The night was too quiet. The kind of silence that hummed beneath the skin, not peaceful but watchful. Hikaru walked through it barefoot, dirt cool against his feet, the air thick with the smell of rain and pine. His body ached with every step, and something beneath his skin pulsed — not quite a heartbeat, not quite his own.

He hadn’t meant to come. He’d told himself that again and again, even as the light from Yoshiki’s house flickered faintly through the trees. But there was a pull in him, something raw and instinctive, dragging him forward. The thing inside him — the thing that shared his breath and bones — stirred uneasily, whispering don’t go in a voice made of hunger and fear.

He went anyway.

The porch light glowed sickly yellow, painting him in uneven strokes. His reflection in the window was barely recognizable — pale, trembling, the right side of his face streaked with that viscous, faintly glowing fluid that leaked from his eye. He pressed a hand to his cheek, but his skin gave under his touch, shifting like wet clay. Still, he knocked — three sharp raps, too quick, too desperate.

When the door opened, Yoshiki stood there.

For a heartbeat, Hikaru forgot how to breathe. The look on Yoshiki’s face — the hesitation, the fear — landed like a knife. He tried to smile, but his lips only twitched, his jaw pulling too tight as if even the act of being human had become a strain.

“…Yoshiki.” The name rasped from his throat, cracked and uneven. He wanted to sound normal, casual, the way he used to. Instead, the word broke apart halfway through.

He wanted to say I missed you. He wanted to explain. But all that came out was, “Please… don’t be mad at me anymore.”

The porch light flickered, washing him in gold and shadow. His hands trembled as he tried to hold himself together, but the liquid seeped faster from his eye now, glowing faintly as it dripped to the floor. Each drop floated for a moment before falling — a grotesque imitation of tears.

“Ya said I don’ understand how people work,” he whispered, eyes darting to the ground. “That I don’ feel right.” His voice wavered. “Maybe yer right. I dunno what these feelings are supposed to be.”

He laughed weakly, but the sound came out hollow. Inside, the monster twisted, confused — it didn’t understand guilt or sorrow, but it could taste the ache of them.

“That night,” he continued, “when ya said I scared ya… that ya didn’ know if ya could see me the same way…” His voice faltered. “I didn’ mean to make ya afraid. I just… wanted to be near ya again.”

The words felt clumsy in his mouth. He didn’t know if they were true, or if they were just what the human part of him thought love sounded like. The thing inside him pulsed harder, a low thrum that made his vision blur.

He dropped to his knees before Yoshiki without realizing it. The wood bit into his skin, grounding him, anchoring him in something real. The fluid from his face pooled at his hands, warm and faintly humming.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please forgive me. I dunno what I’m supposed to do with all of this. I don’ even get it. But I don’ want ya to hate me.”

His voice broke on the last word. The monster inside him, he flared, restless, trying to claw its way out. It didn’t want forgiveness. It didn’t know what that was. But it could feel his pain — and it feared it more than death.

“Just…” He swallowed hard. “Don’ leave me alone again.”

His body trembled, skin along his jaw beginning to split. Something dark and slick pressed from beneath, writhing like it wanted to see the air. He didn’t fight it anymore. He just knelt there, shaking, the monster breathing through him.

And in that moment, Hikaru realized he wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of vanishing — of Yoshiki looking at him and seeing nothing left to love.

Even as he unraveled — skin dripping, voice fading — he kept whispering apologies that no longer sounded human. Because some fragile part of him still believed that if Yoshiki looked long enough, really looked, maybe he’d see the monster Hikaru, him, not… Hikaru.