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not human enough

Summary:

No matter how many demons he killed, it wouldn’t ever be enough. He would still remain.

Notes:

Trigger Warning: Mentions of Violence (Blood Gore), Mentions of Death, Mentions of Canon-Typical Demon Behavior, Mentions of Vomit, Brief Descriptions of Injury, Brief Mentions of Overworking, Self-Destructive Habits, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Hate, Dissociation(?), Sickness / Nausea (Fatigue), Mentioned Self-Harm.. I believe that’s all; Read with caution.

— — —

not me writing this on a whim because the phrase “he wasn’t human enough, not yet” got stuck in my head so i churned this out in 5 days because I’m desperate for some more genya-centric fics.

anyways, here’s 8.3k of genya’s thoughts and self-worth issues but make it canon-divergent and far more self destructive because i refuse to believe he wouldn’t pick up forms of damaging habits because he thinks as long as he can regenerate. it “doesn’t matter” like sir that’s not how this works

also cue me making genya have a bond with his crow because i refuse to let him be completely alone, at least not in this fic. someone give him a hug, he needs it

Let me know if a trigger should be added!!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Genya knew very little about what life was supposed to entail.

He knew practically nothing, really, not with how his muscles ached and burned after he walked for hours without stopping, or how he would watch the sunrise and wait for his body to turn to ash like all the other demons he stole from.

The sun would come up, staring down at the world and lighting it up with a faint glow that was the color of molten rock. It festered and bore down on whoever moved under the rays of heat, and sometimes Genya found himself avoiding it from habit.

It burned unpleasant memories into his skin, made his mind go hazy with an unrecognizable displeasure. The world would continue to move on, and all he could do was try to figure out what was allowing him to stay alive when all he could ever think about was how much he wished he could die like the others around him.

He felt more demon than he did human; Felt more violent than he did peaceful. It was an everlasting conflict inside his skull, the way he begged himself to let sunlight dance on his skin like children allowing the moon to kiss their temples and hold their hands at night while they waited for their parents and older siblings to return.

The days went by in a blur, and the only reminder he was ever given was when his crow fluttered down from the sky and landed on his shoulder, waiting patiently as he breathed raggedly and waited for the feeling of violence to pass and leave his system.

He was a demon before he was a human; Was violent before he could ever calm down and nod along limply like a good person should. So he stayed away from people, fought solo and managed to climb the ranks rather easily despite the pain that followed him with every step he took.

It didn’t matter if he wasn’t ranked highly within the Corps, as that wasn’t something he particularly cared about. No, Genya just wanted to get better at what he did and grow stronger- That’s all.

Sometimes his crow would stay on his shoulder for a few days at a time, waiting for him to yell at her to go away. Genya wished that he wasn’t so mad all the time, wished he could take a moment and calm down so he could look at the bird and not get filled with prickling guilt and unease. But he wasn’t someone who knew how to cope, wasn’t someone who tried to figure out how to apologize when all he could do was keep moving forwards.

His crow never got mad at him, which was something he wished he could feel good about. Her name was Jakkaru, and not once had she ever tried to scream at him for constantly ignoring warning signs involving his health.

If he couldn’t stop his head from pounding and mind going under the thick fog that often plagued his body after he worked under the effects of Blood Demon Art for too long, Jakkaru would simply wait with him. Genya didn’t know why the crow gave two fuck’s about him, not when he was aggressive and short tempered. He had practically thrown the poor thing when he was first given her, chucked her like a pebble.

But she stayed loyal to him, sitting on his shoulder by the crook of his neck and waiting until he was done hissing and choking on the stomach acid that pushed past his throat and foamed in his mouth.

She gave him missions and croaked about how the sun was nice, mentioning how she liked sunflower seeds or how some market places were offering jars of honey. Jakkaru mentioned the day of the week for him, told him about how the water nearby in streams and rivers should be cold and nice to bathe in or use to stay hydrated.

She would mention things he wouldn’t have ever thought of, and he wanted to say it was because she was worried about him. Genya didn’t know why anyone would care about him, let alone a crow of all things, but he was too far lost in his own head to try and figure out why.

Her eyes were as dark as coal, unnerving and yet they met his gaze with a peculiar distaste for the way he couldn’t seem to acknowledge how much he should rest and hide from responsibility for a day or two. So she would stay with him for a bit, squawking about things he would have never heard about until then.

And in return, after she would leave and fly off to wherever it was the crows went after giving their human partner a mission, he would wander to the village and buy sunflower seeds from the vendor; Sometimes he'd get a few jars of honey, place it into a small pouch and tuck it away against his side.

