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The fluorescent light flickered against Hikaru’s face, and for a moment, it was like he’d never died at all.
They were sitting cross-legged in Yoshiki’s room, the fan creaking softly as it turned. Yoshiki was focused on his phone, scrolling through yukata patterns with furrowed brows, while Hikaru lay sprawled out beside him, happily sucking on a lime popsicle like they had all the time in the world.
“Can you at least act like you give a damn?” Yoshiki muttered, barely glancing at him.
“I am,” Hikaru said lazily, voice muffled by the popsicle. “Ain’t my fault this thing’s meltin’ faster than I can eat it.”
He nudged Yoshiki’s shoulder and held it out. “Here. Eat some. You get cranky when ya don’t eat.”
Yoshiki frowned but took the popsicle, biting off a piece with a quiet grumble. It was too sweet, too sticky, and he hated how normal everything felt—how familiar. He turned to hand it back and—
He froze.
Hikaru had leaned back again, popsicle between his lips, sucking it in slow, languid pulls. He was humming something tuneless under his breath, sweat making his shirt cling to him in a way that outlined the shape of his back and shoulders. He’d grown leaner this summer, stronger. The lines of his body looked older now, more defined, even as he kicked his feet like a lazy teenager.
Yoshiki’s face burned. He turned away sharply, stomach twisting.
How pathetic was it—to still react like that? To this thing?
It wasn’t even Hikaru. But his voice was the same. His smile was the same. And when he leaned close, when he laughed, Yoshiki’s body still reacted like it used to—back when they were younger and Yoshiki was still stupid enough to think maybe, one day, Hikaru would look at him differently.
But Hikaru never did.
He’d been kind. He’d been warm. He’d treated Yoshiki like a brother, a best friend, a constant. Never anything more. Yoshiki had accepted that.
And then Hikaru died.
And now this—this creature—had taken his place and looked at Yoshiki like he knew everything. Like he wanted everything Yoshiki had never dared to ask for.
And the most horrible part was that Yoshiki didn’t run. Didn’t reject it. He let himself feel it. Let himself want, even when it felt like blasphemy.
Because if this was the only way to keep Hikaru by his side—Even if it was wrong—Even if it meant losing what little sanity he had left—
Then maybe Yoshiki was willing to trade that in.
Yoshiki finally found the yukata pattern he liked — a dark indigo with subtle white pinwheels along the hem — and dove into his closet to dig it out. The fabric was still wrapped up neatly from last year. Next to it, tucked between some winter clothes, was the pale blue one Hikaru had worn before, creased in the same place it always had been, like time hadn’t moved at all.
He held it up, gave it a quick shake, then turned to offer it.
"Here," he said. "Figured you’d wear this one again."
Hikaru took it without hesitation. “Ain’t got a problem with that.”
And then—he immediately started tugging his shirt off.
“Whoa—hey! Wait, damn it!” Yoshiki turned away fast, nearly smacking into the dresser. “Change in the bathroom, you idiot!”
Hikaru blinked at him, half his shirt bunched around his arms. “Why? We both guys, ain’t we? What’s it matter?”
Yoshiki made a strangled noise and stared hard at the wall. “It just does! It’s—just go! I’m not watchin’ you strip right in front of me, that’s weird!”
“Ya watched me change for swim practice plenty of times,” Hikaru muttered, but he grabbed the yukata and shuffled off toward the bathroom, mumbling under his breath. “Fine, fine…”
Yoshiki didn’t breathe until the door clicked shut. His hands were shaking a little as he changed — he didn’t know why. Or maybe he did. The heat in his face hadn’t cooled at all. His skin felt too tight.
By the time Hikaru came back out, Yoshiki had managed to get his yukata on, fingers still fumbling with the tie.
Hikaru grinned at him, standing barefoot in the hallway with the blue yukata falling clean over his shoulders, hair still a little damp from wherever he’d washed his face. He turned in place, one heel scuffing the floor.
“How do I look?” he asked with a lopsided smile. “Think I’ll charm any old grannies into givin’ me candy?”
Yoshiki’s throat tightened.
“You look fine,” he said quickly, turning toward the front door. “Let’s go. We’re gonna be late.”
