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"Atsushi hated pain.
But pain had been an intimate part of his life for as long as he could remember (...) suffering clung to Atsushi, shaping him. Pain made Atsushi feel like himself. He didn't know any other way to experience this feeling."
-- Kafka Asagiri, 55 Minutes
Atsushi is twelve, and in his hand is a hammer, a set of nails, and bloodied fabric from where he clutches at his shirt, hard enough to bruise. He sits on the cold stone floor and trembles.
Above him, the Headmaster looms. Cold eyes. A smirk, metallic and sharp—a wolf before a rabbit, lurking and ready for the kill. Knowing it's already won.
"Hammer that into your foot."
He can't. It is cowardly, he knows, but he can't.
And so the Headmaster leans over and grabs the hammer and does it himself, and Atsushi screams, he sobs, he digs his nails into his arms and he begs for the pain to be over—but he cannot beg, not when the wolf still lurks, not when it fixes him with those eyes, not when begging would lead to more pain.
Cowardly children like you don't deserve to live.
Atsushi is left on the floor, bloodstained and trembling and empty and burning, it burns. The nail is still in his foot—driven into the ground by steady hands, right down the middle of his foot.
He stays there until the next day. And when rain comes and his foot aches, a bone-deep pain, he does not say anything.
It is not the first time this has happened, and it is not the last time, either.
* * *
There was a void inside of him.
It ached, large and empty and gaping. Consuming. It ate away at him, somewhere in his chest, longing for something . Something to clear his mind, something to bring him back to himself. Something to make him feel alive.
He could ignore it sometimes. On days when the sun shined brightly and the birds sung and he felt right in his skin for once. On the days when Atsushi felt like he existed—like he belonged at the Agency, instead of a cage. His life was the best it had ever been now that he had left the Orphanage. The Headmaster still haunted him, still whispered in his ear— children like you, monsters like you, don't deserve happiness; they will leave you eventually, you know it —but it was getting easier to ignore.
(Atsushi knew they would leave. They would see through him, cut to his core and find a monster there. But was it wrong of him to hope? To close his eyes and think about long walks down the seashore, conversations with his friends, doing good for the city? Having a place to belong, for the first time? Being able to enjoy the red-orange sunrises dipping below the Yokohama skyline? Having freedom?
It was too good to be true. And yet he held on to hope—gripped it tight in his hands, pulled it to his chest for safekeeping, where the Headmaster could never rip it away from him. Pressed it right up against the void inside him and hoped that would fill it, would paint over all the cracks scattered across him—deep gouges exposing the monster caged in the basement, chains around its neck—and remove them from sight, turn him into someone worth loving.)
Atsushi hated pain. The Orphanage had subjected him to years and years of it, through hammers and knives and cold water and hot pokers and nights spent on his knees, scrubbing at the floors, blood blossoming on his palms. He hated it.
But in the early hours of the morning—shooting out of bed, wrapping his arms around himself, tight, as if they would protect him from the man in the corner that spewed poisonous words and harsh glares, cold and dissecting, memories clawing at him even now, threatening to destroy him—the first thing he did was grab at his hair and pull .
Pain sparked in his scalp. Atsushi chased it, bit down on his lip, tugged harder. Hurting was familiar—hurting was what made him him . It filled the void, the one that screamed and clawed at him with a cold heat. When he hurt—grabbing his hair, digging fingernails into his legs, getting injured in the heat of battle, curled up in the tiny closet, listening to the ceiling fan whirr overhead, Don't wake Kyouka, she doesn't need to deal with you, she doesn't need to know what you're really like —it was like he was whole; a being stitched together, transformed. When memories tried to drag him under, blood and bruises reminded him that he was human.
(No one else knew about it. Not Kyouka, and definitely not any of his coworkers. They had taken him in and kindly offered him a place at the Agency. They knew some of it; that he was raised in an orphanage, and had been kicked out. But that was it. And he wasn't going to tell them, either. He didn't want to see their eyes harden, looking at him, judging, like the Headmaster had done. Like his peers had done. Like he himself had done, sitting on the orphanage floors and wondering what was wrong with him. Realizing just what they had offered a place among them. Atsushi hated the Headmaster, but he was right about one thing—monsters did not deserve kindness.)
He was human. He was . He was not a monster in a cage, chained up and nailed to the floor, he wasn't, he was a person, he wasn’t trapped he was never going to get free —
Atsushi was human. It was painted in the blood in his scalp and under his fingernails, in tangled locks of hair, in pajama sleeves wet from saliva when he bit into them, in the shaking breaths ripping their way from his lungs as he gasped for air, still curled up, trying not to wake Kyouka.
There was a void inside him. His hair was stained red.
* * *
For the first time, Atsushi has completely and utterly failed a mission.
That's the only way to look at it. One of their informants died, three people were shot in the crossfire…
Atsushi's hand returned to its original form, shifting from tiger to human. Like that will fix his mistakes. Like that will erase his incompetence.