She always came and found him after a few days, once his mission was complete and his body was aching and he struggled to breathe as blood filled his head and everything around him moved and swirled in a mixture of colors and blinding lights.

Genya would be lost in his head for several hours; Thinking about things that didn’t even exist. He clawed at his skin and gasped for air, shook his head and prayed to whatever gods that existed that he would be granted a bit of mercy so he could clear his mind and return to the land of the living.

He wanted to be free of the closed-off feeling that haunted him and curled around his head, wanted to let his body go limp while he sat against a tree cleaning the blade of his sword which he didn’t even use.

But he did use it, didn’t he?

There were plenty of occasions where his blade was drawn from its sheath, he would know, afterall he was the one taking the weapon out for usage. His Nichirin Blade was made to cut a demon’s head and harm a demon, to destroy and break its cells so it wouldn’t be able to regenerate.

And that’s what it did, that’s what it was used for. He used it to stop the way he felt guilty, used it to stop the howling in his head that screamed at him for not being fast or strong enough. The weapon was made to kill and destroy demons, and Genya was more demonic than he would ever be human.

Sometimes it hurt more than it helped, stinging and causing blood to pool from the cuts and form in small beads that he smudged away with his palm after a few minutes. Sometimes it made the guilt he felt a little less unbearable, and he would be able to breathe and not break apart like a vase being shattered.

That was okay too, he imagined, seeing as he wasn’t a person of much worth and therefore it didn’t matter if he got hurt more than needed. His pain could be ignored in favor of someone else’s, and he wouldn’t mind such a feat. As long as the people in the Corps could get treated and stayed alive above all else, it was fine.

He wielded a gun and shot demons dead with a weapon that wasn’t built for close range; Fought with Nichirin bullets that sliced flesh open and caused demons to choke and lose their sense of stability.

There were battles where he shot and killed his opponent quickly, an act of mercy he supposed, and then there were other nights where he fought until dawn and let his body get used as a vessel for agony and wounds that would have been fatal if it weren’t for his ability to regenerate.

He could only do so much he supposed, and eating demons was one of those things. They never expected him to lunge at them, never expected him to bite down on their arm and let their tainted blood spill over his tongue.

The teenager had tasted the coppery vitality that flowed through them, let it wash over him and send his nerves into a frenzy; And he didn’t hate it. He didn’t hate what he let himself do in order to reach that point. Sometimes it hurt, sure, but he didn’t pay attention to the feeling when energy rushed through his veins and he was fast enough to dodge and fight the creatures who empowered him to reach their levels of destruction.

It was a rotten feeling, the one that often overtook him and burned images of destruction and bloodlust through his mind. He didn’t mind the tugging that carried him through each attack, didn’t mind the ripping of nails against his skin and slashing him open like he was a sandbag and being buried underneath the soil for a garden’s growth.

He fought demons up close because it helped stop his mind from racing, helped soothe the constant anger that filled him and made him wish he could be someone else. Fighting with his teeth and hands like a rabid animal was something he knew how to do, something he used to his benefit at every chance he got.

Eating demons resulted in a power surge, a flood of aggression that made him lash out and attack the nearest opponent that was trying to eat him like prey. It was stupid, the way he would shed so much blood just for the feeling of fangs biting into his arms. And yet, no matter how moronic he knew it was, how horrid the motivations were underneath each action and excuse, he would still continue to do it.

The brief moment of blood rushing in his ears and the sound of someone choking on bile and their vitality was like a wake-up call; Something toxic and horrific to hear but one of the few things that could plague him and mean the world to him.

It was vibrant, the way he would finish a fight and kick the corpse of a demon away in front of him; Wiping his mouth on the corner of his sleeve and staring at the creature’s decaying body as it slowly broke apart and turned into ash. Genya didn’t mind the way their blood would stick to his hands or dye his saliva a metallic red. He didn’t mind the way the muscles in his arms would latch onto his bruised and bleeding flesh as it healed and mended.

He would stitch himself back together, healing slowly but far faster than any human could ever hope to achieve. It was a bittersweet thing, his ability to outpace other humans through regeneration and reaction times. And yet he didn’t take pride in knowing he was one of the few people in the Corps who could eat demons and gain the demonic attributes that came with such a transformation.

There were others who could do what he did, he knew this.

Genya could get so much as a singular drop of blood from the monsters he swore to kill, and suddenly he was faster than everyone else and could regenerate just like a real demon.

Demons were fast, but he became faster. If they were strong, he took their strength and made it his own just to spite the universe for the luck he had been given. If he couldn’t use Breathing Styles or develop his own, he would ignore it all and focus on the one thing he seemed to be good at.

