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On Monday mornings, Haru normally wakes at the slow vacuuming purr of his cat. Blearily he raises his arm up and wait for the familiar brush of cold scales against his fingertips. He closes his hand around one of the many floating fish in the air and drops it into the cat bowl next to him. His cat unfurls from its sleepy ball and eats, meowing at him behind the glass tank.
He pulls his scaled slippers on, listening to the crunch of pebbles on the floor as he walks to the kitchen. There he cooks mackerel instead of quail eggs and after he is sated he leaves his body to soak in the bath until his fingers prune.
This Monday though, he feels no such need to move. His cat has long fallen asleep, and the fish have taken to nibbling at the exposed skin of his legs. The mugs downstairs have grown their own small sufficient ecosystem and they release small puffs of bubbles frequently. The air smells of algae: Haru scrunches his nose before pulling the covers over his head.
It’s on days like this he feels lethargic; when the ribbon of loneliness binds around his quiet heart a little tighter.
Without opening his eyes, he opens the drawer to his left and fumbles around looking for a finger-bone. Once he finds one he smooths his finger over its joint and snaps it, pushing it though his floor, past the pebbles into the mossy underlayer. A few moments later Haru hears the shifting of gravel and mud.
An hesitant bony hand pokes Haru’s arm.
‘reakfast,’ Haru mumbles into his pillow.
And with that the summoned corpse tip-toes in between the pebbles, and down the stairs, careful not to make any noise. By the time he’s done, Haru has dozed off and the stained white bedsheets have fallen to the floor. The smell of warm rice and miso soup reaches him, he sits up and opens his eyes for the first time today.
He watches the corpse hunch over to set his tray down and sees it fret over the soups heat, blowing gently over it, and for a small moment he feels his heart untighten and unwind.
The rice tastes fluffy, and clumps of it stick down his throat. Once he finishes the miso soup too, he places the tray on the floor.
‘Thank you,’ he says to the corpse.
The boy gives a tentative smile, but the compliment obviously pleases him from the flush around his neck. Haru moves to the side a bit and pats the space next to him.
‘...Hug?’ he asks questioningly. Haru nods.
The scrawny, brittle corpse clambers across his bed onto his lap where he nestles his angular face into the crook of Haru’s neck and laces his wiry legs around his body.
‘You’re quite clingy,’ Haru mutters, teasing the tangled boys hair with his tapered fingers.
The boy gives a quiet sigh, leaning into the touch.
‘I can’t help it. You’re warm.’
Haru moves his fingers downwards, and now combs through the curls at the nape of the boys neck.
‘What’s your name?’ he asks.
‘Makoto,’ he replies, while thumbing the white cotton material of his vest. He circles his hand around the small of Haru’s back, pressing his fingers into the darker patches of skin that give off a blue sheen.
There’s no need to ask where Makoto has come from. All of Haru’s bodies are the same; people who have been claimed by the sea, the ocean, that familiar body of water he so loves and wants to be part of.
Indeed, he can see the green tint around Makoto’s neck, taste the salt near his skin when he breathes open-mouthed, and feel the coarse sand inbetween Makoto’s fingers.
He looks at him, at his brown, straw bale hair, his pointed ribs, his bruised, mottled skin, and leans closer to him.
‘Cook mackerel next time.’
Surprised, the boy leans back and gives a hoarse laugh. He leans forward again, slowly, until his forehead is pressed against Haru’s.
His smile crinkles the edges his sunken dishwater green eyes and Haru watches as his freckles dance across his skin, smoothing his hands over his cheeks absentmindedly.
‘Okay,’ he breathes out against his neck.