Work Text:
❝ Life is more hellish than hell itself ❞
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, Rashōmon and Seventeen Other Stories
THE CHAMELEON
You had everything. Things that most couldn’t even begin to dream about. Luxury, comfort, and wealth. Talent, status, and connections. You lived in high society, donned gold and silver, draped in priceless jewels. You laughed and rubbed shoulders with influential characters.
All you needed to do was smile, play your role till you bled out, till your skin weaved into a spider web.
Smile.
Listen.
Obey.
Be the perfect doll. Clean up the shattered pieces. Don your mask again. Every time it breaks, pick it back up and fix it. Glue it all together once again. Shaky hands and smiles. Stitch it all up.
Even if you saw through all the masks, all the fakery and malice hidden between sweet words, turn your head away. If you didn’t choose to be ignorant, how could you be the perfect child then? Your mother and father—people whose faces you’d long forgotten—would be so disappointed in you. You couldn’t let that happen, could you?
You already heard the voices, the negativity, the complaints, and the dislike expressed for you when they thought you weren’t listening.
You were always listening.
You’d also seen other kinds of voices, neither positive nor negative, but utterly unwelcome and distasteful.
When there were people who looked at you in awe, there were also those who looked at you in envy. Good and bad. Positive and negative. Light and dark. Antitheses always came together.
You had seen everything. You had heard everything. You knew it all. There was nothing new, and yet even that didn’t quite make you feel anything.
How dull life was, completely devoid of colour.
Every day was the same. Every morning, the sun rose in the east. Every night, it set in the west. Monotonous routine repeated over and over again. Each day was the same act, the same performance, following the same steps.
What was the purpose of life? To wake up every day, act out a performance on the World Stage, and go back to sleep again, only to repeat it the next? What was the point then?
But you shouldn’t think that. You had everything. There was nothing you were missing. Yes, that was what everyone said. Lucky. You were so lucky, with all the privileges in the world. Wealth, talents, connections.
So why, why were you so empty?
Why did the person staring back at you in the mirror have such a blank stare? Why did they have angry red lines threaded on their arms?
THE HOUND
He had nothing. That was a thing he could not change, not when lives here meant nothing. People died and were forgotten on a daily basis. The streets were filled with the scent of death, a gagging, horrible smell. They clung to every corner and every inch of his skin.
His lungs burned with every breath he took. People would look down from above and would never notice his existence.
More times than he could count, he thought he should just die. This way, he would be able to escape and leave this land of rotting flesh. He would no longer need to suffer.
He didn’t fear death after all. He didn’t fear the pain of dying. Didn’t mind anything. He felt nothing. People looked at him, like he was a silent rabid dog. The children of his age whispered behind his back about how he had no feelings. Even adults murmured on about how he was a devil’s child with no heart.
Life was painful. Life was empty. Life was hell.
The only people he had beside him were his sister and the orphans in the same condition as him. They killed. They fought. They struggled to live to see another day.
All for what?
To continue another day in a place more hellish than hell?
Yes.
To continue on, to protect those under his care, to live another day, holding onto a grim hope that didn’t even exist. All for a whim to live.
When he woke up in the mornings, he would never know if the space next to him, once warm, would be frozen again or not. The friends he made could leave overnight, without words, without notice. Constantly, he lived in a state of unpredictability. They went days without food, eating weeds from fields and scavenging what little they could find. They slaved away for survival.
Maybe it was a human’s natural survival instinct that pushed them on, or maybe it was knowing that there were others by his side to endure it with. All he knew was that he chose to continue living despite all the pain and suffering it brought.
So, when everything came crashing down. Despite surviving against all odds—starvation, disasters, diseases—they still left through such a small thing.
Luck. That was all it was. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And that was all it took for their fragile lives to be taken from them. After everything they endured, such a random and meaningless thing was all it took for their past and future to be wiped clean.
For the very first time, he felt emotions. He felt hatred. He felt human.
He felt nothing. He felt everything. He felt less. He felt more.
In it all, the empty void within him continued to exist.