He wasn’t human enough, not with how he tended to lash out and refrain from talking to others. People didn’t like him, and he couldn’t blame them when they glanced off to the side and directed him somewhere else. They were displeased with him for existing, and sometimes such a thing could hurt worse than the tip of his sword lodged in his thigh, but that was okay.

Sometimes the hatred from other people was enough to make him want to work harder and forget how much he wanted to close his eyes and stay asleep. Sometimes the hatred from other people was enough to make him ignore his own needs and continue to move towards a goal that was shared by many slayers, the idea that if they could all get stronger perhaps they’d be of use to those who knew what they were doing.

So maybe if he could learn how to utilize his pain and disgust with himself, he could become faster and stronger than his current state. If he could kill and eat demons faster, learn how to handle the flow of energy and strength that would tint his blood and turn him bitter, he could be of more use to the slayers who were normal.

He was silent above it all, wallowing in self-hate and letting destruction kill his desire to become a good person. He couldn’t be anyone better than this, couldn’t become someone who was worthy of acknowledgement or anything that might bring a smile to his face.

There were many things he had to do, but even by trying to strive for his desires and wanting to reach his goals always resulted in him getting lost in a thick cloud of doubt and self-hate that choked him before he could reassure himself that he was worthy of living and moving about like everyone else.

He couldn’t breathe in the world like how others did; Couldn’t stare at the sky and think about how the colors were beautiful or how grateful he was to be alive and healthy, walking about and moving through villages.

Jakkaru gave him missions and would sit on his head for a few hours, only leaving once he grumbled about wanting to be alone. Her presence was something close to comforting, something that only ever painted a picture of peaceful reconciliation despite the way panic clawed at his limbs and he felt like he was drowning.

Sometimes that's all he could feel; Hands grabbing his wrists and a burning fir against his skin that left welting marks. He could feel his head being dunked in water, feel it splash against his skin and push into his throat as he choked on the bubbles and gasped for air right after.

Memories haunted him of a man yelling and slamming doors, the visionary of a monster walking in the sunlight but never having been a demon in the first place. He could remember his mother tending to the cuts on his face, could remember his little siblings hiding behind him and asking if he was okay once their father kept the house and finally vanished from the family’s sight.

Genya didn’t know what he had said in response, didn’t know what had happened afterwards. He wanted to think he held their hands and promptly announced he was just fine, and that he would be all better once he slept, but he knew that such a thing was farfetched and rather stupid to believe.

He had memories of his mother holding him close, memories of Sanemi smiling at him and asking if he felt better. And yet there were too many collections of past experiences where all Genya could process was the pain that came with it, the burning hot metal pressing against his skin or the way the world went dark and he was suffocating without any ability to fucking breathe.

He could remember his father being violent, could remember pain breaking out in his lungs as he struggled to breathe. There were times he blacked out, times where nothing made sense and he would come back to reality feeling fuzzy and muddled.

So he ignored everything that came to the surface of his mind; Focused on the burning sensation of a heart stroke taking over him or the way he had a fever and refused to rest. He bandaged any injury that wouldn’t regenerate fast enough, tightened the material that prevented the wound from being exposed to the air and ignored the way he wanted to sleep.

Everything he did was to try and cancel out the desperation that latched onto his system and plagued him for large time spans without any signs of going away. It was a routine that was ingrained deep into his mind, something he could always rely on to help push himself forwards.

Genya wanted to heal and be someone stronger than the rest, but that wasn’t one thing he could accomplish. He wouldn’t ever be confident enough to take what he wanted past the gore and violence he stole from demons at night while fighting them like a rabid animal.

That’s what he was, in a roundabout way.

He attacked demons just like how they attacked humans; Quickly and without pause. He took one look at them and lunged, bit their arm and slammed them into the ground without caring if it hurt himself in the process. Sometimes he fought with them for hours at night, tearing at their throat as they teared at his, and other nights he killed them after the first bite.

Either way he came out victorious, baring claw marks that ran deep in his skin and lasted for weeks to come, even when they should have been healed upon reviving such a fatal injury. It curled in his muscles, became lodged in his memory like how he let his blade get stuck in his skin and cause blood to flow.

The demon would scream at him, hollering curses and profanities as he rip them apart limb by limb; Aimed for the nape and dug his nails into their spine from under their flesh like he was the predator and they were his prey, like he was the hunter and the executioner.

He fought with demons and clashed with their abilities, let himself get lost in the cloud of bloodlust that drove him to keep fighting and ignore the tearing of his flesh or the way his limbs would get dislocated every now and then. They would fight tooth and nail, and Genya would relish in the feeling of his skin getting clawed open as he fought for a life he didn’t deserve to have.