He was not the only one assigned to this mission—Tanizaki's face twists in a show of regret, looking down at the body. He strides over to one of the living hostages in an attempt to comfort them. It wasn't his fault. If Atsushi had been faster, if he had been better , this all could have been avoided.
This incident would have to be reported. Fukuzawa's disappointed glare levelled at him is not something Atsushi wants to face.
Atsushi looked at the man at his feet and tried to feel something.
His mind was blank—blank in the way that precedes panic, the numbness before the storm. Blood pooled on the dirty ground of the warehouse.
A familiar presence loomed over his shoulder, a cold voice echoed in his ear. It had been years and yet he lingers. Only humans can experience remorse. You are not human .
He would have to be punished for this. The President is powerful, he knows—years of experience had taught Atsushi how to tell, how to know where a blow would land. The President is kind, too, but surely there will be some consequence for this. That's how it works.
Atsushi's hands did not shake. They didn't. He dug his fingernails into his palms and felt the pain spike in them. It numbed him, and when he released his fist, he could feel sticky blood on his palm. It prepared him for what was to come.
(Later, clothes stained and eyes blank, Atsushi will walk into Fukuzawa's office— walk , not stumble, back straight and head high, because he is tired in a way that makes his very bones ache but you do not advertise that to the people above you, you do not show your weakness, you take your punishment as is given. He will leave the room in more pain than he entered it in, he is sure, and part of him longs for it, wants to sink to the ground like a rabbit before a fox and just get it over with . And then—against all reason, against all he's ever been taught—Fukuzawa will pull him into a hug, and Atsushi will flinch away, as if burned. It will bring a small frown to the President's face, hidden in white hair as Atsushi sinks back into the contact seconds later, and Atsushi will be left to wonder why he is not hurting.)
* * *
"I don't know what to feel." The Headmaster is dead. The Headmaster is dead, and Atsushi will never see him again.
"Most people tend to cry when their father dies," Dazai had said before leaving him on the park bench, and Atsushi doesn't know how to explain that the Headmaster was more of a omnicient force then a father; a king more than a caretaker; a jailer more than a teacher. The Headmaster had hurt him with iron pokers and barbed words and stuffed him into a cage and Atsushi hated him, hated him with every fibre of his being.
The headmaster told him he was a monster, an animal. And yet the pain he inflicted made Atsushi feel human. When there was a nail through his foot, Atsushi knew where he stood. Knew who he was. His identity had been crafted by the man he hated and he didn't know how to feel, because the Headmaster was dead .
Hate me. But do not hate yourself.
Atsushi will never be hurt by the Orphanage Headmaster ever again. The cage has been broken once and for all. He is free. The thought chokes him.
* * *
He was never going to manage hiding it from the rest of the agency forever, Atsushi knew. And it seemed obvious that Ranpo was the one who noticed first.
Of course he did—he's Ranpo . Nothing could be hidden from him for long.
Atsushi admired Ranpo's intelligence when he thought it was an ability, and he grew more and more impressed when Dazai revealed it wasn't an ability at all; he was just that smart. But there was something about being on the opposite end of that piercing emerald gaze that made you feel like a rabbit in the headlights, something that stripped you down to your very core. It made him feel vulnerable—as if all his defences had been taken away, leaving behind the void for everyone to see.
Because of that, whenever Atsushi had an episode—hallucinations in the corner of his eyes, an emptiness inside him that begged to be filled in the Headmaster's wake—he tried to keep his head down and not catch anyone's attention. But his coworkers were detectives, and Ranpo was the smartest of them all.
It was a tuesday morning. Not at all an interesting day. The early-morning sun was very nice though; it shone through the Agency's windows, bathing his desk in golden light. Byakko wanted to lounge in the sun, and Atsushi steadfastly ignored the tiger. There were no cases for today. However, that meant a lot of paperwork. A stack was already growing in front of him. (Kunikida was furiously typing away, the only other one in the office at this hour, besides Dazai, who was currently trying to ignore him, and Ranpo, who was chewing on a candy bar instead of participating in what would soon become an argument, almost dozing off in his seat.)
Despite the activities of his more chaotic coworkers—and that in of itself had grown to be calming, a comforting routine, not that he'd ever admit that—it was a very nice morning. And then the Headmaster appeared.
Well, he didn't appear, per say. He was always lurking. Always watching. But usually, Atsushi could ignore it. And indeed, he turned his gaze toward the paperwork and began working. His pen squeaked as he crushed it in his fist. I just need to ignore him. He isn't here. He's dead.
"Atsushi?" Kunikida questions, glancing over at him. "Are you alright?" It is only then that Atsushi realizes he is shaking, staring blankly at the paper in front of him.
