Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I.

“They say the British ambassador is going to Tokyo. They’ll have an audience with the Emperor.”

“Really? Aren’t you kidding?”

“Those vile Brits are probably trying to put us under their thumb, just like America does with the rest of the world.”

“But I think if our countries cooperate, we’ll develop an even stronger economy…”

At school, on the street, in the store, on TV, on social media. Yoshiki hears and sees rumors and gossip everywhere, from every corner, except that the iron emits hot, scalding steam, not an intrusive whisper. Christians have a Serpent in the Bible—perhaps this muttering about vague and unconfirmed events resembles its hissing. Yoshiki doesn’t know; after all, he’s not a Christian, and he knows about the Serpent exclusively from Wikipedia articles. Eternal glory to the internet!

But at the same time, their history teacher says the internet is a gigantic digital dump. Yoshiki can’t help but agree. Imageboards are filled with all sorts of freaks — from slutty schoolgirls posting their breasts, big and small, for rating (“rate my boobs from one to ten 🎀”), and bored housewives, to men over forty who still live with their moms, and the edgelords of the school smoking room (i.e., regular high schoolers) who ask experienced adults how to make a gun out of a grill lighter — obviously for a physics project, not a Columbine-style shooting spree — dissolve a corpse in bleach, and slit their own wrists.

Flawed geeks. Yoshiki tries to avoid such gatherings and exist peacefully: copying homework when he’s not fucking know, how to solve this fucking physics exercise, and reading Wikipedia, since his mom forbade him from downloading games on his phone. Yoshiki, the phone was invented for making calls, not for you and Hikaru to play Minecraft.

Playing Minecraft with Hikaru is fun. Their precious pixelated alter egos — Hikaru’s model steers the boat while model Yoshiki sits in the back eating raw potatoes, and Hikaru starts talking in a strange accent: “Taxi at Ahmed’s, fast and comfortable, four hundred yen, but such a handsome young man gets a ten percent discount.”

“Handsome young man” — that’s Yoshiki, btw.

Speaking of Hikaru, he’s been acting weird lately. After he returned home, Yoshiki thinks something’s

wrong with him.

II.

Hikaru is so amazed by ordinary things — he squeals with delight when they eat cotton candy, like, oh my god, it’s so delicious!!! He squeals with delight when he turns on the faucet in the bathroom, like, holy shit, Yoshiki, there’s water running!!! He squeals with delight when the wind blows, like, fucking awesome, when it blows in your eyes!!!

Yoshiki had never seen such delight in his friend. No, Hikaru can be surprised. For example, he was shocked when Yoshiki told him that during World War I, not only tanks but also airplanes were used for the first time — those airplanes flew very slowly and low, and the pilots used cast-iron frying pans to protect themselves from bullets. Frying pans! Yoshiki still remembers Hikaru’s jaw dropping… But that’s not the point. The point is that it’s fucking weird that Hikaru is surprised even by the fact that the sun is warm. Like, well, that should be obvious when you’re sixteen.

Or maybe Yoshiki is just stuffy.

It doesn’t matter. Right now, he just wants to hide somewhere deep, like a mole in its dirty hole, lie at the very bottom, plug his ears so that not a single sound can reach him, as if it were a vacuum. Sound waves don’t travel in a vacuum.

Yoshiki, you’re a bore. Stop blabbering on about physics and history like you’re the smartest here. Sit down and do your chemistry.

And Yoshiki sighs wearily, like a martyr, even though no incredible tragedy is happening in his life. He simply needs to find the formula for an organic substance, given its mass, the volumes of carbon dioxide and nitrogen, the mass of water, and some other thing whose name Yoshiki doesn’t know but which is represented by the letter D.

Letters and numbers merge into an incoherent mess. His head is a jumbled mess, the black sea crashing against the shore and washing useless memories, fragments of memories, onto the white sand — his carefree childhood, matsuri, fireworks, Hikaru’s smile, kittens at a cafe near his house, the unsteady gait of his two-year-old little sister, shimmering soap bubbles, the old console his father gave him for his tenth birthday.

Don’t think. Don’t think. Yoshiki would like to turn off his brain, press the “off” button, and fall into apathetic oblivion, a complete inability to absorb new information or use what he already has.

Sometimes Yoshiki feels like he understands too much — more than he should.

He understands literature, speaks English well, excels in history, and is good at math, and he clearly sees that something is definitely wrong

with Hikaru.

No one notices it. All his friends feed his paranoia, saying, “Yoshiki, what’s wrong? Hikaru’s perfectly fine, can’t you see?”

He can’t see. He doesn’t see.

Hikaru is no longer the same.

It’s as if Hikaru has been replaced. A doppelgänger. It’s unclear which is the fake and which is the real thing.

The world becomes blurry, barely tangible. Letters and numbers float. Yoshiki doesn’t understand how to derive the formula for an organic compound, just as he doesn’t understand why Hikaru has changed so much.

The cicadas are chirping shrilly, as if it were Judgment Day. Apparently, that’s what Christianity calls the end of the world. It seems Yoshiki has been reading too much about religion and the occult on Wikipedia. He recently came across a very interesting article on exorcism.

Yoshiki, solve your stupid chemistry task. We’re tired of reading about your pseudo-tragic self-pitying suffering. Tomorrow you’ll be called upon to write this exercise at the blackboard, and like a complete idiot, you’ll stare at it blankly, thinking you want to eat (base).

Yoshiki looks at the algorithm for solving the exercise: he needs to find the mass fraction of a substance by multiplying the mass fraction of an element by a mysterious value, D, but Yoshiki doesn’t understand it yet. He’d rather understand how to solve the problem than realize that something is wrong

with Hikaru.

Again, the H-word, denoting light, the antagonist of the manga “Oshi no Ko,” and the name of his changed friend.

Yoshiki, your homework. Remember?

Finally, Yoshiki understands that he needs to multiply and stupidly enters the numbers into the calculator, misplacing the keys three times. Now he needs to explain that the molar mass of carbon dioxide is equal to the mass of carbon: we write CO2 → C. Yoshiki checks his notes. It seems correct.

Hikaru will probably ask him to copy the homework tomorrow, because he doesn’t understand chemistry either.

The cicadas are chirping like crazy. It seems the end of the world is near. Perhaps the British will bring back an atomic bomb as a gift to the Emperor. The events of Hiroshima and Nagasaki will resonate in Tokyo in a new way. Yoshiki isn’t yet prepared for such an outcome. He hasn’t even had a chance to live properly.

Hikaru is probably already dead.

III.

Of course, Hikaru asks for the ready-made homework, and Yoshiki lets him copy it and gets part of Hikaru’s bento in return. The bento is delicious. While Yoshiki eats rice and tender stewed chicken, Hikaru shamelessly copies the exercise into his notebook and chatters.

It seems his handwriting has become even more sloppy than before. Hikaru had a peculiar way of writing the number eleven: a regular one with an elongated base, from which a regular stick sticks out next to it. It doesn’t really look like eleven, frankly. Now it’s a perfectly ordinary number.

Something’s wrong with Hikaru. Yoshiki finds a strange, long black hair in his bento, which he accidentally lets slip through his fingers and loses on the floor.

The walls hum. The canteen is filling up with schoolchildren. Chemistry is next lesson.

IV.

After Hikaru turns toward his house, Yoshiki rides his battered bike to the store. Sooner or later, every child reaches that moment when their mother entrusts them with the important task of grocery shopping.

Yoshiki’s shopping list is as follows:

• eggs;
• milk;
• two packs of rice;
• cookies;
• marshmallows, preferably strawberry-flavored (for his little sister Kaoru);
• chips;
• ramune with yuzu lemon (the last two items are for Yoshiki, because he doesn’t have enough MSG and sugar in his bloodstream. He needs to recharge).

Yoshiki mentally repeats: eggs, milk, rice, cookies, marshmallows, chips, ramune… eggs… ramune… wrench, shower gel… — wait, something’s wrong! — eggs, milk, rice, cookies… And what kind of cookies exactly? Cookies come in all sorts. Mom didn’t say which ones to buy. By the way, does anyone remember if cigarettes are necessary? No? Yoshiki doesn’t know where such thoughts come from. It seems Mom doesn’t smoke.

Near a lamppost, plastered with countless ads, from garage sales to lingerie store sales, stands

a person from the outside world.

(because Yoshiki doesn’t often interact with outsiders; he doesn’t know this young man)

Yoshiki is a little puzzled because the young man is wearing shoes with fairly high heels, even though he’s clearly a boy, a male, even though he’s dressed somewhat girlishly. Yoshiki hasn’t seen such lacy, fluffy clothes on the girls in his class. It’s a bit Victorian.

