Chapter Text
Jiji’s given up a lot of things to make his existence with Evil Eye work. Ice cream and swimming and running through the rain and cold showers and so many tiny joys of life. It's worth it. Without even a hint of regret it's worth it.
But.
Well, he is still a man, and even with the constant feeling of being watched there’s some things he can only ignore for so long.
He wraps himself in the darkness of his room, stays up late after his parents go to sleep and then some. Jiji chews on the inside of his cheek. The feeling of being watched is as real and as absent as ever. Would Evil Eye care enough to notice something so human, and if he did what would he even do? Is it weird to think about doing this with an audience that is simultaneously so tragically young and older than his traceable bloodline?
Jiji doesn't do anything, and then he goes through the same routine a few days later, and then he wakes up feeling like shit, and then he absently grinds against his mattress that night without doing anything, and then he forces himself to not think about it for a few days, and then–
Ok. Yeah. He needs this. Hosting Evil Eye is worth it, without even a hint of regret it's worth it, but Jiji is no monk. He's no ascetic living alone in the mountains. He's just a teenage boy trying his best to do the right thing.
Jiji chews the inside of his cheek. His parents are long asleep and the feeling of being watched is as real and as absent as even.
He palms himself through his pajamas.
He doesn't think about anything in particular because that's just how pent up he is.
He touches. Feels skin on skin. Covers his mouth to muffle the sounds of his relief.
Jiji is being watched.
It– it doesn't feel as bad as he thought it would. No more unnatural than anything else in his life these days.
He lets himself gasp a little louder. He continues to not think about anything in particular. He pretends he can't feel vague curiosity boring into his skull.
Curiosity that flares when he realizes how alive he feels. His body is thrumming with blood, is forced into a single messy point, is inelegant in a way only living creatures can be.
Curiosity, no longer vague, lingers over Jiji’s shoulders as he cleans himself up; but it doesn't say anything, doesn't push.
But if Jiji searches for it, it lingers.
-
Something–
Vessel.
-jabs at him, sharp yet indistinct. He tries to open his eyes but the world is behind a thick pane of glass, so fogged up he can only catch the impression of shapes moving on the other side
Vessel.
A sharp jab again. One that forces awareness of his body into Jiji’s mind. His body ripples with a discomfort that's odd in its presentation, yet familiar in the way it outlines him.
Why isn't it working?
Oh.
He's–
A horribly human frustration is pushed into his gut. Twisting twisting twisting on the edge of something he knows the shape of but can't quite grasp. He's never felt like this before and he might die if doesn’t get a proper taste because his entire being is a chasm of want.
Jiji has gotten used to feeling out echoes of someone else's excitement and rage, something that used to feel odd but now comes to him as naturally as breathing. This is entirely new in a way that knocks him off kilter. Questions bubble together only to be popped by swelling need so uncomfortable it blots out everything else.
Ok, well you can't just go at it all at once, Jiji thinks on autopilot. You've gotta imagine something you'd like.
Something like what?
Snaps across Jiji’s self. He's not in the mood for ambiguity, he never is.
Jiji scrapes together enough self to think, something like a girl, pleasant to look at, feels nice under your hands.
The exertion of stringing together so many thoughts in a row makes Jiji sink. He could dip back into darkness right now and almost not care about any of this. The only thing that keeps him tethered is the relentless pacing trying to decode his stupidly vague thoughts.
Something like a girl. A human. Pleasant to look at. A human he likes seeing. Feels nice under your hands. Nice in his hands, nice in his hands. If he could have the human he likes most in his hands what would he do?
Jiji is abruptly snapped back into awareness by the sight of Okarun spitting up blood.
That's–
That's not–
Okarun is spitting up blood because he's just caught the speedy bastard with a fist to his gut. While he's stunned he grabs a handful of flaming hair and yanks down hard. Knee cracks into jaw and it's like fireworks.
That's not–
Okarun would hack up so much blood he wouldn't be able to suck down any air. He’d scramble to get his limbs beneath himself to zip away, but he'd catch the asshole with a kick to the ribs first.
That's not–
And then and then and then. And this is the most important part. He'd walk over, ready to pop human guts under his foot like an oversized tick, and his guard would be down. Faster than a blink, Okarun would launch forwards to uppercut his mouth shut, then chuckle darkly as he stumbled back like an idiot.
That's not
What
He'd
Do
And he'd laugh and laugh and laugh and– oh. He's finally caught hold of the shape of the racing sensation his vessel burned into him so many nights ago.