And then the Headmaster looms over his shoulder and tells him, You do not belong here, and—
Cold stone floors and burning pain and scathing words and nothingness, so dull it weighed him down; he dug his fingernails into his arms, desperate for an ounce of feeling, something to show that he was a person, it had been five days since they locked him in the basement, he wanted to leave —
Atsushi is dragged by his arm from where he sits, pulled up from his chair and over to the door, down the hallway, to… somewhere.
Something is shoved into his hands and he flinches, grabbing it and turning away; he opens his hands, and in them is… a lolipop?
Ranpo?
Memory floods back, fast and sharp. He was doing his work. And then the Headmaster spoke to him, and Ranpo brought him to the side room—he recognizes it now, cloudy as he is—and now he sits on the ground, empty, too empty.
"Hey, don't do that." Ranpo reaches up to pull his hands from his hair—Atsushi didn't even realize he was pulling at it, but now the sparks of pain filter through the fog in his head, and he doesn't even have to think before he pulls harder. He is sobbing, Atsushi notes vaguely. He can hear it; loud, gasping breaths, echoing in the empty room. Empty aside from one person.
No one else should know. Their kindness, their acceptance— it would be taken away, if they realized the truth. If they knew that he didn't deserve this.
Fuck. He was tired, and empty empty empty , a shell cracking down the middle and something coats his fingertips and it hurt and he was so, so tired.
This time, Ranpo pulls Atsushi's hands into his. They are red.
"Alright, you're obviously not okay." A pause. "Did you see something?"
Atsushi nods before he can stop himself. Doesn't ask how Ranpo knew, he never told anyone about the hallucinations, because that would involve revealing so much else. "I– I'm fine. I'm fine. I saw him, yes, but I'm completely fine. It's all okay, i'm not in the cage anymore, I'm fine, really—"
This is why he shoves his arm in his mouth when he gets like this. The words flood out, an unstoppable torrent, and he shouldn't be sharing any of this, but he can't shut up, not now, not when his hands are being held and he's somewhere quiet and everything hurts, so bad, and it isn't filling the emptiness anymore, it isn't helping him anymore, why isn't it helping?
He didn't realize he said that last part out loud until Ranpo tells him, "Look, comforting people isn't my forte. But hurting yourself isn't going to do anything. There are other ways to ground yourself, alright? You don't need pain to function."
Arms wrap around him and he's pulled into a hug and he doesn't understand . He doesn't know how long they sit there before Ranpo lets go—carefully, as if Atsushi might break without someone holding him together.
His sobs dwindle until he's just sniffling, wiping his tears on his sleeve. And as clarity dawns, so does horror. "I'm so sorry, Ranpo-san, I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine . Jeez." And then he softens slightly, fixing Atsushi with that piercing gaze of his. "You don't need to apologize." A lolipop, the same one from before, drops into his hands, and Atsushi smiles greatfully. It wasn't often that Ranpo shared his candy with someone. The room is quiet again.
Ranpo frowns at him for a moment, eyes studying. "I'm not going to make you talk about anything, but this isn't healthy. We can help you, Atsushi."
"Okay." His voice is still shaky, but he manages to choke out a few words. "I— okay. I don't get it though. It's helping, isn't it?"
"It's really not." Ranpo sounds gentle. "Look, the rest of the Agency is really worried about you; they're all waiting outside, actually. But if you ever feel like—" he gestured a hand vaguely in Atsushi's direction— "again, when you're not here, and you need some company, call me, 'kay? Or Kunikida, if you want. He's probably more well suited for this."
Atsushi nodded.
"Now, go wash up in the sink. You're taking a break. And then, you're getting an Agency President hug," Ranpo said, tone joking near the end, yet still staying semi-serious. "He's good at that."
At a loss for words, Atsushi nods again, and pulled himself up off the ground, heading to the bathroom. (He hoped no one else was near there. He did not need another conversation like this. Even if he'd probably be getting one once he stepped out.) Blood clots in his hair, and he washes it out carefully, making sure there weren't any remaining red spots.
He wasn't sure what exactly had just happened. But what he did know was that Ranpo was now aware of everything. Shit .
The Agency. When he'd panicked, they'd all seen it. And now they were probably worried. Wondering why he'd run off. Judging him. Atsushi swallowed back a bout of panic, itching for something—hell, even a paper cut would work. Something to make him feel normal, normal enough to confront everyone. The Headmaster's voice whispered in his ear, and for a moment Atsushi wanted the nail in his foot, the hot poker, anything .
But… Ranpo had said that wasn't a good idea. He wanted to help. He hugged him. And just for that moment, the void inside him lessened.
It was the most like himself he'd felt in ages.
So Atsushi steeled himself and, nervously, opened the door to the main office.
* * *
It would be a while before he believed that he didn't need pain to fill the void—to remind himself that he was human, that he was a person, not an animal. But it was a start.
(Ranpo was right. The President's hugs were very nice.)