It wasn’t convenient, sure, but he’d rather get ripped apart in the process of slaughtering demons than allow himself to get mad at people for irritating him when it was his own fault for getting upset.

He killed demons by allowing them to try and kill him, and that was all that mattered. He got the job done, completed each mission upon receiving it and never once allowed himself to slip away into an inhumane practice of terrorizing humans. Once he ate a demon, he waited for the effects to wear off and stayed back and away from the population.

It didn’t matter to him that much, not when his heart beat in his chest and hammered against his ribs as he breathed slowly and steadily; Ignoring the way each breath he took was shallow. The burning in his skin was unpleasant, but he ignored it every time he felt it, knowing it came in the form of sickness and nausea.

Jakkaru would come by after a while, flutter down from the sky and land on the ground next to him from where he’d sit; Eyes dull as he repeated the action of cleaning his blade over and over again. His mind was in another world in those moments, and he knew that trying to stop the way his head spun and nothing made sense would be futile.

She would wait patiently, hop around and poke at his legs with her beak. Sometimes there was a letter tied to her leg, and he would distantly wonder who would write anything to him if he had no comrades and no living family besides Sanemi.

He wouldn’t be able to move, sitting and waiting as the sun set on the second day of his mission and his mind finally calmed down. The demonic bullshit he acquired with every drop of blood he drank would finally disappear and fade away like the demons it came from. His skin would burn and he'd gasp for breath, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

The crow would wait, croak out a greeting only after he was breathing normally and avoiding her gaze. Sometimes, when he truly felt alone and unwell, he would offer a weak ‘Hello’ in response. Jakkaru never got mad at him, he knew this, but she seemed sad when he was like that. Maybe she was sad that he was sick of living, or sad that he wasn’t being his normal self.

Genya didn’t know what she got so upset about, not when it was his own fault for letting his mind deteriorate so fast and body go numb with a broken desire to prove his worth. He didn’t have anything to prove anymore, though, nothing at all.

The only thing someone like him could prove was the fact that they’d never attack a human. He was more demon than he was human, so it fit the picture. He had to be of use to those who were actually worth the praise and effort, had to be stronger than what he was currently so he could actually be of value.

Exhaustion plagued him after each needless battle, and he’d stare at his reflection on his sword for several minutes before finally rummaging in his pocket for a small pouch of sunflower seeds, something he had started to carry on him after the first month of knowing his crow’s name and actually listening to what nonsense she spewed.

She liked sunflower seeds and enjoyed eating crab meat, on the occasion she actually had access to it. Genya would always try to buy her some when he had time, or when he had enough cash on him to actually go to a market place without feeling pressured to buy everything all at once.

So here he was, underneath a tree at night with his head pounding and his hands holding his sword as he waited for the adrenaline rush to disappear and mind go numb.

Jakkaru was eating sunflower seeds from the small pouch he carried, hopping around the tiny bag every few minutes as if to show Genya that she was still there besides him. Her wings would flutter, and he could hear her peck at the outer shell of the seeds, but it didn’t really help him stay aware of the world.

His head hurt and he wanted to fall asleep, but he didn’t trust himself to do so. There was blood on his tongue, and he couldn’t tell if it was his or the demon’s. His throat was sore, and he could feel his skin pulling itself back together again at a slow and nearly unbearable rate. He knew it hurt above all else, but everything hurt, so it wasn’t like he was fazed by it anymore.

His eyes were dull as he stared at his reflection, and distantly he wondered what use it would be if he were to bring the sword to his neck and relish in the idea that it would actually kill him. He could die like a normal human when he wasn’t plagued by demonic attributes, but even when he was a demon he lacked the guts to die like the rest of them and burn to ash.

There were no more Nichirin bullets left in his gun, as he had used them all last mission before this one. So he had killed the demon like an animal killing its prey, ripped its head off its body and chucked it into the burning sunlight from the break of dawn. It had festered under his skin, the light that came hurtling down from the horizon and glowing in warm hues of rosy gold and bright oranges.

Jakkaru would often bring him pouches of the metal pellets before he actually ran out of them, but she hadn’t given him any since last week. That was fine, seeing as she knew what went through his head as he loaded the gun each time.

Sure, he wished he had possessed the bullets in this battle, but the feeling of nails raking against his skin and tearing him open violently wasn’t something he would ever deny himself of. His heart had hammered in his chest, and he had kicked the fucker across the tree line right after; Taking in the feeling of malice that his opponent possessed and using it to his advantage.

