#genhifu

Traits like these really came together when he got involved with plots like the one with Hifumi Izanami. An unplanned mess and some of his best work at the same time.

Hifumi Izanami was an obnoxious, glittery, shimmery gold facade, with small, nigh unnoticeable cracks, that Gentaro Yumeno had put there. And that had been the most beautiful thing he’d ever made — or told himself he made.

The way he’d tell the story is that this was what attracted him at first. Nothing about the gold seemed appealing as much as breaking it did — Izanami was so pretty, so sweet, so kind, so loved by everyone, and all of that made Gentaro want to stick his fingers down his own throat. He despised him and what he stood for, and because of that, he had “fallen in love”.

What starts as a petty fight escalates into more as their surroundings fed it. Ramuda’s issues with Jakurai, mainly, but also Matenrou’s general position regarding the public and Fling Posse, so high and mighty, so holy. Gentaro had never had any inclinations towards that or the other extreme, content with wandering his own purgatory, with living one day at a time with Fling Posse, who were the same as him.

But Matenrou, ever so self righteous, wanted them to be villains, and Gentaro remembers how against light that blinding, everything else seems darker. The once content ghost gained a reason to emerge from his grave and fight for his loved ones who still walked the earth, and so, he got to see how it was like to put a dent on a god’s statue.

He got to make Izanami angry in front of all those people he loved. And so, that’s where the love came from. Whether Izanami felt it too or not didn’t matter, he just kept coming back for more until hatred warped itself in so many different ways, and that was enough for them both. There was something between them, and that was what Gentaro loved.

So it was love, just not the kind he usually wrote about. Right? It makes up for a beautiful sort of story. A personal manuscript to keep close to his heart.

It’s a beauty he couldn’t just let the rest of the world see, they wouldn’t understand it.

They argue and they argue — About everything and nothing at all, working together to reach a boiling point in an unspoken agreement. The first time it happened, it had been Izanami that kissed him so suddenly, leaving Gentaro speechless and with blood trickling down his now split lip. Then it just all fell apart from here.

Meet, argue, take out all your frustrations on each other — Each time Gentaro took it well. It’s so strange, they’d been spending time together almost like lovers, the sort that was so drunk in their own passions it hurted. And hurt Izanami did, splitting lips, painting bruises, every time with a hazy look on his eyes, like he had been only half aware of what he was doing.

...it’s a bit empty, but it’s something he’d sunk his claws into. A sort of addiction. Even when some empty feelings trickle in post-euphoria, and he lays on Izanami’s bed half-dressed, waiting for his heart to take its sweet time to settle, he knows he’ll still come back for more. It doesn’t make sense when you explain it like that, does it? Well, it made sense in Gentaro’s head, and that’s what mattered to him.

He cherishes the story. He doesn’t want it ruined.

And every chapter plays like a recurring dream in his head—

“Hey,” A softened voice calls for him. There’s a click. He looks behind him, Izanami was sitting on the opposite side of the bed, having just lit a cigarette. “Want one?”

Gentaro stares for a second. “Sure,” Gentaro mutters in a hoarse voice, making a half-effort to get up. Izanami hands him one, lights it for him. He inhales, the slight burn spreads through his already damaged throat.

Inhale. Exhale. The window is opened, but didn’t it seem out of character for Izanami to do something like this? At least in his own room. It’d smell bad later, he’d have things to explain to Doppo if he noticed it. He doesn’t recall him having a habit bad enough to lead to that.

He can’t decide if it’s something that he liked or not, but for now it just feels odd.

“Something in your mind?” Gentaro asks, crossing his legs but still keeping his eyes on Izanami. “You’re unusually quiet.”

“Mmn, just that Doppo’s gonna be home soon.” He sounds tired, commenting as he taps off ash onto a glittery tray. This is usually said directly at Gentaro so he knows when he has to leave, but he doesn’t even look him in the eyes as he says it. “...maybe.”

Gentaro furrows his brow. That’s all?

He’s staring at Izanami and Izanami is staring at his windows. The gaudy leopard print on the curtains, something so uniquely him that it tastes like the cigarette in Gentaro’s mouth. An unfamiliar melancholy ghosts over his usually cheery expression. Dread begins to settle into the room.

