Chapter Text
The first time Atsushi sees him, he is dreaming.
He does not usually remember his dreams, and he would think that's for the better — he remembers flashes of things, feelings he would rather not dwell on or describe, even if he knows he will feel the same in the day that follows. But Atsushi wants to commit this dream to memory. How could he not? The first thing he notices is not the headmaster or rough hands or scraping metal. It is a boy.
He wears ragged clothing, seemingly weathered through thick and thin by the elements. His eyes are a sharp, piercing gray, the color a mixture of his black hair that turns white at the ends. Atsushi absent-mindedly tugs on his own hair — rough, frizzy, almost manged — and compares it to the boy in front of him. His bangs are scruffy, a bit long, but natural, unlike Atsushi's choppy ones.
Atsushi's eyes drift up to the yawning sky — daybreak. The colors bleed into each other, a perfect picture of the ones described in books, all pinks and yellows and purples intermixing. It's only halted by an orange sun, sharp around the edges. It doesn't hurt his eyes. Under his bare feet is prickly grass, a bit dewy from the night prior. It is comfortable. It is not home, but Atsushi imagines it's something like it. A part of him, deep in his gut, aches to lie in it and bask in the sun as if a wild animal. Atsushi is familiar. But the boy —
He turns. The two of them, across this blank, beautiful field, lock eyes with one another. Atsushi has never been good at reading people — or, maybe he is, but he never knows the right thing to say. And it would be kind of stupid to yell across the expanse. Not just for propriety, but there's a silent peace here that Atsushi does not want to break.
"Hi," Atsushi tries saying, the words warbling and getting caught in his throat as he walks towards the other. "My name — my name is Atsushi."
"Akutagawa," he responds. "Ryuunosuke."
There's a pause. The breeze, ever so subtle, picks up as if to sway them, edge them on. Talk. Perhaps Atsushi's been reading too many books, perhaps he's not so lucid after all.
"What is this place?" Atsushi asks, wringing his hands together behind his back. Akutagawa is taller than him, if only slightly — and his eyes, he's never seen anything like them. Selfishly, he thinks that the only ones that could compare are his own.
Akutagawa's clothing ripples in the breeze, as if to convey his surprise. Atsushi stifles a laugh. It's endearing, he thinks.
"A field," obviously, Akutagawa intones. Obviously. Atsushi wasn’t asking that, but he supposes the boy doesn't know either, even if his gaze is steely and his fists are clenched. The sun rises completely over the horizon, over Akutagawa. It looks like a halo. It casts him in enough light that he is only barely a silhouette, although that would add to his mystery. The ragged clothing billows around him like a detective's cape, and Atsushi wonders if he's the main character of this story; that Atsushi can help him uncover the mystery of this — place. This dream.
"Right," Atsushi says, because he cannot state the obvious. Obviously. Now what? Akutagawa does not seem like one for conversation. Atsushi turns away, if only to buy time; the field is boundless, something like green great plains, not another soul in sight. It's just them. The thought tugs at him haplessly, hopefully. It's just them. Not the orphanage headmaster or any other children… Although, Atsushi thinks grimly, maybe this boy does have a family. "Do you…" Atsushi starts to ask before trailing off.
Akutagawa's eye twitches. Atsushi follows the movement with precision. "Do I what?"
"Nothing," Atsushi says, shaking his head. Akutagawa impossibly stiffens more so, but something in him must give into the environment, for he relaxes just as quickly.
Silence descends upon them again, awkward. Atsushi shuffles so that he's on Akutagawa's side, as if that will make his attention less heavy.
"Where are you from?" Akutagawa asks, turning to him again. The sun makes his smoky eyes glitter.
"The orphanage."
"Ah."
"Do you know it?" Atsushi asks eagerly. Maybe he can break him out, Atsushi thinks selfishly, imagining a dramatic jailbreak with shattered bars and chains and blood. Despite himself, his lips twitch slightly in amusement.
"Maybe," Akutagawa looks away. He rubs his chest with a fist, swallowing and sitting down. Atsushi sits with him, even though he wants to run. Not from Akutagawa, but with, and that makes it all the more damning. Atsushi's never — well, even he recognizes the shame that should come with the statement. He's never had a friend before. Akutagawa clears his throat. "There are a lot of orphanages."
"Ah," Atsushi parrots. Obviously. "What about you?" An orphanage, too? The clothing could match. The headmaster has always disciplined him fairly — not in comparison to the other children, but fairer than the ones outside would be. Maybe Akutagawa wasn't so lucky, but —
"The slums," Akutagawa responds, fidgeting with the broken hem of his sleeve. "It's… alright. I have my sister. My friends."
