The characters and situations of Zombie-Loan (ゾンビローン Zonbi Rōn?) belong to Peach-Pit, Banri Sendo, Shibuko Ebara. Square Enix, GFantasy, et al. I claim nothing but this story.

Chika is absolutely certain that if he actually died someday, odds are it'd be at the hands of Tachibana Shito. He finds this thought comforting, somehow. So much that he baits Shito on purpose, just to see Shito's eyes flash, see Shito's fingers twitch with the urge to strangle the life out of him. Chika thinks it might be worth dying for, just to feel Shito's hands on him.

Chika spends a lot of time – a lot of nights – thinking about Shito. About his eyes, his profile, the strength of his arms, the length of his body. Most of all, he spends a lot of time thinking about Shito's hands.

When he does, invariably, his hand starts to ache.

Shito's hand, he thinks.

It is most likely his imagination, an excuse. The hand feels uncomfortably hot. He touches the back of the hand to his forehead, as if testing for fever; rubs the knuckles across the ridge of his eyebrow, as if easing a tension headache.

It doesn't work. Instead, the heat from the hand spreads. Two contact points – from his forehead, from the hand. His skin flushes, the fever spreads. Down, down, to his cheeks, his lips, his neck, his chest. His hand – Shito's hand – grows restless, moves to follow the spreading heat.

He finds no relief, it only makes the aching worse.

Shito's hand, he thinks, Shito's skin.

He'd heard, once, that the only cure for poison is more poison. The only way to be immune is to cultivate a tolerance.

Another excuse, he knows, and a very dangerous one. Practically suicide, really. For one thing, Shito would most likely kill him if he ever found out. But hey, Chika doesn't intend to live forever; he knows the price is too high for that. He'll have to die sometime and there are worse ways to go.

The ache grows worse, unbearable; the heat intensifies. His eyes close of their volition.

In the dark, on his bed, Shito's hand travels down Chika's body. Slowly, surely, lithe fingers exploring soft, supple skin. He can feel the difference, he thinks (imagines?), the difference between the two of them. The textures of their skin, his and Shito's, the strengths of their hands, the calluses that he'd never caused, proclaiming the owner's preference for the gun.

Not his hand, he thinks again. This is Shito's hand caressing him, Shito's skin pressing against his own.

Shito's fingers.

Shito's strength.

Shito's heat.

And when, finally, when he comes, it is Shito's face on his mind, Shito's name in his lips.

It's not enough. When closes his eyes again, Shito is still there. Again, Shito's hand moves, and again, Chika gives in.

There is no question about it. Tachibana Shito is going to be the death of him someday.

© JCSA 2009