Not a violent one. Not painful. It isn't hitting the back of his head too hard. Yoshiki's head is still in one piece, in one place, and he's still in one piece and one place, sitting on a bed in a hotel room in Hokkaido, on a ten-day retreat. Tomorrow, he's supposed to go out and take pictures of the fog even though it's going to rain buckets. They're scheduled to hear from experts on topics like timing, composition, capturing a mood. It's supposed to be nice. He's supposed to have fun. But the cracking...
It's a startling thing. It's like someone took an egg and smashed it on his head as part of a prank. It's a real mess, actually, with the yolk seeping into his hair and down the back of his neck. Most unusual of all, it's very cold, so very cold, even though there's no need to keep their eggs in a fridge. Hikaru is laughing his goddamn ass off. There are tears in Hikaru's eyes when Yoshiki whirls around on him, enraged, ready to tell him off. The yolk is so very cold and it's supposed to be the hottest middle of summer. Hikaru has these happy tears in his eyes-- At least someone is happy, Yoshiki thinks angrily. I hope he's real happy now.
Yoshiki hadn't thought about Hikaru in months at this point. (The monster would be happiest if he knew about that.)]
What the ffffu... fffff... oh, fu-ckkk...
[The egg yolk, though. It isn't egg yolk at all. It's cold, and slimy, clingy, and more so needy, and it should be awful by definition, but the sightsmelltastetouchsound of it is more alluring than newly opened designer shampoo. It's coating him from the inside on out, from the outside on in, filling his lungs, overflowing his heels. It drags him straight out of the color spectrum. Out of infrared, radio waves, X-rays, gamma. His vision doubles, then triples; he's getting a better idea of what it's like for dragonflies to have those compound eyes with thousands of facets.
If he believed nothing could faze him, he believed very wrong.]
L-LinkβΜΈβ!
[Yoshiki also can't feel the empty bed he's sitting on anymore, or if he's still in one piece. All he can feel is one instance of Link's hands, and another, and another, and another one of them, the endless repeating patterns of him, grabbing and pulling and prodding and rubbing him all over, invading every crevice. In the real world, Yoshiki must be in the full-body equivalent of rictus, a young man having a heart attack, except as far as he knows a heart attack has never felt so--]
Please.
[...has never felt so good.
That's bad, says the exorcist, a monolith of concern. No good.
How can it be bad when it feels so fucking good?
Young man, please stop this very moment.
How's he supposed to do that when being with Link is the only reason he wakes up in the morning?]
I f-f-f-feel... feel... I can, feel, you... ahh-ah-hhhhβΜΈββΜΈβ
[Thank god for private accommodations. Yoshiki is keening like his life depends on him singing a few bars. They've got a duet to complete. His own hands are churning, fused into clawed fists, claws biting into palms, palms biting into bedsheets, but he's holding on to Link, too, all the while, clutching at his face and his shoulders and both of his hips. This can't possibly be called pleasure, but it's the furthest thing from pain he has ever experienced.
Tears flood down his face in frostbitten blotches. He's wracked with every stage of grief for all the times he wasn't, isn't, and won't be allowed to feel this wonderfully again.]
Don't let me go, [he begs, disappearing into the event horizon.]
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Not a violent one. Not painful. It isn't hitting the back of his head too hard. Yoshiki's head is still in one piece, in one place, and he's still in one piece and one place, sitting on a bed in a hotel room in Hokkaido, on a ten-day retreat. Tomorrow, he's supposed to go out and take pictures of the fog even though it's going to rain buckets. They're scheduled to hear from experts on topics like timing, composition, capturing a mood. It's supposed to be nice. He's supposed to have fun. But the cracking...
It's a startling thing. It's like someone took an egg and smashed it on his head as part of a prank. It's a real mess, actually, with the yolk seeping into his hair and down the back of his neck. Most unusual of all, it's very cold, so very cold, even though there's no need to keep their eggs in a fridge. Hikaru is laughing his goddamn ass off. There are tears in Hikaru's eyes when Yoshiki whirls around on him, enraged, ready to tell him off. The yolk is so very cold and it's supposed to be the hottest middle of summer. Hikaru has these happy tears in his eyes-- At least someone is happy, Yoshiki thinks angrily. I hope he's real happy now.
Yoshiki hadn't thought about Hikaru in months at this point. (The monster would be happiest if he knew about that.)]
What the ffffu... fffff... oh, fu-ckkk...
[The egg yolk, though. It isn't egg yolk at all. It's cold, and slimy, clingy, and more so needy, and it should be awful by definition, but the sightsmelltastetouchsound of it is more alluring than newly opened designer shampoo. It's coating him from the inside on out, from the outside on in, filling his lungs, overflowing his heels. It drags him straight out of the color spectrum. Out of infrared, radio waves, X-rays, gamma. His vision doubles, then triples; he's getting a better idea of what it's like for dragonflies to have those compound eyes with thousands of facets.
If he believed nothing could faze him, he believed very wrong.]
L-LinkβΜΈβ!
[Yoshiki also can't feel the empty bed he's sitting on anymore, or if he's still in one piece. All he can feel is one instance of Link's hands, and another, and another, and another one of them, the endless repeating patterns of him, grabbing and pulling and prodding and rubbing him all over, invading every crevice. In the real world, Yoshiki must be in the full-body equivalent of rictus, a young man having a heart attack, except as far as he knows a heart attack has never felt so--]
Please.
[...has never felt so good.
That's bad, says the exorcist, a monolith of concern. No good.
How can it be bad when it feels so fucking good?
Young man, please stop this very moment.
How's he supposed to do that when being with Link is the only reason he wakes up in the morning?]
I f-f-f-feel... feel... I can, feel, you... ahh-ah-hhhhβΜΈββΜΈβ
[Thank god for private accommodations. Yoshiki is keening like his life depends on him singing a few bars. They've got a duet to complete. His own hands are churning, fused into clawed fists, claws biting into palms, palms biting into bedsheets, but he's holding on to Link, too, all the while, clutching at his face and his shoulders and both of his hips. This can't possibly be called pleasure, but it's the furthest thing from pain he has ever experienced.
Tears flood down his face in frostbitten blotches. He's wracked with every stage of grief for all the times he wasn't, isn't, and won't be allowed to feel this wonderfully again.]
Don't let me go, [he begs, disappearing into the event horizon.]