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2025-05-19
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TOXOPLASMOSIS

Summary:

"You know," Hikaru says. "If the heat's too much of a problem, I can make myself colder. I could be, like, an icepack for you, if you want."

---

(About prey imagery, instinctive fears, sharing a bed, and the strange physicality of having a body.)

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They tell him the summer heat is worst in the afternoons, but it isn't true. Not for him, anyway. It's not really the heat that bothers Hikaru - he likes it, it makes his body feel sharp and alive - and during the day at least he can always find someone to watch or follow or talk to. But there are nights when the heat doesn't break, when his senses are too awake, and there's nothing around to distract him from remembering what it was like to not be shaped like a person. On the nights like this he lies on the floor of his room and feels everything moving through and around him, all the insects screaming and the humidity in the air and the hum of the power lines and the worms writhing in the dirt below.

It's well past midnight and Hikaru can't pretend to sleep anymore. He's been lying on his stomach with his phone in his hand, flicking impatiently through it, too jittery to pay attention to anything for more than a second. He gives up and tosses it into the corner. He can only endure the silence for a few seconds before he gets up and prowls the perimeter of the room. Outside the window, the leaves on the trees dance and shake in the breeze. He stares out past them, to the sky beyond, the curve of moon against the black. The noise of the crickets rings in his ears.

He makes up his mind and slinks out of his room, down the hall, avoiding the spots where the floor creaks. The house is silent in his wake. At the front door he puts on his shoes and slips out noiselessly into the dark.



The heat fills up his head and limbs and makes him want to run, so he does. With no one awake to see him there's no need to keep up the pretense of acting like a person. He shoots down the road, teeth flashed in a grin, pushing his legs faster, faster, gloriously, until it feels like this body could run forever and never stop. It can't - the exertion slams him all at once, and then he's hunched over in the dirt, heaving as his lungs gasp involuntarily for air. It's a sensation he hasn't had before. He doesn't like it at all.

He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and slows down after that. The night air is sweet and soft on his face. He follows the road past the empty village store, past the canals and the train tracks and the houses nestled among the trees. He cuts across the fields where the mice and little creatures scratching in the weeds go still at his approach, their nervous heartbeats fluttering to him through the dark. When he reaches the edge of the forest he stops, and stares up.

There are no lights on the mountain to see it by, but it leaves a shape anyway, a chasm where it blocks out the stars. He tries, as he sometimes does, to remember what it was like when he lived up there. The fragments are hazy: mostly he remembers only the endless waiting, unanchored to any form to give meaning to the passage of time. And of course the wanting. Always the wanting, itching through every part of him, so deep that sometimes he wonders if that's all he really is or was. Maybe a moment of satiety, here and there - but only ever for a little while. And then the wanting again.

A breeze rushes past him. It smells of damp and loam and the rot of a dead thing lying somewhere out among the trees.

He turns and looks back over the valley. With his senses this electric he can feel all the human souls spread out below, clustered together in their homes to form little constellations in the dark. His guts flex - he wants again - and he knows how very easy it would be to just creep in and take one. Only, he promised not to do that, didn't he? Even if he really wants to?

So he doesn't go and steal himself a soul. Instead he drifts back down from the base of the mountain, not paying attention to where he's going, back past the tracks and the fields and the store -

- and then Hikaru blinks and realizes he's standing in front of Yoshiki's house, once again.



He didn't mean to end up there, but once he sees it he understands that this is where he was going all along. For a while Hikaru stands unblinking on the opposite side of the road and watches the shadows as they sway across the walls. The house is dark and silent, but the little human lives thrum to him from within, urging him closer. He breaks his vigil and follows the sound. The bright spot that is Yoshiki shines even warmer and more lovely than the rest.

Hikaru circles around the side of the house, not bothering to sneak or hide. The curtains in Yoshiki's windows have been drawn, but there's a gap right at the edge that lets him peer in. The bed is right beneath the window. Yoshiki is sprawled out on top of it, eyes closed, the blankets all kicked into a heap on the floor. The hem of his shirt is pulled up just enough to show a sliver of stomach.

