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Yugi Amane died in 1969, body bleeding dry and limbs limp and too cold to move— to reach out for something.
Hanako was the product. Hanako crawled out of the nameless corpse and was born from it.
Yugi Amane is not Hanako.
Hanako is not Yugi Amane.
Hanako will never be Yugi Amane, no matter how much he tries to be.
He is tainted. From the second he reached for the dagger he was tainted. From the second he plunged the knife deep into flesh, from the second he spilled blood that was not his— he was tainted beyond repair.
Sometimes, Hanako wants to go back. Sometimes, he wants to go back to the times when he still believed— still hoped like it hurt, like he was a human. Sometimes, he just wants to be Amane Yugi again.
But Hanako is not human. He couldn’t possibly be human when sin has shaped him into what he is: an ugly and marred thing, created for everything but being human.
Hanako wields blades like it is his friend, calloused fingers worn with time gliding along the handle like he’s done this a thousand times before. Hanako wields blades like it’s muscle memory, like it’s permanently etched into his brain. Perhaps it is.
Because he does not know how to be a boy, he only knows how to kill.
Hanako only knows how to destroy until the only thing that appears in his hazy, hollow mind is the sins that burden him, knowing that he cannot reverse, knowing that he is the one responsible for the monstrous creature he has been moulded into.
Hanako is a thing undeserving of love, something that was never possible to love— not like this.
But sometimes, when he sinks into the warmth of someone’s arms— when he feels kind fingers threading through his hair like they belong there, he wants to be loved. Just a little.
But how can he be loved when he pushes people away like this?
How can he be loved when he is so different?
How can he be loved, at all? That’s the thing, he can’t. Not when he slips on masks and bleeds detachedly through the days like it’s a stage.
Hanako wears facades until he can’t remember who he is, until the only thing he can remember is the monster that he is now.
On days where he cannot be seen, sometimes he still feels the image of blotched bruises that stretch across his skin flickering beneath his eyes.
He tries to shut it out, think of anything besides it.
Tries to rub at his skin until it’s a raw, itchy red.
Picks up the blade, as if repeating the one thing that sends him spiralling into agony would somehow fix everything. Falters. Drops it. The clang thrums throughout his body.
But the scars still linger, faint yet decipherable, jagged lines that mar his skin and is perhaps the living proof of something. He doesn’t really know exactly what its evidence of, but it’s there— it stays.
He tries to breathe in times like these, but the air is too heavy— too thick to take in.
He chokes on the words— a sob, if he was still capable of that— that are oddly shaped like a scream. They try to rip out of his throat. They never do.
Because sin never allows comfort.
Because maybe sin is comfort.
It’s the only thing he’s ever known since he dug the blade into his flesh. The only thing that welcomes him with open arms, the only thing that makes him what he is. Because what is Hanako without it?
It never allows peace or warmth.
Instead, it takes away. It takes away everything until you’re stripped to the bone and can’t recognise the human skin you wear under something that’s so clearly not human. It takes away everything until the only thing that remains is a stained, bloody thing that crumbles when this girl so much as touches him.
Yashiro Nene.
Yashiro Nene is an entirely different person from Hanako. Hanako has learnt a sharp mouth that only cuts, but Yashiro only means well— she is the hand that obliviously feeds, and Hanako will always end up biting it. Because monsters are not supposed to be cradled or nurtured, they are made to be twisted and bent and stretched and broken.
But when when Yashiro Nene fits her fingers through his and thinks nothing of it, when Yashiro tells him that he does not have to be the thing that sin wants him to be—
He believes it.
Like an utter fool he believes it, and it’s not that he wants to believe it. He really doesn’t.
But he is a starving man, and a starving man will eat anything as long as he is satisfied with it— even when it’s temporary.
And so he doesn’t believe it for long. He never does. Never forever.
Not until sin seizes his thoughts and forces down the harsh reminder that he is nothing but a puppet to it— that he is not someone who deserves to have a mind of his own, that he does not deserve to think for himself.
So he runs.
Where he goes is irrelevant.
