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From this angle, he almost looks 'real'.
With the sun spilling through the classroom window, and the fluorescents above washing out all of the colour, it's easy to imagine that nothing is different about him whatsoever. A normal boy, Yoshiki thinks jealously.
Then again, it's true of most any angles: unless he starts opening up or spilling out, "Hikaru" is, at any given moment, basically indistinguishable from the real thing to most people. Even though he knows better, Yoshiki finds himself drawn into the illusion, sometimes, almost lets his guard down enough to believe it.
For all intents and purposes, he might as well be Hikaru. The outside is the same. He fulfils all the same roles Hikaru did in the lives of those around him. A son. A friend. A classmate.
(he dances in the margins of Yoshiki's mind just the same as ever, though his rhythm is off.)
It's alright, then, Yoshiki reasons, to occasionally think about him in the same ways he would Hikaru, before. He couldn't help it then; he can't help it now. Still, he would rather not, just as he would rather not have then, too.
Those things he wants and those things he hates — neither are reasonable to expect, and dwelling on them wont really help, no matter how much "Hikaru" seems like he could be real, and normal. No matter how much he encourages the things Yoshiki finds himself drawn to in him.
In the end, the real difference is the insides.
The insides and the insides. (He's totally different, is the thing.) (Even the parts that are the same feel different.) (Maybe he just notices because he knows that there's something to notice.) (Maybe it's Yoshiki that's changed.)
If Yoshiki were to reach out across the desks they've pushed together for lunch, if he were to let their fingers brush, he might have a moment to fantasise about winding their fingers together, feeling the warmth of a familiar palm against his own, before Hikaru pulled away - either instinctively, without thinking, or paired with teasing he didn't know was cruel. Or did. Yoshiki wasn't ever able to figure it out, and it's too late now to ask.
"Hikaru", though… he'd let Yoshiki stay like that, one knuckle touching one fingertip, as long as he wanted, dreaming away.
No, that's not right - he'd grab onto Yoshiki the first chance he had, a child's fist clutching a favourite treat or toy. Innocent and desirous all at once.
No — he'd indulge Yoshiki's wish, wouldn't he, tangling their fingers, tugging his hand close, making as much skin contact as possible. His hand would greedily caress Yoshiki's wrist, crawl along his forearm, slip up to his shoulder. He'd cup his jaw in his palm, and smile in that way that's so close to Hikaru's, and then - and then —
Yoshiki crosses his arms, folds his treacherous hands away, and slumps over his desk.
A smile close to Hikaru's.
(just close.)
But that gap, infinitesimal as it may be to most everyone, is an impassable chasm to Yoshiki.
He wouldn't be able to feel that stuff writhing underneath the skin, of course, but he'd be thinking of it, remembering how it felt between his fingers, if he had "Hikaru" pressing a hand up against him. He'd imagine it, in that moment, when their eyes met, and that smile drew closer. He'd know it was there, just under the surface, ready to unfurl at a moment's notice, and it would make him want —
more more more more more
more more more more more more more more more
more more more
— to pull away as quickly as possible. It's not safe.
He rubs his wrist absently. The visible mark there still hasn't faded; the bone-deep sense of something being different won't ease any time soon, either.
"Hikaru"'s pen moves absently around the margins of his notebook as he chatters to their friends. It doesn't form any shapes that Yoshiki can make sense of. Something almost like a human body, dancing unsteadily.
His head drops to rest on his desk, hair spilling over his wrists and hands. His mind is too occupied to focus on anything anyone is saying; nothing important anyway, just about something Maki watched on TV last night, or some assignment or other, just buzzing noise. Grating, when he can't focus, like trying to hold conversation over the screaming of the cicadas on the bike ride home.
Instead of trying to tune in, he lets himself drift away. From his thoughts, from his wishes, from "Hikaru" and from Hikaru. A deep, slow breath, and his body relaxes for the first time since the doorbell rang this morning; his shoulders untense, his limbs loosen.
His foot slides a little across the floor, and hits into someone else's.
(he knows who.)
If he pulls away, that'll draw attention to it; all he can do now is stay as still as he can, let it seem like he's not noticed. This kind of thing happens all the time. It's normal. It's normal. It's normal.