Something sharp twists in Hikaru's body. He leans in, nose almost to the glass, close enough that the moisture of his breath condenses there. He raps his fingers against the window, tap tap tap.

Yoshiki twitches, but doesn't wake. Hikaru knocks louder. This time Yoshiki's head lolls towards the window. He squints, slowly, and sits up, rubbing his face like he doesn't understand what he's seeing.

Hikaru waves at him.

Yoshiki's eyes narrow, then widen. He frowns and leans over to slide the window open, just a crack.

"What are you doing here?" he hisses. Up close he looks even more tired than usual. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his neck.

"I was bored," Hikaru says. "I didn't want to sleep and I got tired of walking around."

Yoshiki's mouth quirks. "So, what, you came here instead?"

But Hikaru is already kicking his shoes off into the dirt. He pries the window out of Yoshiki's grasp and shoves it open the rest of the way. Yoshiki makes a startled noise, spluttering as Hikaru clambers in over the sill.

Inside the air is stale and stuffy and smells faintly of sweat. He slides down onto the bed to sit as Yoshiki mutters, "You can't just climb through people's windows."

Hikaru snorts. "Yes, I can. You just saw me do it."

Yoshiki gives him one of those long unreadable looks, the kind that means Hikaru is not behaving the way a person is supposed to. Hikaru sniffs and stretches his legs out, his back against the wall.

"At least close the window behind you," Yoshiki says eventually. "And keep your voice down, or you'll wake someone."

"Okay, okay."

He slides the window shut. Yoshiki leans over to snap the latch back into place. For a moment he is dazzlingly close, close enough for that cavernous hunger in Hikaru's guts to nose its way closer to the surface. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth and breathes in quick. Then the moment passes - Yoshiki sits back at the head of the bed, his knees pulled up to his chest. He's just far enough away that Hikaru can't reach out and touch him. The distance feels almost calculated.

"Sorry for waking you," Hikaru says, although he isn't that sorry at all.

Yoshiki shrugs. "I wasn't really sleeping, anyway. It's too hot in here like this."

"Really? If you kept the window open you'd at least get a breeze."

Yoshiki glances sideways at him. "Yeah, well, don't want worse things than you getting in here."

Hikaru laughs. "There aren't worse things than me."

Except - he's not entirely sure that's true anymore, not since he removed part of himself. The idea of some roaming impurity catching the glint of Yoshiki's soul and squeezing its way in here when Hikaru isn't around to stop it makes his insides squirm unpleasantly. He checks the window again to make sure it really is locked.

When he turns back, Yoshiki is looking at him. Hikaru's fingers twitch. He shoves them into his lap.

"You know," he says. "If the heat's too much of a problem, I can make myself colder. I could be, like, an icepack for you, if you want."

Yoshiki's chin jerks up, startled. For some reason this time it makes Hikaru sheepish, and he ducks his head away.

"Well, I can't actually get like cold cold, I don't think," he admits. "But I can probably get sort of cold. It might help, at least."

That strange expression is on Yoshiki's face again. "You don't have to do that."

"Yeah, but it's because of me you weren't sleeping well for so long, right? Most of the time you look like you're gonna pass out or something."

Yoshiki scowls. "Oh, thanks."

"It's just an idea, anyway."

Yoshiki's eyes dart to the door and back again. His mouth opens, closes. His arms are wrapped tightly around his knees.

"I mean," he says. "We could try it, I guess."

For a few seconds they both stare at each other, neither of them moving. The force of Yoshiki's attention is starting to make Hikaru's face warm.

"Okay," he says to break the silence, at the same time that Yoshiki says, "So -"

They both stop, frozen.

"Um." Yoshiki's voice wavers. "So, I guess we just...?"

His voice trails off. Hikaru blinks at him, and Yoshiki flushes and drops his gaze. With strained deliberation he straightens out his legs, moving to the edge of the narrow bed so there's just enough room for two people to lie side by side.

