#namiguchi

Ink-black hair fans out over the non-descript landing, portions ripped out in clumps clinging to chunks of aponeurosis and pericranium. The landing distorts into a hardwood kitchen floor, visibly slick with black motor oil; the smear is peppered with soot, perhaps from one of Higuchi’s own six engines. The resolution of the soot increases until it becomes dura mater, white matter, gray matter, shards of frontal, parietal, and occipital bone. The dark motor oil congeals into coagulated blood, rusty and flaky. The layers of crusted bodily fluids and physical material are centimeters thick.

The camera shifts. Flies ( or perhaps VHS static masquerading as such ) buzz irately about the mess, swollen with innards not their own. Intact hairs thread back to an incomplete scalp, their lengths enough to appear unending - they completely devour the otherwise sleek floor. Any sections of scalp separate from the hairs connect to facial bones. There is a face.

Its features are warped with the discoloration of rot and with the sporadic concaves of crushed bone structures. The eyelashes are curled high, partially peeled away from unstaring sockets. Dark eyes roll toward the black hairline, emotionless, lifelessly fixed and dilated. The tip of the nose is partially upturned, its cartilage visibly decaying to lessen its otherwise pretty prominence. Chapped lips split over stark teeth. There is a vague promise of an attached torso affixed to the slender neck, scraps of muscle visibly ripped from dulled skin. It is too dark to glimpse anything below the bitten shoulders, characteristics blocked entirely by the shadow of the kitchen island.

Most of the body is concealed in the shadow’s carnivorous contour, but enough of its attributes are visible to produce probable identification. The slim, upturned nose, dark eyes, ebony hair, and long lashes amalgamate into Reiji Namikawa, cold and dead for weeks on Higuchi’s kitchen floor. His skin proves a feast for vermin, alien rodents and insects never before encountered.

He appears to have perished due to some incomprehensible blunt trauma.

Higuchi’s body jolts in what feels to be a compulsive seizure. He had not been strictly unconscious, hovering somewhere between the realms of reality and unreality - yet another fever dream induced by the clashes of his sickly body and intense medications.

Shortly after being beaten to the brink of death and his subsequent release from the hospital, Higuchi contracted a high fever. To his knowledge, as Namikawa was far more fluent in English, he simply placed a call to the clinic and described his partner’s symptoms ( carefully lessening their harshness enough to avoid another hospitalization while keeping the direness of the situation intact ). Higuchi was prescribed a myriad of medications, many of them mere painkillers. At least one antibiotic was included, suggesting that the illness was assumed to be born from a virus ( likely acquired from the unsanitary conditions of his current motel residency in combination with immunocompromisation ).

How Namikawa managed to scrape together the money to not only cover the pills but also a motel room ( as filthy as it was ), Higuchi did not know and was far too impaired to inquire about.

In truth, Namikawa never called the clinic, nor did he approach a certified doctor about Higuchi’s infection. Instead, he pursued the illicit drug links administered by a trick and had to make do with whatever he could reasonably barter / fuck for, which was not much at all. Certainly nothing that would significantly improve Higuchi’s condition. So, Namikawa had to believe that Higuchi’s assumption he was receiving legitimate, adequate medical care would prevail enough for a solid placebo effect to take hold.

Higuchi was extremely susceptible to viral / bacterial infections as a result of severe malnutrition. He did gain some weight in the hospital, but it only offered a cushion of fifteen to twenty pounds ( rather than five ) keeping him from death. The fever was undeniably gnawing at the minuscule fat reserves but there was very little to feasibly do about it, as Higuchi’s frailness caused medications to interact horribly with his already delicate digestive system; the sheer quantity that he had consistently been ingesting left him almost completely bed-ridden.

He glances wildly about the dim room, eyes wide and bleary with panic. He recounts the peeling paint in the corners of the walls, the mold infesting the cracks in the ceiling, the aching heat of his body. His skin is awash with cold sweat, feeling as if he is simultaneously freezing and overheating beneath the thin sheets. They are far too coarse.

For a moment, Higuchi believes that he is dying. He has not dreamt of his former home for a long time. He cannot recall the last time that he saw Reiji. For all he knows, he very well could be dead in his old home, having tumbled down the long staircase only to be devoured by pests. He is partially separated from his body, head spinning as he is made aware of a light weight just above his heart, somewhat nestled against his clavicle.