But in his head, the thought had already finished itself.
Beautiful. You look beautiful. This creature using my dead best friend’s body is beautiful. Somehow even more beautiful than Hikaru was before. Like whatever’s wearing his skin knows how to shine brighter, just to keep me looking. Just to make sure I can’t look away.
They stepped outside, the cicadas loud in the trees, the scent of grilled food and smoke already drifting in from the center of town. Lanterns were starting to glow along the street.
Yoshiki walked beside him, heart heavy, feeling like he was being led somewhere he couldn’t come back from.
And still, he didn’t stop.
The summer festival buzzed with life as they stepped into town, lanterns swaying from wire lines and casting golden light across the dirt streets. Kids dashed past them with sparklers in hand, laughing as they nearly collided with food stalls. The smell of grilled corn and yakisoba hung thick in the air, mixing with sweet syrup and sweat.
They wandered through the crowd, brushing past paper fans and old neighbors calling greetings. Someone shoved a grilled squid skewer into Hikaru’s hand, mistaking him for a cousin, and he just grinned and took a bite. Yoshiki rolled his eyes and paid for it with a muttered apology.
Hikaru stuck close to his side, like he always used to—pointing at goldfish scooping booths, trying his hand at ring toss and somehow knocking over half the bottles without winning a single prize.
“Ya see that?” Hikaru crowed after missing another shot. “I almost got it that time.”
“You hit the stand, not the bottle,” Yoshiki muttered, but he passed him a fresh ten-yen coin anyway.
They got dango next—sticky, sweet, and warm off the grill. Hikaru burned his tongue and made a dramatic noise about it, puffing his cheeks out like a child.
Yoshiki rolled his eyes again, but somewhere in his chest, something softened. For a moment, he let himself smile.
“You always eat too fast,” he said.
“Can’t help it,” Hikaru replied, grinning wide. “Ain’t no food like festival food.”
They stopped to watch a little taiko drum performance, Hikaru tapping his fingers along to the rhythm on his thigh. When the drumming ended, he pulled Yoshiki toward a shooting gallery with bright tin toys on the top shelf.
“I want that one,” he said, pointing to a wind-up frog with a stupid expression. “Bet I could win it for ya.”
“Why would I want that?” Yoshiki asked.
“Cuz you ain’t won nothin’ yet, and I think you’re gettin’ jealous of all my losin’.”
Yoshiki snorted, but he stayed and watched as Hikaru squinted down the fake wooden rifle. He missed. Three times. And then looked at Yoshiki with a sheepish smile.
“Maybe I’ll win ya somethin’ next year.”
“If you keep shootin’ like that, I’ll be dead before then.”
Hikaru laughed, easy and bright. “Nah. You ain’t allowed to die. I wouldn’t let ya.”
Yoshiki’s chest tightened. Just for a second.
He looked away, pretending to watch the next kid line up at the stall. “Yeah, well. Don’t jinx it.”
They shared taiyaki by the riverside, split a ramune with clumsy fingers on the bottle cap. Hikaru seemed completely at ease, moving through the festival like a boy who’d never died at all. The yukata fit him just like it used to.
He held the bottle up to the light after they drank, watching the glass marble shift. “Never could figure out how this thing worked,” he said. “Ain’t right, puttin’ a marble where the drink goes.”
“That’s the point,” Yoshiki said quietly.
“Hmm.” Hikaru tipped the bottle up and drained it, then turned to look at him with a grin. “Still dumb.”
Yoshiki shook his head and walked ahead, but not too far.
They followed the crowd when it drifted toward Mikasa’s shrine, the last fireworks waiting just past the hill. Yoshiki’s geta clicked softly on the stone steps. Children whispered to one another, old women fanned themselves in the heat, and someone down the slope lit a sparkler too early, earning a scolding.
Yoshiki stood near the back, gaze tilted toward the night sky as the first firework cracked open, green and gold.
It took a few minutes for him to notice.
He was alone.
He turned a little, scanned the faces nearby. Hikaru wasn’t beside him. He wasn’t behind him. He wasn’t anywhere.
