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Every time I look at you.
It should no longer hurt, but it does; more so than any blade between his ( remaining ) ribs. He does avoid mirrors, or anything that forces him to look at what he is
(
I have accepted what I am,
and
I have forgiven you )
but today he looks at himself in the bathroom mirror he leaves covered --- a bathroom he scarcely uses, as it is, but he doesn't mind playing pretending, has done so his entire life.
( He doesn't know what
actually feeling well means.
But he knows what people
think it looks like, knows
how to look the part. )
He takes in everything wrong in his body, then covers it. A maroon sweater and an oversized black hoodie, cargo pants, actual shoes. He places a very bright green beanie over his graying head; hides away scars, incisions, circuits. Everything needs to go. But his face… he remembers when he used to cover the lower half of his face, back when his eyes shine red and no soul inhabited this body
( They made you a weapon
and told you to find peace )
It has been for a good reason; the nurses could barely look at him with his face uncovered, in the beginning. Took Angela several nights with a needle to bring resemblance of humanity to this machine, and it was still a gruesome sight. So he opens his makeup bag for the first time in a while --- after all, what is the need of foundation and eyeshadow when it's all hidden away under metal?
He applies layers upon layers; needs to mix several shades until he finds the right time --- his skin color is sallow at best, stretched thin and greenish in a sickly way, but he does what he can to hide away every scar, imperfection --- defect.
( Cannot even say his brother
is the responsible for each
one of them. Overwatch found
a corpse and took it apart
and gave it life and called it a
dead man's name --- )
When he's done, fingers stained with color, he takes a look again. He hopes, anxiously expects, to see the person he was in that reflection. The piercings, the perfect skin, the taciturn smile, the bright hair. He even cared to pencil his eyebrows back to existence!
But…
No makeup can hide the shine of his jaw, the lack of ears, the valves in his neck, the port for his ventilator, the synthetic skin of his cheeks. No amount of clothes can hide how inhuman he is. Nothing can change what happened.
( I was a human
before you killed me
and ripped my heart out --- )
The scream that leaves his throat is certainly not human; tinny, synthetic. Not even his voice is the same, because Angela has never heard him before his brother cut his throat and permanently damaged his chords, so obviously what he was is all but an approximation --- a mockery. Parody of himself, parroting words of ---
He screams again, turning the faucet on and trying to rub the products off his face hastily. He hears glass hitting the floor, his bottles of makeup clattering around in his anger
( You destroy everything you touch,
You bring shame to all around you! )
He looks at himself again, the abhorrent mess of skin and metal, the perfect mask melting away with water --- metal fist collides with glass, mirror shattering completely, but it's not enough, so he does it again, and again, and again ---
Until it's the wall he's punching, not even the cabinet withstanding the power of his arm. Of course not. He pauses, then, pistons in his back trying to release the heat as his lungs shudder. Head bows in shame, his hands now gently meeting porcelain as he tries to find himself again.
He forgave Hanzō, there's no doubt in that. But he cannot forget. Can't possibly look past this and bury it all down for his brother's sake --- but he must, because otherwise his brother's sinuous path to self acceptance will crumble. So he endures. He hurts, but when is he ever not?
I can't bear to imagine the pain I caused you because of my lack of control.
He raises his head once more, but now there's a smile, a bubbling laugh that escapes as a sob, followed but another and one more --- he can still cry, which is a novel in on itself…
It takes two to start a fight, but only one remains standing in the end. The both of them know that the same way they know the oxygen in their lungs. Their fight is not over though; however the two dragon brothers mended their paths towards harmony and peace, it certainly seemed easier in the old story.
Real life takes blood, sweat and tears. Pushing and pulling. Screaming and whispering. Hope and despair.
Genji doesn't know how much he has left to spare for his brother, but he is aware there's not even enough for himself.
( Perhaps I am a fool
to think there's still
hope for you,
but I do. )
それを考えて、兄者。