Yoshiki stares at the young man, who is freezingly rubbing his hands — fragile, pale, with long fingers. These are the kind of eyes you’d only use to rearrange chess sets, press piano keys, or shoot a pistol. Bullets would be more obedient than pieces and notes.

The young man is also missing his right eye. In its place is a black patch, a la pirate, or perhaps a victim of puberty and chūnibyō. Yoshiki doesn’t know. He hasn’t suffered from anything like that.

Suddenly, the boy turns his head in his direction.

The first thing Yoshiki sees are his eyes. Cold, bottomless, like the Arctic sea, like eleven kilometers above the ground — blue eyes, a treasure trove of ice and permafrost. A piercing gaze.

Yoshiki is stunned. The stupid country bumpkin isn’t used to being stared at so intently and silently.

“Excuse me,” the young man suddenly begins to speak. His voice is pleasant to the ear, but lacks emotion. It’s cold. It’s English, not Japanese, but Yoshiki understands. “Can you explain how to #$-: @׶€=}?”

…

(this is a foreigner, a foreigner in their backwoods. Holy shit.)

Yoshiki doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know these words, even though he’s been studying English for most of his short life. He tries to recall everything he knows, but he’s forgotten them all. Yoshiki even feels dumb and blinks in confusion. Shit, this isn’t audio or books for him; this is real English.

Yoshiki licks his dry lips.

“Sorry, can you, uh, repeat, please?” Yoshiki says slowly, nervously. Partly because he’s suddenly forgotten all the words, and partly so the young man understands that Yoshiki doesn’t understand a damn thing and needs to be explained like he’s a four-year-old.

The young man looks at him silently and mutters something under his breath. He repeats:

“I asked you how to #$-: @׶€=}?”

Yoshiki doesn’t understand. Fucking language barrier.

Let everyone in the world speak Japanese, please. Life would be so much easier that way.

Well, that’s what Yoshiki thinks.

“Uh…?”

A man dressed in black, funeral black, emerges from the supermarket (actually, in this remote place, it’s practically a shopping mall, only it’s not all in one building; it’s a supermarket, a sportswear store, a beauty salon, a mobile phone store, a pharmacy, and even a cafe that serves delicious food). In Europe, black is usually worn in mourning, as far as Yoshiki knows.

Personified darkness. Shadows creep along the mountain’s slopes.

This man is pale, probably as death itself, and everything about him is black, black, impenetrable darkness. Even the white bag doesn’t save the situation.

He speaks to the young man. In English. Ignoring Yoshiki.

His English seems a little more understandable to Yoshiki, a little more clear, but perhaps that’s because he’s not so worried. The man asks the young man about the location of something. The young man points at Yoshiki and says,

“I think he knows. He seems to be a local resident.”

Yoshiki looks at them, confused. The man turns to him, and a charming smile lights up his attractive, slightly angular face. If Yoshiki were a girl, he would have already fainted or screamed to be allowed to suck this man off.

“Excuse me, can you help us? Could you please tell me where we can find a hotel around here?”

Excellent Japanese. Yoshiki is stunned. It feels like he’s talking to a fellow native speaker, not a European.

“Uh, yes, of course,” Yoshiki pulls himself together, remembering he’s not a wimp and can speak. “You need to go downtown… I can show you.”

“We’d be grateful.”

Yoshiki seems to be driven by an incredible force. He forgets the important task his mother gave him and pushes his bicycle alongside him. The man in black and the young man in heels follow.

It seems like hypnosis. Or something like that.

At one point, Yoshiki turns around and sees the man carrying the young man in his arms — one hand under his knees, one hand under his back.

“My lord has a hard time walking long distances,” the man explains to Yoshiki’s questioning look.

Well, Yoshiki can understand. The young man’s shoes aren’t the most suitable for walking; even the man’s are better in that regard — polished black Oxfords, without a seven-centimeter heel.

The young man appears to be asleep. Long, lush eyelashes rest on his cheeks.

Yoshiki leads them all the way to the hotel. The man thanks him with a disarming smile. Strange people. They don’t even have luggage. A European quirk?

Yoshiki rides home on his bike and remembers that his mother asked him to buy all sorts of things. Oh dear, it’s already six o’clock in the evening, and he still hasn’t bought anything! Yoshiki racks his brain: eggs, pork tenderloin, a box cutter, a sample container, rice… what did he promise to buy his mother?

Looks like he needs to get some sticky notes. leaflets: he will write all sorts of things on them so as not to forget, and stick them to his phone.

V.

He sees them the next day. And the next. And the next.

This strange couple — the young man in heels and the man in black — they’re absolutely everywhere.

They’re strolling through the center of Kibogayama, taking in the sights: the man, looking like a top-notch tour guide, is standing by a statue of Nakahara Chuuya (honestly, Yoshiki couldn’t give a shit why they have a statue of Nakahara Chuuya in their city; like, the poet never visited this prefecture — then why?) and is probably talking about his influence on twentieth-century Japanese poetry, or maybe about how a drunk Nakahara-san beat another writer with a bottle.

They’re strolling through the shops: Yoshiki sees the young man carefully examining the shelves of sodas, sweets, and ice cream, writing something down in a notebook.

They’re everywhere. Yoshiki feels like he’s being followed, even though no one’s even looking at him. These Europeans are acting like ordinary tourists.

Meanwhile, the gossip continues. Some guy at school is reading an article with an air of expertise about whether Japan needs an alliance with Great Britain. Yoshiki begins to think that one of these Europeans is the ambassador, just here incognito. But then the strange thing is that they’ve been here for several days and haven’t gone to Tokyo.

Hikaru is also acting strange. He’s suspiciously taciturn and gloomy. Yoshiki tried to find out what happened, but nothing came of it. Hikaru remains silent.

Something inexplicable is happening — first indirectly, then directly.

In Kubitachi, a group of people discover

a corpse on the street.

VI.

They’re riding home from school on bicycles — he and Hikaru.

Hikaru chatters about everything: the Chinese candies Yuuki gave him, the sun, physics (which he doesn’t understand at all), the Romans, chicken nuggets. Yoshiki barely understands what he’s talking about. His head is empty.

The black sea in his head crashes against the rocks. A storm.

The street is crowded with people; Yoshiki knows most of them. Neighbors, his parents' acquaintances, Yoshiki’s own acquaintances. There’s also a policeman, Yasuda-san, who, frankly, doesn’t do much on the job. There’s almost no crime in the neighborhood, and the police are only there in name. In the summer, they eat the first local watermelons, and also help clean wells and repair and paint fences.

Honestly, this is the first time Yoshiki has seen Yasuda-san actually at work.

Hikaru looks at the crowd with huge, curious eyes, like a child, a real child. Hikaru is a year younger than Yoshiki. Of course, he’s immature.

“Wow! Let’s go see!”

Yoshiki lets him tug at him, pull him away. He’s like a puppet. Sometimes Yoshiki feels like a stupid puppet on strings.

Hikaru confidently pushes through the crowd, a non-resisting mass of people who meekly let them go ahead, even though there should be at least one person who would declare that they’re children and have no business being here.

The body lies in the dust in a pool of blood, and Yoshiki can’t say for sure who’s dead (only that it was a woman, since the yukata on the body is a woman’s, and this woman wasn’t young, judging by the wrinkles on her hands), because

the body has no head.

A neat, clean cut: blood pouring from the neck, a piece of spine protruding, some blood vessels, a bloody, imperfect, and ugly mess. Shit, Yoshiki feels like he’s going to throw up. He covers his mouth with his hand, trying to suppress the nausea, and he should look away, because the headless corpse is a trigger, but Yoshiki can’t stop looking at it. A stalemate. A double-edged sword.

Next to the body, next to Yasuda-san, stands the young man in heels and the man in funeral black. Yasuda-san is quietly saying something to the man. The young man is squatting next to the corpse, looking at it with an unreadable expression. His bloodless lips barely move.

Hikaru’s eyes widen.

“Yoshiki,” he whispers excitedly, covering his mouth with his hand and almost touching his ear with his lips, “these are some out-of-town guys.”

Well, Yoshiki already knows this, but he’s no fool, so he doesn’t show it. Hikaru will be offended if he finds out Yoshiki didn’t tell him (our idiot forgot about it because he was doing his homework).

