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It’s a strange thing to have a body.
Hikaru inspects his in the mirror sometimes, half-expecting it to dissolve into mist when twisted or turned the wrong way. Flesh is both paper-thin and meaty, and it dimples, reddens, and stings when he pinches it. Idly, Hikaru wonders if Yoshiki ever does the same thing, examining his body for its features and flaws, marveling at how even the smallest sensation can ripple outward.
He asks Yoshiki as much one day after school.
“D’you ever touch yourself, Yoshiki?”
Yoshiki chokes.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Yoshiki’s eyes dart left and right, but there’s no one else around. He rubs the back of his neck and, keeping his eyes fixed on the dirt path under their feet, says, “Dunno why you’re askin’ me about that, but… sure.”
“You do?” says Hikaru, brightening.
Yoshiki ducks his head, raising a hand to cover his face. The remaining portions of it that Hikaru can still see look oddly pink.
“Lower your voice,” mutters Yoshiki.
Hikaru tilts his head.
“What’re you gettin’ all shy for?”
“I don’t like talkin’ about it,” says Yoshiki.
“Why not?”
Yoshiki sighs. He casts another wary glance over his shoulder and pushes his bicycle forward, its rattling, along with the screaming cicadas, unaccountably loud for a few seconds. If Hikaru focuses, he can also hear the telltale beating of Yoshiki’s heart, or the soft intake of breath as he inhales, or the wet snick of his eyes as he closes them. It’s rapturously easy to get lost in Yoshiki, sometimes, and if given the chance, Hikaru would narrow his world to Yoshiki alone, dedicating his senses to every last inch of him. As it stands, the heat bakes into his skin and makes little beads of sweat dot his browline, and the cicadas whirr in the trees, and their bicycle wheels crunch and roll over dirt and rocks noisily. His senses are engaged enough by all these little things.
“My room’s a better spot for this kinda talk,” says Yoshiki, not unkindly.
When they arrive, Hikaru tosses his backpack into a random corner of Yoshiki’s room and throws himself unceremoniously onto the bed.
Yoshiki ambles in after him with two glasses of water, the condensation already sluicing down the sides in the heat. Hikaru takes his gratefully and practically inhales the ice water.
“Even you get hot, huh,” observes Yoshiki, watching him.
“This heat’s no joke,” says Hikaru.
Yoshiki takes a seat beside him, sipping his water calmly.
“So,” says Hikaru.
Yoshiki grunts.
“We gonna talk, or what?” prods Hikaru, poking Yoshiki’s forearm.
Setting his half-full glass down on the floor, Yoshiki slants Hikaru a meaningful look, like he’s expecting Hikaru to intuit from his facial expression alone what he does or doesn’t want. Hikaru dislikes it when he does this; he aims to transmit emotions telepathically, it seems, except Yoshiki’s no psychic and he can’t transmit shit via telepathy. Hikaru also can’t gauge whatever the fuck he’s getting at through osmosis alone, as convenient as that would be.
Sifting a jittery hand through his hair, Hikaru lets out a loud sigh and says, “I can’t read your mind, y’know.”
“I know,” says Yoshiki. “Sorry. I just don’t know how to talk about this stuff.”
“About touching yourself?”
Yoshiki grimaces. He looks faintly pink again, but it could be the lighting.
“Yeah,” says Yoshiki, bowing his head so that his bangs cover his eyes.
“What’s so hard to talk about?”
“Most folks don’t talk about this sorta stuff with their friends,” says Yoshiki.
“Asako and Yuuki don’t?”
Yoshiki starts coughing loudly.
“I don’t wanna think about that,” splutters Yoshiki.
Puzzled beyond belief, Hikaru slumps against the pillows and tries not to pout. Is it really so odd to ask this of Yoshiki, or of anyone? What’s so odd about exploring your own body? It’s a marvel to Hikaru, even now, half a year later and then some. Every morning he wakes up in this body and feels it creak and sway and spring into action, a veritable machine of sorts, spinning miraculously to life. He remembers his not-life before, the senselessness of it, the endless ache for something more, for something conclusive and real.
Is it taboo, somehow, to want to talk about this?
“I just don’t get it,” muses Hikaru out loud.
Yoshiki glances at him.
“I like your body, Yoshiki,” continues Hikaru, ignoring the odd little noise Yoshiki makes, “and I like mine. Is that such a big deal? I touched myself this morning, and I liked that, too.”
Yoshiki is covering his face with both hands when Hikaru glances over at him.
“Yoshiki?”
The defeated, muffled sigh from Yoshiki makes Hikaru sit upright and reach for him, fingers curling around his wrists and holding onto them as he leans close enough to see splices of Yoshiki’s face through the cracks of his fingers.
