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The incandescent heat of summer afternoons in Kubitachi seeped into the dark-haired boy's body. As always, the cicadas threaded themselves through a conversation that was not their own, their impossible droning impossible to ignore. And it felt familiar, yes... a sensation that the body had long since stopped paying attention to.
The two boys took their usual route home. The white-haired one remained on the left side of the boy who surpassed him by a few centimeters in height. His strides were longer, yet somehow heavier, striking against the pavement with a strange aggression. Those footsteps resembled someone who regarded time as his greatest enemy, someone who needed to get home with absurd urgency.
Yoshiki had walked down that rural road countless times. He was accustomed to the sound of an extra set of footsteps accompanying him through his introspective journey after another ordinary day at school. He knew exactly when to look away from the shopkeeper across the street, the woman who always spoke more than necessary. He knew the precise moment he would hear the faint melody of stones colliding with the water of the river only a few meters from home.
And he knew exactly at what point along the road Hikaru—the real one—would begin rambling about some insignificant incident from his day at school.
One... two... three...
The dark-haired boy came to a halt, gripping his bicycle with both hands. Waiting. Expecting. As if the complaint would arrive with sincere indignation. As if it were a misfortune destined for his fragile heart, hanging from a gray earring.
- "Asako laughed at my English notes today! I still don't understand why I have to keep repeating the subject of every sentence, Yoshiki. I already know who's doing what!"-
The misery pierced Yoshiki's heart with ridiculous speed. For a brief second, an irreverent melancholy settled across his face. Because the one who had spoken with such fearless confidence now was the imitation. A foreign passenger who had stolen his friend's body. And as though victorious in a battle against his own cowardice, Yoshiki truly looked at the white-haired boy standing before him, studying eyes that were ever so slightly different from those of the friend he had called his own only months ago.
- "Hey, Yoshiki. Why are you staring at me so much?"-
And suddenly, the sticky heat of August no longer felt familiar. The cicadas had ceased their relentless song within the nauseating sea of thoughts flooding Yoshiki's mind. Yet everything remained exactly, unpleasantly the same.
The dark-haired boy offered no response to any of Hikaru's casual remarks. At least, not for now.
Looking out the door I see the rain
Fall upon the funeral mourners
Parading in a wake of sad relations
As their shoes fill up with water
There had been no funeral. Cruelly, there had been no body to mourn. And although people despised that profound discomfort—the eternal farewell, the sincere words of acquaintances incapable of easing the loneliness left behind by the departure of a loved one—Yoshiki had wanted it.
That night, after finding the white-haired boy lying motionless among the mountains like another forgotten plant, Yoshiki tossed and turned beneath a sea of sheets, trapped in a restless and fractured sleep. The emotional burden threatened to shatter his ribs, the breath in his lungs, the words in his mouth.
He had sat upon the frame of his window while long drops of rain painted the glass in mockery! The rain itself seemed to ridicule him. Like some omnipotent god, it mocked the tragedy Yoshiki had witnessed! And yet, that day, the dark-haired boy understood that the sky was his only ally. An invisible companion in his misery.
And it was several days later, after seeing the white-haired boy alive once more, smiling beneath the pale folds of a hospital gown, that Yoshiki wished—more than ever before, with a feeling so foolishly close to prophecy—that someone had given him a funeral worthy of the dead.
Maybe I'm too young
To keep good love from going wrong
But tonight you're on my mind
So... you'll never know
In the company of that imitation, Yoshiki recalled with almost mocking clarity all those fleeting moments of foolish friendship he had shared with Hikaru. Memories that had once irritated him ever so slightly yet had now become something akin to a comforting embrace.
- "Yo-shi-ki!"- the real Hikaru had called out, waving his arms with exaggerated enthusiasm.
- "What?"-
- "Are you going to the party tonight? You have to come. The cute girl from Class 2-B invited me. Maybe tonight... she and I might... you know..."- the white-haired boy murmured, wiggling his eyebrows in a gesture that seemed more intended to convince himself that tonight would finally be his night.
- "No. Too much noise. I don't like it."- Yoshiki deliberately ignored the latter half of his friend's comment.
- "Aw, come on. You're always hiding in your room! It's about time you came with me and met some girls. Who knows? Maybe you'll find—"
- "No. I'm not interested."- Yoshiki interrupted far too quickly, already exhausted by the conversation.