…These Europeans are probably law enforcement, since Yasuda-san is talking to them. But Yoshiki still doesn’t understand why they’re in Kibogayama or why they came here at all. There are no incredible cultural or natural monuments here, no world-famous landmarks, or even health resorts (for example). Their region isn’t famous for anything like that. It’s just a small town and a few surrounding villages.

…Okay, Udekari has a thing called mountaineering, and tourists come there in the winter, but it’s summer now, there’s no snow, and no one in their right mind would climb the mountain.

Suddenly, the young man speaks. In English. He doesn’t seem to speak Japanese at all. The man translates for Yasuda-san:

“My lord has reason to believe the murder occurred quite recently. The body is still warm.”

A chill runs down Yoshiki’s spine.

The murder.

Yasuda-san, a poorly shaved man with the vibe of a failed magician, looks at the man, then at the corpse, with drunken eyes and sighs.

“Well, you have more experience than me. I’ve never seen anything like this before. If old Yamanaka were still alive…”

Hikaru tugs Yoshiki’s arm and says something. Yoshiki doesn’t hear.

The murder. Someone killed the old woman and cut off her head.

Could the killer be among them?

The young man looks piercingly at Yasuda-san and spits sarcastically, bitterly, almost angrily:

“And you’re calling yourself a policeman? You don’t even know what to do in situations like this!”

Yasuda-san looks at him, confused, and asks the man:

“What did he say…?”

The man hesitates for a few seconds.

“…Not the most flattering words. It’s better if I don’t translate.”

“Coffin Dance” is playing somewhere. This is fucking shit.

Hikaru shakes Yoshiki by the shoulders.

“Let’s get out of here. Let’s go, okay? please?”

A young man in heels demands that someone make a phone call. Some of the onlookers disperse, but there are also idlers like Yoshiki and Hikaru, curious to see what happens next. Hikaru, however, is more of the type who wants to leave: he tugs at Yoshiki’s hand, but it’s pointless, tedious work. Yoshiki is as motionless as a rock.

“Go about your business,” says Yasuda-san. “From here on, it’s a matter for the police.”

Disappointed, the people leave. Yoshiki wants to ask more questions. Hikaru begs, almost pleads, for them to leave.

Suddenly, the man in funeral black looks straight at them, and something inexplicable happens.

Hikaru’s whole body trembles, as if he’s having a spasm, as if his nerves are going into overdrive. His legs are shaking and stiff, and he takes awkward, hurried steps back. His expression is filled with the wild fear of a cornered animal, and Yoshiki looks at him in bewilderment (the young man in heels, by the way, looks the same, but more sullenly).

Honestly, he’s never seen Hikaru so scared.

Yoshiki opens his mouth to say something, to ask, because he thinks before he speaks, but Hikaru is faster than his thoughts.

Hikaru takes off. Hikaru runs away. Hikaru jumps on his bike, pedals as fast as he can, speeding, almost frantically, away from the corpse, away from their street, away, away. Yoshiki helplessly shouts after him:

“Hikaru!”

Hikaru doesn’t even turn around.

A snort of amusement comes from behind.

“Seems like the locals are afraid of European creatures,” says the young man in heels. The man smirks at something, but a moment later, all his amusement vanishes. Dissolves.

Yoshiki looks at the Europeans, confused. The young man in heels speaks again:

“You’re the guy who walked us to the hotel, right?”

Yoshiki isn’t as nervous now as he was on the first day, so he manages to squeeze out something like “yeah, it’s me.” The young man in heels smiles a foxy smile.

“Can you help us again, please?”

Yoshiki nods slowly. Well, it depends on how he needs to help them. Yoshiki isn’t all-powerful, you know, and he still has homework to do.

He can’t wait for summer holidays.

After saying goodbye to Yasuda-san and giving him some important advice (the man in black kindly translated everything the young man in heels said into Japanese for the uneducated Yasuda-san), they leave, leaving the body in the care of the policeman. It’s his job, after all, not theirs.

They settle into an old diner. The young man in heels orders a parfait with chocolate, waffles, and marshmallows (or rather, asks the man in black to order one) and kindly offers to let Yoshiki buy something for himself (also through the man’s translation). Yoshiki has a feeling this is no accident and that they want to force him into some kind of task.

Between you and me, that’s how it is.

Yoshiki is embarrassed to abuse others' generosity — after all, it’s not his money — so he chooses a bottle of ramune — it’s not very expensive, and he likes soda. He recently read an article about why sodas taste different around the world: cola, for example. It’s produced locally, and each country uses different water and types of sugar — cane in America and Mexico, and beet in Europe and Russia. Plus, the carbonation levels vary: high in Europe and America, low in Asia.

The silence is awkward.

“Um…” Yoshiki scratches his head. Sometimes he feels like a wimp, but the problem is that he’s just a socially awkward and quiet person. It’s hard to initiate a conversation. “You want something from me, right?”

“Exactly,” the man in black nods. “You’ll be very useful to us.”

As if Yoshiki were some kind of instrument.

“We need someone local who’s well-versed in the history of this region.”

“I don’t really know much, to be honest,” Yoshiki shakes his head vaguely.

Yoshiki wants to get up, stretch his legs, and leave. He’s gradually starting to regret coming here. He could have been home reading manga by now.

…On the other hand, he’ll get free ramune. Yoshiki likes ramune.

The young man in heels looks questioningly at the man, who translates what Yoshiki said. Yoshiki silently vows that if he ever goes to the UK, the US, or anywhere else, he’ll definitely brush up on his English. After all, he won’t have someone there to translate everything they say.

“Still, we think we can turn to you.”

Yoshiki feels like they’re trying to screw him. He’s right, to a certain extent. He doesn’t yet know what they’re asking him to sign up for.

“Why me?”

“If I were you, I’d ask who we are,” the man grins, a grin Yoshiki really doesn’t like. “First of all, the determining factor is that you’re a local. You also regularly come into contact with the matter we’re interested in. That could be, um, useful.”

…

What.

Yoshiki blinks, confused. The young man in heels looks out the window, resting his chin on his fist.

“Of course, your efforts will be rewarded,” the man in black smiles.

What a strange way to offer a part-time job. It seems Yoshiki hasn’t yet applied for a summer job.

“And what exactly do you want from me?” Yoshiki asks cautiously.

The Europeans exchange glances.

“We’re investigating a case,” the man in black says slowly. “Deaths related to head and neck injuries, which are particularly common in this prefecture. We were sent to handle it.”

A bimbo woman in a miniskirt brings the order, placing a frosted glass bottle of cold ramune in front of Yoshiki and a bowl of fluffy parfait in front of a young man in heels. The young man takes a decorated dessert spoon and delicately lifts the tip of it into a mound of whipped cream. Yoshiki briefly considers how much sugar is in it, and feels sick.

“Are you from the police?” Yoshiki asks.

Or private detectives, but there aren’t any such firms in the surrounding villages. Yoshiki isn’t sure there’s anyone in town who would hire these people and send them here.

“No, no,” the man shakes his head with a smile. “Allow me to introduce ourselves. This is the Watchdog of Her Majesty the Queen of Great Britain,” a soft wave of a white velour-gloved hand toward the one-eyed young man, “and his humble servant,” the hand resting on its owner’s chest. “We have nothing to do with the police and we really hope you’ll agree to help us.”

(Then they’re private detectives, because Yoshiki can’t think of another option.)

(Wait. What do you mean, Great Britain.)

“What do you mean, Great Britain?” Yoshiki voices his thought.

It’s probably obvious they’re British, given their European appearance and their English-speaking nature, but it’s still almost a shock to Yoshiki.

It’s a long way off. In his mind, going such a long way just to get to their backwater is unrealistic.

The young man in heels calmly eats a parfait. He doesn’t seem to understand them and doesn’t particularly care. Cold drops of condensation drip down the side of the ramune bottle.

“The United Kingdom,” the man in black helpfully prompts. “A country in Western Europe.”

“No, I know that,” Yoshiki shakes his head. “I’m just impressed. Foreigners are rare here.”

Honestly, he doesn’t understand anything. Some bullshit is going on, and the phlegmatic Yoshiki, under pressure, makes a decision influenced by these Europeans. There’s a theory in psychology that phlegmatic people are often the victims of manipulation, because they’re forced to work within a timeframe and analyze the situation faster than they can, and these people blindly trust the manipulator’s opinion.

“Do you know if there’s a house to rent around here?” the man asks.

Yoshiki shakes his head.

“I don’t follow ads like that.”

“Too bad.”