"That's good," Atsushi smiles, a little taut around the edges because that's all he's ever dreamed of. But Akutagawa is nice, certainly nicer than Atsushi, even with his rough voice and unbreaking gaze. And the slums… "How do you eat?" Atsushi shuffles forward, almost resting his head on his knees. The headmaster would harp on about how the people outside fought for food with their teeth and nails, and how Atsushi wouldn't last a minute out there. Akutagawa… he must be strong.
"I could ask you the same question," he raises an eyebrow, making a show of looking at Atsushi's figure. Atsushi flushes.
"I don't get what you mean."
Akutagawa rolls his eyes, turning to the slowly rising sun. The colors rise with it. Purples and yellows. Atsushi brushes the skin under his eye.
Speaking of food, Atsushi is hungry. His stomach aches have subsided for the most part, but he hasn't eaten in days. He chews the inside of his cheek, starting to zone out. Something filling would be nice. Easy to make, so he won't get found out too quickly. They don't come into the kitchens at night, and they forget to lock the room when they're too tired…
"What are you thinking about?" Akutagawa asks him, brows furrowed.
"Chazuke," Atsushi answers honestly. Akutagawa stares for a moment, then snorts.
"I get the feeling that's typical," he mutters under his breath. He blinks, straightening his posture and then looking straight at him. "How old are you?"
Atsushi tilts his head. "…Eleven?" He stops himself from counting on his fingers. The headmaster said he would have a surprise for him when he turns twelve, which isn't too far away. A few months left… the idea that the headmaster is just taunting him, skipping a step in his mind and leaving him with nothing, washes over him very suddenly. He ignores it. It's his birthday. He's always gotten something on his birthday. "What about you? Hey, when's your birthday? Mine is in May."
"March," Akutagawa replies, "I'm thirteen."
"That's a bit old," Atsushi says absent-mindedly, aware of how the other boy's hackles raise.
"Not really. You'll be thirteen before you know it, and then you'll regret even thinking that way."
For some reason, Atsushi laughs. "Maybe," he admits.
March… that's not too far. It's winter now, he supposes, though it won't feel like it here. It's so warm. Atsushi leans, just slightly, so his tattered sleeve brushes against Akutagawa's own.
The pseudo-touch makes him shiver. He's not sure if Akutagawa notices his shifting weight, but the boy shuffles, brushing their arms together almost hesitantly. Atsushi smiles at the contact, looking away from Akutagawa at the rising sun — bleeding purples and yellows mixing, the streaks of clouds ever so slightly gray.
The headmaster is not a liar, even though he holds things over Atsushi's head and gives him lessons that make him doubt his own two hands. The man even makes an attempt to be eager when conveying what will happen to him after the fifth of May, even if it falls flat. Something like regret brushes the edge of his sharp features, but Atsushi shakes his head, and the sight is gone, replaced with a touch that is gentle, too gentle, burning against his cheek.
The second time, it's early morning — the sunrise's colors have only just bled out, leaving a pale blue to be shielded by the dark trees' foliage. Atsushi notes the forestry around him in comparison to last time; the flat fields don't leave so much to imagination, but the thick forest gives him plenty of places to hide.
He inadvertently claws at the ground when sitting up, getting dirt underneath his fingernails. He knows it doesn't matter, but it still makes him wince. Still, the naturally pale light making sparse, haphazard shapes on the ground is… comforting.
He gets to his knees slowly, savoring the sensation of dragging his feet against the forest floor. Around him, his surroundings look the same all over, if not slightly warped; the epitome of a dream, Atsushi thinks, recalling the hazy descriptions of what a dream should be. This is, perhaps, better than drunkenly beating a dead horse.
Atsushi attempts to take a deep breath in, taking in the sweet scent of flowers and the Earth below. There's something incomplete about it, almost like it's too shallow, but he supposes it's to be expected.
He strolls through the forest, trying to take everything in. "Everything" is not much, considering the repetitive warping of the dreamscape, but he still eyes the leaves swaying with more suspicion than necessary. The flowers are, as always, beautiful, but he knows that means they are all the more deadly.
Thorny vines wrap around trees and bloom bright on their cracked surfaces in different shapes, colors, and sizes. Atsushi marvels at them openly — there's no one here to tell him not to, now — and perhaps his focus isn't unwarranted when his idle scan through the thicket of trees lets his eyes catch on the figure of a boy whose clothing ripples around him, all sharp and jagged edges despite the (presumably) softer fabric.
