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It's always piqued Gentaro's interest as to why Ramuda's so protective of his past.
Once in a while, he'd make an attempt at prodding the division leader for answers, only to come across every roadblock he could possibly bump into, preventing him from getting anywhere.
He'd caught Ramuda during his little... "mood swings", as he liked to call them, and at points where his voice falls to a low baritone, smooth and threatening.
Perhaps it wasn't wise of him to keep going at him in such a manner, but there wasn't anything keeping him back from doing such things.
Whenever he heard him speaking in his regular tone, he was reminded of his best friend: the one that encouraged him to become an author; who gave him the garments he wears religiously.
While they were both in high school together, he was the only one that Gentaro ever spoke with. When his friend became bedridden, he did everything he could to visit him as much as possible. It took a drastic toll on his performance in school, but who was to say that would stop him?
He treasured every living moment the two spent together, up until the moment of his disappearance. It was said that he passed away overnight, and the only things given to him by his friend was a green journal, a fountain pen, and a set of strange-looking garments.
(Little did he know at the time that they'd be his most prized possessions.)
In the front cover of the journal, embroidered in gleaming, golden thread, rested his friend's name: Yumeno Gentaro.
It became the novelist's pen name, in remembrance of that dear friend of his—and over the years, after his friend's supposed passing, Gentaro shaped his personality and life to resemble that of his deceased comrade.
Having no other loved ones left, whether it be family or friends, he doubted anyone would notice the drastic changes that would take place.
Alas, he paid little mind to such trivial matters.
Very few, if not none, noticed the birth of Yumeno Gentaro, the renowned author of numerous novels, with his unique ways of writing, and the manner in which he conveys his messages to his audience.
His former identity became no more than a pipe dream, which would come back to him every once in a while, just when he believed he'd finally forgotten about it. After all, peace never lasts forever, so perhaps it was overly optimistic of him to think such things.
At the same time, though... was it wrong to chase after a dream that seemed impossible? The question continued to linger in his head, as he approached Ramuda's room with silent steps.
A familiar tune reached his ears, and with a newfound courage in his heart, opened the door, humming along as he walked in, ignoring the broken look on Ramuda's face as he turned around from his desk, the lollipop in his mouth threatening to break apart under the pressure of his teeth. Their eyes met, and the wonderful melody came to a halt.
"Ah, it's a wonderful song, is it not? I remember how it was written, two friends sitting side by side, behind the school on a beautiful spring afternoon. It's hard to forget, considering that I wrote the lyrics."
Gentaro's eyes bore into the designer's, pools of emerald green a stark contrast from that of the man in front of him, lifeless and empty as a glass marble. His calm demeanor and the usual lilt in his voice disappeared just like that, leaving the voice of his former self to speak on his behalf.
"...It's you, isn't it?"
Looking away, Ramuda released a sigh. His fake persona melted away, just like the lies he'd built up around himself. One stupid melody killed it all for him, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Both his hands gripped tightly onto the armrests of the chair, while he leaned back, trying to keep the last shreds of his crumbling composure. His heart thumped heavily against his chest, the beat of a thousand drums resonating throughout his body, and into his ears.
Of all things, this was what he never wanted Gentaro to find out.
"Leave. Just go," he hissed.
"But... why? What's happened to you? How'd you end up like... like this?"
Gentaro took one step in front of the other, almost hesitant in approaching the latter. As soon as he rested a hand on his shoulder, though, it was quickly swatted away, without utter regard for his feelings.
"Tell me, please. I've been thinking about you for years. You can't just leave me clueless like this."
Ramuda laughed, his voice broken into bits and pieces. His hand darted to his pocket hands wrapped around the base of the base of his microphone, but after a few moments in thought, he withdrew.
Silly promises he'd kept to himself, to not care for anyone ever again. To the world, he was just a puppet, used for the leisure of others in this dumb game that he called life. When he was just a regular kid, he never understood the pain of the world, unaware of the tragedies that came with living.
Oh, did he miss those days of utter ignorance.
He saw the joy in everything in his last moments of life, until those last moments became part of an insignificant past. At the time, he believed that he was being saved, given a second chance at life, only to let his optimism was what led to a complete downfall.
Forgetting about trivial things, such as friendship, caring for others, and even love, were for the best. It would serve to stop him from completing his missions, and even though he absolutely despised the idea of living another day...
There was no way out. He was led to believe so, but... the fine line between fiction and reality was now a blur to him.
His gaze locked with the novelist's, a heavy sigh cutting through the silence.
"Do you really want me to tell you?"
"When have I ever refused to listen to your stories, my dear friend?"
He stood over and went over to his bed, sitting himself down onto the softness of the mattress and gently patting a hand on the empty area next to him. A bitter smile made its way onto his features, and he gave Gentaro a fond look, filled with a feeling of sadness, and maybe a hint of hope.
If he could still feel this way, maybe he wasn't completely inhuman, after all. Maybe there was still a glimmer of hope inside his blackened soul. He despised the thought, but... at the same time, it didn't sound so bad, did it?
"Well, then. I guess it's time for a story, yeah?"
Gentaro took a seat next to the designer on the bed, placing a hand on the latter's, his fingers graced the touch of a gentle mother. He smiled back, glad that he'd finally found some relief.
After what seemed like ages, he'd finally found Gentaro.
The real one, that is.
"Absolutely," the novelist said. "I believe there's a lot to catch up on, for both you and I."
For the first time in years, Ramuda felt like he was back to his normal self. A warm feeling spread through his being, almost like a fire in his heart, rekindled once again. Feeling impulsive, he wrapped his arms around his friend's torso, face buried into his shoulder.
In the calm quiet that lingered between the two, Gentaro smiled, returning the gesture and pulling Ramuda closer to him.
"I'm glad I finally found you—even if you're not the same as when we were in school."
"Y-Yeah... I'm glad too..."
The warmth shared between the two was too comfortable to pull away from. Alas, it had to be done at some point, Gentaro being the one to do so.
"Anyways, let's start, shall we? I wouldn't want to take the spotlight away from you."
Ramuda smiled, the faintest of tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
"Let's do this. For old times' sake."