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His mind in a haze, as it tends to be whenever he meets his mentor.
Every thought, every emotion he has, all the autonomy he fought so hard to achieve is nonchalantly swiped away, pushed down to the depths of his unconsciousness, locked away to only resurface when the distance between them grows farther once more.
What occupies his mind instead is that awful yearning on the pit of his stomach, the wrathful need he has to do good, to do better, to be better – an alien desire branded into him with enough violence to make it stick, to never vanish.
Proving that he’s worthy of being here, of taking up space in this world, of existing has become, over the years, his primary goal, his raison d’être. There’s very little he wouldn’t do to accomplish it, and failure is never an option.
Do what you’re told, excel, and your life will mean something.
Other than that, there is nothing. His body and his mind are two separate entities, sharing each other but completely disconnected from one another. He knows, for example, that he’s hearing what’s being said, that he’s seeing what’s in front of him, but he cannot make out the sounds and he cannot focus his sight.
The entire debriefing goes by like this, and by the time he realises it’s over he’s already on his way to the shallow woods outside their target’s hideout.
“Would you wait up!” Nakajima Atsushi yells as he runs to keep pace with him, and just like that the spell is broken. It’s so sudden it becomes jarring; he’s thrown back into reality with violence as his surroundings sharpen again, as sounds become clear and understandable instead of mindless white noise and his thoughts finally breach the surface of his consciousness once more.
Nakajima’s face is the first one he actually sees in hours, and it’s almost a relief, even as he huffs in annoyance at being left behind.
Pairing up with him has become routine to the point where the familiarity of it is almost welcomed – his mentor seems to have aspirations for the both of them, something he neither understands nor enjoys, but that he’s learnt to accept, as he does with most of what he’s ordered.
“Did you even hear a word that was said?” Nakajima complains, scowling. He hadn’t, of course, wasn’t able to, but that’s not information he’s willing to disclose.
“I read the files; I know what we’re after. Is that not enough?” His voice is almost a whisper when he speaks, raspy with lack of use. He coughs in lieu of clearing his throat, a hand poised over his mouth, and the burn of it is almost calming.
“No! There’s only two of us against like fifty of them–”
“We’ve faced worse odds.” He interrupts, but Nakajima is relentless.
“–and we don’t even know where the files are, we’ll have to search the mansion–”
“So we do that.”
“–which is gonna be impossible because it’s huge and you didn’t even look at the schematics, and these people are dangerous–”
“Are you implying that we are not?” He stops in his tracks to focus on the conversation, and Nakajima does the same, finally shutting up.
Over the past few months where they’ve worked together, Akutagawa has, unfortunately, come to know Nakajima, enough to realise when his nerves are getting the best of him and that allowing him to finish that sentence would lead him into a line of thought that was better cut off before it even bloomed. His tendency to undermine himself – something Akutagawa abhors –, while mostly kept in check these days, still has a tendency to present itself at the most inconvenient times and that’s not something he’s willing to risk today. “If you are this pessimistic, if you don’t think you have the power to succeed, what are you doing here?”
“What’s the point of you being here if you still see yourself as you were, weak and helpless? It’s not who you are anymore, and letting it get to you after everything you’ve been through is diminishing all your past experiences.” It’s probably the most he has said over the past two months combined, but Nakajima has a way of stirring the conversationalist in him, of making him want to talk. It’s not something he analysed very closely not is it something he gives much thought to; it seems normal, after all, to be irked at someone who is constant in denying what is right in front of them even as it’s pointed out.
He watches as Nakajima repeatedly opens his mouth to say something, only to give up before any words come out. It’d be amusing if they weren’t on a schedule. “We’re wasting time.” He says, and starts walking towards their destination again.
This seems to snap Nakajima out of it, help him find his voice, and Akutagawa is barely two metres away when he finally speaks, voice stronger and clearer than before: “You talk a lot about me being weak for still carrying my past with me, but you haven’t let go of yours either.” His voice isn’t laced with venom like Akutagawa thought it might be, like he’d prefer it to be; it carries a contemplative note instead, and it pierces through him a lot better than any spat out vitriol. “The lesson you were taught was carved into you just as deeply and just as violently as mine was carved into me – you just refuse to acknowledge it.”
He doesn’t understand why, but those words trigger something in him, and in that moment he remembers, feels; kicks to the stomach and upon already fractured ribs, broken noses and swollen cheekbones, his knees aching against hard concrete and the burn of humiliation, of failure in his stomach. The sound of gunshots pointed at him and finding an invisible barrier instead, a whispered try again filled with cold anger, the ache of utter exhaustion on the hollow of his bones, along with fevered nights.
It’s not that he’d forgotten – he could never forget, not really, it always bubbled, boiled, just beneath the shallow of his mind, driving him forward –, but he’s never quite ready to remember whenever those memories choose to manifest. They feel raw and real, and as he remembers, he’s thrown back into them.