"It's you again!" Atsushi says as he rushes over to him, a wide smile on his face, the force of it almost closing his eyes. The black and white hair is very hard to miss, even if you don't look at the contrast between his pale skin and their dark surroundings. It's lucky, then, that it's early morning — the boy in front of him has managed to stand directly underneath a halo of glowing light, making him stand out against the dull and dark.
"…Atsushi?" Akutagawa mutters, eyes widening. His face relaxes quickly, but there's still something like joy or amusement in his features, making Atsushi beam wider. "Yes, it's me," he says, a quirk still on his lips, exasperated yet fond.
"I thought I'd never see you again," the younger one admits, scratching the back of his neck. His excitement doesn't stop the pink from rising in his cheeks and ears. "You don't happen to know where we are, do you?"
Akutagawa stares at him, face carefully blank, as if to say just look around. Atsushi supposes it is clear, but it's less about his curiosity and more about hearing the boy's rasp wrap around each syllable. Eventually, the silence stretches on for so long that Akutagawa sighs and turns, not paying Atsushi any mind. A sharp pang spikes through Atsushi's chest at the motion, but he pushes it down as best he can, following Akutagawa deeper into the forest.
"Do you think we're supposed to get out of here? Like, escape or something?" Atsushi asks genuinely, looking around them. It still looks the same. In one of the books he read, two enemies had to work together to get out of a deadly forest with poisonous frogs and tigers and flowers, solving puzzles and ciphers with difficulty. Between them, after every swing of vine and every time they had to trust each other and fall into each other's arms, they got closer and closer, until they could call the other something close to a friend. He and Akutagawa won't have that type of tension, but the idea of them getting closer makes Atsushi's heart clench beneath his ribs, and he doesn't want it to stop.
"…I don't think we're meant to do anything," Akutagawa says, cutting into Atsushi's daydream. The older boy freezes for half a second, and Atsushi's guard comes up at the lack of movement, but Akutagawa just pinches the area between his brow and massages outward. A headache, probably. Atsushi winces in sympathy.
He isn't sure whether to talk more or if doing so would be akin to beating a hammer against Akutagawa's skull, so he chooses the safer option and keeps his mouth shut after a, "Right." He would have appreciated Akutagawa's guidance — the boy was quite old, after all, Atsushi thinks, biting back a smile — and he hadn't had any peaceful dreams without Akutagawa before, anyway, so it wasn't like he was purposefully being an idiot.
Their steps, sounds dampened by the softer dirt below them, begin to sync up as time stretches on. Akutagawa stops rubbing his forehead, but the crease between his brows is still there. Atsushi fights the urge to wipe it away, knowing his hands would only get the other boy dirtier. He settles on fidgeting with the shirt, still a bit too long and feeling like it's both covering too much and not enough. He barely remembers its original color.
Atsushi lets his thoughts drift much longer than he usually would, what with their repetitive surroundings and radio silence from the other boy. He tries, truly, to be as productive as he can — perhaps make plans for the following day (though the idea of waking up makes him vaguely nauseous) or make plans to escape — but his thoughts keep trailing back to the boy beside him.
There's tension in Akutagawa's shoulders, terse lines on his face. Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. His steely focus on what's ahead of them should be intimidating — it is, to an extent — but all Atsushi can think is how admirable it is.
"We've been going forward for a long time," Akutagawa says suddenly, eyes flicking over to Atsushi's pathetic form, who flinches at the attention. "Are your feet hurting?" Akutagawa looks uncomfortable asking, but the question remains between them nonetheless.
"N-no, I'm fine. And you?" Atsushi returns the question, concernedly, looking at the ground. It's still smooth as ever, blurred with the dream.
"Fine," Akutagawa responds. There's a pause, then sighs. "This place looks… familiar."
"Familiar?" Atsushi latches on. He leans forward, ever so slightly, eyes eager and hands clasped behind his back as if restraining himself. Akutagawa huffs.
"Something I've seen before," Akutagawa explains.
Atsushi flushes. He knows what familiar means, out of all words. He just wanted —
"Maybe it's deja vu," Akutagawa continues, stopping Atsushi's self-obsessive spiral. He wants to learn more about Akutagawa, and interrupting or defending himself will probably stop Akutagawa from reminiscing. "I don't think I've ever come somewhere like this. But I had this dream once, that my friends and I were in this forest and… something attacked us. I — I don't know," Akutagawa admits, something in his voice a bit heavier than before. "I know it was nothing, but this place gives me a bad feeling."
