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Towa was the most beautiful person Ikuina had ever seen.
He was a combination of many sorts of beauty. There was a certain elegance to him, a poise beyond description. He could see it in the delicate fan of his eyelashes. He could find it in the viridescent pool of his iris, could sense the intelligence and the cunning. His hands were large but slim and somehow looked so sophisticated wrapped around his vices.
He beheld a masculine sort of ruggedness as well. It showed itself in the sharp and well cut lines of his face. His shoulders were broad and sturdy and pulled up slightly every time he exhaled smoke. He slouched. His voice was deep and sultry and sometimes sounded as though it rumbled from out of the depths of his throat.
But most importantly, he was imperfect.
Ikuina loved to trace the jagged profile of the scar bisecting his face. He loved the way his skin was lighter there, a product of the scar tissue, and how it cut off abruptly at the apex of the bridge of his nose. He loved the way his hair swept in a curtain over an eye that was no longer there and the marring that took the organ from him in the first place. There were little scars everywhere; it was like a personal challenge to locate all of them and to commit them to memory. Towa was not his. Towa was not anyone's, nor did Ikuina believe he ever would be, but instead he was a living and breathing piece of art to be admired and treasured in the depths of one's memory. He would never forget the visage of this man. He would never forget the tones of his voice. And if he tried hard enough, he would be so familiar with every blemish that he could map them on a piece of paper or recreate them with the flowers he handled so expertly.
He wanted to be beautiful like that too.
The thought had plagued him ever since he had seen Towa's body laid bare and ever so inviting on his bed. He recalled the scene so vividly he could even recreate the lighting that was streaming through the apartment in his mind’s eye. He remembered feeling shocked, confused, and another darker emotion he refused to name upon witnessing the scars scattered across his flesh. There were so many spread in such a haphazard way it almost reminded him of blood splatter. He had never seen a body quite like that before.
Ikuina shuddered. His hand groped for what he knew would be on his dresser and the tip of the blade nicked his finger before he wrapped it tightly in his grasp. His hands were already shaking and he hadn’t even done anything yet.
He was lying shirtless on his bed. With his eyes still closed, Ikuina slowly pressed the hand that was holding the gardening shears down onto his navel. The kiss of the cold steel made his flesh jump. There was no pain, no cutting, just a gentle pressure.
He imagined Towa's body in the place of his own. How would he react to this? Would he worry his lip between his teeth as he diligently watched the shears? Would his eye instead be on Ikuina, half-lidded and unfocused and ever so demanding? It was easy to imagine Towa being demanding. God, his voice was made for that.
“What are you waiting for?” This phantom Towa would ask. His voice would be lower than usual and accentuated by sinful anticipation. “Go on. You can do it.”
He could do it. It would be easy. It would take just a little downward pressure and a forward gesture. It would be beautiful. These shears were sharp. He had witnessed firsthand how easily they cleft through flesh on the nights he took home his failed exploits. Every time he got so enticingly, so harrowingly close to what he wanted to see. Ikuina had no interest in the everyday cuts people acquired so easily. Shallow slashes were nothing but cruel teasing. He wanted to slice deeper, to pierce so deeply he would see the cloying honey-yellow of the fat beneath, and even that was just an appetizer. In his wildest fantasies, the ones that had him waking up all bothered and hard, he desired to split a human being open with his own two hands. He wanted to sink his nails into a wound and rip it open so wide he could see every single oozing thing beneath. He wanted to see the viscera. He wanted to witness the disgusting pulsing and wriggling of human life and brand it into the catacombs of his mind. He wanted nothing more and certainly nothing less. This had been a fantasy of his for a while.
His memory was a faulty archive. There were some things he couldn’t remember no matter how hard he tried. Entire periods of his life were gone and lost to the sands of time. Yet some things were not completely lost but rather laid dormant. The first time Ikuina had cut the stem of a flower and watched the liquid dribble down his hand he had felt an odd feeling. First it was a flush in his cheeks, then it was a warmth in his chest, and eventually he was breathing so heavily he had to excuse himself. Once he had accidentally crushed a red rose in his palm. It had leaked so exquisitely through his fingers. The dripping made a mess on the floor. Nearly at once he was struck by the thought that it resembled a pool of blood.
That one made him twitch.
Ever since then he felt like more and more of these dormancies were resurfacing. His urges were harder to ignore, he had a harder time staying focused, his routine had gone to shit. It was difficult, but it was manageable. The sanity he diffidently held together had shattered— no, imploded, the second he had seen those scars. He wanted to add his mark on Towa’s canvas. He wanted to be engraved so deeply into the fiber of his being that he could never be erased. It was only fair. An equivalent exchange, since Towa had been branded into his psyche.