Yoshiki frowned. Maybe he’d stepped away for food. Maybe he went to use the restroom or something. He stayed in place and waited, watching red lights bloom overhead and scatter like stars.
But another minute passed.
Then another.
Still no sign.
A chill crept into his spine, curling low and cold in his gut. He craned his neck to look farther out, but the crowd had thickened. Lantern light shimmered off sweat-slicked faces, laughter rose and fell like waves, but none of them were him. None of them were Hikaru.
Where’d he go?
He shifted on his feet. Five more minutes passed. The next firework lit up the whole hill in blue light.
Then ten minutes.
Yoshiki’s heart was beating too fast.
He wouldn’t just leave.
He wouldn’t—
Fifteen minutes.
The buzzing in his ears grew louder.
And then thirty.
Yoshiki moved.
He didn’t excuse himself. He didn’t think. He shoved past a family of five, stumbled down the hill, sandals clacking sharp on stone as he ran back into town.
“Hikaru?” he called, eyes darting between alleys, behind stalls, toward the river.
Nothing.
He can’t leave again.
He can’t.
Last time Hikaru disappeared, he never came back. Last time he disappeared, they found what was left of him.
Yoshiki’s chest ached like he’d swallowed fire.
You can’t leave me again. You can’t. Please—
He tore through streets, eyes wild, fists clenched. Vendors had started packing up, children were being pulled home by their mothers, and the buzz of the festival faded into crickets and the distant pop of fireworks still echoing behind the shrine.
He didn’t know how long he’d been running when he saw it.
At the edge of town, just past the quiet slope that led toward the fields, sat a lone bench in front of the empty farmland. And on it, backlit by the moonlight, was a boy with white hair.
Sitting.
Relaxed.
Eating festival snacks like nothing in the world was wrong.
Yoshiki didn’t think. He stormed across the gravel, footsteps loud as thunder.
“Where did you go?!” he shouted, voice cracking.
The boy looked up slowly, blinking like he’d just woken from a nap.
Then he smiled. Bright. Familiar.
“Yoshiki?” he said, licking sugar off his thumb. “What’s wrong?”
Yoshiki marched up, fists clenched, heat still buzzing beneath his skin from the run.
“You can’t just run off like that!” he snapped. “Why didn’t you stay at Mikasa’s shrine like everyone else?!”
Hikaru tilted his head, still chewing something. “The shrine was repelling me,” he said casually. “Didn’t feel good, so I came here instead.”
Yoshiki stared at him. “Then why didn’t you tell me?! We could’ve skipped it, dammit!”
Hikaru blinked, then gave a half-shrug. “Why’re you gettin’ so worked up ‘bout it?”
Yoshiki opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out, Hikaru popped his middle finger into his mouth, sucking the syrup off lazily.
Then he asked, like he was asking about the weather, “Do ya like me that much?”
Yoshiki froze, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and throat.
“Do you like me that much?” he shot back, sharper than he meant to.
Hikaru lowered his hand, sticky with syrup, and looked at him straight on. There was nothing teasing in his voice when he answered.
“I do,” he said. “I like ya that much.”
Yoshiki’s heart kicked.
“I think ‘bout ya every night. Never been happier in my life than I am now — even before… bein’ him. You’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel happy, Yoshiki. If I didn’t have ya, I’d be miserable. I’d be nothin’.”
Yoshiki gaped at him, stunned. His mouth opened and closed without sound. Heat rushed into his cheeks. He looked around, flustered, voice low and sharp.
“You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you just can’t!” he snapped. “Not out here where folks might hear—!”
Hikaru’s smile dropped, and his gaze lowered. “Is it ‘cause I’m not really him?”
Yoshiki paused, jaw tight. “...Partly.”
Hikaru looked down at his hands, quiet. Then, softly, he said, “I might not be all Hikaru… but I love you. At least this Hikaru does. Ain’t that worth somethin’?”
Yoshiki’s stomach turned. His throat felt tight. “Don’t say stuff like that,” he whispered. “That’s not… That’s not normal.”
“I love you,” Hikaru repeated simply.
“Stop it—” Yoshiki reached forward, grabbing his shoulders. “Just stop talking. Please.”