"…Let's get out of here," Atsushi proposes, if only to have something to say. He points ahead at a sliver of pale blue that's in front of them rather than above. "I think we're getting closer. We won't be here for long," he promises.
Despite the doubt clouding his words, Atsushi finds luck on his side today, as the dirt pads away under his feet and the trees get fewer and farther in-between.
The path in front of them gets dustier and clearer as they walk forward, and then a huge clearing breaks in front of them, the onslaught of light almost blinding.
The surprise is a welcome one. Atsushi meets a man with long, fluttering white hair, matching his complexion. He smiles at Atsushi so, so sweetly, face perfectly relaxed. He makes promises of home, of endless food and toys, abilities and treasures they will share. Together. He is effortlessly elegant, all white and pure, and Atsushi wonders if he can become like this man, even with his eyes. They rest deep within his skull, crimson, vacant, watching.
The third time, there's very little greenery to be found. There are the occasional broken pots, leaves spilling from beneath the dirt, and cracked ceramic, but otherwise, colors are few and far between. The sun is directly above Atsushi's head in the very center of the sky, beating down white rays that do nothing to warm up the small houses around him.
Maybe it's that he's on the edge of town, but… this place is completely barren. There isn't a soul in or about these homes. They all have the same, saddening, dirty white that reveals their age, sprawling cracks and dents in almost every brick, cobwebs where the roof intersects with the outer walls of the house. It makes Atsushi's hair stand on end for reasons he isn't sure of himself.
Going forward has never failed him so far — god knows that at his most raw state, he'll only claw his way back, back, back, ruining the ground to just get away like a coward — so he stalks through the empty town, hands clenched so tightly that he feels the breaking of skin. He needs to steal the scissors again.
It feels as though ants are crawling on Atsushi's back. He shivers, turns, tries to swipe the feeling away, but it remains even with the physical proof that there's nothing there. He sighs, eyeing the insect life on the ground — crawling in and out of small holes in the houses, carrying crumbs of bread and cheese. Atsushi wishes he had the courage to break in to someones home, but the punishments inflicted by the staff have him hesitating, even in this seemingly void-like place. Logically, he knows that there are merits, but… what more can he do? A victim of his upbringing, or however the saying goes.
So, he keeps marching — it feels like a march, fists clenched at his side with his nervousness and visible grimace gracing his mouth. Slowly, as he goes inward, the houses start to get bigger, more lavish. There are less cracks, of course, but they are the same; they are broken. Somehow, Atsushi gets the impression they were more maintained, but less loved, before they died. He doesn't know if that makes sense, but it's probably something to do with… dreams. He keeps repeating that in his head, trying to cement it, but —
Again, bathed in a halo of light, stands Akutagawa. Atsushi is sure that he could recognize Akutagawa just by the tattered clothing he wears, the sharp slope where his neck meets his shoulders, the slightly frizzy hair. It's almost a familiar sight; he knows they've only met thrice before, but it must have something to do with the soul. He read a book where two were fated to meet and love because they shared the same stardust. Perhaps he and Akutagawa come from the same explosion of light.
The boy turns, calling out Atsushi's name as he does so, and Atsushi grins. There is something about the way he says his name that's slightly gruff, perhaps accented; the flat A and the elongated U. It's charming.
"I thought — " Akutagawa starts, the first time he would have started their conversation thus far. It's completely fine by Atsushi, and the fact even makes him smile slightly, but Akutagawa cuts himself off after that, and Atsushi is left tilting his head at the cliffhanger.
"Thought what?" Atsushi asks, wringing his hands behind his back.
"Nothing," Akutagawa says, and then doesn't say anything at all.
The older boy walks forward, a sort of hesitance in his steps, as if he has made peace with stepping on fire but still has to fight his instincts not to jump at the burn. Atsushi bites the inside of his cheek; he's not sure if he should pry, especially in a place as foreign as this. But they go forward, they always have, and it's the most they can do now, so Atsushi doesn't complain.
"Have you been doing anything recently?" Atsushi asks suddenly, his voice too high and his arms too shaky. When Akutagawa gives him an incredulous look, he adds, "In real life, I mean."
"…Nothing of the sort," Akutagawa huffs, seemingly after turning the question over in his head. "The usual, you know."
"Not really," Atsushi purses his lips and looks to the side, suddenly enamoured by the pattern of cracks against brick, the weeds and dandelions growing against the ever-expanding asphalt. The sun is still in its perfect place at the center of the sky, and there are still no clouds in sight, not even the wispy ones that Atsushi has come to expect. He knows that they are much lower in the sky than thunder clouds because of the books he managed to steal from the library at random; they could take away his autonomy, his humanity, but never his literature. How quaint.