THE PET
It was then, when they had completely given up on their lives, that everything changed. Each was approached by a man who promised to change their life. The men held out their hands and told them that they would give them what they wanted. In exchange, all they needed was to join them.
And join them they did.
Two people, lost in lives that gave them nothing. Offered salvation, a path to escape. What other choice did they have?
“Give me a purpose to live, and I’ll give you my everything.”
“I want to find a reason… a meaning to my life.”
And so, the ‘saviours’ agreed.
“Alright.”
“I will give you one.”
THE BLACK CAT
What is the meaning of life? What is the point of living a life where one suffers so? They say suffering is an integral part of life. To live is to suffer. To suffer is to live.
Why must that be?
Your hands clenched together and then released. The way he looked at you, eyes blank—a dark, murky depth that was all too familiar. He resembled the person in the mirror of that house. You wanted to reach out to him, piece back the falling shards, tell him to glue them back on, hold in all the dark fog spilling from him.
And–
Smile.
It was familiar. Those words and actions would be familiar, correct. After all, they were what you told yourself over and over back then.
But truly, how correct were they now? How much did those words comfort you? Or did they only drive you to the edge, leaving a gaping hole of tangled emptiness that allowed him to take advantage of?
“Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, correct?” You said instead, taking note of the blood seeping through the sloppy bandaging on his torso.
The boy nodded curtly. He showed no signs of further movement. No expression on his face. Nothing to indicate he was feeling the wound. Just that same blank stare.
Despite all your feelings, you kept your mask on. Cold, detached, professional. A supposed underground doctor with a rare healing Ability—that was the role you were currently playing. There was no way that something as small as this could ever ruin your perfect streak.
Who cared if this encounter brought back uncomfortable memories and tugged at your heartstrings?
“Alright then, lie down.” You motioned for him to settle on the long table in the centre of the room.
From your peripheral vision, you watched him glance around the medical room as he sat down.
Right. Medical room.
If anyone were to ask you, calling it a ‘medical room’ would be an overstatement. It was merely an abandoned room they had no use for, and so threw it onto you.
The light in the room swung slightly, spilling bright white over smooth floors and empty walls as you flicked it on. Other than a long table that was functioning as a makeshift surgical table, the only things in the room were a bookshelf, a writing desk, and a chair.
A depressing office was a better descriptor of this place.
So much space yet so few things. It just showed how much trust they had in you. Which, considering you hadn’t arrived that long ago, wasn’t a lot.
You would just have to build yourself a solid base quickly, both so you could get a much better furnished room and to complete your mission. You wanted out of this place already. The Mafia was a place that had you walking on metaphorical eggshells constantly.
You also very much missed him.
You moved to stand beside the table after Akutagawa lay down. He watched you like a hawk, following your actions with the same blank, distrustful stare.
You wouldn’t be able to work like this.
“Close your eyes.”
The muscles below his eyes twitched. “...why?”
How were you supposed to explain it was because his gaze was creeping you out? That it dug out unpleasant feelings from below?
You pushed down the sour bile in your throat that was threatening to come up.
“Doctor’s orders,” you told him simply. “It would make the process a lot more efficient. Don’t you want to return quickly? I’m sure you have someone waiting for you.”
He flinched at your last words.
You filed his reaction away for later use.
“Okay.” Finally, he closed his eyes.
Clean, sanitised, and glove pulled on, you took a clean syringe from your collection and returned to him.
“You might feel a slight prick. Try not to flinch.” With that, you pushed the needle into his arm, watching as the scarlet liquid—an Ability user’s blood—disappeared into his veins. Slowly, you could feel his tense muscles relaxing, drifting off into a state of drowsiness.
Perfect.
You threw the used syringe away. Couldn’t have it cross-contaminating now, could you?
As you waited for the Ability to fully set in, you grabbed your pen and notepad from where it was tucked safely away in your coat. Your mission this time was simple—collect information within the Mafia. It would be hard to rise up in the ranks to a trusted position where you could be given access to sensitive information in a short amount of time, so this was a better bet. You just needed to extract information through the use of an Ability. Not your own, but one belonging to one of your colleagues.