He had felt pain break out in his body, let his nerves get swarmed with adrenaline and self-hate. He had bared his fangs like a rabid animal, and had lunged at the demon like he was just another monster fighting over a human corpse.

The idea made him sick, but that was a simple and honest comparison. He looked and acted like the creatures he swore to destroy, and that was something he couldn’t deny. He couldn’t deny the fact that he wasn’t human enough to be considered a valuable person, or someone who mattered in the slightest.

That’s why he would fight and shed his blood needlessly on most missions. He needed something to hurt him worse than his sword tearing his flesh or how he deprived himself of interacting with other people; Needed something to hurt him worse than how much he wished he could turn back time and return to his childhood where he could play with his little siblings and do whatever Sanemi asked of him.

There were so many things he allowed himself to indulge in, no matter how unhealthy it was.

Sometimes he would ignore his desire to sleep and continue trudging through the forest, listening to crickets chirp and the wind whirl in the trees. Other times he would sit down and wait for his next mission, resting his fingertips over the sharp part of his blade and waiting for something to make him pull away.

He didn’t know what else to do, not when he was exhausted and couldn’t write to anyone besides himself. Once every few weeks when he was under pressure from eating too many demons or felt guiltier than normal, he would try to write a letter to his older brother.

His words weren’t ever coherent on the paper, and he didn’t know what to say or even talk about. Genya didn’t know how to greet him, didn’t know how to say he was sorry for having accused him of murder. Perhaps there was nothing he could say in the first place, not unless he were to clear his head and be a better person.

But being better meant learning how to use a Breathing Style, meant no longer eating demons to go on par with them and actually win a battle. It meant he had to stop letting his hands draw his sword and press it against his skin, meant he couldn’t stab through his flesh to test if he was still partially a demon, regeneration coursing through his veins.

It meant he had to take care of himself and sleep, meant he couldn’t keep avoiding going to a Wisteria House to treat the wounds that wouldn’t heal. It meant he had to eat well and not rely on feeding from mouthfuls of blood from his opponents to stay alive, meant he had to rest and stop being so fucking stuipid at every turn.

It meant he needed to grow up and forget about bonding with his only remaining brother, because it wasn’t going to ever happen.

Genya wanted to write how sorry he was, wanted to write about how badly he wished he wanted to start over and apologize until he lost his voice; But he couldn’t ever put that feeling into words.

The parchment he would hold as he tried to write the letter would be utterly blank, would have only a few words on it in shaky ink. He wouldn’t know how to continue, wouldn’t know what to say or how to say it. Sometimes the apologies flowed naturally before it shifted into him talking about the season or how many demons he had killed lately.

He wrote things down as soon as they came to mind, butchered anything in relation to him and kept everything strictly informative- And yet it never lasted. His words were laced with care and emotions, reactions about the thing he was writing about.

It wasn’t like he ever planned on sending them, so he would write whatever came to mind as long as it wasn’t about himself. He wrote countless things, folded the paper and gently placed it in one of his many pouches alongside all the other letters. He didn’t ever check the pouch, didn’t go back to read his words. He wrote things, and forgot them right after.

They didn’t matter, so he ignored how much he wished that they did.

And so, Jakkaru watched him with eyes that burned, made guilt plague him and the world turn into a foggy mess. It wasn’t intentional, not when she knew how long he could stay down and wallow in self-hate. The crow was intelligent despite the way Genya didn’t give her much emotion outside of anger and self-hate to work with, besides the occasional exhaustion that would show on his face.

She ate the sunflower seeds besides him, digging around in the pouch and swallowing the pits of the flower every few moments. She never chirped any messages to him unless it was important, and as of right now nothing was of any urgency.

His head hurt and he knew his stomach was rolling with nausea, but that was his own fault. He drank too much blood from the demon and lavished in the pain of having his left arm practically getting ripped off. Then again, it might’ve been from the half-witted guilt he felt for having taken so long killing the creature in the first place, but he couldn’t be sure.

He couldn’t tell a difference though, not as he breathed in and out, trying to dispel the thick fog that was glazing his eyes over with sickness and half-lucidity. She watched and waited, patient with him as he stayed sitting with his back against the tree; Breathing shallow and yet perfectly even.

It wasn’t like eating too many demons resulted in him dying, although he’d admit the sensation that came with the aftermath was a near thing. It attacked his lungs and made everything blurry, but he could still function. Digging his nails into his hands was normally enough to snap himself out of the half-awareness he found himself portraying after taking in too much blood or letting himself swallow more flesh than necessary.

He would merely get lost in his head for a few hours, then stay sitting against the tree as the effects finally wore off and he could comprehend everything happening. It didn’t hinder him that much, not when he wasn’t of a high rank- Wasn’t needed as much.