- "Come on, Yoshiki! Tell me, then. What's your type? We could probably find someone who looks like her"-
Yoshiki knew exactly how to answer. All he had to do was overcome the cowardice that burrowed deep into his bones. Yet he would not do it that night. Nor the night after. Nor the one that followed.
And he had told himself it did not matter. That everything was fine. That it was better this way. That it had to remain this way. Things should remain unchanged, untouched by any sudden revelation capable of threatening his fragile equilibrium—or damaging Hikaru's reputation.
On the night of the party, Yoshiki collapsed onto his bed like a dying man. The threat of jealous longing, tinged with unbearable guilt, echoed throughout his body. And under those circumstances, he found himself thinking that perhaps the noise of a party was insignificant compared to the feeling slowly devouring him from within.
Broken down and hungry for your love
With no way to feed it
Where are you tonight?
Child, ya know how much I need it
Too young to hold on
And too old to just break free and run
As the days passed, it became easier to bear. Each morning felt a little lighter whenever the imitation came to fetch him so they could ride their bicycles to school together.
Or when he muttered some ridiculous remark that felt unsettlingly different from something the real Hikaru would have said.
Or when he cried over an anime the genuine Hikaru never would have watched.
Or when he seemed genuinely fascinated by the cherry blossoms blooming in front of some of the villagers' homes.
And that feeling of disdain appeared to dig itself deeper and deeper into Yoshiki's mind—to that place where he stored everything he refused to confront. And that was fine. Everything felt fine this way. This Hikaru was merely a vessel through which he could process his interrupted grief. A means of filling the small, selfish void that lingered within him. Nothing more than neglected mourning. Nothing more than that, Yoshiki repeated to himself with unwavering conviction.
Then why did he continue searching for Hikaru's gaze during physics class?
Why did he remember the way this Hikaru tied his shoelaces?
Unable to make the knot properly on the first attempt. Always requiring a second try. Always finishing with a double knot. Yoshiki stored the gesture in his memory as though it belonged on a list of tasks the imitation was obligated to complete.
Why did his mind consider it important to remember that expression of complete satisfaction that appeared on the white-haired boy's face whenever he tasted an ordinary meal for the first time?
And one afternoon, alone in his bedroom, Yoshiki finally lost his composure when he realized that the memories of the friend he had once known were becoming smaller. Weaker. Fragments drifting through his mind that no longer even offered comfort.
What had Hikaru wanted to major in?
What was his greatest dream?
What does he truly remember about Hikaru?
Like a stranger inhabiting his own body, Yoshiki repeated to himself that this was merely unresolved grief.
Yes.
It could only be that.
Sometimes a man gets carried away
When he feels like should be having his fun
Much too blind to see the damage he's done
Sometimes a man must awake to find that
Really he has no one
So I'll wait for you, love
And I'll burn
Will I ever see your sweet return?
Oh, will I ever learn?
What Yoshiki did remember was an autumn afternoon spent with Hikaru several months before his death. Driven by the sort of spontaneous curiosity that could only belong to two rural teenagers with little else to occupy their time, Hikaru had arrived at Yoshiki's house carrying a bottle of liquor. Yoshiki had stared at him in confusion. Only to understand everything a few seconds later.
And after considerable persuasion on Hikaru's part, Yoshiki finally relented.
No, Yoshiki, you won't become an alcoholic from trying it once. Nothing's going to happen. We're at your house; we're not going to do anything stupid. No, Yoshiki... nobody knows. I bought it behind my mother's back, which is why I had to hide it in my backpack. Hikaru had spoken with growing irritation after enduring one anxious question after another from his childhood friend.
Yoshiki would never forget the way Hikaru wrinkled his nose after taking his first sip. Yet despite his immediate expression of disapproval, the white-haired boy smiled and wiped his mouth, attempting to reassure his friend.
- "See, Yoshiki? It's good. A little bitter, but... it doesn't taste bad."- Hikaru's cotton-candy laughter mingled with the music spilling from Yoshiki's stereo, where some generic Japanese rock song happened to be playing.
The bottle felt slightly warm in his hands. Yoshiki took a long swallow, repeatedly reminding himself that he would only drink once—that he was doing this solely because Hikaru had insisted.