...there was definitely something wrong with all of this, wasn’t there? But he wouldn’t just care about that, or anything like it. At least not beyond how Izanami was so unsettlingly acting like anyone but himself. What mattered here was if he played his role, but…

“You really are too quiet today.” He points out, once again. Izanami’s cigarette is stubbed on his tray, which he pushes towards the opposite side of the bed, so Gentaro could have it for now.

“I’m thinking about stuff.” Is the only reply he offers. Gentaro laughs despite not having caught his breath fully.

“It’s quite surprising to know you do that, Izanami-san.” He comments, languidly smoking. Izanami’s brow furrows.

There’s a half-hearted sort of laugh. “That’s just mean.”

“I merely speak the truth.” He begins, taking a last quick drag then stubbing out the cigarette. Clouds of smoke expelled into the room. “If you have any problem with that, do something about it.”

A sly smile surges on Gentaro’s lips, he pushes the ashtray aside. Crawling towards him on the bed, meeting his warmth again. Arms wrapped around his body, chin resting near his shoulder — He feels an ache, the one that always comes after the emptiness, but it gives him a sliver of satisfaction. Gentaro hopes he’ll give him that hatred again. The one thing he needs.

If Kannonzaka comes home anytime soon, then just let him see.

“You heard me, didn’t you?” He asks, words coming out airy. “Do something about this.”

It doesn’t matter what’s wrong with him, as long as they continued to hate each other, Gentaro could get that feeling he so craves when they’re away—

“I’m in love with you.”

The page he’d been writing, kept so close to his heart, is ripped into two.

“What.” He deadpans. Izanami stares at him, straight into his eyes before he looks away. “That’s a joke, yes?”

“...do you think I’d joke about that?” He then looks back — Everything sincere. Hurt eyes, hurt voice, the weight he’d been holding for however long. All Gentaro can do is…

Why? Why is something like this happening now? He doesn’t understand the purpose. He saw love in his relationship with Izanami, but, like this? After all they had done to each other?

That’s not what love was supposed to mean—

All he can do is laugh. Dry, quiet, incredulous. Surely this was some kind of joke.

...if Izanami wasn’t the one joking, the universe was. This was just ridiculous. It’s a bad plot. Things that shouldn’t happen in reality or fiction, it’s just plain stupid.

“Izanami. Do you even hear yourself right now?” He asks. Izanami shakes his head.

“I know, I know what you’re gonna think, b-but…” Surely a part of him knows how hopeless this is, doesn’t it? Izanami sounds like he’s about to cry. It’s an unbelievable contrast when Gentaro thought about all those biting words he’d spew at him anytime he could. “Listen. I don’t hate you. Never did, actually, we just ended up fighting because… I d-don’t know, actually, but even if you hate me, I think I just love you. I don’t know how it started either, but… ”

“I…” Gentaro begins, and — No words in his mind to describe it, but of course, look at how bizarre the scenario is in front of him. He sighs and shakes his head. “Izanami, I don’t know what you expect me to say to something like this. Do you even hear yourself now?”

God. Is this a fever dream? Izanami looks around so uncertainly, like he’s smaller than he really is. Gentaro holds a weight he’d never asked anyone to be given.

(He’s angry, almost? No, he really is — It makes no sense. This isn’t that sort of love. It’s supposed to be self indulgence. It’s bad for him and that’s why he likes it. Izanami can’t be trying to bring that purity onto the table now. He’s ruining it.)

What did he even think would come out of this? The specifics of how Gentaro sees their relationship are… but even then, shouldn’t he know better than to love an enemy? Were all the moments they humiliated each other on stage an act of true love?

Was rubbing his loneliness on his face an expression of affection?

“I’m sorry, okay! I needed to say it!” Izanami insists. Gentaro just shakes his head.

“Good for you, Izanami. We’ll be done with this, if that’s the case.” He gets up from the bed. There’s an almost-smile twisting on his lips, but… it’s just angry. Too astonished to make any other expression. “Frankly, this is just too much. What were you expecting with this? That I’d say I love you back, jump into your arms so we could live happily ever after? Your entitlement knows no bounds.”

