changelings are dicks

Hikaru is wearing a lime green shirt, with cartoon tropical birds on the breast pocket. It is number seven of his very favourite shirts, and he seems content to remain ignorant of how you're supposed to have one very favourite thing.

He also appears happily ignorant of any concepts of colour, fashion, or proper business attire.

To be fair, that might just be his default expression.

(And it is, really -- because there's very little to be happy about, right now. That's not to say he doesn't find things, or even make them up wholesale, but the world is coming down around their ears right now. He's come to Sumaru in interesting times, as much as he wishes things were peaceful.)

He whistles, as he turns into an empty street. Not too far from his apartment, now. The sky is dark, and the moon's high -- but that's the consequence of overtime. At least it's a nice night. Crisp air, and not a supernatural disturbance in sight.

To the building, up the stairs. He unlocks the door to his apartment and steps inside.

"I'm home!", even though there's no one to hear it.

"Welcome back," even though there's no one who could say it.

Hikaru is wearing a violet shirt, with flowers on the lapel. It is number three of his very favourite shirts. He's sitting in his comfiest chair, the one facing the television. He's holding his remote, having just switched it off.

His eyes are sickly yellow, and his smile is too wide.

The first thing Hikaru does is turn to exit through the door again. But he's too fast. He always had been fast, quick instead of strong, clever instead of sturdy. Hikaru grasps his arm, and Hikaru pulls him back into the room.

And Hikaru smiles, and Hikaru pales.

"This isn't-- this doesn't make any sense. Have I fallen into the television world as well...?"

"It would be funny to make you think so. I was considering it. See, I had the TV up and everything! But... nah. I think it's way more fulfilling to just give it to you straight, seeming as that's such an unfamiliar concept and all."

"Let me go," Hikaru insists, strength returning to his voice as the initial shock recedes.

"I could, I suppose. But that wouldn't be any fun. Aren't you in any way curious? You're me, after all. Or an inferior fascimile. Seriously, all those donuts are gonna make me fat and you need to stop."

He sounds just like Hikaru, irreverent, smiling. If not for the faint shade of malice, he'd sound more like Hikaru than Hikaru does.

He tries to pull away again, but he has a tougher grip then he'd imagined. It makes sense, if he stops to think about it. He had this concept of himself as not very strong, but he is Awakened, after all.

"Let me go!", Hikaru barks, this time, loud instead of firm. The volume in his voice can't quite hide the fear.

Behind him, Tlazolteotl manifests, reaching forward --

And behind him, Tlazolteotl manifests, taking her hand before she can touch her other half. One hand is black; one, white. They are each other's inverse, but their complete lack of colour makes it look like a simple mirror illusion.

They step away from their mortal shells, and almost seem to dance, brushing up against each other. But where one brings showers of dirt and filth, the other attacks the body directly; and where one falters, the other reigns.

Tlazolteotl steps forward to embrace herself, and there is a sick light, a deep, distant humming.

"See? You really can hug people with nuclear arms."

Hikaru's callous quip hardly registers, as his will to manifest his soul falters into nothing. He staggers back, against the wall, and he lets himself. He's already weakened.

He's already won.

Hikaru steps forward, and Hikaru's gaze is hard, now, his smile fading to a scowl in an instant. He reaches out, roughly, to grasp Hikaru by the throat. He knows how much that shakes him, after all. He remembers, too.

"You're just giving up?" Hikaru demands, and he squeezes, just barely. It's satisfying, when Hikaru stiffens, panic he's not quite ready to voice coming through in the way his hands come up to claw at his wrist instead.

"I'm not going to tire myself fighting head-on with someone stronger. That's-- that's not brave. That's just foolish."

"I'm not someone! I'm you! You're me! And what's worse is--," Hikaru's voice drops, from the louder pitch it had crept into. "I know that you're justifying your cowardice as the best action you can take. You're doing it right now. I don't have to hear your thoughts to know that. You probably think you can outwit me, don't you?"

Hikaru doesn't answer, for a moment. A moment is all Hikaru needs to go on, tightening his grip.

"You disgust me. And anyway, you're wrong! I'm you. I'm a better you then you ever were. You were a piss-poor me in the first place, always making real good appearances at being a social butterfly but never doing anything which might actually get you in trouble."

"Hk--"

"I should kill you right here. No one would miss you. They'd like me a lot better, anyway. Same good looks, zero yellow-bellied platitudes."

"Gh--!"

"But," Hikaru sighs, finally loosening his grip, letting Hikaru fall to the ground. "You can still be useful for now. You should be happy," he smiles down at himself, pleased once more, as Hikaru rubs at his throat and glares up at him. "Since you're already used to being used, it won't be that hard to adjust, right?"

"You wouldn't," Hikaru says, but his voice is shakey and unsure. "If... if you're me, then you know... you remember. You wouldn't..."

"Wouldn't what? Settle for such a miserable lot? Oh, no, I wouldn't. But back then, I was you, and I have to live with your lousy choices. So yeah -- yeah, I would!"

Hikaru pushes himself up from the ground, suddenly, panic giving his muscles strength as he drives his shoulder into his stomach. And it works. Hikaru falls back, to the ground, in a pile of himself.

Hikaru shoves him down and staggers up, but Hikaru grabs at his shirt as he stares at him with wild, golden eyes. It rrrips, exposing the hannya tattoos which mark his shoulder.

Hikaru stumbles, tries to tear away. Hikaru pulls his legs out from under him. Hikaru comes crashing back down to the ground.

If not for those shirts, or the lack of them, it would be impossible to tell which is which. They're both wearing white slacks, after all. White goes marvellously with pastel.

But in the end, the Hikaru which presses Hikaru to the ground has those same wild eyes, shadow-eyes, yellow and dangerous.

"Look," Hikaru smirks, once he's sat himself firmly down, brushing a hand down Hikaru's cheek. "I'm better at being you then you are. In every way. Don't you get it? You can try and surprise me as much as you want. I'll win, every time."

Hikaru shudders. One arm is trapped, but his other hand pushes him away. "Don't-- don't touch me."

"I don't see how you have a choice," Hikaru muses, trapping his hand in his.

Tlazolteotl manifests again, kneeling beside them. She rests her hand against Hikaru's forehead, and  the pain which comes seems mostly like a heaviness, heavier than the man on his chest. It sinks into his muscles, and his mind, and he closes his eyes against it. He fights, but the second Tlazolteotl only flickers in reality for a few moments.

She is not as strong as Tlazolteotl is, after all.

And he is not as strong as Hikaru is, after all.

"Don't..."

The word is slurred, and quiet, and the sentence never finishes itself. Hikaru slackens under himself, exhaling in a way which sounds, to him, like a sigh of defeat.

"You're not going to tell me what to do any more, friend. I'm assuming control."

Tlazolteotl dissipates as Hikaru stands, reaching down to gather himself up.

"But don't worry. No one will even miss you."