The young man finishes his parfait and pushes the bowl away slightly. Yoshiki remembers the ramune and opens the bottle. He feels a little awkward, as the Europeans sitting across from him watch him closely. Apparently, there are no bottles with glass marbles in them in the UK.

“What does collaboration entail?” Yoshiki asks after a sip. A sweet lemon flavor settles in his mouth. “I don’t have much free time.”

After all, he’s a high school student. He needs to think about studying for exams, not any collaboration.

“Exclusively an exchange of information.”

Which Yoshiki doesn’t have. He doesn’t know where to rent a house or the history of the region. A useless tool.

“You could try looking for something in the library in Kibogayama. They have archives there.”

“Thank you, we’ll keep that in mind. If we need to know anything else, we’ll contact you.”

It’s all so fucking weird and suspicious, but Yoshiki drinks free soda, so he’s fine with it for now.

The Europeans pay and leave. Yoshiki looks out the dusty panoramic window and thinks he’s an idiot. He should have at least asked their names and how they could contact him, but he’s a fool for being so greedy for free soda.

Disgraceful.

VII.

That evening, around eight o’clock, Yoshiki texts Hikaru. Hikaru complains that his stomach hurts like crazy and he probably won’t go to school tomorrow. Yoshiki wishes him a speedy recovery (if stomachache can be considered an illness) and goes down to dinner.

The sky is lit up by the spiky stars. It’s been a tiring day.

VIII.

School is dreary. Yoshiki goes to the board to solve a complex system of equations using a third-order determinant and gets confused by the arithmetic signs and numbers, causing him to make mistakes. Lots of mistakes. The answers don’t add up, and Yoshiki feels stupid.

Hikaru really didn’t show up, by the way. Today, no one is copying Yoshiki’s homework in exchange for bento.

While the teacher tries to hammer home the concept of a determinant of linear equations, Yoshiki looks out the window with a sad look. On the one hand, he wants to go outside, away from algebra and other nonsense. On the other, it’s hotter outside than inside; at least the windows are open and there’s a breeze. A dilemma.

Hikaru texts him; Yoshiki sees notifications on the screen of his silent phone, lying in his open backpack. He’d love to talk to him, but now it’s almost like he’s under the barrel of a loaded gun: just as scary, just as incomprehensible. A determinant of linear equations.

Next class is geometry.

During the break, Yoshiki quietly takes out his phone. Hikaru complains to him that he wants to eat something tasty, but there’s nothing at home that his stomach craves. Apparently, Hikaru wants pork cutlets or chips.

Yoshiki, like a good friend, offers his condolences. Hikaru texts that he’s an insensitive blockhead and can’t understand his suffering.

Okay.

Yoshiki looks out the window. A gentle breeze barely rustles the dusty leaves. There’s no one else outside except

those Europeans.

They stroll along the fence that encloses the school grounds, and Yoshiki has no doubt it’s them. It’s not everywhere you see a tall man in black with a frail creature in heels mincing beside him.

Yoshiki suspects he’s being followed.

The figures pause for about a minute, then move on.

“Yoshiki,” Yoshiki turns around. A smiling Yuuta stands in front of his desk. “Is it true that a body was found in Kubitachi?”

Yuuta is all muscle and sinew. He’s a great baseball player; Yoshiki saw him at some interschool competition. He also has a shaved head and a quick gaze. Cool guy.

Girls crowd behind Yuuta — Yuuki and Asako. The former phlegmatically rolls a candy in her mouth — a refreshing Chinese lollipop, — the latter nervously scratches her right hand.

Yoshiki nods. Well, it’s no surprise that the news has already reached not only Kibogayama, but also Udekari and Ashidori (where Asako and Yuuta live, respectively).

“Fuck, so this isn’t a joke?” Yuuta’s eyes widen, almost cartoonishly.

“It’s terrible,” says Asako. Honestly, Yoshiki hasn’t seen her this worried in a long time. Usually, she smiles like a ray of sunshine. “And so cruel. To cut off a head…”

Yuuki hands Yoshiki a mint-flavored lollipop, and Yoshiki takes it: it’s not very sweet and tastes like toothpaste. They’re a cool candy, but they have a major downside: if you eat too much, you can get diarrhea. They’ve already tested it on Yuuta.

“In the Middle East, these kinds of executions are commonplace,” Yuuki remarks matter-of-factly. “Well, sort of.”

Yoshiki is always amazed by her ability to speak monotonously. She discusses Chikatilo’s motive as if she were explaining a matrix of linear equations to Yoshiki and Yuuta.

“It’s terrible,” repeats Asako, hugging herself.

“Hikaru and I saw the body,” mutters Yoshiki. “Not the most pleasant sight.”

Yoshiki doesn’t mention that he shudders at the mere thought. Last night, he woke up twice from a nightmare where this decapitated corpse lay right in his bed, so much blood had leaked out that the outline of the stain resembled a miniature India.

Sometimes in the dream, Hikaru stood next to the bed, but it wasn’t erotic; they weren’t fucking. Yoshiki stood by the desk and watched as Hikaru gnawed at the woman’s body, tearing veins with his sharp, crooked teeth and crunching bones, just like the real Hikaru, made of flesh and blood, crunching on potato chips.

That’s what was terrible.

“They say some more foreigners have arrived!” Yuuta recalls. “Some people think it’s that ambassador from Great Britain, but I don’t think that’s true. Like, what would they be doing in our backwater?”

Well, Yuuta’s partly right: he’s not an ambassador, he’s Elizabeth II’s Watchdog, but he’s still a foreigner. Well, he looks and talks the part.

“Have you seen them yourself?” Yuuki asks skeptically and sarcastically, unwrapping a peach lollipop that Yoshiki doesn’t particularly like.

“Well, no, but Yasuda-san got drunk yesterday and was telling me about a guy in black and some short-haired chick.”

“Yasuda-san says a lot when he’s drunk,” Yuuki snaps, and Yuuta capitulates. She’s right, that’s true. We can say and do a lot in a state of affect.

The lollipop melts in Yoshiki’s mouth, leaving a trace of toothpaste on his tongue and gums. He wonders what Hikaru’s doing?

Next lesson is geometry. They’ll be learning to construct cross-sectional areas in solids again.

He wonders what Hikaru’s doing? Honestly, Yoshiki’s a bit bored without him.

It’s depressing in class, and even worse during breaks. Everyone’s discussing the murder in Kubitachi. Some approach and question Yoshiki. Yoshiki lies, saying the body wasn’t clearly visible and isn’t particularly interested. Of course, he’s keeping quiet about the Europeans. He’s not stupid enough to blab about that to everyone.

Yoshiki is still bothered by the fact that Hikaru left so suddenly yesterday without explaining anything. Yoshiki, keeping up with their tradition, called him goodnight before bed and asked what happened, but Hikaru ignored the question.

This is disturbing. Usually, Hikaru tells him everything.

Yoshiki looks out the window. The sun is hiding behind clouds of unknown origin, for there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Shadows creep along the mountain’s slopes.

The summer day slowly passes midday.

08.10.25 — 12.10.25

Chapter Text

I.

Hikaru comes to school the next day. He doesn’t look very good, somewhat sickly, as if he’s had a fever for a week, but he’s in a good mood. He makes a lot of faces at Haru-sensei and laughs. Yoshiki is almost like being in a circus.

He likes it when Hikaru is having fun.

Hikaru shamelessly rips off his homework. Hikaru energetically eats Chinese candy. Hikaru fools around and jokes a lot.

They go home together — as usual. Hikaru even tries to sing something.

Despite all this sparkling calm, Yoshiki has some questions that torment him without answers. Only Hikaru can answer and only if he wants to.

“Yoshiki.”

Yoshiki turns, because he has a habit of looking at his interlocutor (even if it is considered a little impolite), and from behind his shoulder, Hikaru’s crooked face appears with his eyes slanted towards his nose and his tongue hanging out. Yoshiki cannot stand so much cringe, snorts and forgets what he wanted to ask.

Hikaru grins smugly and proudly, like, yes, it was he, the incredible Indo Hikaru, who made the darkest person in their outback laugh.

“How about ice cream?”

Yoshiki inhales the aroma of wild summer flowers and roadside dust, holds it in his lungs, like a smoker holds in tobacco smoke, and exhales. Smiles a little.

“Let’s go.”

The cicadas continue to chirp without a pause. Yoshiki so used to this sound that he almost doesn’t notice it.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping. 

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

They stop by a store. Hikaru fiddles with the collar of his white school shirt.

The owner, Yamahisa-san, a woman of indeterminate age, sits in her usual place behind the counter. They haven’t changed at all since their childhood. Same yukata, same hairstyle, same face.