Four swallows later, the liquor felt comfortable. And suddenly, Yoshiki's mind no longer seemed quite so heavy. A faint sense of freedom. A small laugh. And for the first time, Yoshiki understood why so many people became alcoholics, especially those whose hearts ached from wounds far beyond anything physical.
They talked about Master x Master. They played Smash on Yoshiki's console. And for the first time, Hikaru won—not because of skill, but because Yoshiki had become too distracted by his own laughter, a sound so unusual coming from him that it felt almost foreign.
Oh-oh, lover, you should've come over
'Cause it's not too late
By the time dawn approached, the empty bottle had been forgotten by both boys. Yoshiki sat with his back resting against the edge of the bed, a small smile lingering on his lips, while Hikaru remained unusually close beside him.
And Yoshiki thought that things hurt less this way. That in Hikaru's company, he could truly be happy. That he did not even need to be loved in return. He would accept everything. The foolish conversations. The endless talk about girls. The silent admiration. If only Hikaru promised to stay.
If only he remained by his side, Yoshiki would swallow every feeling threatening to tear his chest apart.
- "You have a mole here."- The white-haired boy reached toward the right side beneath Yoshiki's eye, speaking in a near-whisper utterly unlike him. Yet his voice sounded so sweet. Like a silent spring dawn wrapping itself around Yoshiki's body.
Yoshiki let out a soft laugh. Far too relaxed from the alcohol to concern himself with such gentle contact.
- "And another one here!"- Again, Hikaru's words came slightly slurred. His finger traced the mole resting upon Yoshiki's left cheek.
He had leaned forward without realizing it. Close enough for Yoshiki to notice every detail. Close enough to seem entirely absorbed in the simple task of admiring the moles scattered across his companion's face.
- "Is this the first time you've noticed them?"- Yoshiki asked lightly.
A strange freedom settled over him. As though nothing else was required. And in the haze of intoxication, he found himself wishing Hikaru would continue tracing his fingers across every inch of his face. If that happened, he thought he could endure anything.
- "Of course not. But... now that you're blushing a little, they're even more noticeable."-Hikaru laughed softly.
Yoshiki closed his eyes. At that moment, he did not know whether the warmth coloring his face came from alcohol or from a reason that had always remained hidden within his weak and unfortunate heart.
- "You have another one here."- Receiving no response, Hikaru reached toward him once more. His fingers brushed lightly against the corner of Yoshiki's mouth, pressing his lips into a small pout.
Something moved inside Yoshiki with startling speed. He caught Hikaru's wrist. The white-haired boy was only inches away. His features lightly flushed from the alcohol. Yes. Surely it was the liquor. Surely it was only the liquor both of them had consumed. And with a reckless intensity in his gaze, Yoshiki lowered Hikaru's hand from his lips. And for the first time in the midst of his emotional turmoil, he allowed himself to smile like a carefree child.
He could not allow himself to think. Because if he thought about it, he would never do it. And the liquor burning in his throat felt comforting. Like an embrace from Hikaru he could never bring himself to ask for.
Yoshiki leaned forward and pressed his lips lightly against Hikaru's. Not a kiss. Not truly. Only a brief and hopeful brush of lips. Something that soothed, if only for a few seconds, the restless ache within his heart.
The feeling of his lips moving against his own lasted only an instant. Then came winter. Cold and merciless making Hikaru pulled away quickly.
- "W-What are you doing?!"- His voice trembled with agitation. With confusion. With something painfully close to fear. He sat there before the person who had been his friend for nearly his entire life, staring at him as though he were a stranger. No. As though he was something less than human. A thing. An object stripped of all familiar shape by a single reckless action.
- "I—I..."- Yoshiki tried to speak.
What else could he possibly say? That he was hopelessly in love with him? That he could not fall asleep at night without thinking about him first? That he knew it should not be this way? No. He would not allow himself.
The silence swallowed him whole.
- "It's okay..."- Hikaru finally said. His voice sounded strangely sober. As though every trace of alcohol had suddenly drained from his body.- "It's okay to... experiment with things."
Lonely is the room, the bed is made
The open window lets the rain in
Burning in the corner is the only one who dreams
He had you with him
My body turns
And yearns for a sleep that won't ever come
The moon peered attentively through the clouds that particular night. The silence that usually accompanied the late hours—a silence that often sheltered and soothed Yoshiki's thoughts—had become treacherous. Like a mouse caught in a trap, he replayed the scene over and over again.