Izanami looks at him, eyes wide and scandalized like he’d stabbed him in the back.

“...what are you even talking about?” It’s the sort of thing Gentaro might have imagined coming out as a shout, but his voice is just broken, high pitched and shaky. Weak.

Nothing like the Izanami who attacked him. Not what he wanted here. Too far away from his idealized story and from the crude reality, at the same time—

“I’m entitled because I love you? You’re not making any sense.” Izanami hits him with that, voice full with desperation. “I know you hate me, but you don’t have to be like that! I just wanted to tell you so you knew!”

“Yes, say that again.” Gentaro barks out a dry laugh. “See if it makes sense now, why I’m acting like this. I hate you.”

Izanami opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. The silence is opressive.

...really. What else was he expecting? Did he think so highly of himself he imagined this could go well?

Everything about this, even the slightest suggestion that Izanami could feel this way, seems so asinine. Whether Izanami is hurt or not doesn’t matter — They’re here for that, to hurt each other. It’s what makes their relationship what it is. It’s what that love is about.

“I don’t get why you’re treating me like this when I just wanted to tell you how I feel.” Izanami says, voice small. “You could just say you don’t love me! That would be okay, but, this...”

“It’s because you’re not making any sense. And because, frankly, it’s just an insult that you think you can come to me with something like this after we’ve been at each other’s throats for months.” He scolds, gathering clothes from the bed, the floor. He’s still a mess even as he gets dressed, but he’ll hold himself like he hadn’t let that man put marks on his skin that would take forever to fade. “You don’t get to act like I have no reason to hate you. I’m not spineless, Izanami. I’m not letting it happen. And I’m not stupid either.”

Izanami’s eyes gleamed, tears reflecting lighting. And it just makes his blood boil.

“Don’t look at me like this.” Gentaro scoffs. “You can’t expect anything more after what you’ve done.”

“What did I do, though?” Izanami questions in a shrill way. “Is this about that alleyway stuff? About your clothes?”

He doesn’t understand, does he? He never would, really. Gentaro doesn’t know why he’s still surprised everytime it happens — Izanami looks so innocent when he says certain things. Gentaro knows he means no harm most of the time. No, he thinks the things he does are right.

Maybe it wasn’t intentional for him to hammer into a sore spot the first time, but, what about all the others? Everything, from the willingness to get into their arguments to the condescending side-eying. Does he think that wasn’t hurting him? That he was doing something right? Gentaro, at least, admitted that he wasn’t trying to be a hero. Gentaro knew he was selfish, he accepted that.

(Gentaro knew he wasn’t a good person, he accepted that too. Even though he wasn’t happy about it, because of course he wasn’t— Pretending to be holy is too much even for him. There’s a line he won’t cross when he’s like this, a limited amount of tainting to this name he’s allowed himself to commit.)

“Yes, Izanami. Because that’s the only bad thing you’ve ever done, isn’t it? It’s not like we’ve been fighting for months or anything. Like you’ve said all sorts of things about my life.” He retorts — all of this is such a joke — as he ties the hakama back onto himself. “We don’t need to have this conversation. I’ve told you it’s over. This is the final nail in the coffin.”

“B...But—” Izanami stutters. “Aren’t you gonna tell me why at least? Why do you hate me so much? Because I told you, I never hated you! And if you didn’t hate me either, I’d…!”

What would you? Would you make it work? Would you fix everything? Izanami didn’t even know what the problems were, exactly. He already ruined something that was perfect. There’s no way they could be together. It’s not how this ends.

It’s not how it will or should or could end. No matter the word choice, it’s still not happening.

He’s not happy to have it end like this, but if that’s how things are, they’d been doomed from the start.

The scenes begin to come in more like snapshots. Harsh cuts, and the tears prickling Izanami’s eyes slide down. He crawls over on the bed towards Gentaro. He grabs his wrist.

Gentaro is—

“I don’t want to hear it, Izanami.” He snaps back. His blood had never boiled so hotly, so much he could barely make sense of his thoughts. Somehow, Izanami doing this was the ultimate offense. “Let me go this instant.”

