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Hikaru is remarkably good at maintaining a human body, Yoshiki notices. As good as any teenage boy ought to be. Standing in the sun, Yoshiki can squint and forget for a split second. Sometimes even for a whole second. It’s almost a game at this point to play pretend, trading fantasies in place of reality. Yoshiki doesn’t want to think about which is worse.
In any case, Hikaru’s a very good corpse. Or maybe, Yoshiki considers, he’s not a very good corpse at all. After all, Hikaru is not rotting.
So, Yoshiki isn’t thinking about that either. Unfortunately Yoshiki does a lot of not thinking about how Hikaru is not rotting.
Hikaru sweats instead. He practically melts under the unrelenting summer sun. Their uniform shirts get soaked through every day on the way to and from school. Yoshiki’s lungs always twist with the damp fabric —into the washer tonight, to do it over again tomorrow— he can’t think about Hikaru sweating, either. He doesn’t.
Rehearsed, they complain about the heat. One sentence after the other, Yoshiki doesn’t need to think at all. The days come each as hot and sticky as the last. Drippy ice cream steals Hikaru’s focus. He’s drawn away attending to the mess on his knuckles, kittenish and delighted.
How strange, Yoshiki doesn’t think, to have a body worth caring for at all.