❝ A man sometimes devotes his life to a desire which he is not sure will ever be fulfilled. ❞

-Ryunosuke Akutagawa

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An essence as simple as appreciation was anything but attainable to the sickly dog's eyes. It was a foolish reverie to sink in, believing that the depravity would soon grant him the sentence he longed for. The recognition he was willing to die for; the genuine gratitude with no regrets nor strings attached. That was what he truly desired, enough to devote his purpose in life to acquire. Whether it would ultimately be fulfilled or not-- that was an entirely different story altogether in his chronicles of living.

He was no more than a mere puppet to the Port Mafia. A rather disobedient one, at that, but a pawn of chess all the same. Had he been given the acknowledgement he wanted, perhaps an alternative route would have paved itself, rather than the hell he currently resided in.

The organization, however, refused to believe in such absurdities.

With his gaunt, pale quintet of blood-blemished fingers, a splash of red stained his ever so white handkerchief, as the ill man audibly hacked away. His spastic coughs never seemed to dissipate, as he could only gasp for a breath of fresh air. Air that was consumed by a faint scent of copper, as bodies fell to his monstrous Rashoumon.

To most, he may as well been a nefarious villain. But in the perspective of the malicious, they were the heroes of their tales.

The vicinity was dead silent. Dead, like the targets, victims, and enemies of the Port Mafia. His blood-lustful pupils darted across the void, although there was nothing left apart from measly, obliterated scraps, a peculiar shape caught his eye. Wings fluttering with innocent grace, a pure, white butterfly soared amidst the horrendous bloodbath.

Odd. His features gradually relaxed at the captivating beauty, reflective of how the creature differed so greatly from himself. The loosened countenance transitioned to forlorn, one of an outward melancholy.

He could have sworn that he felt a gentle touch on his shoulders. Letting his wildest fantasy unleash, he turned around, as if expecting for a certain somebody's pat on the back for his commendable efforts.

"Dazai-san?"

Empty. Nobody was there, except for the figures within his fabricated hallucinations.

The butterfly was white; virtuous and unimpeachable. A plain insect harnessed more hope in its arsenal than he ever had. To have sprouted so beautifully, the fragile, winged-creature must have been nourished in love and care. A perfect chrysalis he never obtained.

Quite the opposite, he was nurtured in hate. Bitter, conceited power, tainted black. Jealously surged his veins at the petty thought, shaking his head. Why was he born unfortunate? Devoid of proper care, warmth, and endearment, as if nobody else in the world cared. His praise meant the world to him, so the statement was far from inaccurate.

His evanescent moment of peace shattered, as he harshly turned his heel. He clicked his tongue, visibly, yet ineffably seething as he stormed off into the alleyways of Yokohama, leaving the appendages behind.

A single crunch echoed from the vacuuming cloak, letting a single, teared wing teeter in midair, gently laying in rest.

Ryunosuke Akutagawa was never in a good mood.

➢

Fanfiction © -Kyouka-

Cover / Title © dantalion_

Bungou Stray Dogs © Kafka Asagiri