Words pass through Izanami’s wide, desperate eyes. What, why is is he looking at him like this now? He was in no place to do it.

“...I would try to make it work, you know, if it was you.” Izanami gets out in a choked sob, near silent. The statement hangs in the air for a moment.

And it’s a lie, right? Or at least he deems it so.

“How quaint.” He just laughs. “This means nothing to me. Let me go.”

Izanami’s grasp grows weak, Gentaro turns in his heel and—

That had been the final chapter.

Now he opens his eyes. Breath knocked out of his lungs, hands clenching at his own sheets. He catches sight of his own ceiling, pure white but filtered over with the darkness of the night, soon to be washed over by the sunrise.

And here was that dream again, even though it had been months at this point…

He sits up on the futon, head hurting. How late or early was it? He’s not exactly compelled to find out now. Gentaro just stares at his own blanket, at his hands. Something empty creeping in.

He really thought it had all ended that night.

Eyes go to the window, curtains open. His room looks vacant like this, more than usual, even when there are messes gathering everywhere, crumpled up paper, energy drink cans, dirty clothes. It’s the same depressing place as always, what it had been not for months but years, now, yet it just feels worse everyday. Everything started to decay.

(And it’s surprisingly thematically relevant to Gentaro’s life. Even when he’d built everything around him so it wouldn’t be.)

He hadn’t looked into Izanami’s eyes since then, even. It hadn’t been a pretty ending, but it had been an ending, he stated his own intent to leave so firmly. And maybe he had been addicted to the way Izanami made him feel, he was obsessed with the narrative, but…

Gentaro loses track of his thoughts, staring off into the night through his window. The buildings in Shibuya block the leftover slivers of moonlight, soaking into the city’s own glow.

He’s not basking in it. It’s just glaring at him.

The apartment feels claustrophobic now, for some reason. Gentaro gets up from the bed, head still half-cloudy from the lack of sleep, a hazy barrier between him and the world.

Maybe he needs fresh air. Going out of the building comes easily, Gentaro somewhat dresses himself, just so he wouldn’t step outside in sleepwear, and he takes in what he could see of Shibuya from the outside of his home. The streets, lights and darkness, negligible amounts of people going around. He sees the sky above him clearly, all the space between him and it. Somehow he still feels suffocated.

Gentaro sighs, leaning against the wall. Even the air felt strange — Possibly because he was being haunted, and for so long too, that energy was bleeding into every other aspect of his life. He wonders how much further it could go.

Izanami creeps into his mind again, no matter how much he tries to push him way. Because of the city lights he associated with him, because of how late it was linking with the hours they used to meet up at. He sees his face again in his mind, then on the phone screen when he takes it out, and somehow it hurts more than every time he’d been right in front of him with the exact intent of feeling this way.

He reads all the messages in his voice — No texts since the last encounter, but… When are you free and let me see you again, pictures and stupid jokes, occasional small talk he found so baffling when it happened.

Sometimes he’d shut him down. Hifumi sent him things randomly from time to time, he turned them against him as he asked, why are you sending me this? And it’s the most frequent question, but Gentaro begins to see other similar ones. Why are you telling me about this? Why do you want to see me there again? Why are we wasting so much time?

His finger hovers over the screen. He’d been looking at the call button for a while

Late nights make for such poor impulse control. The tip of his finger floaats over his choice for no more than a second, trembling before Gentaro takes that step towards his end — And it dials.

“Yumeno?”

It feels jarring to hear his voice now. Gentaro himself finds that the second he hears it, he wants to turn it off. That was the one who had ruined his own story, but—

“Hello.” He’s almost surprised at how weak his own voice sounds. Something different from any other word he’d spoken, even when he’d be torn away from his little dreams into reality so violently, when he was on the brink of waking up to ominous, sickeningly constant beeping in a white room he wasn’t in. “Izanami...san.”

There’s silence. What did you expect? His own voice asks him when he’d snapped at Izanami that night. It doesn’t sound like him, and neither does the voice he speaks in now.

Ironic, when in both moments he hadn’t thought of embodying even a single character.