Sometimes it took longer than a day to go back to normal, and he would sit in the shade regulating his breathing with his eyes half-lidded and his hands resting on the blade of his sword; Palms pressing against the metal as he strived to find a familiar sense of grounding and self-driven pain. Once and awhile the cuts across his palms wouldn’t help, and he would debate whether or not stabbing his thigh would be worth the initial shock.

Most days, unironically, he decided that it was worth it.

Genya often decided the grimacing and hissing that came with the aftermath of doing something as stupid as causing his body to try and heal with the remaining demon like attributes he had was worth it, and he’d stab one of his legs until the burning sensation turned into a bloody mess through the fabric of his uniform.

It wasn’t like it made him feel good, as it hurt and burned like alcohol being threaded through his injuries; But it made him feel better. It wasn’t good for him in the slightest, but he could regenerate and all the wounds would fade away.

Surely it didn’t matter as much if someone else did it, if someone else did the same things he did. His injuries could fade away and he could act like they never existed in the first place, so it wasn’t like it was actually hurting him or causing him to suffer in the long run.

It wasn’t healthy, and he knew he shouldn’t be doing it, but it helped ease the waves of guilt that came to haunt him at night on the occasion he wasn’t killing demons by using his body as a weapon. He killed and ate parts of them, wiped their blood off his mouth and vomited up the remaining flesh he had previously consumed in the heat of the battle.

His body was sore, and he hated the warmth of sunlight against his skin afterwards, but he knew he should feel relief. He could still walk through the sun, even though the demonic instincts he adapted after consuming the creatures urged him to avoid the light at all costs.

The sunlight couldn’t kill him, even when he was more demon than human; And such a thing should make him feel better about himself. It should make him think that he was human, make him acknowledge that he was a human before a demon, but that’s not what the lack of burning symbolized for him.

It hurt to think that he was a human, seeing as he knew humans couldn’t regenerate or do the things he did; But it hurt worse to imagine himself as a demon. It hurt to acknowledge himself as either, simply because he didn’t fit in like all the others. There was no group of people he could call himself, simply because humans didn’t eat demons, and he did; But demons ate humans, and he didn’t.

There were other people who could eat demons and gain their attributes, Genya knew this, but he also knew that people like him weren’t actually present within society. He didn’t know anyone who did what he did, and even if someone else ate demons to become stronger and faster in replace of using a Breathing Style, he was certain they were probably dead.

He wasn’t sure he could do anything about that, not when he could barely make sure he kept himself healthy enough to stay alive and not pass out for a solid two days.

“Head to the Wisteria House at the base of the mountain,” Jakkaru finally chirped, and he blinked the blurriness out of his vision. His hands curled around the blade in his lap subconsciously, and he winced when he felt the metal press harshly against his skin.

“It’s South-East, very close. Not a long trip.” She croaked again, blinking. His crow stared at him from where she was, feet in the mud and several sunflower seeds half buried in the ground from where she had dropped them after taking them out of the pouch.

Genya opened his mouth to reply, but found himself not having any words to respond with. He looked back at the bird, who only tipped her head at him in a silent curiosity. It made slight frustration bubble into his throat, the way she never got mad or short tempered with how little self preservation he had.

She didn’t say anything else, waiting for him to reply in any manner. Words, a small gesture, whatever he could manage. And yet, the teenager couldn’t seem to do anything; Not with how sick he felt. His head was under thick clouds of nausea and discomfort, and all he wanted to do was find a stream to sit down by and run his hands through so he could get the blood off.

His vision was tainted with redness, but he figured that must’ve been from the blood dripping from his forehead from a nasty head wound. It was hot against his skin, rolling down the side of his face and over his eyelid.

The teenager swallowed, slowly blinking and trying to move his hands away from his blade in favor of stopping the metal from cutting his skin anymore than it already had. After a few minutes, his senses came back to him and he recoiled from the weapon on his lap; Traces of crimson ichor remaining on the thin edge of the blade.

Jakkaru waited for a few more minutes, watching him even out his breathing further and pull himself away from his thoughts in favor of focusing on reality. He made no move to get up or respond though, and she scuttled closer with a small trill as if she was unnerved by how quiet he was being. Genya was always quiet after missions that resulted in him eating too much of his opponent, though.

Then again, it must’ve been a frustrated quiet, or at least one that showed hits of responsiveness. Right now, he felt too sick to move or do so much as reach up and wipe the blood away from his eyes or the stickiness from the edges of his mouth that was dripping down his chin.

