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The first documented blood transfusion performed on a human happened in 1667; a sick boy had been bloodlet so much that he'd begun suffering from symptoms of severe blood loss. The physician in charge of the boy had set on transfusing blood from a lamb — the reasoning being that lambs are one of God's purest creatures; thus, the pure, untainted blood of the lamb was put into the boy's veins, and his condition had improved by the next day.
In modernity, it's known that human and animal blood can't mix; the boy had survived, though not from any miraculous effects of lamb's blood.
Hajime, however, is not human. Hajime is Noriyuki's shining star. Hajime is something that could take the impurity from Noriyuki's own blood and refine it into something greater, something beautiful.
"-so then," Hajime pulls a small package from his pocket, placing it into Noriyuki's hands, "-indulge me, won't you?"
A scalpel, still sterile.
Noriyuki understands what Hajime wants — proof of his purity, his willingness and ability to stay by his side just like he'd promised. If he backed out now… It'd surely be betrayal of the highest degree.
Regardless, he's more than willing (maybe even eager, and this doesn't scare him as much as it probably should) to spill his blood for Hajime. If it was for him, Noriyuki would do anything.
From Hajime's position on the bed, it feels like he's peering down at him through his glasses, stigmata manifesting as the prickle of being watched behind closed eyes. Hajime's gaze had always felt more physical than most, but since becoming a Host, it had felt nearly omniscient.
Even from multiple rooms away, Noriyuki felt watched at all times, the sensation of Hajime's cells thrumming away within his flesh. If he weren't so afraid of not meeting his expectations, of failing his star; he'd likely enjoy the feeling of being linked in such an intimate way.
It's clinical, at first. Noriyuki removes the scalpel from its tiny sterile field, and positions the blade above the inside of his left wrist. He looks up at Hajime again – and he's smiling, but it's inscrutable. Noriyuki exhales, braces for the pain, and swipes the blade lightly across his wrist. Beads of blood well up from the sliced skin, still and vibrant, mirroring the eyes trained on them. It stings.
His heart sinks – just a little – when Hajime hums, looming over him with an impersonal gaze.
"Are you done?" Hajime asks, voice as level and melodic as always, never betraying his true intentions — though Noriyuki can wager that Hajime wants more from him than just this.
The cut — he feels like it barely counts as one, it's so shallow — already closed up, leaving only the blood staining his skin as proof.
So Noriyuki brings the blade back to his skin, and pulls it across again, and again, and again.
Four slightly-less-shallow lines — the blood flow beginning to stanch almost as soon as it started. He barely scratched the dermis, the split capillaries leaking their contents into the open air.
He doesn't need to look at Hajime to know it still isn't enough; the cells within him itch with impatience. He wants a show of devotion, to know that Noriyuki is willing to spill his sins onto the floor as a form of confession. To serve as Noriyuki's salvation from his self-flagellating of assumed unworthiness.
The healing segments of skin itch, while the remaining open wounds pulse with blood rushing to the surface, the edges turning an angry red from the inflammation. Noriyuki shifts the point of the scalpel to his forearm, and stops hesitating; pulling the blade's tip along his arm rather than skimming it. The cuts burn rather than sting this time, blood seeping from the wound quicker than before, spilling over the edges of cut epidermis onto the floor in quiet drips. It's uncomfortably warm on his skin.
"You're doing so well, Noriyuki." Hajime says, and Noriyuki feels warmer inside, the scalpel feeling less like a dead weight in his hand.
He goes deeper, easily slicing through the dermis, nicking the thin layer of fat in his forearm. Yellow turned orange turned red, the gap created by skin pulling apart filling with further proof of Noriyuki's love and admiration. It didn't hurt so much as the pounding of his heart made the open wounds throb in time.
Another drag of the blade, more yellow fat exposed, more blood running down his arm, dripping onto the growing puddle on the ground. Though he is a Host to the cells, it happened too recently — his body couldn't keep up with the frenzied pace that Hajime's praise incurs. The first cuts that barely went through the epidermis look like cat scratches compared to the gashes that followed.
If it makes Hajime happy, if Hajime continues to illuminate Noriyuki's world, then he would gladly offer his body for eucharist. Noriyuki would let Hajime consume him wholly and entirely, a satellite drowned in the brilliance of a supernova.
An overzealous cut or two — incising away the too-thin layer of subcutaneous adipose tissue, nicking the muscle that lay underneath. Flexor carpi radialis, he recalls, as the next swipe severs — and the right side of his hand droops, no longer connected to supporting muscle. It doesn't hurt anymore, the pain replaced by the saccharine euphoria of Hajime's gaze set only on him.
Hajime's hand gently caresses his jaw, tilting his head up. His thumb swipes across his chin and bottom lip — when did he start drooling? His body feels cool and warm at once, shivers and ragged breaths wracking his frame from the adrenaline diluting his blood. Noriyuki feels blessed to just have Hajime's hands on him; he'd do anything to keep them there forever. The underlying feeling in his veins from being so close to him is even more intense — the eye contact making Noriyuki's heart pound even harder than it already was from abysmally low blood pressure.