Ikuina wanted to debase himself. He wanted to be imperfect. Above all he wanted to prove his reverence to the man plaguing his thoughts day and night by becoming similar. Maybe then Towa would believe him when he said that he had something to offer euphoria. He too could become art.
The slight pressure on his navel began to increase. He would start here, get the momentum going, and he would carve a line all the way up to his pectorals. It would be deep and there would be a lot of blood, but that was good. Favorable. He had set a roll of gauze down beside him on the bed for when it was done. He was no doctor, but he could probably patch himself up well enough that he wouldn’t die.
And perhaps if he did die, would that not be just another sign of his devotion?
It should be easy. He had cut people open before. He did it so often he was starting to draw the attention of his coworkers with how many bouquets he arranged to be sent to the clinic. When he inflicted this on other people, he ended up feeling detached. Not detached to the cuts, no, those were wonderful (but not enough). He was removed from the idea that there was a person he was injuring, one with breath in their lungs and a personhood, and in that moment they rather became a vessel for his desire. It was a momentary reprieve from the constraints of conscientiousness. This all dissipated the second his subjects roused from their stupors, and God was he destroyed with guilt then, but now he hoped that the same detachment would fall upon him. He wanted the trembling of his hands to go away. He wanted the nauseating adrenaline to die down. The phantom Towa from before was probably mocking him.
Are you sure you’re worth my time?
Yes! He was! He wanted to be more than anything. It would just take a few simple motions, it probably wouldn’t even take a minute, and he’d be worthy. He’d have something in common with someone as unapproachable and elite as his beloved Towa.
He wanted that eye to gaze upon him with interest. He wanted to capture his attention. He wanted Towa to get so close that his heart would surely explode and make a gory mess inside his rib cage. Just the mere thought of him being so far within his proximity that they might even share breath… ah, this wasn’t helping the heart rate issue. He just had to do it. It was now or never.
The shears pierced him. He yelped as the initial sting of splitting flesh sparked through his nerves. Blood was always so warm and sticky and his own was no exception. It rolled down the curve of his stomach and began to seep into the fabric of his pants. It suddenly hit Ikuina that he still had his eyes closed. He very slowly opened one, but the sight before him was nothing special. This was too shallow. There were no grand displays of gore, no stench of the human body, just a mundane injury that warranted no attention. He’d have to cut much deeper for it to even scar.
How deep had Towa been cut? The one running down his chest was pretty pronounced. It made a lovely centerpiece for his body and stood starkly against the ashen of his skin. Ikuina wanted his to look like that. He wanted his own scar to be obscene. Then it couldn’t be ignored. The depth of his piousness would be visible to everyone.
He tried to press deeper but was surprised to find that he couldn’t. His entire arm was trembling now, so much so he was afraid of dropping the shears. He felt a stinging and repulsive wave of bile begin to climb its way up his throat. This didn’t make sense. He wanted this so badly, desired it so much he felt as though he needed it to continue living. The desire these days had taken to manifesting as an itch lingering just beneath the epidermis, one that could be itched if he flayed himself (or someone else) open and bare. He should be able to do this. He needed to do this.
His hand wouldn’t move. His mouth felt dry. All at once the steady oozing of his blood was no longer exciting but disgusting. There was something preventing him from giving himself over to this lascivious pleasure. It was like an invisible force was exerting an intolerable amount of pressure onto his chest.
He couldn’t breathe.
Ikuina dropped the shears. At this point it was a race against his body. He staggered as quickly as his shaky legs would carry him into the bathroom. He dropped to his knees, so dizzy and afflicted he didn’t even notice the blunt pain from dropping to the tile, and emptied everything inside of him into the toilet. He retched and he heaved until his throat was sore and he was sure his face would be speckled with popped blood vessels in the morning. He felt off. Something was wrong. Never in his life had he been more sure that something was amiss. It wasn’t tangible, he had no name for what was bothering him, but he desperately wanted the trembling to go away. The second his hand had encroached the territory of his chest it was as though every nerve in his body atrophied all at once.
With a twisted sense of irony, he realized he could certainly smell the stench of human now.
Ikuina slumped against the floor. Bile, blood, the imperceptible scent of fear. What had happened back there? Never in his life had he been so disturbed. Being nervous over inflicting an injury upon himself was one thing, but that domineering terror? What was that? It almost felt like a resurgence of a dormancy in its own right. An emotion he had locked away.
It hit him that there was a word for that. What was it…?
Ah, of course. Déjà vu. It felt like déjà vu.
For what, he wasn’t sure.
The flaying had been a failure. All Ikuina had to show for this venture was a measly cut on his stomach, cold sweat, and a bathroom he’d have to clean. This certainly wouldn’t be very impressive.
As he finally regained the steadiness in his legs, he rose to his feet. He would clean off and throw in the towel for today. Maybe next time he’d have a more resolute hand.
Or perhaps he’d have someone else below him to do the slicing.