“Kyosuke?”

He is grounded when the pressure on his chest shifts position. Dark eyes ringed with equally dark circles peek up at him from his shoulder, glazed with fatigue but alive with trained attention. The traits of their connected face are blurry, black hair spilling down to conceal them further. As the slender neck works to lift the heavy head up off of his clavicle, Higuchi registers the colorful hickeys marring pallid skin, realizing fully who the one individual in his presence to have such markings would be.

Abruptly, Higuchi remembers “Where the Wild Things Are”. It is a story he has not thought about since grade school ( if even then ), but now he is thinking of its climax. Max, freshly appointed king of the Wild Things, decides to return home to warm food, to where he is loved most of all. The beasts are utterly heartbroken over his abrupt departure from their lives, crying and gnashing their terrible teeth.

“Oh please don’t go – we’ll eat you up – we love you so!”

Higuchi feels his arm distantly crushed and pinned underneath Namikawa’s side.

“Higuchi.”

Namikawa’s neck is craned, inky locks unsuccessful in hiding the blemishes inflicted by Higuchi’s tongue and teeth. When did he leave those? He is unable to recall. He should probably offer some form of acknowledgement.

The best Higuchi can give is a guttural, hoarse grunt, rimmed and bloodshot eyes swimming accordingly from Namikawa’s neck to his face. His throat is dry, his skin bitterly, wetly cold, his vision blurry.

The underside of Namikawa’s thin fingers and palm meet his damp forehead, as if on reflex. His eyes are simply exhausted, displaying little to no concrete concern; he is accustomed to the other man’s notable health scares.

Higuchi neglects to comment on the fact that Namikawa had recently taken to sleeping with his head on his shoulder: that was what the weight settled on his clavicle had been. It was Namikawa’s best attempt to ensure that he continued breathing throughout the night.

It is best if he continues to tell himself that he is used to nearly losing his sole companion, so he does just that. His fingers silently slip from Higuchi’s skin.

“Your fever hasn’t gone up. You’re alright.”

Higuchi knows better than to assume his boyfriend’s words imply that his condition has done anything but grow stagnant. He utters a short, agitated groan. The blanket is far too thin for his skeletal, tremulous body, and Namikawa’s heat does little to warm him.

“How conversational.”

He hears the apprehension in the man’s voice through his sardonic tone. The minimal amount of effort required to read one another ceased being shameful many months ago.

Typically, Higuchi would provide some snide remark, but finds that he is unable to scrounge up the energy; instead, he rolls onto his side, thoughtlessly tucking his face into his partner’s tender neck. He considers claiming that he is only seeking a greater amount of bodily warmth, but just as easily as he is able to analyze Namikawa, Namikawa can do the same to him. They have long since stopped holding concerns regarding the other’s degree of contagiousness.

“Shut up. Be grateful I’m not pestering you for water or some shit like I want to.”

He is certainly not shaken by his prior vision, nor soothed by Namikawa’s safety. Not at all. His arm aches from its pinned position beneath the man’s hip.

Giving a wry snort, Namikawa replies, “I’m still unconvinced about the cleanliness of the tap water. You’ve had the runs, but who knows if that’s because of your fever or because of dirty water? I’m not willing to find out.” His head slowly returns to the stiff pillow, coaxing a displeased hiss from Higuchi’s throat as he is forced to nudge his face into his chest.

“You don’t have to tell me I’ve had the fucking shits. Trust me, I know.”

Namikawa chuckles, breathy and insubstantial. Shifting from their usual bedtime positioning, he slinks his arms loosely about Higuchi’s shorter, thinner body, clutching him passively to his front. The older man feels the tip of a nose nuzzle into his greasy hair. Parched lips press briefly to his crown; uncharacteristic, but when was the last time that anything had been normal between them?

“I’m ready for you to stop being so needy. It’s very tiring. Sleep is the best way for you to be getting better. Go back to bed.” The quality of his voice is noticeably gentle, too bone-weary to be riddled with its newly normalized note of anxiety. “I’m tired of you acting older than you already are. I enjoy the company of older men, but not like this.”