"You sure you're not gonna fall off?" Hikaru says, and Yoshiki shoots him a glare.

He grins and scoots into the space left for him, flopping down onto the mattress. Yoshiki is lying face-up, decidedly not looking at him, but that's fine. Hikaru has never actually tried to cool his body down before, but it should be easy, in theory - all he has to do is let some of the cold deep inside him come up to the outside. It works, or seems to, anyway. The surface of his skin tingles. He sighs and presses his body up against Yoshiki's side, sliding an arm around his chest.

Yoshiki is warm, pleasantly so. It's good, really good, being this close to him. Good enough to be a distraction, which might be a problem, since Hikaru still doesn't know exactly how cold he might get, or if it'll get uncomfortable and make Yoshiki change his mind. Another worrying thought occurs to him, that if he's cool enough it might feel too much like being next to a dead body - which, well, he sort of is, but it's not like he's terribly eager to remind anyone of that fact.

He double-checks that his heart is still beating, just in case. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe the way a person is supposed to: regular, easy breaths, not fast or slow.

It's a lot to keep track of all at once, and he's still trying hard not to lose it all in how deliciously nice it is to be curled up against Yoshiki's side. So, all things considered, it's totally understandable that it takes Hikaru several minutes to realize that Yoshiki is shaking.

He peeks one eye open. "Yoshiki," he whispers. "Is it too cold?"

Yoshiki doesn't respond. His head is tilted away so that Hikaru can't see his face, only his ear and the curve of his cheekbone. Hikaru hesitates, running his tongue along the inside of his teeth.

He says, "Are you crying?"

This time Yoshiki shakes his head. Hikaru lets go of him and rolls up onto one arm to peer down into his face. Yoshiki lets out a gasp and lifts his hand to cover his eyes, too slow.

"You are crying," Hikaru says accusatorily. "You don't have to lie to me about it, you know."

"I know," Yoshiki says, or tries to, but it comes out as half a sob.

He doesn't stop crying, either. It just keeps going, while Hikaru hovers helplessly at his side. Hikaru makes an anguished sound and leans in to wipe the tears off of Yoshiki's cheeks. Yoshiki flinches the instant his fingers touch skin.

Hikaru snatches his hand away. "Did that hurt? I didn't mean it to."

Yoshiki shakes his head again, but for all Hikaru knows that's just another lie. A low wail escapes from his throat. You're supposed to comfort people when they're crying, right? But he doesn't know what he's meant to do, if he's supposed to touch Yoshiki, or talk to him, or maybe (maybe?) kiss him - there are lots of movies where crying people kiss and it makes them stop crying - only that's surely one of those things that would make everything worse for reasons he doesn't fully understand. So then what? Is there anything he can do that isn't completely, stupidly useless?

He whines and pulls away, pressing himself flat against the wall so they no longer touch. Yoshiki is still crying, tiny, noiseless sobs that are swallowed by the bed. It feels wrong to stare at him when he's so vulnerable like that. Hikaru looks away, studying the posters on the wall instead, the back of his neck burning.

It takes a while for the crying to slow enough for Hikaru to risk another glance. Yoshiki lies with his arms over his eyes, taking shallow, ragged breaths. His face, where Hikaru can see it, is red and puffy.

"I'm sorry," Hikaru says, plaintively.

When Yoshiki speaks, his voice cracks. "It's not your fault."

"Not my fault," Hikaru echoes. "But, it's because I'm him, right?"

This time the silence is enough of an answer. Hikaru's insides constrict. He leans his head back so it rests against the wall.

He says, "You wanted him to hold you like that."

It's the wrong thing to say - he knows it's the wrong thing to say - but he just can't help it. The flush in Yoshiki's cheeks drains. His whole body stiffens. Without a word he rolls onto his other side, facing away, so Hikaru can't see anything except his back.