It was an Ability that made the user’s blood able to induce a drunk-like state when it entered a foreign body. It functioned like a truth serum, compelling the subject to answer honestly and erasing their memory upon waking.
“Let’s ease into this gently,” you said, tapping your pen on your notepad. “You reacted to what I said a few minutes ago, so I must ask, when is this person expecting you?”
You needed to see how long you had for this session.
“In twenty minutes.”
“Okay, and who is it?”
“…Dazai.”
“Dazai Osamu?” You heard about him before. He was the youngest executive in the Mafia’s history and truly a force to be reckoned with. “Why is he waiting for you?”
“For training.”
“Is he your mentor?”
“Yes.”
You weren’t sure how useful this information was, but you still noted it down. “Then, surely he’ll understand if you are a bit late.”
“No.”
You paused. “Why?”
“...he’ll send me back. I can’t disappoint him.”
Something bitter uncurled within you, but you pushed it down.
“I see. How did you meet him?”
This made him hesitate, but only briefly. It seemed it wasn’t something he was willing to disclose easily and was trying to fight against the compulsion to speak.
It didn’t work, of course.
“He… found me in the slums after everyone was killed and recruited me.”
“Who is this everyone?”
“Orphans.”
He didn’t elaborate even with the compulsion, so you didn’t push. Such information wasn’t going to be useful, anyway.
“And you joined Dazai after they all died? Why?”
The man didn't talk much, so you had to ask a lot of follow-up questions just to get the full scope of the situation.
“He said that he could give me anything I wanted if I joined the Mafia.”
You hummed. “Was there anything you wanted specifically that motivated you to accept his offer?”
“He said he would give me a reason to live.”
You froze.
This—
This boy was—
You swallowed the lump in your throat.
No. You shouldn’t keep heading down this line of questions. You were already going off-topic, and this wasn’t helping anything. You had to focus.
“What is your Ability and how does it work?”
After fifteen minutes of questioning, you gave him a capsule that contained the tears of an actual healing Ability user, which quickly fixed both his wound and rid him of the truth serum.
He left, half-dazed, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
Why did you feel this way?
He couldn’t be more different from you. He grew up in the slums; you grew up in riches. He had orphans who offered companionship; you had nobody. He starved, never knowing when a day would be his last; you never went hungry, never had to worry about survival. He had nothing; you had everything. He was unfortunate, and you were too privileged.
And yet, both of your paths converged at one point of similarity—the lack of meaning in your lives and the person who appeared like a saviour, promising to give your lives a purpose if you joined them.
Your thoughts drifted to him.
You were grateful to that man. He saved you. He gave you a purpose in your life. He painted your colourless worlds in vibrant, bright shades. But you weren’t going to delude yourself into thinking he did it for you, nor were you going to assume he would keep you around forever. The moment you became a liability, you would be thrown away.
Was it the same for the boy?
He said that if he disappointed… Dazai, he would be taken back. Back to the slums. Thrown out, in a way.
Just like you.
Both of you had an unstable position, one that was in complete control by your ‘saviours’.
You hated this feeling. It was like there was a spider spinning silk around your heart. The longer it crawled around, the more threads were spun. The more threads that were spun, the more it squeezed your heart. The more you entertained your thoughts, the tighter your chest felt.
You were drowning.
Drowning into nothing.
Sinking deeper and deeper, with a rock tied to your ankles and—
There was a knock at your door.
You startled, breaking out of your trance. “Coming!”
THE RAT
Soft. So, so soft.
You tangled your hands in his hair, lightly scratching against his scalp. His eyes were closed. He sat on the floor with his head against the couch, nestled between your thighs. You perched on it, above him, fingers delicately knotted in his hair.
There was something so strangely peaceful about this all.
Sitting like this made you forget all your worries. It was like a tightened bow of tension had been released. Why did you ever feel so anxious?
“I miss you,” you said quietly, tentatively, afraid of waking him up.
He stirred, and you stilled. His eyes blinked open, captivating you into a sea of beautiful deep indigo and red.
Your breath caught in your throat for a moment before you quickly recovered. You felt your lips pull up instinctively, without force, without control. “You’re awake?”