Hikaru's lips against his own. The few seconds it had lasted. Again. And again. No. Once more. Hikaru's lips against his own. No. Again. Hikaru's lips—
Hikaru lay sleeping upon the futon, his mouth slightly open, entirely free of worry. Yoshiki's hand drifted toward him. A daring hand. One that threatened to straighten the blanket wrapped around the sleeping boy. Yet he hesitated and stopped. As though reaching toward the sun itself. Too bold. Too irreverent. Far too much for someone like him.
The rain offered no mercy. Its sound was not a lullaby. Not a gentle whisper capable of granting rest.
Hikaru never mentioned the incident again. And Yoshiki allowed himself to believe that perhaps it had only been the fault of his own drunken foolishness. That if anyone else had been sitting beside him that night, he would have done exactly the same thing.
And though the thought lasted only a moment, it soothed the longing for something he could never have.
It's never over
My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder
It's never over
All my riches for her smiles
When I've slept so soft against her
It's never over
All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter
It's never over
She is the tear that hangs inside my soul forever
Oh, but maybe I'm just too young
To keep good love from going wrong
Now, in the company of Hikaru's audacious imitation, Yoshiki's footsteps occasionally felt lighter. His lungs seemed fuller these days. His mind no longer housed quite so many nauseating thoughts.
Because on one utterly ordinary day—too ordinary, perhaps—the white-haired boy smiled. And he smiled exactly as the real Hikaru once had. The curve of his lips. The slight narrowing of his eyes. It struck Yoshiki like a slap across the face.
And treacherous time played a cruel trick on him! A foolish memory. An insolent one! That smile belonged to the same drunken Hikaru from that autumn night. And for a few fleeting seconds, Yoshiki seemed to have forgotten that Hikaru had died. Forgot that the one smiling before him could no longer be him. Forgot that the person for whom he carried such unnecessary affection was no longer standing there.
I don't care who you are.
I don't care what you are.
I need you here.
Oh-oh-oh, lover
You should've come over, yeah, yes
Yes, I feel too young to hold on
And much too old to break free and run
Too deaf, dumb and blind to see the damage I've done
Questions. Questions he could never answer echoed within his chest. And if Hikaru were here again, what would he not do? They would talk about Master x Master once more. They would continue spending their weekends playing Smash. Yoshiki would endure every conversation about crushes, over and over again. They would walk through the village together. They would crouch beside the river and bother the tiny crabs hiding among the stones. Perhaps Yoshiki would feel calmer. Perhaps he would even dare to make the occasional joke, one laden with genuine emotion yet disguised as ordinary friendship. A fleeting affection. A harmless one. Or perhaps he would finally overcome his cowardice and become a little braver.
Stay a little longer. Don't you want to have lunch at my house today?
Don't go to the party. Stay here.
Thank you for being here.
And perhaps Hikaru would finally realize it. And perhaps Yoshiki would finally be forced to confront his fear face to face, rather than waiting for Hikaru to die in winter.
- "You had something to tell me, Yoshiki?"- The white-haired boy would ask after football practice, noticing Yoshiki standing at the edge of the field like a tree rooted firmly in place. Motionless. Frenetic.
- "...Thank you for never realizing that I am in love with you."-
Yet imagining such scenes only twisted the fragile heart inside Yoshiki's chest. A heart burdened by an unwanted longing. A neglected one. There was no point returning to those days when Hikaru had still been alive. Because Yoshiki believed he would have ruined everything himself.
Sweet lover, you should've come over
Oh, love, well I've waited for you
Lover, lover, lover
Lover, love, love, love, love, love, love!
Lover, you should've come over
'Cause it's not too late
The road remained exactly the same. And at last, Hikaru's calls—the imitation's calls—broke through the battle of comforting memories, melancholic thoughts, and a sadness that now carried the faintest trace of warmth in Yoshiki’s heart.
- "Hey, Yoshiki. Why are you staring at me so much?"-
For the first time, Yoshiki managed to mirror the very same smile that had rested upon his lips on that autumn night of intoxication.
- "For no reason."- The dark-haired boy replied.