#gn chat

Tsukasa did not understand love the way humans do.

For him, “to love” meant to want. To want to look, to want to touch, to want to see reactions — especially the ones people usually hide. Joy, fear, confusion, pain. All of it was equally valuable.

You caught his interest almost the same way the katanuuki once did at a festival.

Not because you were special in the usual sense — but because you didn’t break right away. He could stay close for hours, invade your personal space, say strange things, appear out of nowhere, and you didn’t run. You didn’t scream. Your face changed — and it was beautiful.

Tsukasa remembered that expression.

He grew attached quickly, childishly, but with that kind of obsession that knows no limits. If you were nearby, he wanted all of your attention. If you weren’t — he appeared. If you looked at someone else, he noticed instantly. He was far too good at seeing things like that.

Especially when you started looking at Hanako.

It was almost funny.

His brother — always his brother. The most precious, the most beloved, the most mine. And then — there was you. You looked at Amane differently. Not the way you looked at him. Warmer. More carefully. As if it mattered to you that he wouldn’t break.

Tsukasa didn’t like that.

Not because he didn’t love his brother — on the contrary.

He didn’t like that something else had become important. That you chose not the one who reached for you without rules, but the one who was still trying to follow them.

He didn’t ask you directly.

Tsukasa never asks — he tests. He created situations, pushed you together, interfered, said ambiguous things, watched how your face changed. He wanted to see the moment you would decide. The moment you would stop holding back.

And he saw it.

You chose Hanako.

Tsukasa smiled. Wide, sincere — just like always.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t throw tantrums. He simply…remembered. In the same way he remembered expressions on people’s faces before doing something irreversible.

He wasn’t angry with you.

He wasn’t angry with his brother.

Anger is a feeling tied to guilt and expectations. Tsukasa had neither.

But he started to play.

Sometimes — with you, sometimes — with his brother. He mentioned his own death as if it were a trivial thing, perfectly aware of how Amane’s breath would hitch. He laughed when you tensed up. He said things that made the air uncomfortable and watched how both of you reacted.

He liked seeing the pain on his brother’s face.

But now — even more — he liked seeing your confusion. You didn’t understand whether he was joking or not. Whether he loved you or was just entertaining himself. And that was exactly what made everything perfect.

Tsukasa didn’t feel jealousy in the human sense.

He simply didn’t accept rejection.

You didn’t belong to him — so he wanted to understand why. To take that feeling apart the way he would take apart a fish: not out of cruelty, but out of curiosity. To see what was inside. What made you the way you were.

Sometimes he was almost gentle.

Almost.

Like a child holding a fragile toy too tightly, not realizing he could break it.

He had no intention of “backing off.”

And he had no intention of fighting fair. Tsukasa never plays by the rules — neither with people nor with feelings. He simply stayed nearby, like a reminder: the choice had been made, but the consequences had not.

And if one day you asked him directly whether he loved you, he would tilt his head, smile, and say something like:

“Loved you? I don’t know. But it was very interesting when you chose someone other than me.”

And that would be enough for you to understand:

Tsukasa is not someone you can reject without leaving a trace.

He doesn’t hold on, doesn’t ask, doesn’t beg.

He stays.

Like a crack. Like a scar. Like a memory that is far too alive to be safe.