Chapter Text
At first, Ryuunosuke hated this 'gift'. He felt it unholy, unpure, disgusting and vile. A person like him shouldn't have such an ability he thought- to became Kami himself.
But he soon saw the potential.
He wish he never had it, at times. Staring at the ceiling thinking of everything he's done with his life, what he could, and what he couldn't. Sometimes it gets to him. Keeps him up at night. Life wasn't pure, especially not his. Why should he be able to gift it with a swift move of a brush? Such terrible acts. To decide such things...
But that was when he was but a child. Now, he doesn't care. Maybe that would be inhumane to some, but that didn't Matter to him.
"If given the ability, wouldn't you like to play God too?" Is what his boss once asked him. No. He didn't like to play into the hands of God. For he was only using his 'freedom' that was given to him.
God wouldn't call it that. He would call it the act of the people. And that's what it was. Maybe that was Stupid, or hypocritical, by some standard. but none of that was Ryuunosuke's concern. Playing God was a childish act. Playing means imagining it. And you don't have to imagine it if you just can.
Ryuunosuke was not a cheerful person. It didn't matter what mood he was in- he just wasn't. Sometimes he even surprised himself with the way he could find a flaw in everything. He supposed he was an artist, always trying to perfect everything around him in an Imperfect world. But what else could he do? Sit back and watch every single amateur mistake ingrave itself into the world just like it was ingraved into the people? That would go against his very nature. He didn't consider himself to be perfect, but as far as he was concerned- and he was very when it came to his work- his art was one of the most perfect things on earth when he really tried.
Maybe that was enough.
Or maybe it wasn't. He could ask if it mattered, but of course it mattered.
He tried not to think of it sometimes, but Ryuunosuke Akutagawa- a name almost no one knew- was alone.
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The armed detective agency office is calm, it always is. A comforting sort of calm he could get used to awfully fast. Atsushi had only worked here for a few weeks, but if he lost the agency now, there would always be a sort of carved out part of his mind that would miss this.
All the agency members were working quietly, rustling paper and Dazai’s absentminded humming all to be heard.
Atsushi wasn’t very good at the paperwork, or any of the work; he’d never have the wit, heart, or determination of his coworkers, he was left with just his desperation to his name, and gratefulness. And he was happy now, even when he cut his hand on the papers and the words on the page blurred before him, there was still sun on his back and so he could be nothing other than grateful and happy. Happier than he’d even been before.
Sometimes at night he still fell back to before, though, and before was cold and his ankles raw from the shackles, his throat feeling choked as with barbed wire as the tears stuck in his chest and he fought them. But they were just echoes and memories now, and he was happy.
It was different now. There were only papers in his hands currently, but if he reached out, someone would reach back. Before, he could nearly drown in the drip of the stone ceiling, the drip of the salt tasting drops from his eyes, and it would be only his own small hands to catch himself. And his hands were small, he figured the lack of nutrition had done that. But still, his hands and his heart and all its blood would do anything needed for the agency, for this moment now with the sun on his back and Dazai humming absently.
Kunikida stood to go grab some filled out paperwork from Junichiro, and Ranpo asked him to bring more snacks while he was up, and the moment slips past.
But Atsushi is okay with that. He doesn’t need the cling to every moment that doesn’t hurt, because now, away from before, the future doesn’t loom like a storm, and he doesn’t shiver against the wind and rain alone.
He drops the paper in surprise as it slices his finger yet again. He’s not very careful. He watches a single drop of blood fall to his desk, and remembers a book he read long ago.
The head may err, but never the blood.
And now his blood was here, with the agency, and error itself couldn’t tear him away.
But then he quickly grabs a paper towel to clean the blood, afraid to leave proof of his presence on anything he touched. The fear is different now, simply a fear that he would stain the wood of the desk, not a fear that if it did stain, he would be hurt worse.
Everything is different now, even the fear that had stood behind him for eighteen years.
Dazai saw his slightly slit finger and offered him an entire bandage roll from a desk drawer, and Atsushi laughed. And the laugh, too, was new.