"What do you mean?" Akutagawa says tersely, as if repeating the question. Atsushi realizes he's been lost in his own thoughts.
"Just — I don't know your usual, is all. Like, I live in the orphanage, and you live outside. It must be hard," Atsushi sympathizes, but doesn't pity; he has enough of that from 'well-meaning' older kids that know they're going to be hired by the orphanage staff once they come of age. Atsushi opens his mouth as if to say something more, but his mind draws a blank; there's nothing more to say, so long as he wants to coax Akutagawa into talking more about himself.
"Maybe," Akutagawa says, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "I wouldn't know. I don't have anything to compare it to. But yes, we don't — we don't have people preparing food for us, or designated areas of play, or the prospect of having another mother. So yes, I suppose it would be," Akutagawa finishes through gritted teeth, his eyes looking everywhere but Atsushi's own.
"I'm sorry," Atsushi offers, then thinks better of it and adds, "I don't know what those are like, either," as if to relate. But it comes out almost defensive, and Atsushi winces, visibly reeling back.
Akutagawa scoffs, speeding up slightly. Atsushi knows he's stepped on a landmine, knows he's done something wrong, but he can't quite pinpoint where he messed up. He turns the interactions over in his mind, but those thoughts slip into the previous dreams he's had with him, about him; the curve of his smile, ever so slight, the way just-risen golden light would catch on his hair, reflecting shades of blue. Atsushi's throat catches on the image, fingers twitching as if to maybe try and reach out — he knows better, though, if not knowing how threads fray then knowing how they snap, and stays quiet, swallowing his emotions. He sniffs quietly. He doesn't want to wake up, but he has this aching feeling of wanting to go home. His parents, maybe —
Akutagawa slows to a stop in front of him, clearly calmer, yet his face reflects nothing else. Still, Atsushi catches the way his breath stutters in his throat, lips twitching down with displeasure, and can't stop himself from coming closer, examining the house with renewed interest.
It's by far the biggest house in this forsaken town. Its shingles are falling off the roof, one precariously dangling over the edge, swaying slightly. Atsushi winces. There are no plants outside — at least, in a decorative manner. There's a slight cluster of potted ferns on the other side of a broken window, a spider's web reflecting the noon's sun and framing a room obscured only by the darkness inside.
"This was…" Akutagawa tenses slightly, then swallows, turning to look at Atsushi head-on. Atsushi's eyes widen; in the face of those stormy gray eyes, almost like stones in sparkling water, he can do no more than stay silent at this moment. "This was my father's home."
If Atsushi thought his expression couldn't get any more bewildered, he was dead wrong. "Your father?" he repeats.
"Yes," Akutagwa confirms, his sleeves rippling slightly. There is no wind. "I don't remember it well, but — sure of it. This is his home."
Atsushi considers this for a moment, looking at the house with something like ire, or perhaps awe; it's hard to tell if he should feel grateful for the man, in some twisted way, that's so like his own, but there's a sudden anger slamming into him that this is the man who's left Akutagawa on the streets. "Was he… good?" Atsushi tries, not wanting to offend Akutagawa further.
Akutagawa stares at him incredulously for a moment, his ever-moving clothes even coming to a stop; Atsushi hadn't realized how billowing his clothes were until this moment, when Akutagawa is still and shocked with surprise. Then, as suddenly as the pop of a bubble, he laughs — pure, unabated, an edge to it as if a cough is just settling in — but it's a true laugh. Atsushi brightens just as the sun dislodges from its anchored place in the center of the sky; it drifts slightly, lower, lower, until Atsushi can tell it's more in front of than above him, now.
"Good…" Akutagawa repeats, sobering up. "Hah. No, he wasn't. My mother was, though."
"Ah." Atsushi sees now. "It's good that your mother was… good." Atsushi flushes at his lack of vocabulary.
"Yes," Akutagawa hums, lips still quirked in amusement, but the light is gone from his eyes once he repeats, "It's good that she was good."
"I, um — I've never known my parents," Atsushi offers shyly. He looks down, eyes meeting cracked concrete, expecting the first droplets of rain to stain the surface despite the impeccably clear day. Perhaps it's the faint scent of petrichor. "Won't you tell me about her?"
Akutagawa's lips — parched, cracked, and pale, yet still so undeniably elegant — part in surprise. Then, a tentative joy spreads from his face — the upturn of his head, the crinkle of his eyes — and he answers, "Sure. Next time."