Hikaru stopped. His eyes met Yoshiki’s — calm, wide, unblinking.
Then, slowly, he stood. Yoshiki didn’t let go. They were close now, too close, the only sound the low hum of cicadas and the distant crackle of a firework behind the trees.
And Hikaru leaned in—gentle, quiet—and kissed him. Barely touched their lips together.
Yoshiki yelped, jumping back like he’d been stung.
“You can’t do that!” he said, voice cracking. “You can’t just kiss people!”
“Why not?” Hikaru asked, head tilted again. “I watched some movies. When folks love each other, they kiss. That’s how it goes. Ain’t that right?”
Yoshiki’s heart was racing. He could still feel the kiss — or the ghost of it — on his mouth. It hadn’t even lasted a second.
Hikaru watched him, soft-eyed. “Can we go home now? Back to my place?”
Yoshiki looked around. The street behind them was quiet, the shrine fireworks long since faded. His whole body felt like it was buzzing, not with the summer heat, but with something far more dangerous.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah… alright.”
But in the back of his mind, something whispered:
This is not Hikaru. This is not Hikaru. Do not get attached. I don’t know what I’m gettin’ into.
When they got back to Hikaru’s house, the air inside was still and warm, the floor creaking faintly beneath their feet. Yoshiki slipped off his geta and barely had time to set his bag down before Hikaru flopped down onto the futon, dragging the fan toward him with one hand.
Then, without a word, he pulled the top half of his yukata loose and let it fall open, baring his chest and arms to the lantern light. The rest of the robe stayed loosely knotted at his waist.
Yoshiki made a strangled sound in his throat. “What the hell are you doing?!”
Hikaru blinked up at him, eyes calm. “Just coolin’ off.”
Then he patted his chest lightly. “Touch me again. Where you did last time.”
Yoshiki stared at him like he’d been slapped. “Why?”
“It made me feel good,” Hikaru said simply. “And I wanna feel good… with someone I love. Ain’t that what all the human books and movies say?”
His voice softened. “Don’t ya wanna?”
Yoshiki’s mouth went dry. He stood there for a second, stunned, heart hammering like it wanted out of his ribs.
“I…” He swallowed, gaze darting to the open chest, the faint glow that sometimes pulsed just beneath the skin. “I’ll do it again. But only ‘cause I’m… curious. Nothin’ else.”
Hikaru just smiled and laid back, arms stretched above his head.
Yoshiki stepped forward slowly, each footfall careful. He knelt beside the futon, hand trembling slightly as he reached out. The skin under his fingers was cool and firm, strange in a way he couldn’t describe.
He pressed his hand against Hikaru’s chest.
And then, as if the skin itself gave way, Yoshiki’s fingers sank inside.
It was warm—too warm. The texture was slick, soft, a little like raw chicken breast, and that alone nearly made him pull away. But Hikaru let out a shaky breath, and Yoshiki looked up.
His eyes were half-lidded, mouth slightly open. He arched off the bed, slow and trembling, as Yoshiki’s hand rose inside the cavity and gently grazed the place where a heart might have been.
“That feels real nice…” Hikaru whispered, voice hoarse. “Only you ever made me feel this way, Yoshiki…”
Yoshiki’s throat tightened. His hand was buried in something not-human, but he couldn’t stop looking at Hikaru’s face. Couldn’t stop listening to the way he breathed, the way his body reacted like it was craving this touch, this closeness.
The fan hummed in the corner. Cicadas outside kept singing. And inside, everything slowed down.
Yoshiki held still, breathing hard, heart pounding in his ears.
For a while, he stayed like that, just holding, his palm resting against something strange and softly glowing.
Then—movement.
Thin tendrils began to snake out, sliding up his wrist.
He jerked back with a gasp.
Hikaru exhaled, slow and almost mournful, eyes fluttering open.
“Sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to grab you.”
Yoshiki didn’t answer. He was breathing hard, staring down at his arm like the tendrils might still be writhing there. His skin felt warm and wrong, and the hum of what had just happened still vibrated beneath his ribs. He didn’t know if he was shaking from fear or—
“I can make you feel good, too,” Hikaru said, sitting up slightly on the futon.
