Work Text:
It’s a sickening feeling, really, deep in the pit of Ren’s stomach. Something twisted into knots, laced with poison, and covered in thorns.
The house is quiet when he gets up from his bed — something mechanical, even though he’s fully conscious of what’s happening — and carefully walks down the hallway, past the bathroom, past his parents’ room, and into the kitchen.
There’s a singular night light plugged into the singular kitchen outlet. It glows a soft yellow. It only got put up once his father began to struggle with coordination, but never when Ren was scared of the dark. It gives him just enough light to pick the sharpest knife from the silverware drawer.
His mother found him out here a couple weeks ago, pulling a rather large knife from the block on the counter. She was furious, and there was zero empathy in her tone. She was only mad that he would ruin their knives like that, that he would defile a pristine surface with his skin. The following morning, Ren found the knife block gone, and his mother said she—
”I hid all the knives, Ren, because apparently, you don’t care about our belongings enough to keep them clean. No one would want blood in their food, right? So stop it.”
His father stood next to her, nodding with a disapproving look. It made Ren feel so small, like he was back in the courtroom, being sentenced by a room full of adults with a hatred for assaulters.
But they didn’t care enough to tuck away all the ones in the drawer. Just the ones in their sight. Maybe these knives are less precious to them. Maybe Ren is, too.
He walks back to his room, and somehow, he feels calm. There’s nothing floating around in his head. His brain is just running through this little procedure he’s developed over the past couple months, ever since he moved back to this awful countryside city.
Ren got so used to the constant noise and hustle of Tokyo,thus the quiet is now unsettling. Tonight he would rather be in a dingy attic than his childhood bedroom. The mattress is concerningly soft and dips quite far down when he sits on the edge.
He hesitates for a second when the cold edge meets his wrist, creating a small indent, but not pressing any harder. And then, he hears him.
“Are you going to fucking do it or not?”
“Akechi…?” Ren breathes, softly. He looks up, and sure enough, he’s there. His hair and makeup are eerily perfect, similar to how he looked as the Detective Prince on television.
The one difference from the Akechi that he usually sees is the gaping, bloody hole in the center of his chest. His clothes are usually so clean, so perfect, but tonight, most of his shirt is dyed a dark red with seemingly endless blood. It keeps coming, like a faucet. It trickles down his shirt, then his pants, and forms an ever-growing puddle on Ren’s hardwood floor.
“I asked a question, Amamiya.”
His tone is coated with venom, something Ren only heard a few times, and only ever in a fabricated reality. A dreamlike wonderland where Akechi was some doll programmed by a sick counselor.
He would give anything to know the real Akechi Goro, a wish that was apparently so strong that it brought him back to life a few months ago. And now something is standing in front of him, encouraging him to slit his wrists.
Ren just looks at the ground, because if he looks up, he might convince himself that Akechi is really here. He knows this isn’t real. It’s all in his head — he’s aware, he knows.
But, god, he looks so real, so convincing. Sounds it, too. His blood continues to drip, finding its way into cracks between wooden panels.
And he laughs. Cackles, actually. Something not dissimilar to what he heard in the engine room, a night that haunts his nightmares.
“Look at you! Fearless leader of the nation-toppling Phantom Thieves! Joker! Diminished to this pitiful thing.”
‘Akechi’ grabs his hair and pulls his head up, forcing Ren to make eye contact with gorgeous ruby eyes. A color not dissimilar to the blood seeping into the floor.
“Why hesitate? You’re all alone now. Morgana couldn’t deal with your bullshit anymore,”
…No, that’s not right. Morgana is just visiting Futaba, as per her request. But— It sounds so true, so believable coming from Goro’s lips.
“Sakamoto is off finding new people, Takamaki left the country to escape you, Kitagawa is just so busy with his artwork that he has no time to spare, Nijima and Okumura left together to avoid your repulsive habits,”
“Akechi– They’re– They’re just trying to improve themselves. It’s not against me–”
“and Sakura is all grown up, isn’t she? High school, was it? She doesn’t need to hide behind you anymore.”
He can’t refute that one. Futaba is growing up, and maybe it hurts his little ego to see her go out into crowds and not need to hold him. He’s proud, of course, but it felt nice to be needed by family. His parents certainly didn’t need him, and there never were any little siblings or cousins to care for.
He’s always tried to be there for people, hasn’t he? Not to be nice, but solely to fulfill that cavernous hole in his heart that just needs to help, needs to save someone, needs to be needed.
“I had to die twice because of you, Amamiya! Your idiotic fucking love brought me back from where I was perfectly content! And then, I had to tolerate your gaggle of mindless followers for two months, and be puppeteered by a psychopath! It’s all your fault, you know? All of it!”
He’s yelling, and Ren can’t take it. He really did love the detective, despite his vicious nature. It never felt like the fairytale love he read about at daycare. It was something that ate at him from the inside out, because, really, who falls for the guy who killed two of their friends’ parents? And many, many others?
But there was something so captivating about him. His eloquent speech, slender build, pretty face, et cetera. Ren always loved watching him fight, especially as the Black Mask. It always got his attention when Goro just let go of everything and went batshit crazy on cognitive beings. Even now, when he can see the layers of Goro’s skin right in front of him, seemingly peeling away little by little, Ren can’t look away. It’s fucking grotesque, but it’s Akechi Goro.
However, he also can’t deny what the beautiful, bloody boy just said. It leads him to drag the serrated blade across the thin, pale skin of his wrist and watch a superficial pink injury form in its wake.
“You can do better than that. I know you can.”
He can, and therefore he does. His face twists a little as the knife digs past the top layer of skin. Blood forms in tiny dots across the cut, something scarily satisfying.
“Deeper, Amamiya. You’re no coward.”
He isn’t, and especially not when Goro believes in him. Another slice with quite a bit more force breaks through the first layers of skin and into fatty subcutaneous tissue. It hurts so, so bad, and blood is slowly dripping down his arm now, and and—
“Amamiya! Come on, honey, you deserve this. More.”
Fuck! He sounds— sounds so sweet, as if he really cares. Maybe, if Ren thinks really hard, Goro would be saying stuff like that in bed, and not when he’s begging Ren to slit his wrists.
“More…? Goro—”
“You have no right to call me that!” He growls.
“Akechi. Sorry. I— I don’t think this can go much deeper.”
“Don’t fuck with me! You’re strong, Amamiya. Surely you can handle a little pain? Surely it’s much better than whatever bullet caused my death?”
He puts more force into his hand, watching the skin split and listening to Akechi giggle over his misery.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Fuck! Again!
He switches arms.
Again. And again. And again.
“So good. God, Amamiya, this is perfect. You’ll never forget this, will you? I’ll always stay in that stupid fucking head of yours.”
He grins.
Ren smiles back, because what else could he do? He still loves Akechi. This— This is all fake, anyway.
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” and then he cups Ren’s face — god, it feels so real — and presses a kiss to his forehead, “Goodnight, honey.”
The last thing he registers before losing consciousness is the sound of a knife clattering to the wooden floor.