For a second, he’s immersed.
The terror he feels has any rationality left in him beaten and bloody and his response is Pavlovian; attack that which is attacking you.
Rashōmon activates, charging at Nakajima before he’s able to say anything else, and Akutagawa is only vaguely aware of the rustling of leaves as he jumps out of the way, dodging it like he knew it was coming.
“Can we have one conversation where you don’t try to kill me!” He yells, sounding more annoyed than anything else, and once again his voice cuts through the fog thickening in Akutagawa’s brain.
He blinks as his mind settles itself back down, his attention refocusing on the present and on Nakajima’s scowl as the icy dread he was experiencing melts into something more manageable. “Refrain from saying idiotic things that’ll make me want to kill you, then.”
This clears the air between them for some reason, and Nakajima falls into step with him again once they resume their walk, annoyance still shining on his face. “You need to work on your damn people skills.”
“I’m perfectly sociable.” He says, and is answered with a loud, almost amused scoff.
And then there’s silence.
He walks a couple more metres before stopping again, a frown on his face.
“What now?” Nakajima asks as he stops as well.
This is new, Akutagawa thinks, ignoring them. He’d been in a haze earlier, but it couldn’t have been this silent when they first entered the woods. Quiet, maybe, but definitely not silent.
He closes his eyes, searching for any sound that isn’t their breathing.
There is nothing.
No birds, no insects, no crawlers, no deer, not even the sound of leaves swaying with the wind on the trees around them, and now that he thinks about it, weren’t these woods meant to be shallow?
Shit.
“Man-tiger.” He says as quietly as he can, hoping that Nakajima will read the mood and stand alert so they’re not caught off guard when whatever is about to happen happens.
“What is it?” It seems to have worked, because when he looks up there is a tension in the line of Nakajima’s shoulders that wasn’t there before, and when he looks closer he sees that his hands are halfway into being claws already.
“I think this place might be fake.”
The result is immediate. The words are barely out of his mouth when everything around them starts to shift, becoming less real, more opaque and impressionistic to the point where he gets the feeling if he were to reach out and touch anything his fingers would come back wet with paint.
And then everything starts melting, oil pastels sliding down a canvas, fast and surreal, washing away their surroundings until all of it is gone.
They find themselves in a glass dome after the shift is complete. Sunlight filters harshly from above, increasing the heat of an already warm day, and when Akutagawa looks around, he finds himself amidst an incredible variety of plants, from flowers to succulents and small trees that block his line of vision. And really, it’s just his luck to end up in the middle of–
“Is this a greenhouse?” Nakajima says, looking around with those wide impressionable eyes of his. “This place is huge. Look at those flowers!” He’s about to run off to go smell the roses or gods know what, but Akutagawa pulls him by the suspenders before he’s even two steps away, keeping him in place.
“I thought this was implicit, but try not to touch anything in the creepy greenhouse we were led into by our enemies.” Nakajima has the decency to look abashed, but before he can say anything, a series of sneezes cut through Akutagawa.
“Uh. Are you okay?” He asks instead, looking decidedly uncomfortable at having to do such a thing.
“I’m not dying, if that’s what you’re hoping.” It’s the only answer Akutagawa knows how to give, because the idea of concern being expressed towards him is laughable enough, especially given the source.
“Can’t you have a single conversation where you don’t talk about death? You don’t have to be this byronic all the time, you know!” This only heightens his confusion, as does the embarrassed blush on Nakajima’s face, but he opts for not pressing him. “Let’s just get out of here.” And he’s trudging forward
Akutagawa follows, looking around as they walk to try and assess anything off with this place; the ability user who caught them in their trap should be around somewhere and he’d like to avoid a repeat.
All he sees is greenery.
He sneezes again.
“I hate plants.” He whispers forlornly to himself and turns to Nakajima only to find him staring. “What?”
“Hm? Nothing.” And looks away.
Akutagawa is about to question him further when, from the corner of his eyes, he catches a gleam, light reflected upon a metallic surface – it’s all the warning he needs to call forth Rashōmon to stand between them and the series of daggers thrown into their direction.
The sight of failure seems to discourage their attacked from engaging further, and there’s a slight rustle as they attempt to escape, far more frantic and with much less caution than before. At the same time, however, Nakajima springs into action, jumping over Rashōmon and into their trajectory, intercepting them with an inhuman growl.
Akutagawa hears the frightened shriek that follows and the thud as they’re thrown onto the ground, and makes his way there, avoiding shoving himself amidst a bunch of plants by having Rashōmon devour everything between where he stands and where he wants to go.
He sees Nakajima kneeling on top of their attacker, a clawed hand hovering above their neck. His eyes, however, are turned to him as he walks towards them.
The person on the ground shrinks into themselves once they spot him, watching with terror as he comes to stand beside Nakajima and above them.
“You’re the ability user that led us here.” He says, and the attacker doesn’t answer, their apparent fear impeding their reasoning. “Well?”
