the front door, and out into the street. 

Yoshiki…

He couldn’t see or feel anymore, he was buried. Somehow he had gotten trapped under the weight of the corpse and the monster that inhabited him. He felt torn and discarded, muffled and watered down. He wanted to scream that these actions weren’t his, what is this thing? He was terrified, the being he was on the mountain felt like some kind of parasite. A dirty disgusting infectious thing that fed off his vulnerability. They weren’t the same thing, they couldn’t be, they can’t be. There's no way, no shot, they were different. The monster has no feelings, the monster couldn’t be touched or felt. But,

Yoshiki…

he could be. There was somebody who could reach inside him and caress him. Who would gently ruffle his hair, pat his head. Monsters can’t feel anything close to that, could they? 

He was splitting again, pulling apart from the monster and yanking on the line that connected them. He heard rushing in himself, pulling and yanking. He wanted to scream in pain, is this what pain was? He felt like he was a character trapped in a video game, forced to follow whatever demented whims the player wanted to fulfill. He wanted to pull away harder to sever the connection, to unplug the goddamn tv. Full control of the body was in the monster's hands, he could only sit back and watch. He barely felt anything, the feeling of cold concrete under the body’s feet. The brisk air, the hum of bugs and the countryside. He needed help, he needed someone to pull him up for air. Please, he wanted to beg somebody, please.

Yoshiki…

Ah, that's why he's here. The soft light from the inside of Yoshiki's house gently lit the front steps. Artificial warmth. Suddenly he felt the body talk, but it wasn’t him speaking, who was speaking?

"YoShIKi?"

He strained to hear the soft rattle of the wooden door sliding open. He tensed hard to see Yoshiki illuminated by the light of his house and his garbled voice.

“Hikaru? What are you doing here this late? Whats’ up?”

He tried to answer, a grumble escaping him instead, a confused lost noise. He felt fear, pulling, snapping, clawing, rumbling inside himself. He wanted to speak, to warn Yoshiki, please fuck don’t let me in. Leave me here outside, let me freeze. It's so cold and I’m freezing. I’m so empty, it's so dark in here, just don’t, please. Don’t-

“Don’t just stand there. Come in.”

Artificial warmth, it began to bloom into real, true, live, warmth. That heat that could come only from a burning soul. A pulsing living alive thing. It was pulling him in, it was like a vacuum, like diffusion. Something empty, desperate to occupy a warm full space. He felt the body move looking for Yoshiki, threatening to reach inside him and pull out that warmth. To stuff it inside of himself so he could nurture it. So he could blow gently on the embers, so he could stoke the fire. So he could take Yoshiki inside himself, so he could never feel cold like this again. 

The nEEd tO coNSuMe it. Him. Yoshiki…

“Hikaru?”

He couldn’t. As the light hit Hikaru’s body he shifted. He was suddenly thrust into the driver's seat, his senses rushing back to him. He still felt wrong, heavy, cold, and achingly alone. But now at least, he could stop himself. It’s warm. He flinched, pulling the body away from Yoshiki, pulling at that connection again. Desperately separating himself from the parasite, the monster, the hunger, inside of him. He wanted to collapse, to cry, to beat himself, to consume himself, to consume the consciousness growing inside of himself. But, instead, he reared the body to turn away from the just out of reach warmth he craved. And forced three words out of the corpse.

“Sorry. Good night.”

And slid back to where he came from, into the cold unfeeling night.