He laughs in real life to nothing but the open air and his vessel. That's it. That's the feeling. That's–
Jiji has gone insane. It's the only explanation for why spitting up a tooth would feel like heaven.
Okarun is long, lean muscle coiled tight like a snake. Things about Okarun he's never noticed before snap into view like precious moonlight through a basement window. Deceptively delicate fingers ending in sharp points, the lovely arch of his back foot right before he takes off, eyes on fire hidden behind glass. His bored voice is like a growl like a purr like a distant rumble. He'll kick that boredom out straight through his teeth and then they'll rip each other to shreds.
He groans a punched out thing, raw and shameless in a way humans can’t be. Jiji says, quiet, be quiet, not so loud, quiet quiet quiet– and slaps a hand across his mouth.
The uppercut would knock him back dazed. It’d force him on the defensive, which normally sucks but something weak and living inside of him wants to entertain the thought of a back and forth. Calculating his defence would force him to slow down enough to take in every piece of information. It would make him study the edges and curves of his opponent's blows and take stock of his own body's reactions.
Ok, well you can't just go at it all at once. And he understands there’s a sort of rhythm to this thing.
Somewhere far away Jiji knows his body shudders and his mouth curls into an open smile against his palm. The thing he's chasing is just as mental as it is physical. If he slows down, goes on the defensive, he can catch his opponent off guard. His laugh rasps from between his fingers, the sound made stuttering and breathless with new sensation.
It's hard to remember that his foe is anything other than a monster like this. Limbs longer than they should be allow him to strike while keeping his distance. If his opponent stood up straight he'd be at least a head taller than him, but he hangs close to the ground, making his center of gravity harder to predict. He runs on bare hands and feet like a feral beast, dirt and blood collecting between his nails. He imagines that maybe this was never the scrawny human Okarun, that maybe they're the same, both of them yokai trapped beneath human skin. His beautiful friend lands a flurry of kicks. The moment an opening arrives he grabs one skinny ankle and uses the momentum of the kick to spin them both around, then slams his wiry body into the ground so hard something cracks.
Jiji says, quiet quiet quiet, as he returns to the offensive. Quiet quiet quiet, and jams wet fingers into his open mouth. He gags, bites down, tastes blood. He imagines a wood carved mask splitting open to reveal rows and rows of teeth. Not a human. Never a human. A yokai, agile and lithe. An equal he could fight forever.
There are perhaps some differences between what’s appealing to humans and what’s appealing to yokai, but Jiji is having a very hard time telling which is which. Skin on skin is like knuckle bones and a tender caress. His mouth feels so soft when it's full of blood that isn’t his own. Pulp and marrow open up for him like wanting flesh so obscenely it’s embarrassing to picture. All Jiji knows is that the next time he wakes up from a fight to a split lip it's going to be difficult to act normally about it.
Blood and saliva spill down the corners of his mouth as he chases his rhythm, and this could only ever end in sweet murder.
His hands around a bobbing throat. Grinning wildly down at a bloody face that grins right back. His whole body shakes with how badly he needs this. To see the light fade from someone's eyes, to touch and be touched, to feel a fist ignite pain across his temple like fireworks and teeth clamp down on his neck.
And Jiji feels the shape of how he comes apart from behind a window, foggy and thick. It's a far off thing that he can see is so much more than what he feels of it. If this is how it felt for him then Jiji can understand why he was so desperate to taste the real thing for himself.
His body heaves somewhere distant to both of them, alive and needing air like blood between his teeth or else he'll die. He's messy like living things are, made into a single point in space and inelegant.
I'm gonna do this again.
Not right now, Jiji can tell. He's too overwhelmed to move through the now syrupy world. No, he'll do it later and whenever he feels like it because his entire being is a chasm of want.
Not where other people can see, Jiji's quick to think, it doesn't work if someone sees you. Which isn't entirely untrue. Jiji has always been mortified by the thought of someone catching him in the act.
Vague grumbling. The sense of information being filed off for later.
So let's only think about this here, yeah? It’s the best place to keep stuff safe.
That successfully appeals to his need to have things only for himself. No sharing. Everything only his to pour into the yawning emptiness he was born from.
He's ready to sleep now. The real, heavy sort of sleep that takes them both. He's far too impulsive and inconsiderate to care about the mess he's leaving for Jiji to wake up as, and sleep is too heavy and real for Jiji to comprehend his own body as more than something base.
So Jiji will wake up a wrung out mess with stale iron between his teeth and an inability to look one of his best friends in the eye, but for now he drifts off feeling like he's almost alive.