“Hello, Yamahisa-san! Can we have ice cream?”

Yamahisa-san doesn’t answer right away, but takes a minute.

“…Of course.”

Hikaru pulls back the lid of the freezer and exhales in relief as the cold kisses his cheeks, nose, forehead, lips, neck.

Yoshiki would kiss him too.

Friendly.

Haha.

“Mmm, great.”

But after a moment, Hikaru frowns with displeasure, and the sun — a fictional one — sets behind the clouds. “Hikaru” means “light”.

“There is almost nothing here! Crap. Only Papico remained.”

Hikaru doesn’t really like this ice cream for some reason. This is probably a childhood trauma. One day he came across an empty pipe and since then he has hardly eaten it. This is terrorism on the part of the manufacturer.

“Be grateful that there is anything at all,” says Yoshiki, pushing back his annoying wet bangs that are in his eyes.

The store is small, crammed with everything: sun-faded vending machines with toys in capsules, vending machines with chips and soda, and some boxes, drawers, and shelves filled with everything in a row. This tea does not appear to be for sale. Yamahisa-san is peacefully reading a book.

The only thing that looks new are the weekly manga magazines and the local newspaper in the press section. Yoshiki takes one and unwraps it. On the very first page is printed about the murder in Kubitachi. A black and white blurry photo of an unidentified body is blurred by censored pixels. Notorious.

They sit down on a rough-hewn bench outside the store. Hikaru angrily grumbles that the sign “ice cream in stock” is a complete deception, since there is no damn ice cream, stupidly two packs are not in stock. Yoshiki listens with half an ear and thinks about something of his own.

Hikaru hands him one tube. Yoshiki removes the cap and puts the end of the tube in his mouth and sucks. Not like a lollipop or a dick.

“You know, I’m still in shock. Hara-sensei is such a bastard for making us run cross-country in such heat,” says Yoshiki.

In fact, he is a decent boy, well-mannered, but next to the hillbilly and redneck Hikaru, he turns into the same redneck.

He remembers those strange Europeans. Yoshiki never told Hikaru anything. Not because he doesn’t want to share it. He’s just a dunce who forgot, remembered at the wrong moment and forgot again. This is what psychology is like.

Hikaru grins, vigorously squeezing the ice cream into his mouth. Yoshiki eats much more slowly, without the feeling that everything will be taken away from him and no more will be given to him, and looks at Hikaru’s profile. His blond hair appears unnaturally bright in the sunlight, almost white.

The cicadas are going crazy.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Yoshiki remembers how strong the thunderstorm was that day when they were looking for Hikaru in the mountains, how the thunder rumbled, how lightning daggered the sky. An electric discharge cuts through the space, and a void is formed between two hot masses of air. However, emptiness cannot exist in nature, and the air collapses. This is how thunder is formed.

Physics, guys.

Yoshiki, stop pretending to be so fucking smart.

“You still don’t remember anything?” Yoshiki asks as he watches Hikaru throw the empty ice cream tube into the trash can and get hit. Three-pointer. “Back then, when you disappeared in the mountains for a week.”

Yoshiki has suspicions that Hikaru has mild amnesia — this explains that there is something wrong

with him.

Kubitachi is surrounded by mountains on three sides: Nisayama, Matsuyama, Kasayama and Futakasayama, and houses line the river flowing from these mountains. A remote place. At the end of January, Hikaru disappeared on Nisayama — that day there was a thunderstorm, a cold, stormy, furious hysteria of nature. They searched for him, but to no avail.

And then Hikaru returned home on his own and no longer the same as he was before — not remembering anything and surprised at everything. Yoshiki prefers to think rationally: most likely, Hikaru fell somewhere and the head injury affected his memory.

“Nope,” Hikaru shakes his head.

Six months have already passed. It’s high time. Maybe we should persuade Hikaru to go to the doctor? Yoshiki is a caring friend and worries. These oddities stress him out.

“But what’s the difference? Everything’s fine.”

“There’s a difference,” Yoshiki snaps, ruffling Hikaru’s hair. Hikaru waves his arms stupidly and grumbles. “Everyone almost went crazy with anxiety. The whole village was looking for you, you fool.”

“Fool” is a loving nickname.

“Missed me, huh?” Hikaru grins, and his eyes narrow into crescents — cheerful, brilliant. “Little Yoshiki cried: “Don’t leave me alone, Hikaru! Whine-whine!” Hikaru makes a face like a monkey, pulling the corners of his eyes down, pretending to cry.

Sometimes Yoshiki feels like he’s in a zoo.

“Don’t be arrogant,” says Yoshiki. Hikaru tends to turn up his nose, but this is quite natural: he is shorter than Yoshiki.

Hikaru snorts like a hedgehog and stretches with a crunch. Yoshiki watches him. Ice cream drips onto the asphalt, and a herd of ants flocks to it. Smart insects, but too susceptible to collectivism.

“Can I ask you something strange?” asks Yoshiki.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

“What’s it? Are you going to confess your feelings to me?” Hikaru teases. “Eternal love, blah blah blah, feelings to the grave?”

“Uh, no.”

He can try, but Yoshiki is not sure that Hikaru will appreciate it.

“This is not what just occurred to me. I’ve been thinking about this since you came back.”

Yoshiki remembers that winter. January cold. February slush. March thaw. April warmth. May sun. June muggy humidity.

Hot. His shirt sticks to his back, and Yoshiki worries that he might stink afterward.

“You’re not the real Hikaru, are you?”

Despite the bangs coming into his eyes, he sees clearly: something is happening. Something inexplicable logically, rationally, scientifically. The faceless creature with Hikaru’s face freezes, amazed and afraid that he has been exposed.

“…What?”

Time stops. It seems like it’s the end of the world.

Cicadas burst into death howls.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

“How?”

There is a loud cracking sound with a wet taste. A cold breeze blows. Yoshiki moves a little away from Hikaru, watching as the skin on his left cheekbone unnaturally spreads, flows down, revealing his fleshy, pulsating insides.

He must run. Yoshiki can’t move.

“I thought my parody was perfect…”

Not quite black, not blue, not red and not even green, similar to the remains of a rat hit by a car, which he saw on the way to school in the morning, or fish scales thrown out after cleaning the catch by the river. Hikaru’s inside is not the same pink/red/bloody color as Yoshiki’s.

Hikaru impulsively hugs him tightly, and the left half of his face, spread through the air by this strange chthonic mass, sways as if alive.

“Please… don’t tell anyone…” this creature begs. Yoshiki tenses in his arms — in Hikaru’s arms. Here is the watch on my right hand, here are the scars from a piece of glass, here are the moles. This is Hikaru’s body, but what’s inside isn’t.

His mouth is sour and bitter. Stomach juice and bile gently tickle his throat, rising higher and higher.

“For the first time I live as a human,” says the creature. “I’m going to school for the first time, making friends with someone, eating ice cream… And even though I borrowed this body and personality, my feelings for you are real. I really love you.

It smells like Hikaru, cheap cologne and deodorant. Yoshiki tries not to breathe.

One of them is shaking, but Yoshiki cannot understand who exactly.

“Please…” the creature wheezes, breathing heavily and wetly. “I don’t want to kill you…”

The sound of the cicadas subsides. Yoshiki doesn’t hear anything and it scares him. Through the bangs he can see the side of the creature’s face. The right side, not the left, which was deformed.

Hot wet tears flow down the creature’s cheek. Yoshiki wonders about the meaning of his own tears, which rolled out of his left eye in exactly the same way. A whiny harlequin.

Yoshiki inhales. Exhales.

“Okay,” says Yoshiki.

After all, the real Hikaru is no more.

II.

“Nice to meet you, 'Hikaru'.”

III.

The real Hikaru is dead. Did he ever really exist? Or was he always a fake, a parody of a real person?

Yoshiki doesn’t know this. But who will benefit from this knowledge?

…come to think of it, no one knows that Hikaru isn’t actually him. His mother, his relatives, his friends — no one pays attention to these small alarming details: a change in handwriting, a change in preferences, gestures, phrases.

Nobody sees this except Yoshiki. Maybe he’s going crazy?

Slow and steady madness. Yoshiki sees a man in black on the street and has a panic attack. They say this is a consequence of taking all sorts of interesting caduceus substances: people begin to see a man in a hat and raincoat, but Yoshiki does not take pills or even smoke weed.