And Atsushi believes it.
He was supposed to help. Atsushi knows this because the headmaster told him, and the headmaster is many things, but he is not a liar. Atsushi wishes he could eat himself for his stupidity. The grip on his wrists, leading him to a chair that's too high off the ground, is bruising. The colors will bloom and match his eyes. Now, they shake with something like fear. Tears.
"My mother," Akutagawa continues, and it's like they never left each other at all.
Atsushi had needed to bite back some curses when his body decided it was his time. He would take most punishment if it meant that he could spend a few more precious minutes with Akutagawa in their dreamscape. He isn't sure if Akutagawa feels the same desperation that sinks into Atsushi's waking moment — it's all he can look forward to, now, even if he doesn't dream it every night. He gets disappointed when he doesn't remember meeting Akutagawa the night prior, but at least in his dreams, his excitement is somewhat subdued.
There's a thicket of trees, extending far as the eye can see, to his right. The dark forest would be inviting if not for the slowly setting sun. It's similar to their sunrise, but it has more edge, somehow, as if the soft pinks have been replaced by burning reds. Still, the sun is sharp and a deep orange that lets Atsushi's eyes rest, and there are sweeping clouds that seem to whisk away the humidity; each one similar to a painter's brush strokes. There is a fence to his left, too high to see through properly, but high enough that it gives Atsushi a sense of dread. Something about the swirling design of the metal makes him want to reel back and run away. Still, he stays in place, sitting in the soft grass and picking at the ground with Akutagawa, the weeds high enough to brush their knees.
"She was…" Akutagawa starts, hesitating. Atsushi supposes that having to fight for food between rabid dogs and perverts on the street leaves you with little else on your priority list, and describing your late mother to someone you've met three times in the privacy of your own mind is quite difficult. "Ill," Akutagawa settles on. "She would see things that weren't there, and lie in bed because of her fears. It was… difficult. But I do not resent her for that. Father caused it, and I know he is much worse than what my mother could ever do."
"What did he do?" Atsushi asks, fiddling with the weeds below them.
"He used to beat her," Akutagawa says frankly. Atsushi isn't unfamiliar, but he still winces at the brutality. "Take advantage of her. It's only fair. He was the one who forced us on other people, and when that didn't work, the streets."
"Oh," Atsushi responds dumbly. The shape in his head vaguely resembles the headmaster: tall, imposing, perhaps with black hair like Akutagawa, and none of the light in his eyes. Maybe his gray was harsh, his face wrinkled with the amount he would frown, from the frank displeasure he gave everyone in his life. He would wallow in his own self-pity, much like Atsushi did, and get run over by a truck and be sent to hell. What a dream. "Is he dead?"
"I hope so," Akutagawa spits, the setting sun doing nothing to soften his dark look. "Probably," he revises.
"That's good," Atsushi comments.
"You say that a lot, don't you?" Akutagawa leans back slightly, shifting his bangs so that they're more out of his face. Atsushi didn't notice before, but there's a mole right where a dimple might be, elegant and regal like the rest of him.
"Say what?"
"That things are good. 'Good' isn't the first word I would use to describe… a lot."
"I understand," Atsushi concedes, swallowing. "I read a lot, but the staff don't like it when I 'talk fancy,' so I get that it isn't the best word. But… it is good, I mean. That he's dead, that your mother was innocent. Right?"
Akutagawa blinks in a way that, if Atsushi didn't know him better, would be something like surprise. "I guess you're right," he says, though it's hard to tell whether Akutagawa believes what he's saying or if he's trying to get Atsushi off of his back. It's of no matter. "But I don't want to talk about them anymore. I can barely remember them."
"That's okay," Atsushi says, partially comforting and partially teasing; he didn't say 'good.'
"Do you… have any siblings, or friends?" Akutagawa asks as if picking his words carefully. Atsushi blinks.
"No," he states. "The other kids don't like me. Or, they don't feel any way towards me. It's easier to blame me for mistakes 'cause the headmaster knows I'm bad. They like to do that more often than not," Atsushi explains, mumbling slightly. "But I wish I had a sibling. Maybe a little sister. I could take care of her and talk to her."
"Ah," Akutagawa says smartly. "Yes, having a little sister is nice. They don't like to be taken care of unless they don't feel like they're taking care of you. And they make fun of you, but it is nice," Akutagawa admits.
"Oh wow," Atsushi says, almost reverent. "Do you have a little sister?"