It made him wish he could be faster in his recovery, but no matter how many times he acted recklessly and let himself drink too much blood or swallow the flesh of his opponents as if it were bites of rice and salmon, he could never gain a tolerance to healing faster from the aftermath. Maybe it wasn’t possible, not when such a thing wasn’t easy on his digestive tract or sense of humanity, but it still made him wish he could do more.

His wounds were still healing; From the achingly slow mending of his skin on his left side of his abdomen from where the demon had ripped him open, as well as the rather large gash on his forehead that was still trickling fresh blood down the sides of his face and over his nose like it was water running across his skin.

The cuts on his palms stung, but they were so small that it was as if they weren’t healing anymore. They were trickling with blood when he clenched his hands into fists, but he couldn’t feel the same tugging sensation of his cells rebuilding themselves like he could for his other injuries.

Perhaps self-inflicted wounds wouldn’t heal as fast as the others, not when he didn’t mind the pain on his hands or the pain that often plagued his thighs on separate occasions.

Most injuries he caused to himself healed if he was still dealing with the rush of adrenaline he got from eating demons, but something as small as this probably wouldn’t heal entirely if he was already out of the demonic traits he had from last night’s battle.

Even if he had enough, he knew he’d focus on regenerating his abdomen and stopping the bleeding from his head above all else, so maybe that was why his hands weren’t healing. He didn’t really mind, not when the staining was a phantom reminder of how much he still needed to learn and develop.

“Head to the Wisteria House, Genya,” His crow echoed again, hopping onto his knee and tilting her head at him further. Her eyes burned into his, and if he was actually in the right place of mind where he wasn’t fighting himself over staying awake and following Jakkaru’s orders or letting himself pass the fuck out, he would have glared at her.

But he wasn’t in the right place of mind, not when he felt like he was going to vomit and cry all at once. He knew he had to have fought the demon for several hours, and knew that if he had wanted to win after diving in like a suicidal manic, he would have needed to consume a large amount of the creature's blood or flesh to maintain on par with them; But it still hurt.

He expected a lot of things to hurt, and although this was one of those things, it still hurt and he wished that it would stop. The stinging in his palms wouldn’t help soothe the terrible ache in his body, or the self-hate that was flooding through his mind now that the battle was over.

“‘M fine..” He finally spoke, voice slurred as he blinked away the wetness that threatened to pool in the corners of his eyes. Jakkaru didn’t need to see him cry over something as silly as being sick, nor did anyone else need to see tears streak his face when he still had a few demon-like traits present in his appearance.

Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat and washed over his tongue briefly, he winced at the acidic taste that flooded his senses and made him suppress a gag. The taste was replaced by a metallic copper, but it was already fading away with the rising sun that was draping across his face.

He spent hours waiting to get better, and yet it still always managed to surprise him when the night turned into early dawn. The slayer winced, feeling the warmth slowly spill from the sky and touch his cold and bloodied face as if it was trying to tilt his head up to see the lightening sky and acknowledge that hey, it was finally daytime and demons could no longer walk freely.

That hey, demons would be burning right now if the sun was dancing across their skin and holding their jaws with soft hands that didn’t actually exist. If he was a real demon he’d be burning right now, wouldn’t he? Maybe if he waited a little longer he would start to turn to ash and prove himself correct, that he wasn’t human at all.

“You are sick, so you need to heal.” Her voice brought him out of his loathing mind, and the way she crowed each syllable made him want to cry. It made his chest ache, and he sputtered out a choked laugh; Broken and cracked in every manner. It was like glass being thrown onto the ground, shattering and splintering apart; The shards being sent in every other direction.

Jakkaru just wanted him to get up and carefully go to a place where he would get treated, wanted him to stop wallowing in the thoughts that only fueled his lack of preservation. She stared at him with concern, even though her small little existence couldn’t truly ever portray such an emotion. She was a bird and had no expressions besides flapping her wings or squeaking angrily- And she never got angry at him.

She was the opposite of him, in a way. He got angry because he hated being sad, hated crying or letting himself bite back pathetic sobs that attacked him every few weeks, because somethings the pain was just too much and getting frustrated wasn’t helping him.

Genya got angry because it was easier than being sad, and that was as simple as he could explain it. Jakkaru was concerned and sad, mopey even, because it was her natural response to his own self-hate. She sat in his shoulder and waited for him to calm down, even when he got mad at her and told her to fuck off.

If he knew how to apologize verbally, he would have apologized a thousand times by now. It wasn’t her fault for being worried, not when even he could tell he had horrible habits and couldn’t ever seem to ignore the urge to act on them.