The world is going crazy. Yoshiki dreams of incoherent morbid delirium: incoherent fragments of memories, gutted soft toys, but without synthetic giblets — real guts, fragments of needles and blades in ice cream, drugs in candy wrappers, mountains of corpses of girls in clothes from Harajuku, and

Hikaru.

Hikaru, with a bloody mouth, presses his tender playful lips to Yoshiki’s trousers, kissing his penis through the thick fabric. A one-eyed young man in heels shoots him in the temple.

Yoshiki wakes up in a cold sweat.

IV.

It was so great last summer when they played video games and drank iced barley tea. They are on the floor, Hikaru is lying with his belly on a crumpled flat pillow, Yoshiki is sitting, also on a pillow, with crumbs of chips and cat hair all around, they both have gamepads in their hands, and on the convex TV screen two characters, Hikaru and Yoshiki, respectively, are punching each other in the face. Then everything was real. Sort of.

“Hey, Hikaru.”

“Oh, what?”

“What are you going to do after graduation?”

“Eh, idk. I’ll probably take over my grandfather’s farm. Mushrooms are cool. What about you, Yoshiki?”

“I haven’t decided yet either.”

“You’re smart, so you can leave this wilderness and go to university in Tokyo… Hmm… Oh, wait. Or do you not want us to be separated? Pfft, dirty boy!~”

“…get lost.”

…

“If I go to Tokyo, I will live alone.”

“Sounds cool. I’d like it too.”

…

“Then, if I’m in Tokyo and feel the urge to take a shit, I’ll drop by right away. I hate public toilets. In addition, you won’t be able to concentrate enough to take a shit when there’s such a crowd around you.”

“You calmly shit on the floor.”

“Well, then I was three, that’s forgivable. Now I wouldn’t.”

“So, in theory it’s possible?”

“If you don’t want to witness something like this, you’ll have to let me in your toilet.”

…

“Oh, I came up with an idea. I’ll just hang around with you every day. You will get yourself a pretty chick, but you won’t be able to bring her home, because I will resist and go to hell.”

“I won’t have a girlfriend.”

“Mmm, I never understood why you always get so angry when someone talks about potential marriage and all that nonsense… 'kay, let’s go. I demand revenge.”

It’s cold between the ribs. It seems like it’s winter. Yoshiki is standing in the middle of the school corridor like a dumbass, in his winter school uniform — traditional and boring, black with a stand-up collar.

Dark corridors. The corridors are confusing. As if it were a globule, a quaternary structure of proteins, like ugly nimble worms.

“Hikaru.”

“Huh? what is it?”

“About this weekend…”

“Uh… I can’t, sorry. I’m going to the mountains.”

“To the mountains? For what?”

“Well, you see… It’s a secret.”

Hikaru makes a face, purses his lips into a bow, like Hara-sensei, like a drunken tanuki. Yoshiki doesn’t know whether to cry or laugh.

A shot is heard. Hikaru, as in American action films, spectacularly falls to the floor. The tiles are flooded with streams of blood.

Sniper.

Yoshiki wakes up.

V.

Yoshiki wakes up. He is cold and hot at the same time.

There are empty blisters lying around the pillow. A plastic water bottle rolled under the bed.

It’s gothic when you have pharmaceutical drugs in your stomach.

Quick steps on the stairs — his mother knocks sharply and loudly on the door of his room.

“Yoshiki! Breakfast is ready!”

Even her angry exclamation does not make him move. Yoshiki thinks he has died. Like Hikaru.

There is no more strength to live. Yoshiki remembers the Europeans. Two days passed, but they still did not contact him. Is it good or bad?

“Yoshiki!!!”

Yoshiki sighs and rises with difficulty on his elbows. It’s just apathy. Maximum: slight depression. He feels like a robot whose algorithm is to get out of bed every morning, eat breakfast and go to school. Fucking school.

This is what education does to young minds, admire it!

“For God’s sake! Hikaru is already waiting for you, you know! Move!”

Yoshiki puts on a shirt, pulls on his trousers and shoes, languidly chews a sandwich, and his mother literally pushes him out into the street. The bright sunlight hurts the eyes, and the cicadas continue to crackle deafeningly — just like yesterday, like the day before, like many years ago.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

“Morning.”

Hikaru stands at the door and smiles. Like the real Hikaru in his time.

Yoshiki smiles back. Like the real Yoshiki in his time.

They will just pretend that everything is as usual. They will walk along a dusty road past rice fields, rolling bicycles nearby. The railroad doesn’t go through Kubitachi, and the buses don’t go anywhere near the school. They have disgusting transport infrastructure.

It smells like earth and manure, but the smell is so familiar that Yoshiki doesn’t even feel it. I wonder what about the Europeans? There seem to be farms in the UK, but these people don’t look like they come from the countryside.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Everything around was so faded, covered with a layer of sandy dust — houses, barns, cars, road signs, poles, even beetles and snakes crawling out of cracks in the stone walls. Neighbors are gradually crawling out of their houses — dry, ancient old people. There are almost no children in Kubitachi. Hikaru was the only one Yoshiki’s age.

Was.

Hikaru was all he had.

Whoever this Hikaru was, it was better to have him around than not to have him at all.

“Let’s skip school,” Yoshiki suggests.

“Eh? What do you mean?” Hikaru blinks his eyes. “Is it really possible?”

“Why not? Do you want cutlets?”

“Fuck, dude, you’d be ashamed to press on a sore spot. Of course I do. Unlike you, I didn’t eat anything.”

“You know what to do.”

Hikaru inhales. Exhales. Smiles.

“Let’s go.”

These breathing sounds seem to make absolutely no sense. It looks like Hikaru isn’t even breathing. Yoshiki scratches his left cheek with his blunt nails.

The summer morning is brightening up.

VI.

“Oh, we bought these cutlets before, right?!”

Hikaru crushes the greasy, oily wrapper with his hands, sniffs it, licks it. He looks so enthusiastic, especially when he bites — with such taste, crunch, some artistry, as if he was tasting the flesh of Amaterasu no Mikoto herself.

The caramel-brown breading crunched. Light steam rose from the hot filling, and the golden meat juice glistened slightly.

Just after taking a bite, Hikaru exclaimed:

“WOOOOOOOOWWW!! Holy shit!!! It’s so delicious!! I mean, I know the taste, but…”

While Hikaru stuffs his mouth with a cutlet, Yoshiki watches him in confusion. Yes, the cutlet is really tasty, but not as much.

“This is strange, don’t you think?” asks Yoshiki. “You remember everything, but all the feelings are new to you.”

“Well, how can I say…” Hikaru swallows what he was chewing and bites again. “My memories are exactly the same as his, but I’m experiencing sensations for the first time. Before this, one might say, I was not alive and this was not given to me.”

…

To some extent, it’s good that “Hikaru” stopped pretending to be Indou Hikaru. Yoshiki remembers how they were watching some stupid movie at school (for the fifth time) and everyone was sleeping with their heads on their desks. Only Hikaru looked intently at the screen, and after the scene where the woman was humiliated by her husband, he began to cry. When Yoshiki asked what happened, Hikaru said something like yes, he has memories, but personally HE is watching this movie for the first time.

“Like, are you a ghost?” Yoshiki asks.

“Uh, no, more like a creepy monster, heh.”

Yoshiki has nothing to answer to this. A well-fed white cat comes out from around the corner of a dry cleaner, attracted by the smell of meat.

“Oh, Mince-aniki,” Yoshiki mutters.

The cat meows and rubs against his legs, looking at him ingratiatingly. Cats are greedy creatures. No matter how much you put food in their bowl, they still won’t have enough. Hikaru reaches out to pet Mince-aniki, calls it but

Mince-aniki’s fur stands on end, and it hisses loudly and, with agility unexpected for such a fat cat, disappears behind the dry cleaner. Hikaru laughs. Yoshiki is in shock.

Cats don’t seem to like monsters.

“Fuck, it quickly disappeared! Did you see this? Hilarious!”

Yoshiki doesn’t answer.

Mince-aniki has never been this aggressive — to anyone. Yes, it didn’t like Hikaru, but it never hissed at him, only looked somewhat contemptuously.

This is worrying.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” asks Yoshiki.

Honestly, there’s not much else to go to. Small town inconvenience.

“You’re so kind to me.”

“I’m not. If I make excuses for myself, I will not be able to judge others.”

“I don’t understand what you mean, but in any case, I think that you are kind to me.”

Childish spontaneity. Hikaru is a real child.

“What a surprise. The ball comes to the player, as they say… Shouldn’t you be at school?”