Namikawa’s currently casual and even jocular nature should calm him, but instead, something hidden within his aimless statement strikes a chord deep in Higuchi’s empty stomach. He remains momentarily still before shakily hoisting himself onto his forearms and visibly startling his partner, whose eyes dart upwards to fix interestedly ( or perhaps knowingly, challengingly ) on his own.

Before Namikawa can speak again, Higuchi shoves his warm, dehydrated lips to the younger man’s own, only a slight undertone of possessiveness to his actions.

It is not as if either of them ever held any doubt regarding Namikawa’s preference in men - it established itself as a fact far into the roots of their relationship. Hell, he had been outwardly disappointed upon discovering that Higuchi only exceeded him by two years despite his physical appearance. Still, even if the subtext – the intentionality – of the utterance was not deliberate on Namikawa’s end, Higuchi cannot bring himself to care.

Namikawa presses back near immediately. His lips are similarly cracked, distasteful, but neither of them have possessed the decency to truly care in a long while. His arms tighten on reflex, forcibly drawing skinny ribs into his own. Higuchi’s tongue is dry, his companion’s mouth only minutely more vaporous, pressing without resistance into the slight moisture. Coherent thought is terminated as they resort to some primal form of engagement ( as they most often tended to do ).

Higuchi swallows the wetness of his partner’s tongue and mouth as if he is dying of thirst. His free arm moves feebly to grip Namikawa’s dark hair, tugging his head back far more weakly than he otherwise would have preferred. The movement exposes the line of the man’s throat and allows Higuchi to effortlessly mar his already brutalized skin further, teeth mercilessly clashing against the pale. Namikawa voices his unneeded approval with a low noise from his chest, head freely lolling back against the laughable support of the pillow. His long eyelashes glance prettily off of his cheekbones. Busied as he is with the arbitrary task he has assigned himself, Higuchi is unable to appreciate the sight.

“Don’t say that again.” The words are growled into soft complexion, more tooth than sound. “Don’t. I’m the only one here. You aren’t in anyone else’s company.”

For some indiscernible reason, Higuchi feels as if he is reassuring himself of that sentiment, somewhere deep beneath the fever. He refuses to entertain the notion - no matter how vague.

Namikawa offers a breathless sort of sigh, not bothering to put forth the effort of opening his eyes. He provides no rebuttal, partially extinguishing the indignant fire ignited within his older partner’s belly.

He carries on applying more color to Namikawa’s tenderized skin, marking him with dental impressions and suction alike. Spots of blood bubble where the sharper points of his teeth pierce frequently penetrated skin. The younger man no longer flinches when he is bitten so carelessly - he has come to sigh or squirm instead. Eventually, Higuchi is practically dragged atop the wiry form, gripped so tightly that Namikawa’s knuckles blanche. He does not allow even a millimeter of distance between their bodies.

Tipping his head to fix his lips to his partner’s, Higuchi removes himself only when the inside of his mouth is moist with saliva not his own. He passively eyes the dark-haired man’s flushed, lascivious expression, lips unknowingly parted so as to supply himself with more oxygen. He is unable to recall the last time he properly ravaged Namikawa; it had to be prior to his hospitalization. He has little right to appear as appealing as he currently does.

As such, Higuchi nonchalantly slides off of his partner’s ribs, nestling back into his assigned half of the bed. Namikawa’s expression rapidly slips into one of almost comical confusion and anticlimax.

“Why did you stop?”

“I’m sick and I’ve got the shits, as you so eloquently informed me.” Another driving factor would indubitably be the looming presence of the thing that woke him in the first place, but it would be better to refrain from telling Namikawa about it. “I don’t even know if I’m physically capable of getting it up right now.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, and it’s my fault for fucking with you. But I really don’t have it in me to do you properly. Neither of us would cum before I passed out on top of you. Not in a sexy old man way - in a “ninety year old man just died while balls deep in my ass” way.”

“Hmm. Still sexy.” Namikawa’s tone is light, teasing, only subtly honeyed with arousal. He seems to be settling now, decisively placing his cheek in the sharp dip of Higuchi’s clavicle to indicate his intention to return to sleep. “That is how you will die, you know. There’s no other way you could die.”

Higuchi snorts amusedly, reclining onto his back. “You’re right, for once in our lives. Now stop talking. I shouldn’t have done that. I feel like I’m either going to puke or piss myself.”

“Serves you right.”

“Bitch.”