Chapter Text
A week later, the bell above the tattoo studio chimed again—this time softer, like it recognised him.
Atsushi stepped inside.
He’d barely slept for two nights thinking about this appointment. The first session had sat in his mind like warm embers, replaying Akutagawa’s voice, his steady hands, the impossible gentleness in someone who looked carved from iron.
This time the studio lights were dimmer, the incense warmer—jasmine and smoke curling through the air. And Akutagawa…
He was already standing by the chair, gloves half-on, as if he’d been waiting.
He glanced up the moment Atsushi entered.
“You’re early.”
Atsushi flushed. “S-Sorry. I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
Akutagawa didn’t answer—he just stared. It wasn’t a cold stare; it was the kind that saw straight through his clothes, straight through his nerves, straight through the panic crawling up his throat.
“…Take off your shirt,” Akutagawa said at last, voice deceptively steady. “I need to check how the skin healed.”
Atsushi nodded, fingers fumbling at the hem. He peeled the shirt off slowly and turned around, heart hammering in his ribcage.
Silence filled the room.
Then—soft footsteps.
A warm presence behind him.
A single, gloved hand rested flat between his shoulder blades.
Atsushi inhaled sharply.
“Relax,” Akutagawa murmured. “I’m checking pressure tolerance.”
But it wasn’t just clinical.
It wasn’t even close.
Akutagawa’s hand moved gently over the lines of the fresh ink, fingertips grazing the skin where the design would expand next session. Not touching the worst scars—he still avoided them with a precision that felt like respect.
“It’s healing well,” Akutagawa said quietly. “Better than expected.”
Atsushi closed his eyes. “That’s good… right?”
“It is.” A pause. “You have strong skin.”
Atsushi huffed a small laugh. “You mean stubborn skin.”
“Same thing.”
A beat of warm silence passed between them.
“Sit,” Akutagawa said. “We’re doing the upper section today.”
Atsushi lay down on his stomach, cheek pressed against the leather again. The familiarity calmed him… until the tattoo machine buzzed to life.
He tensed out of instinct.
Akutagawa noticed immediately.
“Don’t flinch from me.”
The words were soft.
Almost intimate.
Atsushi’s breath caught. “I-I’m not flinching from you. I just—”
“I know.” The machine clicked off. “I said it because I want you to feel safe. Not afraid.”
Atsushi turned his head slightly, meeting his eyes.
“You make me feel safe,” he whispered.
Something in Akutagawa’s expression cracked—so subtle most people would have missed it. But Atsushi didn’t.
“…Good,” Akutagawa said, and his voice was lower, quieter. “Then trust me.”
The machine buzzed again.
This time, the needle met Atsushi’s skin with a warm sting—but he didn’t tense. Akutagawa’s free hand rested on his shoulder blade, steady and grounding, thumb brushing small circles in places the needle didn’t touch.
Atsushi almost melted into the chair.
A few minutes passed before Akutagawa spoke again.
“What made you decide on a tiger?”
Atsushi blinked. “I… don’t really know. I just like them, I guess.”
“That’s a lie.”
Atsushi stiffened.
“You chose a tiger because it’s strong,” Akutagawa continued. “Even wounded, it doesn’t bow.”
Atsushi swallowed. “…Maybe.”
“Not maybe.”
A soft wipe of cloth against skin.
“You’re allowed to choose strength for yourself.”
Atsushi’s throat closed up.
No one had ever said that to him.
Not a teacher. Not a doctor. Not the orphanage.
A stranger—this sharp, unreadable artist—was saying it like it was the most obvious truth in the world.
Atsushi blinked hard, willing the heat behind his eyes to stop. “Do you always say things like that to your clients?”
Akutagawa didn’t hesitate.
“I don’t have other clients.”
Atsushi almost sat up. “You—what?! But your studio is—your portfolio—your waiting list—”
“All declined.”
Another slow wipe on his back.
“I don’t work on people who don’t deserve it.”
Atsushi couldn’t breathe.
“And I deserve it?” His voice was nothing but a shaky breath.
Akutagawa paused. Then:
“Yes.”
Just that one word.
Simple.
Final.
Devastating.
The machine hummed on, tracing along the curve of Atsushi’s shoulder, each careful line expanding the tiger’s form.
Atsushi lost track of time completely.
When Akutagawa finally stopped, the silence that followed was thick and warm in the dim studio.
“Do you want to see it?” he asked.
Atsushi nodded, still dazed. Akutagawa held up a mirror and guided him gently to sit up. Their arms brushed—barely—but Atsushi felt it like lightning.
He turned to look.
And gasped.
The ink flowed across his upper back now—strong, elegant, fierce. The tiger’s rising form had taken shape, muscles curved over old scars, transforming them into motion instead of memory.
“It’s…” Atsushi’s voice broke. “…beautiful.”
Akutagawa didn’t look at the tattoo. He looked at him.
“So are you.”
Atsushi froze.
Akutagawa blinked once—slowly—like he was aware of what he just said but unwilling to take it back.
Atsushi’s heartbeat hammered so loudly he wondered if Akutagawa could hear it.
“…Do you still want to continue this project?” Akutagawa asked at last, voice a little rougher than before. “It’s going to be large. Personal. It’ll take months.”
Atsushi met his eyes.
“I want to,” he said softly.
His voice was steadier this time.
“And I want you to be the one to do it.”
Something in Akutagawa’s posture eased—shoulders lowering, breath releasing.
“Good,” he murmured.
Atsushi stood to grab his shirt, but Akutagawa spoke again.
“Atsushi.”
He turned.
Akutagawa wasn’t smiling—not exactly—but his expression held something softer, something fragile and real.
“Don’t hide your back,” he said. “Not from me.”
Atsushi swallowed.
“…Okay.”
Their eyes held for a long, stretched-out moment—quiet, charged, full of things neither of them were ready to say aloud.
Then Akutagawa reached into his pocket again.
“Same time next week?” he asked.
Atsushi nodded. “Yes.”
He left the studio with the faintest smile and a heart beating too fast.
And Akutagawa—the man who never took clients, never touched people gently, never looked at anyone twice—watched him leave with ink-stained gloves hanging uselessly at his sides.