Yoshiki is getting cold, inside and out. He knows that voice. Gentle, sleek mockery, English speech. Hikaru releases the greasy cutlet wrapper from his loose hands onto the road. Yoshiki turns around hastily.

Europeans. The one-eyed young man in heels and the man in funeral black.

The young man smiles at them — this is a slight movement of his facial muscles, touching his thin, bloodless lips. Yoshiki swallows.

Hikaru backs away. The young man tilts his head slightly to the side — such a gentle movement. In general, he looks quite fragile and delicate: his waist in this corset looks very thin, his carpal bones stick out, his legs are thin and long, his face is doll-like: pale, big-eyed, his nose is neat, his lips are pale, his eyelashes are long. The standard of femininity, perhaps. Yoshiki isn’t sure. What worries him more is how this frail figure oozes so much cloying poison.

“It seems that small animals prefer to flee from larger predators.”

Yoshiki turns his head, now left, now right. The young man smiles, Hikaru is terrified and frantically searches with his eyes for where he can run.

“Wait!” Yoshiki raises his hands, standing between them — a tragic gesture. If the Europeans attack, he will sacrifice himself, protecting Hikaru with his body. Sounds nice. Cinematic. “What’s happening?”

The man in black smiles politely.

“We discovered something that to some extent has an impact on mortality.”

Hikaru? But he didn’t do anything. At least that’s what Yoshiki thinks. Personally, he had never seen Hikaru break anyone’s neck.

“Is there any evidence?” Yoshiki asks somewhat rudely. Behind him, Hikaru is breathing heavily, scared, and staring at the man. Yoshiki can’t understand what scares him so much.

“We did a little research based on your tip in the library,” the man answers peacefully. “A lot of interesting facts have been revealed… Did you know that your friend is Nounuki-sama?”

... 

Who is this?

“Who is this?”

“Local deity,” the man smiles even wider, and Yoshiki sees his fangs — much sharper than those of ordinary people. This is madness that is responsible for the disasters on this earth and which we must destroy.

Destroy. It’s as if Hikaru is some kind of pest that needs to be exterminated, poisoned with pesticides, and poison gently injected into his blood.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Yoshiki looks back at Hikaru. “Is it true? Hikaru?”

Hikaru just looks at him, scared and haunted, and remains silent. It seems that he is about to crumble into a bloody chthonic mass right here, on the dusty road, to the accompaniment of the ubiquitous cicadas. His face is swimming, and he keeps looking at the man. The young man tells him:

“Don’t be afraid, the dog is still on the chain.” and extends his graceful hand, palm up. Something unimaginable happens: the man willingly lowers his chin onto this palm, like a dog, and the young man gently squeezes his cheeks with his thumb and forefinger.

European fad?

Hikaru wheezes unintelligibly. Yoshiki swallows.

“You’re joking.”

“Alas, no,” the man sighs. Fake disappointment. Yoshiki sees their bloodlust and excitement.

He takes a piece of paper folded into four from his breast pocket and hands it to Yoshiki. Yoshiki hesitates and unrolls it.

The entire paper is covered with calligraphic handwriting, not even damaged by the pencil with which all the words were written. Words in English. The man translates:

“Kubitachi Village was originally part of XX’s domain. By order in 170S, Udekari, Udeiri, Ashidori and Darumaste were united. A few years later, famine and plague struck the area, and people began to worship a certain god to appease his favor. But it remains unclear why he was given the name Nounuki-sama.”

“And where is the connection between Hikaru and this god?” Yoshiki frowns.

He doesn’t understand shit.

“Nounuki-sama came down from the mountain,” the man smiles, “which shouldn’t happen. Alas, we have not met any other creatures who have also recently left the mountains, besides your friend… More precisely, the one who is pretending to be him.”

Fucked up. Fucked up.

Yoshiki doesn’t understand how they know this and what’s going on. Hikaru steps back and the young man says:

“Sebastian, loose.”

Hikaru doesn’t have time to escape; the man rushes at him like a dog unleashed from its chain. Hikaru is pressed into the wall by the throat by a strong hand in a white velor glove, and he is helplessly kicking his legs, clinging to the hand, trying to push it away, spreading into a mass of unclear color.

Circus. Hikaru just pretends that he can’t breathe, and the man — Sebastian — growls, revealing a black hole instead of a mouth, full of sharp inhuman teeth:

“If you try to escape, I will catch you and eat you without a second thought.”

Hikaru goes limp, but his eyes continue to look for ways to escape. There is no one on the street. A cool breeze is blowing.

Yoshiki turns sharply to the young man on his heels, shouting, even knowing that he will not understand Japanese. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it.

“You can’t do that without even really understanding it! There must be facts pointing to his involvement! You want to kill a person!”

The young man looks at him with his one cold eye. Nothing in him wavered. Not a single emotion. Permafrost. There is not even a slight warm current under the ice.

“He’s not a person, not even a human,” comes from behind. Yoshiki doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t want to watch Sebastian hold Hikaru with his mouth open, dripping hot, viscous saliva like a starving animal.

Sebastian seems to be too. Not a human.

“Don’t confuse people and monsters.”

“You both are no better,” Yoshiki says, swallowing. “What if it turns out that Hikaru is innocent, but by this time he will already be dead? You won’t get him back.”

The young man looks at him. Yoshiki thinks: it will be easy to deal with him. He is alone, he wears uncomfortable shoes, he is disabled, he is shorter and more fragile. Yoshiki has a huge advantage in terms of eyes, sneakers, muscles and height.

But as soon as Yoshiki takes a step forward,

the young man points a gun at him. If he shoots, he will do it with an unwavering hand.

This is what it’s like to stand at gunpoint, Yoshiki understands. This is the fear of taking an extra step forward, of moving in principle.

“One more step and I’ll crush your skull.”

He doesn’t understand what the European is saying, school or scull, but he feels the meaning in his gut. 

Yoshiki freezes. 

Every hair on his body stands on end. The gun in the young man’s hand seems like a toy until Yoshiki looks into the barrel. Black. Bottomless. Like his only eye.

His throat is dry. Yoshiki wants to swallow, but he can’t. Behind him, Hikaru thrashes in Sebastian’s arms, making hoarse, crying-like sounds. His face blurs, drains, deforms.

The young man’s finger lies on the trigger, without pressing, just lying there.

This is the difference between the two: Yoshiki panics. The European is just waiting.

This is a system. Among the lines of biological code, Hikaru is just a mistake that needs to be corrected. Destruction.

But are we guilty of being created with a defect from the start?

Suddenly, Hikaru lets out a high-pitched, inhuman screech. The mass oozing from his face rushes to the side, not towards Sebastian, but down his arm, and with a sharp movement wraps around a street lamp.

Sebastian’s grip loosens for a split second in surprise.

Hikaru’s body shrinks, slips out and, like a huge spider, jumps onto the roof of the nearest store. It sits there, distorted, half-human, its flesh half dissolved into a dark, shimmering substance.

And rushes at the young man in heels.

Time does not stop — time stratifies. Yoshiki sees everything as if in slow motion: a mess of flesh and darkness (Hikaru, that is) breaks away from the roof, his limbs unnaturally stretching, turning into tentacle-like appendages. The screeching merges with the chirping of the cicadas into one continuous, deafening white noise.

The young man doesn’t even flinch. Neither fear nor surprise is reflected on his doll-like face.

Sebastian moves faster.

A black shadow rushes past Yoshiki, touching him, and Yoshiki falls, erotically smashing his knees on the asphalt. He lifts his head, wincing in pain, just as Sebastian, growling — a low, guttural, stomach-churning warning roar — exposes himself to the attack.

Hikaru’s tentacle digs into his shoulder, tearing the black fabric of his shirt and exposing his pale skin. There is no blood. Only black, thick, like resin, liquid slowly, viscously flows from the wound, which is immediately covered with new flesh.

“Don’t touch my master,” Sebastian hisses like an angry cat, wheezing, grinding, and his spine almost arches. The young man in heels peeks over his shoulder — one curious eye — and glances at Hikaru.

Sebastian grabs the tentacle and pulls it towards himself with superhuman strength. Hikaru falls off the roof with a howl and falls to the ground with a dull thud. His human form is almost completely lost — now a pulsating, amorphous mass with a single human eye filled with animal terror and a crumpled school uniform entangled in his flesh.

Instead of a pupil there is one narrow paranoid slit.

Yoshiki looks at this mess, who just a minute ago was eating a cutlet and laughing. He’s feeling sick.