“Did I say somethin' bad?” asks Hikaru.
“N-no,” says Yoshiki.
“Do you not like my body, or somethin’?”
“No,” says Yoshiki, more firmly this time.
“Oh. So you do?”
Yoshiki lowers his hands with Hikaru’s fingers still wrapped around his wrists. His eyes are bright and watery when they lock on to Hikaru’s, and the soft flush on his face is pinker than the sunset outside.
It hits Hikaru abruptly that this is probably what Asako and Yuuki talk about when they gush over celebrities after class.
This girl’s just the cutest, ain’t she? Asako will declare, and Yuuki, giggling, will flip through glossy magazine pages with her and point at all the pretty starlets’ faces on display.
Yoshiki is pretty, just like them. He’s a pretty starlet, or a pretty star—it’s hard to say which is more descriptive and fitting.
Before Yoshiki can say anything to snap the moment in half, Hikaru gently lifts a hand to cup his cheek.
Yoshiki stares at him, a tiny wrinkle forming between his brows.
“Hikaru,” he says, a little breathless.
“Can I touch you,” says Hikaru, and it’s silly, because he already is, but for whatever reason he wants to ask for more, and verbal confirmation is key.
Yoshiki’s eyes widen. He wets his lips—a nervous gesture, Hikaru’s noticed—and blinks rapidly. An eyelash falls onto his cheek.
Hikaru instinctively reaches for it, gingerly scooping it up with his index finger.
“Make a wish, Yoshiki,” he says, grinning and holding it up to the light.
Yoshiki’s eyes flutter shut. He exhales through his nose and, before Hikaru can register what’s happening, leans forward to press his mouth against Hikaru’s.
Hikaru’s world comes grinding to a halt. His lips tingle where they meet Yoshiki’s, and his face heats up like he’s been gallivanting in direct sunlight for hours. If he’d had a heart, it would be jackhammering against his ribcage right about now. As it is, his insides swirl with purpose, need, and hunger, the sensations elevated and powerful.
Yoshiki’s lips are unerringly soft. He sighs into the kiss, pressing his mouth more firmly against Hikaru’s. He hums a bit when Hikaru returns the favor, despite not understanding any of it.
It’s amazing how much can be communicated through a kiss. Hikaru feels the trembling of Yoshiki’s entire body, his breathless anxiety palpable through the way his lower lip quivers, and his needy sigh igniting a heady excitement in Hikaru. Yoshiki tilts his head a bit, presenting a better angle to slide their mouths together, and Hikaru presses his advantage to kiss him deeply. The tiny, muffled gasp it elicits from Yoshiki makes Hikaru feel giddy.
When they finally separate, Yoshiki’s bangs are a mess, and his flushed face looks so open, needy, and vulnerable. It’s both impossible to look at him and impossible to look away.
“You kissed me,” says Hikaru, mouth slack and eyes very wide.
Yoshiki’s gaze drops to his lap.
“Sorry,” he says.
Hikaru balks at this.
“What’re you sorry for?” he asks.
“If—if you didn’t want it, I—”
“'Course I did,” says Hikaru, cutting Yoshiki off.
Yoshiki’s eyes snap up to meet Hikaru’s again.
“Like I said,” continues Hikaru, “I like you. I meant it, Yoshiki.”
“But like this?”
“Like what?”
Yoshiki gestures vaguely between them.
“Ah,” says Hikaru, the message dawning on him. “You mean like, romantically?”
Yoshiki nods, eyes never leaving Hikaru’s face.
“I don’t know about that,” says Hikaru, and the slight wince from Yoshiki makes him hasten to clarify his meaning. “I just mean that I like you with all that I am. If it’s romantic, then yeah. If it’s somethin’ else, that’s fine too. I just like you a lot, Yoshiki.”
I’m crazy about you, he’d declared once. He’d meant it.
Yoshiki lets out a shuddery breath.
“Okay,” he says.
Hikaru lays a hand on his shoulder, and Yoshiki doesn’t shrug it off, or even seem to register it at first. He does gently take Hikaru’s other hand into his, though, and cradle it close to his chest.
“I like you too,” says Yoshiki.
It’s as if someone has set off a series of fireworks inside of Hikaru. He can feel the burst of feeling like so many sparklers raining color and fire in his not-heart. He wants to do something wild and demonstrative to showcase his joy; he wants to run around the dirt tracks outside, whooping and hollering and freewheeling.
Instead, he kisses Yoshiki again. And again. And again.
Even when Yoshiki grumbles about it, Hikaru takes the opportunity to pepper little kisses over his pretty cheekbones and let him know with reassuring, soft murmurs that he’s cherished, wanted, and needed.