He's normal. "He"'s normal.
"Hikaru"'s foot shifts, pressing longways against Yoshiki's, hungry as ever for any contact, any chance at closeness. There's the squeak of a chair across the floor, and suddenly they're shin-to-shin, knees knocking against each other, and even though he's stopped listening to the conversation happening above his head, he can hear "Hikaru"'s tone of voice soften and warm. No subtlety at all. He sounds so pleased with himself for no reason out of nowhere, it's unbearable. Maybe he's the only one who would notice, but he doubts it. He's just the only one who understands why.
Yoshiki screws his eyes shut, tries to block out the sound of that voice, the sensation of skin through fabric.
Two layers of fabric and one layer of skin.
Below that, there he is, that indescribable something that took Hikaru's place.
That's uncharitable: he took Hikaru's place for most people, but as much as Yoshiki tries to let him take up that same space Hikaru did, it's not just impossible. He couldn't bear it, to let someone else take that up, can't allow himself to take the easy path of denial and blot out Hikaru with "Hikaru", or to hide "Hikaru" behind Hikaru.
So for Yoshiki and Yoshiki alone, he occupies an entirely new position, one he's as ill-equipped to describe as he is to define exactly what "Hikaru" really looks like, really feels like. A position in his life that feels like marinated raw chicken. A position in his life that peels open and spills out. Something like ice cream melting off of the stick, like ants crawling over sticky-sweet residue; something like squinting to see some strange light in the dark and the distance, like finding your feet won't move, won't let you turn your back and run until your throat is raw and your lungs strain against your ribs.
Something nauseating that he can't look away from.
Something like a too-perfect corpse in the rain.
Something like a smile.
Yoshiki presses his eyes against his wrist, hard enough that colours pop and ripple behind his eyelids.
It looks like him.
(it looks nothing like him, but then, nothing does, really.)
He does it again, harder, the bridge of his nose biting into the place where it's bruised so strangely. Some part of his mind curls around that awareness, tugs at it, makes him consider the image of his own skin peeling apart around the edges of that mark, melting upwards and outwards, bubbling like sugar the moment it becomes caramel, crawling out of himself. He can't pull himself from the image of that coagulation of who-knows-what that sunk into his bones coming free of him and finding him again, seeping back in through his eyelashes, spreading across his corneas like tears. It would creep around to clog his sinuses, to paint the back of his throat in alien colours and drip down to fill his lungs, his stomach, his veins; head first, then the rest of the body, clawing oh-so-gently into his brainstem, making him forget the intrusion as it folds itself into the ridges and grooves of —
Hikaru nudges his elbow,
No.
"Hikaru" nudges his elbow, jarring him out of his spiralling thoughts. Reluctant, Yoshiki raises his head to peer through his curtains. From this angle, "Hikaru" is haloed by the fluorescent lighting above; between that and having to adjust back to daylight, his face seems swathed in shadows, expression impossible to make out. From this angle, it's hard to tell that he's supposed to be Hikaru at all. That he's supposed to be a person.
He's best like that, when he doesn't have to try to read into him. When he can't see what he's trying to be, or see through it just as well.
"Hikaru" holds out a loose fist, knocks against the back of Yoshiki's hand; he turns it palm up without even thinking about it, and Hikaru drops a fat, juicy orange slice into it.
Yoshiki stares down at it, his own face cast in the shadow of his hair.
"For you!"
He can hear the smile in "Hikaru"'s voice. Can picture it clearly. Not the same as Hikaru's. It's a nice smile, a smile that wants Yoshiki to feel present and wanted and warm, even when he doesn't know how to do that. It's a smile he wishes for every day, and it's not that smile at all. His stomach clenches. An almost familiar feeling. He tells himself it's nauseous rejection.
The orange slice sits cool against his skin. Yoshiki puts it in his mouth and bites down before he can consider how the squish-pop of the fruit feels like another texture he's been contemplating.
(it feels nothing like him, but then, nothing does, really.)
There's a mess of pale pith scattered all across the pushed-together desks and all over "Hikaru"'s margin doodles, forming ancient maps or nervous systems or something Yoshiki can't name.
"Hikaru" hums something almost-familiar and gets to work peeling another slice clean for him.