Hikaru makes a plaintive, gurgling sound. His mass slowly, painfully begins to shrink back, trying to take on human shape. It turns out badly — the face is crooked, five eyes are chaotically set and all of different colors, one arm is too long, the right leg sticks out from the side, and not from the pelvis.

Yoshiki remembers that one day a local farmer gave birth to a two-headed rabbit. The deformed conjoined twin died a few days after birth.

God, how he wants to puke.

“Yo… shi… ki…” Hikaru wheezes.

The street is empty. A cool breeze is blowing.

A thin stream of blood comes from the nose of a young man in heels. Blood drips onto his white shirt collar.

Drip-drip.

Sebastian seems to smell her heavy, swirling scent, but doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t take his eyes off Hikaru, but moves his head slightly to the side.

“My lord, are you not injured?”

The young man touches his upper lip in confusion and looks at the red, hot liquid on the pads of his graceful fingers. Hikaru wheezes heavily.

“If I were you, I would think twice,” Sebastian says in Japanese, already calmer and more peaceful, and the black, disfigured gap of his mouth is replaced by more human lips, but Yoshiki is still worried. “Your opponent is stronger than you — and you are wounded. Wouldn’t it be a better idea to retreat?”

Hikaru growls weakly. A red dragonfly, sympetrum frequens, akiakane, sits on a bench. Yoshiki admires the shimmer of light on its long, light wings, forgetting for a second that here, in the middle of the street, two monsters seem to be fighting. The young man looks disgustedly at his bloody fingers.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Hikaru lowers his head with his disfigured face and, continuing to grumble weakly, somewhat offendedly, gradually spreads, crawls, approaches Yoshiki, crawls along his legs, cold and slippery, wraps around his shoulders. Hiding behind him, like a young man in heels behind Sebastian.

Hikaru feels like raw chicken in soy sauce, wet and slimy, but Yoshiki’s shirt remains dry and clean. Hikaru blinks his countless eyes frequently, looking at Sebastian with suspicion.

“I don’t care about his soul, if that’s what you care about. I have my own.”

Yoshiki knows nothing about souls and does not understand what the man is talking about. He sees a young man take something out of his tiny black leather handbag (it looks like a woman’s thing), put something in his mouth, inhale, wince, and put it away. Doesn’t look like an e-cigarette. By the way, even minors can buy them in Kibogayama. Unless you need to know where to find this place.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

The silence drags on, indecent and awkward. Yoshiki feels Hikaru pulsating on his shoulders, sticking to his spine.

It’s a disgusting feeling, to be honest.

The young man takes out of his pocket a handkerchief embroidered with lace, sweetly smelling of fruity and floral perfume, and wipes his hand, finger by finger. She stains the virgin white handkerchief with her red blood, which is not blue at all.

The dragonfly flies away. Shadows creep along the mountain's slopes.

Yoshiki clears his throat.

“I don’t understand. What did Hikaru do to you that you want to kill him?”

The excuse of a deity being responsible for some disasters that Yoshiki doesn’t even know about doesn’t count. Too implausible.

No less implausible is the fact that Hikaru is a monster and not a man, but Yoshiki turns a blind eye to this thing. Curtains them with bangs.

Sebastian adjusts his glove and translates quietly for the young man. Yoshiki barely understands the words.

The young man says something in his alien language, completely different from Japanese, completely far from Japanese. Sebastian turns to Yoshiki:

“As mentioned earlier, we have reason to believe that what you call Hikaru is Nounuki-sama, a local deity who once brought disaster upon this land and is now doing the same. People have already started dying.”

A corpse on the street in Kubitachi. A woman with a severed head.

“It is also worth taking into account that he violates the basic law of the universe.”

“What the law?”

The street is so empty and quiet. The cicadas have disappeared somewhere.

A triangular piece breaks away from the high blue sky, revealing an unsightly blackness behind it. Suddenly Yoshiki realizes something. Hikaru tightens his grip on his shoulders.

Storm. Hikaru’s cold body. A tree in the shape of a female body, a fatal beauty with huge breasts. There are many adults roaming the forest with flashlights and raincoats. Shadows creep along the mountain's slopes.

“Tell me,” Yoshiki mutters, “is Hikaru really dead?”

Five second pause.

“Yeah. This body has a pulse and warmth, but it is already dead.”

“So you…”

“He was already dying when I found him, there is no doubt about that. I took the empty vessel.”

“Did you hear?” Yoshiki asks the Europeans.

“The body was not empty,” Sebastian answers evenly. “It belonged to death. He stole it from it. This is theft. And theft should be punishable.”

Madness. This is pure madness. They speak different languages ​​not only in the linguistic sense. Their realities do not intersect.

“Then why play cat and mouse? Kill him.”

Yoshiki swallows.

“Or me.”

Sebastian translates. The young man laughs, laughs, and this is not normal, this is madness, his sweet silvery laugh should not sound in such a context. Yoshiki would love the way he laughs because it really is a wonderful sound, but that’s not what he’s thinking about at the moment.

“How touching…”

Yoshiki sincerely doesn’t understand what’s so funny about this. Sebastian explains:

“He feeds on you. Not in the flesh, of course. Emotions. Affection. Your will to live. This is parasitism.”

A parasite in the human body similar to nimble worms. Ascariasis or worms — choose what you like best.

Yoshiki remembers the empty blisters under his pillow and the feeling that he had died. Yoshiki remembers how he felt better when Hikaru returned.

It was as if someone had turned on a light in a dark room.

“You’re lying,” he whispers, but there’s no confidence in his voice.

Silence.

Hikaru on his shoulders moves.

“Do you… believe them?”

The cicadas are at it again.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Chirping.

Yoshiki doesn’t answer. He has nothing to say.

“…Maybe we can talk and try to resolve the issue more peacefully?”

Yoshiki remembers things like diplomacy and pacifism.

“We have no right to hesitate. Human lives are at stake.”

Yoshiki has a feeling that he is being attacked. That they lie to his face. That Europeans don’t care what happens to the village.

“…Maybe it’s still worth trying? Well. Additional research.”

“According to your tip, we went to the library in Kibogayama and read enough materials to come to the conclusion that the entity in your friend’s body is Nounuki-sama.”

“Or maybe this is not enough?” Yoshiki feels like an idiot who is talking to the wall. You won’t hear kind words, response, or support from reinforced concrete. “The version must be one hundred percent. What if it later turns out that Hikaru is not Nounuki-sama, but is already dead?”

“Hikaru is already dead.”

…

Really.

Yoshiki forgot about it. Hikaru is already dead.

Shadows creep along the mountain’s slopes.

Sebastian translates all of the above into English. The young man says something. Sebastian frowns.

“Are you sure, my lord?”

Nod.

“As you wish. Hmm… My lord suggests we talk in a more peaceful environment.”

Well, cool. Yoshiki is very happy (sarcasm). I was smart enough to lower the gun and hide my fangs. Poor Hikaru, he almost got eaten.

“Where will we go? There are people everywhere.”

Except this street. Maybe everyone is dead? Yoshiki, to be honest, doesn’t understand why no one passed by, although he felt like about an hour had already passed. The summer heat, of course, forces you to sit indoors, but not everyone can afford such luxury. Some people need to work on the street, others need to go to the store. There is no courier delivery here, as in big cities.

Cafes are immediately swept away. It’s a pity. Yoshiki would love to drink some free ramune.

“Tomorrow at the hotel at nine in the morning. Will it suit you?”

Tomorrow is Saturday. They don’t have to go to school. Great.

“It will.”

Sebastian smiles disarmingly. A young man in heels comes out from behind him.

And they leave. Dissolve in the dusty summer haze. Hikaru flows from Yoshiki’s shoulders and tries to take on the previous form of a human being, but apparently he doesn’t have enough strength. Hikaru becomes Hikaru again, but he doesn’t look very good. Not as crooked as the first time, but still it’s unpleasant for Yoshiki to look at him.

Some crazy shit is going on. Yoshiki feels like the hero of some kind of fucked-up manga, where on every second page a corpse is lying in a pool of black blood, and on every fifth page ominous omens are striking, which the heroes do not see at point-blank range, although everything could not be more obvious.

Thank God it’s not hentai. He won’t be fucked with tentacles.

But who knows?

Shadows creep along the mountain’s slopes.

Yoshiki thinks he sees black amorphous figures of people walking down the street, stooped, with their arms hanging low, like Neanderthals or Australopithecus or some of their other distant ancestors. Horde. Legion.

Yoshiki doubts that these are people.

He closes his eyes. Gives them a rest. Opens again.

The street is empty. A cool breeze is blowing.

12.10.25 — 26.10.25