A terrible emotion seizes Hikaru then. He keeps making everything worse and he doesn't know how to stop - or maybe he can't stop, will never stop, because he's already done the worst part of it, which is being Hikaru in the first place. A buzzing heat rises in his head, as shrill as the insects outside, the kind of heat that means he's going to lose control and leak through this body, and that will make everything worse too, worse and probably dangerous. He can't do that; he's supposed to be better than that. He shudders and bites his teeth together, hard, but his tongue is in the way. The taste of blood fills his mouth. He gasps, gripping his head in his hands.

"Okay," he chokes out. "Sorry, I'll - I'll go -"

He fumbles with the window latch. It should be easy to open, but his fingers are clumsy with the strain of keeping this body together. He shouldn't be stuck on such a simple thing, but he is, and the static is rising in his ears, ready to take him apart, and he can't do that, not here, not where he can hurt anyone, not again. He needs to get out. He needs it so badly that he almost doesn't hear when Yoshiki speaks.

"You can stay," Yoshiki says, without turning to look at him. "But you have to leave before my family wake up."

Hikaru freezes, one palm on the glass. It takes several seconds for him to trust himself to speak. "Really?"

Yoshiki gives a lopsided shrug.

His insides wrench. He doesn't dare move. Yoshiki doesn't say anything else. After a minute Hikaru lowers his hands to the bed, clenching his jaw, waiting for Yoshiki to tell him to go. It doesn't come for another minute, two.

"Okay," he says. "If... if that's fine."

More silence.

He hesitates, then lies down again, extra careful to make sure they don't touch. His left shoulder is wedged awkwardly against the wall, the other arm folded across his chest. That leaves a couple centimeters between them. Yoshiki doesn't pull farther away. He doesn't move any closer, either. He doesn't look at Hikaru at all.

Neither of them speaks for a long time after that. For a while Hikaru stares up at the ceiling and watches a patch of moonlight creep along the plaster.

His guts unknot, little by little. It's fine. He didn't screw all of this up, and he didn't leak out, and no one's hurt. Yoshiki is still next to him, close enough for Hikaru to feel the heat radiating off of his body. He wants to be closer - he wants it, so much - but he's not pushing his luck any further. He curls his hands into fists and presses them into the mattress.

Yoshiki hasn't moved once. He's so silent that he might as well be sleeping, except that Hikaru can tell from the particular cadence of his breath that he's awake, too.

Somewhere outside a nightjar calls out, scattering the chorus of insects, then fades into the distance.

"It did help," Yoshiki says, quietly. "With the heat."

Hikaru shifts to look at him.

"Yeah?" he says.

Yoshiki says, "Yeah."

There's a hum growing in Hikaru's fingertips. He rolls onto his side. Yoshiki is a pale shape in the darkness, illuminated by the white of his shirt. Hikaru swallows. He reaches out, hesitates, then places a hand onto Yoshiki's elbow.

Yoshiki tenses, but doesn't flinch away. Hikaru's face is hot again. He moves slower this time, careful, like the way he got that big white cat to finally let him touch it. He slides his hand onto Yoshiki's waist and stays there, fighting off the urge to immediately pull him closer.

There's only a little space between them now. Yoshiki still hasn't relaxed at all. His heart is racing fast - Hikaru can feel it through the thin fabric of the shirt. There's something kind of funny about it, Yoshiki curled around himself like an animal protecting its soft belly. One of those mice in the fields that freeze when they sense danger near. Or maybe one that's already been caught, when it knows that running won't help it anymore, and it just sits paralyzed in the palm of your hand, waiting to see whether you'll let it go or snap its neck.

"You can relax," Hikaru says to the back of Yoshiki's head. "I'm not gonna kill you or anything like that."

"I know that," Yoshiki mutters.

His shoulders do loosen a little, though. Hikaru inches closer, his hand pressed flat against Yoshiki's stomach. Their knees are interlocked now, the two of them lying back-to-chest, so there's no space left between them at all.