Hanako runs as far away as he’ll let himself, not physically.
But he chases himself into his own cage he built for himself, locks Yashiro out of the shameful chamber of his heart and swallows the key. He slips on a thicker, more resistant mask, one that won’t bleed crack like glass with soft words and softer actions. He spits out brutal words, harsh sarcasm, anything that will chase her away.
So that he doesn’t have to face the gruelling truth that he’s faced a million times before.
Because everything hurts more when she’s there to stay, there to listen even when he doesn’t want her to.
Because she’s the only person who’s stuck around long enough to truly know him.
And that terrifies him more than anything.
Because to be known is to be seen, and to be seen is to be trapped, and when Hanako is trapped in neverending walls of veneers that’s bound too tight on the body and feels like he’s wearing two people under his skin—
Yashiro will effortlessly peel the mask off of him.
So Hanako hides where she cannot reach, because if Yashiro wants to dig deep he will dig deeper.
But the hiding never lasts long. It never does. Not as long as she’s there.
She chases him down.
Not to press, not to demand or push him towards the answer.
Instead, she stays.
She lingers and doesn’t ask for more.
And Hanako can’t do that.
He can’t do that. Not with her.
He can say cruel things and follow them with crueller exits. But he can’t be honest.
Not to himself. Not to her.
Not to anyone, frankly. Not as long as Hanako exists.
But Yashiro never settles for that. Instead, she tortures him with tender hugs and sweet nothings that Hanako wants to believe.
And Hanako sooner or later begrudgingly accepts it.
But it is not quick, it is not sudden, it is not a smooth healing. It is far from that
He flinches away from her simple acts of warmth, like twitching when her fingers curl around his wrist, or jerking back when she steps forwards.
He blocks her voice out when things get too much, when he can still taste the metallic sting of blood and daggers— but only the blade belongs to him.
He runs away.
But Yashiro would always be there, one way or another.
Whether it’s finding him on the rooftop or finding him when distant yet so close memories of him writhe its way back to the surface.
Whether it’s finding him in a hazy mist, feet wandering aimlessly on cracked glass, fingertips reaching for something that’s not quite there—
She always finds him. Always.
And Hanako wants to hate her, because that’s be so much easier, wouldn’t it?
Because if Hanako truly hated her, he would be able to drive her out, to never let her see, to let her drop dead already.
But Yashiro makes it so difficult to hate her. Loving her is inevitable— it is fate, like a tide arching over you before engulfing you whole.
Because how could he hate her when she’s the only one who never forces him to be something sinful— something filthy?
How could he hate her when she gives him the one thing he aches for?
So he drifts into her embrace, whether he wants to or not. Because his body does not refuse love, it greedily takes.
And one day, maybe Yashiro’s kindness will sink its fangs into her. Because Hanako is not meant for kindness, he is not a vessel for her goodness.
But until that day comes, he falls deeper. Falls deeper where sin will take him.
But maybe— just maybe.
There’s something waiting at the bottom. Maybe he’s not as utterly alone as he thinks he is.
Someone who knew. Knew that he was going to stumble and let him anyway, patiently waiting. Knew that in his frantic, desperate trance of pain it is their name who he instinctively calls for. It is their name that is on his scarred lips, like a prayer.
Or maybe a curse. Hanako doesn’t know the difference anymore.
Time eats all its children, they say. Just like how it ate Amane Yugi, chewed and spat out something else— something entirely new and not half the boy Amane Yugi was.
And so Hanako still wonders about the person he would’ve been if he hadn’t picked up the dagger.
Still ponders if he’d still be able to fit into the skin of Amane Yugi and wouldn’t think that he doesn’t belong.
But Amane Yugi is buried away, and Hanako does not think anything of it.
He doesn’t wonder why he’s buried away. Does not wonder why the name feels like thorns in your stomach that only puncture and leave gaping voids in its wake when said, like a thought about to be spoken but casted to the stones instead.
He ignores it. Because Hanako is very good at ignoring, isn’t he? Good at everything that includes being something he’s not.