It was a bad thing, the way he had easy access to all his self-destructive tools. He never used his gun, but sometimes he wondered what would happen if he were. Thoughts like that came and went, and he often tried to ignore them because he couldn’t just test out that theory for the shits and giggles, so he had to block them out as best he could.

“Mhm..” He nodded, taking blood on his tongue. His head felt heavy, and he wanted to let it hang downwards. If he had any energy he would pull his legs close to his chest and close his eyes in favor of letting the clouds of exhaustion lull him into a sleep that would be far from restful.

His wounds were no longer healing, if he was paying attention correctly, meaning he would have to treat them soon if he wanted to stay alive. Or he could go on a desperate search for another demon and drink their blood to gain regeneration abilities again, but such a thing would be stupid and a waste of time.

“Genya.” Jakkaru croaked again, and the hopelessness that was laced through her words made him wish he could screw his eyes shut and ignore her entirely. It would be cruel if him to tell her to fuck off, or to leave him alone, because he didn’t want to be alone even if that’s what he said; He wanted to be with another person, but there was no one to be with.

It would be cruel of him to ignore her, no matter how much he wished he could do so- But such a desire was far and in between, a distant thing that came and went with the tugging sensation that longed for physical touch and the warmth of someone besides him.

But she was just worried, and it would be cruel of him to try and block out her pathetically quiet calls of his name, as if chirping his alias would keep him awake.

Maybe it would, if he could actually allow himself to try and slip away from reality like he often permitted himself to do when he was alone and she wasn’t trying to burrow in between his shoulder and neck.

Maybe if he was all alone on this mission and she hadn’t flown in as soon as he sat down under this tree, he would be crying silently and biting his tongue as his hands gripped his blade with the intention to cut and carve lines into his skin.

But he wasn’t alone, and his crow was right here on his knee hopping closer to him and carefully maneuvering onto his thigh; Her body no heavier than the pouch of sunflower seeds he always carried so she could have something to eat on the occasion she traveled with him, hiding on his shoulder besides his neck as he walked quietly all alone to the next destination where his mission would take place.

“‘M fine, Jakkaru.” He repeated again, reaching out with a shaky hand and letting his bloodied fingertips rest against the crow’s small head; Feeling as if the weight of the world was within his hand as he gently ghosted across the ebony hued feathers of the only creature left alive to really know him.

There was no one to really know him, though. Sanemi didn’t know him anymore, only knew a fractured image of Genya when he was just a child- When they both lived with their siblings and mother. Now they were older and distant from one another, a shattered bond. Genya had no one else to call a comrade, no one else who might know one thing about him.

Jakkaru did, technically.

She knew he liked watching rivers flow, liked walking through villages without speaking to hear the chatter and business of people who were unaware of the hellish actions that went down in the shadows behind their homes and deep within the mountains.

She knew he was tired of lacking sleep, no matter how many nights he purposely continued to travel instead of finding a place to rest and recover his energy. She knew he was tired of relying on spite to get him through the day, but seemed to understand that was the only thing that motivated him to stay alive in the first place.

Sometimes she found him when he was bandaging his thighs, and she would flutter down and sit besides him, waiting for him to finish. The bird knew he drove his blade through his flesh entirely, knew he didn’t stop until the tip of his sword hit the ground under him. She knew he only did it to test if he could still heal, knew he did such a thing to check if he was more demon than he was human- But she also knew he didn’t mind the agony that came with it.

Even if it hurt him, that was the entire point, wasn’t it? The pain was what drove him to keep going, and even when it felt like it was too much, he kept moving forwards and continuing to each destination that required a slayer’s presence, even if he felt more like a monster than a savior of any form.

The bird stared at him, eyes unwavering as they watched his face crack further and further; The broken defensiveness he wore that concealed how horribly he truly felt slowly ebbing away to reveal a child who just wanted to be okay again.

Genya would never be okay, though. He could do everything that was asked of him, and he would still end up back where he started without any progress made. He could shed as much blood as he wanted, and still not provide any improvements for the people he swore to protect by killing every demon to exist.

There were only so many things a person like him could do, only so many things he could try to do to make up for his lack of direction- His lack of logic. He ate demons and became the same fucking thing he swore to destroy just to repeat the cycle of getting hurt under his opponent's nails.

No matter what he did to try and make up for his mistakes, it wouldn’t matter.

He wasn’t human enough, and until he was, he would stay a demon undeserving of the gentle acceptance he so desperately desired.

Notes:

boom! have a genya-centric fic that is canon-divergent and dives into my rather random headcanon that he lacks a decent amount of self preservation because he has traces of remaining demon instincts !! thanks for reading <33

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