Yoshiki flinched. “Don’t—don’t say stuff like that.”
“I can,” Hikaru insisted, tilting his head. “I’ve been watchin’ people. I read stuff, too. I know how to do it. You just gotta lie down with me.”
“No,” Yoshiki said quickly, backing up a step. “I’m not—this isn’t…”
Hikaru pouted, genuine disappointment flickering across his face. “I can do it right. I swear. I know what I’m doin’. Just… lie down with me, Yoshiki. Please?”
Yoshiki hesitated.
His body wanted to. He wanted to. It looked like Hikaru. It sounded like Hikaru. It even smelled like Hikaru — faint soap and sun-warmed cotton and whatever old memory he’d never fully shaken.
But it wasn’t him. Not really.
This wasn’t Hikaru.
And still—Yoshiki’s feet moved.
He lay down stiffly beside him on the futon, the fan clicking gently in the corner. His heart was pounding in his chest, loud and awful. He could feel Hikaru watching him, breath steady and warm.
“…You can’t tell anybody we’re doin’ this,” Yoshiki mumbled, staring up at the ceiling.
“I won’t,” Hikaru said instantly. “I promise. It’s just for us. Just you and me.”
Yoshiki turned his head.
Hikaru was already closer, one hand braced on the futon beside him. “I really love you, y’know,” he whispered, eyes wide and so soft it almost hurt to look at. “As long as you love me back… as long as you only look at me… I’ll do anything for you.”
Yoshiki opened his mouth to tell him to stop.
But Hikaru leaned in.
Their lips met — gentle, uncertain at first. Just the brush of skin. But when Yoshiki didn’t pull away, Hikaru tilted his head and pressed in again, firmer this time, coaxing him closer with a hand that hovered near his jaw, not quite touching.
Yoshiki shuddered. He kissed back.
It was awkward. Hot. Too close. And still — addictive.
Hikaru’s mouth was warm and real. He kissed like someone who’d studied, who wanted to be good at it, who wanted to be good for Yoshiki. Every time their mouths parted and met again, it deepened, until Yoshiki’s hand was in Hikaru’s hair, and Hikaru’s fingers were curling in the loose collar of Yoshiki’s yukata.
“I love you,” Hikaru murmured between kisses. “I love you so much.”
Yoshiki let out a shaky breath, lips brushing against Hikaru’s. “Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true,” Hikaru whispered. “You’re the only thing that ever made me happy. Even before I was this… even when I was just a shadow drifting on a mountain. It’s always been you.”
Yoshiki’s chest ached. He kissed him again. Slower this time.
And when Hikaru pulled back just enough to whisper, “I’ll be whatever you want, as long as you’re mine,” Yoshiki couldn’t answer.
His throat tightened. His eyes burned.
Tears slipped out before he could stop them.
He surged forward and kissed Hikaru harder — desperate, clumsy, all heat and grief — and wrapped his arms around him, then his legs too, holding him close like he might vanish again if he let go.
What the hell is wrong with me, he thought, dizzy with want and shame and something deeper still — something rotting at the edges of his heart, pulsing with a kind of quiet sickness he couldn’t name. He had wanted this for years, had dreamed of Hikaru's mouth on his, of his hands, of his voice saying things that only existed in fantasy. But he could never say it aloud, not then, not when Hikaru was real and human and laughing beside him under the summer sun. He had buried it, denied it, tried to kill it with silence.
And now he was getting it. Not from Hikaru — not truly — but from something that wore his face, that moved with his ease, that smiled with his voice. It was like the world had granted his wish in the cruelest possible form, and Yoshiki had no strength left to refuse it.
He couldn’t stop, because he had never stopped loving Hikaru — not even after he died, not even now, like this. And if staying here meant breaking apart slowly, if it meant twisting his own soul just to keep holding on, then he would stay. He would stay and let himself rot from the inside out, if it meant staying with the only thing that ever truly saw him — the only thing that, in the most horrible and lonely way imaginable, understood him.
Even if it wasn’t Hikaru.
It sounded like him. It felt like him. It wasn’t him.
But it was close enough.
And that was enough to make Yoshiki stay.