"Yes. Her name is Gin," Akutagawa explains, something like pride glimmering in his eyes once he says her name. "She's more gold than silver, I would think. She contributes a lot; half of the reason we don't starve."
"She sounds wonderful," Atsushi smiles. He wonders what Gin could look like; most likely pretty, if she's related to her brother in any way.
"She is."
It hasn't been that long since they first met, but Atsushi knows more about Akutagawa than he does about anyone else in his life. Even the headmaster, a constant tormentor just as much as a protector, is still a mystery clouded in hard hands and a disgusting grimace.
Atsushi feels guilty at the thought; he knows the headmaster is only doing what's best for him, pampering him in comparison to the outside world. Even if he's punished for crimes he did not commit, it's only a fraction of what people on the outside are doing. People like Akutagawa.
Atsushi has an idea, sudden and striking, and one he's probably going to regret. Still, before he can think twice, he leans down, turning over to his side and resting his head on Akutagawa's lap. It's warm — of course it's warm, it's another body sitting under a glowing ball of fire — and he can feel Akutagawa's pants ripple with the pressure, but Akutagawa relaxes just as quickly as he's tensed and doesn't say anything more. Atsushi bites back a smile. It feels good.
"She's wonderful," Akutagawa repeats, as if trying to get back into the rhythm of the conversation, which Atsushi can't feel too guilty about now. "But we are not the only ones working for our survival. Even if our resources get depleted faster, it is worth it."
It's like Akutagawa is the main character of a story. Forced to live on the streets by his abusive father and absent mother, he fights for his life to take care of his sister and his friends. Akutagawa is the type of person to get a happy ending. With the amount of hardship he has faced, it's probably gratifying, something like finding love or living with his friends or dying in a glorious explosion of sacrifice. Something bitter in Atsushi's stomach curls at the thought, but he digresses.
"It must be," Atsushi bites out, forcing his tone into something amicable — it's not Akutagawa's fault that he's… well, good. "I hope people like that come for all of us."
They fall into a silence, though Atsushi cannot tell if it is comfortable — there's something drifting in the air that hasn't yet been swept away by the breeze, making Atsushi's hair stand on end. His discomfort must be coming from the white estate beyond the black fence; something there makes Atsushi want to shake, run into the comfort of Akutagawa's arms even if he's never felt that before — run and run, or perhaps settle for never coming closer, because the grass is greener on this side.
There are flashes of — things. Of wishes, of prayers, of dreams. Atsushi holds onto each and every last one with a vice grip as they slip through his fingers like the smoke of a cigarette. The essence will always remain in his lungs, his blood, his brain; but it disappears, almost purposefully, into the dark, and he is left with nothing but emptiness. Pain.
Atsushi wakes up with his knees and thighs aching with the pressure of sitting against metal for too long, and his arms chained to the wall.
It's dark. Only the moonlight washing the room in a deep blue lets him see his own legs; the window that brushes the ceiling is so narrow that he can only tell that the moon is waning, and not much else. It must be deep into the night, as it always is, when he wakes up in this position.
He's in the basement. He knows this. There's something wrong about the air — perhaps it doesn't smell enough like iron and ammonia, perhaps the walls are blurring together despite his lack of tears.
But he knows he was sleeping on a bed. He could have sworn on everything precious that he fell asleep with a ratty mattress that doesn't support his back and a torn pillow barely holding up his head… but knowing him, that would have ended up with him in tremendous debt. He sighs, half in pain and half in exhaustion, feeling the tell-tale pinch of red marks making their way into his wrists, almost like they're settling themselves in there. A constant companion, even in the wake. What a laugh.
He swallows the acidic taste he's developed, staying chained here — he used to make attempts to escape, but not so much anymore, not when his wrists would chafe so badly that he could feel the ghost of his handcuffs rub against them when he leaned against a wall the wrong way, not when he could taste his tears and mucus for days after they let him free, not when the attempts would extend his stay by a couple of more days that felt like months to prove a point. Atsushi does not think he will ever be full.
Hollow, echoing steps make their way closer and closer to Atsushi's precarious position. It sets a jolt of fear up his spine, but he shakes it away; it does no good to show fear, though that might be his own thing. He doesn't think it makes a difference when the staff grabs his chin, making his eyes meet theirs and whispering sweet stuff that makes Atsushi's heart twist in something screaming. Still, the steps are lighter, almost cautious; nothing like the resounding thuds of the headmaster, or the too-excited thundering of staff who enjoy taking out their anger on children.
Atsushi wishes he could hate them.