He doesn't want to look away, but his body moves on its own, his ultimate will being to please Hajime no matter what it cost, even if said cost was his life.
The blade comes down again over the inside of his elbow, and bright red blood pulses from the gash in time with his heartbeat, and for the first time since starting, Noriyuki feels dizzy. His hand — the one not holding the scalpel — feels cold. He can't hold it up anymore, hanging as dead weight at the end of his arm. He knows he should have, at minimum, passed out after severing veins and muscle, and now his brachial artery. Exsanguination (hypovolemic shock, he recalls from a textbook) has clear, defined symptoms: increased heart rate, clamminess, pallor — by all means, Noriyuki should be dead.
The scalpel trembles in his hand, he can't focus. All the strength that Noriyuki can muster goes to keeping himself upright, and even then, he sways from the vertigo. He tries his best to keep his eyes trained on the blur of pink before him.
"It's alright, Noriyuki, let me help." Hajime shifts off the bed he'd been sitting on, kneeling next to him, not minding the blood soaking into the pristine, angelic-white of his clothes. Hajime's hands are cradling his, warm and so, so comforting as he steadies the scalpel in Noriyuki's weakened grip, guiding their hands lower— to his thigh.
Noriyuki can only watch as Hajime lowers their hands, pressing the blade lightly into his flesh. He doesn't think he'd tell him to stop, even if he could. Noriyuki wishes he could see clearly enough to look at Hajime's face, his delicate eyelashes fluttering as he watches their intertwined hands.
"Ready?" Hajime says, without waiting for an answer, his hands push down and pull to the side, slicing through the thin layer of fatty tissue into the muscle (rectus femoris, vastus intermedius), before the scalpel stops dead, and Noriyuki feels sick at the feeling of metal scraping against his femur.
"Ah… Was that a little too deep? I'm sorry." Hajime pulls his hands back, the tips of his fingers dyed red in Noriyuki's blood. He wants to tell Hajime it's fine, that he doesn't mind, but he's lost so much blood that his vision vignettes before he can. He can move his injured arm well enough again, but the disquieting gash in his leg drips blood onto the floor in a steady rhythm. When Hajime tips Noriyuki's chin back up to meet his eyes — the same color as the wine spilling onto the floor — he looks so fondly at Noriyuki that he could live forever with just his gaze as his fuel.
Noriyuki repositions the scalpel lower on his thigh as Hajime's fingers leave smears of his own blood on his neck — just keep touching me, just keep looking at me — he can hear the sickly squelch of flesh separating. He's severed another artery, bright red spurts contrasting with the oxygen-depleted congealed mass of blood that's adhered itself to the floor. The blade scratches his femur again and his stomach lurches despite himself. (Hajime is watching.) He hasn't eaten enough recently to do anything more than cough up sour bile, anyway.
The unrelenting light of his star is blinding; Noriyuki drags the blade across his thighs indiscriminately, what little blood is left in his veins pulses in his ears. The more cuts he makes, the less they bleed — true exsanguination.
It doesn't feel like it's his own flesh that he's cutting anymore. It doesn't hurt, only a slight pressure wherever the blade goes, leaving cleaved skin and muscle in its wake. It feels more akin to filleting meat than slicing apart his own flesh, or the pressure of a knife after the administration of bitter lidocaine.
His vision spins with every movement, it takes all his focus to stay upright, until it doesn't. Hajime's eyes are a beautiful, piercing carmine, cutting through the haze of blood loss to meet his own — and he realizes how to give Hajime the ultimate proof of his faith.
Noriyuki feels warm as he rests the tip of the blade against his carotid, feeling Hajime's kind smile on him being all the motivation he needs. Hot blood spills down his chest as the scalpel clatters to the ground, though he isn't sure exactly when he dropped it.
His limbs feel frigid and stiff, mangled flesh burning underneath Hajime's warm touch. Ah, hands are caressing his face again. Noriyuki can feel his dried blood flaking off of Hajime's fingertips and his own skin. He tries to tell Hajime to let him go before he stains his clothes, but Noriyuki forgets what he was trying to say halfway through — so for a moment, he allows himself to burn in the light of his star, and rests.
The first thing he feels is a plush blanket on top of him, fluffy and warm. Noriyuki opens his eyes, squinting at the bright fluorescents — considering the blanket, he shouldn't be so surprised that the room they're in is spotless; the only crimson in the room being Hajime's eyes, fixed onto his own.
"Good morning, Noriyuki. I thought you might still feel a bit weak after yesterday… So I made you cocoa."
Noriyuki's voice is hoarse — he must've nicked his vocal chords in his fervor — but he manages to thank Hajime after a couple attempts. The cocoa is soothing, not hot, either. Hajime remembered.
The cells within him pulse with murmuring contentment, and knowing that he's made Hajime happy is all Noriyuki needs for it to be worth it.
Later, as he undresses in preparation for a much-needed shower, Noriyuki catches sight of a barely visible scar across his neck. Tracing his fingers along it, he finds it smooth. It's so faint that only those closest to him might notice, but even then, it's not a guarantee.
Noriyuki doesn't mind having another reminder of Hajime on his body, anyway.