“You…” Izanami mutters. Where is he, Gentaro wonders? He doesn’t hear music from his side of the line, so not at work. Was he at home? There’s a faint whirring that he can’t tell if it comes from cars or not. Izanami feels so far away. “Why’re you calling me now? It’s been…”

Months. Yes.

He thinks about how they used to talk before that. Why did that feel like it never happened at all, now? He thinks about the story they used to be in and wants it back, but he can’t grasp the role he’d played again.

“Months.” He repeats the word from his own thoughts. “Since our last encounter.”

“Yeah. You snapped at me like that.” Izanami sounds so dry, unlike himself. He’d never talk like that when they fought. He’d never talk like that, when…

Ah.

“I can’t deny what I did, can I?” He asks. The cold wind blows across Gentaro’s face, his hair sways. They have stretches of silences between every spoken sentence. Really, what are you doing?

I’m missing that story is said, mentally, at the same time that he says I’m missing him.

It’s nonsense. But he hears his voice, and he thinks of the past, of every word written on every page they’d shared, in blood or ink or the pen Izanami kept on the kitchen counter to write down his shopping lists. The dreams and the haunting too.

And so, looking at the edge, he jumps.

“Izanami.” It comes out like a sigh. “I think I love you.”

Even the whirring stops. Nonsense, Gentaro thinks again, but it wasn’t fully over, was it? If he was still haunting him like this— He doesn’t know where the hope comes from, but it doesn’t even just creep in, instead fully rushing to his head the second he holds the phone. Had he thought about that for all that time, but written over the lines that were already there so much he couldn’t read it?

But it’s what kept him there, wasn’t it? He thinks back to saying he was in love with something, just not him — And had that been a lie? Maybe a plot twist that reached him at an importunate time.

I think I love you repeats in his head. Every memory echoes over and over.

“Okay.” He hears Izanami breathe out from the other side of the line. “What do you want me to… what does this mean, now?”

Gentaro’s own breathing shakes. “I’m not sure.”

The seconds trickle away like the soft falling of sand in a timekeeper.

“I don’t like doing this to people, but…” Izanami says, almost in a mumble. “You know, I can’t just forgive you for saying that stuff to me. It… it really hurt. I think I’m still upset.”

“Yes.”

“And I guess we could have been bickering over this too, but… I’m tired.” He admits. “I did love you at that time. But after that I found people who loved me better than that. So I guess I’m saying no to that. I don’t love you at all, and I don’t want anything to do with you anymore.”

“Of course.”

Silence. One, two, three. “Have a good one, Yumeno. Please leave me alone.”

And he hangs up.

He falls. Everything goes just as he’d expected.

Gentaro stares at the screen before a smile twists on his face, and he laughs. Not merrily, not out of any amusement or joy, but just because the air in his lungs feels like it’s scraping the walls harshly.

What a pathetic way to go.

Now that it’s really over, he can stop pretending, can’t he? Look at the empty auditorium on their nonexistent eyes, and spell out with a suave smile, it was all a lie. The truth is, he knew this would be the ending, to some degree.

The truth is Gentaro Yumeno is no artist, not even if you attach con to the meaning of that word. He’s a sad excuse for a playwright who doesn’t want to look away from his scripts, finding reality too jarring for his weak eyes. Weak to light, weak to darkness. Too frail to exist physically, so he lurks on the corners of rooms, and he pretends he’s the exact shape as someone else’s shadow.

The way he’d thought about it ending was that he’d take his secret to his grave. He’d never explain the relocation of the word love. He’d die proudly. But he couldn’t go through with it, after all, the ending seeming far too tragic, too much to bear even when he told himself it was the right thing. He could have never loved Hifumi, even when he had loved him. It wouldn’t work, not in this life. Not with the vendettas and their own found families.

The fairytale ending wasn’t an option, but…

He’s too weak to say he didn’t want one. Too weak to jump from the right building. To let the ending he hated happen instead of trying to poorly write over the words that were already on the pages.

Because, in the end, even when the hate had been there, love was the only thing he couldn’t really lie about.

The sun wants to rise and tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. With a bow, he bids his voided audience goodbye. Hoping to serve as a good cautionary tale for a nonsensical, pointless story.