He closes his eyes as if asleep; the cold shock of being slapped is somehow more preferable to the leer of it's good that you're awake, when they'll grab his chin and force his head up so fast he feels his brain rattling in his skull, his eyes blurring with the leeching gaze of someone particularly… distasteful.
He can't help but tense, squeezing his eyes shut and twisting his mouth into a slight grimace, but he makes no other movement. Not until he hears the utterance of —
"Atsushi?"
His eyes snap open, immediately going to the stairwell, and there he stands, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke. Clad in the same tattered clothes that are still more lively than anyone he knows. Atsushi's breath hitches, and tears spill from his eyes, but he can't help it.
"Aku — " he tries, choking, but a smile slowly overtakes his face. The failed attempt at saying Akutagawa's name seems to spur the boy into action; he all but leaps forward, his sleeves airing out around him as he grabs the cuffs and chains and attempts to pry the damn thing open. "Akutagawa, it's — ow — " Atsushi winces when the handcuffs twist against his wrist painfully.
"Sorry," the older boy apologizes. He lets go of Atsushi, suddenly, turning around and taking a deep breath. He turns around and tries again.
"Atsushi," he repeats his name, oh so sweet, and asks, "How did you get here?"
"I woke up like this," Atsushi answers, unable to stop from giving a wry grin. "It's good, knowing it's a dream."
"Why wouldn't it be?" Akutagawa huffs, though his eyes don't leave his scan for the key.
"The headmaster has the key on him at all times. The staff, when he gives it to them," Atsushi stops the black-haired boy's haphazard search. Akutagawa's eyes widen, brows furrowing. It could have been described as cute if it weren't such a painful expression. "And… I didn't see you. So I didn't know if it was a dream, or…" he trails off, sensing that something has gone awry in this conversation. He can't figure out what it is… again. He should really work on — what, himself? It's not like anyone else would talk to him, and Atsushi is painfully aware of his body.
"Perhaps I misspoke. Why are you here?"
Why? There are countless reasons why Atsushi could be here, and those would barely be scratching the surface — but stripped down to their bare essence, there's only one thing to say: "Because I was bad."
Akutagawa remains silent, seemingly thinking. Atsushi usually doesn't mind their silences; they're never cold and oppressive — just there, as simple a fact as knowing there is air you breathe and surface beneath your feet. But this is… different. Not the way it's introspective — though that word might be putting it quite lightly — but the urgency, the way Akutagawa is coiled up almost protectively, if Atsushi is thinking straight. It's damning. Part of Atsushi wants to bloom at the connection, while the other wants to wilt in shame. It shouldn't be like this.
"I…" Akutagawa starts. Atsushi's head snaps up, making his neck twinge. He winces, but doesn't look away. Akutagawa's sleeve seems to get tighter, as if wrapping around himself, even if his hands stay put, fidgeting with the hems of his clothing. He swallows, mouth pressed in a grim line, still not looking at the younger boy. Akutagawa sighs and admits, "I'm sorry."
Atsushi tilts his head. "What for?"
"I — " the older starts, before shaking his head and revising, "Never mind." At Atsushi's silence, he lets on, "If you don't remember, it's no good to remind you."
"Akutagawa…" Atsushi all but whines, a begging edge to his voice if one were to listen closely enough. He's less than tactful on the best of days, but even he can resist outright begging, tell me. He deflates like a puppet with its strings cut, the edges of exhaustion creeping into his skin. He refrains from complaining that he's tired, he's hungry, he's cold, he's uncomfortable — just basks in Akutagawa's presence. It's enough.
"I'm here, Atsushi," Akutagawa says. It sounds like it's supposed to be with mirth, but falls flat. Atsushi cracks a small smile, somehow charmed.
After a small bout of silence, Atsushi sighs. The day's work is catching up with him, if his slowly throbbing skull is anything to go by. His feet and chest and neck will ache with phantom pains, and his arms will go numb and pale, staying up for so long. It's always such a relief to touch the ground. Akutagawa stiffens beside him as the sound escapes from Atsushi's lips, but Atsushi can't bring himself to feel anything beyond the slight discomfort at Akutagawa's tenseness.
Akutagawa shivers, only slightly. He opens his mouth with nothing to say.
Atsushi should give him a jacket.
Please, he begs, looking down at his reflection in the puddle of deep, deep red. It sinks into his feet, staining his soles. It covers his hands, his chest, his mouth. His shirt remains intact, other than the crimson seeping into it from the inside. Please, let me forget. Just this once.
Just this once, his wish is granted.