“Mhm.” Fyodor looked up at you with a soft expression that was bordering on a smile, and your heart skipped a beat.
(You should probably get that checked.)
“You should go rest in your room then.”
His gaze flicked over you before closing his eyes again. He leaned back, hair tickling against your skin. “Something is bothering you.” It wasn’t a question or an accusation, just a mere observation.
You chuckled dryly. Of course he would notice. What did you expect?
“I just saw something interesting on my last mission.”
He hummed, encouraging you to continue.
And continue you did. “Someone who reminded me of my past self, whose circumstances were so different yet so similar to mine.”
“Similar how?”
You hesitated, and he must have noticed, because he leaned further into your touch, into your hands that were still scratching against his scalp.
A content sigh escaped your throat, and you had to push down the warmth growing in your chest. “Well, similar in that we were both ‘saved’. When I gave up on life, you found me. He was also found by someone who said they would give him a reason to live if he joined the Mafia.”
“I see.” You knew he knew. And he knew you knew he knew. You had also asked for the same thing—a reason to live, a purpose to life, a meaning in a meaningless world.
You took a few strands of his hair and started to braid it. “But the circumstances couldn’t be more different.”
Fyodor held you like you were precious. Drew an illusion that he cared, even if he didn’t. He made you feel safe, loved, like he wouldn’t throw you away the moment your use ran out. That boy’s mentor, on the other hand…
You’d seen the treatment he received. He returned to your room way too many times, with new injuries and blood dried on his skin. Too curious, you had followed him once and watched.
The sight had sent a whirlwind of mixed emotions in. You felt both sorrow and an unspeakable spark of fury. It was unusual that you felt so much empathy for a stranger, but this stranger was too much like a reflection of yourself. Not a perfect reflection, but one that hit too close to one.
The boy’s mentor was different from Fyodor. He held him as though he were useless, a nuisance. Made him think that he was nothing and that he could be thrown away at any time, even if he wasn’t. You picked up on all the subtle manipulation through the many times you watched. Other than the physical abuse, he took advantage of his emotions and insecurity. He made the boy rely on him.
A reason to live—he indeed gave him it.
That abusive relationship and attachment to him grew a desire to earn his approval. You saw it in every word, every action, subtle as it was. His reason in staying alive was getting his approval.
Although it differed from how Fyodor did it, you had to admit it was still a way to give someone meaning. A twisted way, but still a way—
(Was his way not twisted?)
The thought caused you to still. You hated the way your thoughts headed. It was nothing untrue, but it made your emotions tumble pitifully.
“Say, Fyodor, can I ask something of you?” you asked, finishing your braid.
“What is it?”
“When you let me go, can you let me go gently?”
Silence.
You swallowed. “If it’s too much to ask for, then forget it. It’s alright.”
More silence.
You shifted uncomfortably.
Then—
“Okay.”
Before you could say anything, he lifted himself off the floor. His face showed no expression, completely passive and blank. You had a distinct feeling that you had said something wrong.
“I’m going back to my room.”
“I–” The moment you heard his voice, you knew you had said something wrong, and he was showing it to you on purpose. If he truly was trying to hide his emotions, you wouldn’t even be suspicious. He knew you would be able to tell.
You clicked your tongue. “I can’t believe I’m going to fall for this willingly again,” you mumbled under your breath.
With a suppressed sigh, your hands reached out, clutching the edge of his sleeve. “Fyodor.” You softened your voice and put your best pleading expression on. “I’m sorry. I won’t ask anything like that ever again.”
You could probably deal with a little pain during your death if it meant that he would uphold this fragile, blissful illusion.
He hummed, pleased. The edges of his eyes softened, and he helped you up.
“Fyodor–”
You weren’t able to finish your sentence, the words melting on your tongue when he reached to fix your collar. His hands brushed against your neck—you were sure this was a deliberate and calculated move on his part—briefly enough to send a shiver through your body.
Cold.
…you wanted more.
He stepped back, a smile on his face. “Мышка, bring a cup of tea to my room, won’t you?”
With that, he left. Leaving you standing there with your mind reeling.
Yes, they were completely different. Similar, but different.