It's so good like this, even better than before. Hikaru can smell the shampoo in Yoshiki's hair and feel the mouse beat of his heart and the rise and fall of his ribs each time he breathes. The hum creeps up Hikaru's arms and makes a shivery, pleasant note in the back of his skull. He likes it a lot. He likes that his body has no memories of holding anyone like this before - that this is something the real Hikaru never did, however much Yoshiki might have wanted him to. Something that belongs to him, and him alone.

He tucks his head against the pillow. Through the dark he hears Yoshiki's mouth open, the pause of hesitation.

Yoshiki says, "I promise I'm not scared of you."

And that's also so good that Hikaru doesn't even care whether or not it's really true.



He waits and waits and waits for Yoshiki to fall asleep. Waits so long that he's starting to think the sun really will come up first and he'll have to leave - until, finally, Yoshiki's body goes slack in his arms.

He cracks an eye open and watches the fine hairs on Yoshiki's throat, the tantalizing movement of the pulse beneath the skin. The old lady told them not to get any more mixed up, but there isn't any harm in just lying here, right? Hikaru doesn't even need to try getting mixed up. This close he can feel the blood coursing through Yoshiki's veins, the churn of his gut, the symphonic hunger of the billion animal cells of Yoshiki's body, singing to him through the dark.

He shivers, and presses his mouth lightly to the nape of Yoshiki's neck. The taste of sweat stings his lips.

His insides contract, ravenous, and it's all he can do to keep them from spilling out. He wants everything so very badly that he doesn't know how to carry all that feeling within his body. He wants to nestle so close to Yoshiki that it's impossible to tell where each of them begin and end. He wants to eat ice cream in the hottest part of the day when the ice cream becomes perfectly soft and velvet smooth. He wants to lick the salt of the tear stains from Yoshiki's cheeks. He wants to swim in the ocean and lie down in the sand and feel the sun evaporate the water off his back. He wants to bask in the radiant heat of Yoshiki's soul. He wants to sit beside a fire until his skin starts to blister and the smell of smoke lingers in his hair for days. He wants Yoshiki to reach inside him again. He wants to let his guts seep out and cover every inch of Yoshiki's body. Most of all he wants to swallow Yoshiki whole and tuck him safely away inside where nothing will ever, ever, ever, ever touch him again.

But he doesn't. He can't. Instead, he slots his chin into the crook of Yoshiki's shoulder and stays there, eyes closed, until the first of the dawn birds start to sing in the trees outside.



It's still dark, but there's a smudge of pink on the horizon now. Hikaru untangles his limbs from Yoshiki's, slowly, to keep from waking him. He sits up and sniffs the air. Beneath him, Yoshiki lies in profile against the bed, eyes closed, motionless. His expression is softer in sleep than Hikaru has ever seen it while awake.

A yawning ache unfurls deep beneath his ribs. Is this what humans mean when they talk about love? To want and have and hold and eat and take apart? Or maybe this is something else, without the language to describe it. Love in the way a cat might love a mouse in the moments before the kill.

Elsewhere in the house the floor creaks. Hikaru straightens up, listening. There is brief silence, then the pad of footsteps from one room to another, a rattle of water in the pipes as a tap is turned.

He looks back down. A strand of hair has fallen into Yoshiki's eyes. He brushes it away, letting his fingers rest on Yoshiki's cheek, just for a second. Then he slides the window open and climbs back out into the dawn.

The birds all fall silent as he emerges. Hikaru stares up at their shadows in the trees and bares his teeth at them. He closes the window, making sure the click of the lock engages. Then he pauses, looking in through the glass again, at Yoshiki curled up on the bed.

There's no one out on the road to see him yet. He runs his fingers across the glass, lingering, following the shape of Yoshiki's spine.

The birds lose interest in him, resuming their song. Hikaru straightens up and stretches his arms. The breeze has died, the air still and ripe with the promise of another hot day. It's a good sign, he thinks. He likes the heat. He picks his shoes up out of the dirt and walks, barefoot, unhurried, in the direction of the rising sun.