They startle as he crouches by their side, and nods repeatedly. They seem more afraid of him than of Nakajima, who stands above them with razor sharp claws poised above their throat, and Akutagawa allows himself a moment of meaningless satisfaction over this fact.
“You know what we’re here for.” More nods. “Do you know where it is?” They hesitate, looking between him and Nakajima, who’s been watching this whole exchange with something akin awe, before nodding again.
“Fourth floor, big office with the double doors. There’s a safe, I saw them put something in there and saying ‘they’ll be coming for this’. I don’t know the code.” It’s almost inaudible, a trembled murmur, but he hears it nonetheless.
“This was too easy, wasn’t it?” Nakajima asks, furrowed brow and downturned lips. “I mean, betraying everything like this seems odd. It might be a lie, it might lead us to another trap.”
“I’m a hired hand, I have no loyalty towards anyone here. They just told me to lead you to the courtyard using my ability or, if that fails, I should kill you before then. They didn’t even tell me you were ability users, but I recognised you–” They look at Akutagawa. “–when you used yours.”
“What’s in the courtyard?” Nakajima is still looking at the person below him with suspicion, but seems to have believed their story for most part.
“About a dozen people? Very armed, very willing to die for this.” They say and Akutagawa hums in response, thinking about how to proceed. He tends to have a good grasp on whether someone’s lying to him, and nothing so far felt off.
“Am I correct to assume their preferred outcome was capturing us?” They nod again. “Any ability users among them?”
“None that I know of.”
He looks at Nakajima, who stares at their hostage with sharp eyes before turning his gaze to him.
They’ve come to an agreement it seems.
“Knock him out.” Akutagawa lifts himself up, cleaning off the nonexistent dust off his knees as a startled whimper echoes simultaneous with a loud thud.
Nakajima then mirrors his action, albeit with significant less grace, and glowers at their unconscious attacker at his feet.
“Stop with the asceticism, he’s alive and we have a lot more information than before now, those are good things.” Akutagawa grabs him by the sleeve and pulls him along as he heads towards the door, only releasing him when he’s certain he’ll follow without complaint.
“I still feel bad. They seemed scared.”
“They were scared. They should be. And if you’ve forgotten, they were going to kill us if we hadn’t done something about it. Knocking them out was a preemptive action much better than the one they really deserved and you know it, so listen to the smart part of your brain for once.” He stops short of the entrance, turning to Nakajima who seems to have been on the edge of arguing before giving up.
“The first option was leading us to the courtyard, right?” He chooses to say instead, looking deep in thought as Akutagawa whispers a confirmation that goes unheard. “That means they were trying to capture us. And they don’t know whether or not we’re still under that ability’s influence so–”
“They won’t shoot at sight.” Akutagawa finishes the thought and something almost like admiration surges in his bloodstream.
“Let’s go.” And walks towards the entrance as he activates space rupture and follows him outside.
There are more than a dozen people outside, all dressed identically, all carrying firearms at least half a big as themselves. Behind them, across the courtyard, stands the place they were meant to infiltrate, a small western-style mansion, small but ostentatious and an absolute eyesore.
Everyone stares at them, fingers itching on the trigger of their weapons, waiting for a confirmation that will never come.
Akutagawa sighs and once again pulls Nakajima by the sleeve of his shirt, ignoring his surprised yelp as he looks straight at their opponents.
That seems to snap the pawns into action, and in astonishing synchronisation, they start firing at the two of them. Nakajima cowers a little, as if bracing for impact, but he does so in vain; bullets fail to push through the invisible shield that stands between them and their enemies, swallowed up by something unseen and disappearing into thin air.
“Man-tiger.” Akutagawa says, and nothing else. He sees as Nakajima nods, his look of startled fright washed away by determination and watches as he jumps out of the safety of space rupture, landing far behind their assailants.
He doesn’t pay much more attention than that – there are enemies to defeat.
Three of his attackers are swiftly swiped away as he wills Rashōmon forward, its dark tendrils reaching past him as he walks on.
The harsh sound of bullets attempting to break through his shield has him turning his attention away from the main group as two others come at him from the left, anger written on their faces and guns in hand as they run. They don’t get very close to him as Rashōmon moves to stand between them, its wide jaws swallowing their bullets before wrapping itself around them and throwing them off into the distance.
He turns back to the main group as he notices there were no more shots being fired, expecting maybe something that would pose a challenge, but all he finds is fear and reluctance in the face of what they’ve just witnessed.
It’s unfortunate for them that Akutagawa is the one standing here; Nakajima might’ve shown them some mercy.
He wills Rashōmon forward once again, spreading it out to grab each and every one of his enemies; he spares the more passive attackers some pain and just throws them aside, but the aggressive ones get no such treatment as they’re knocked into the ground before the same is done to them. The intel they were given was right, it seems. Not one of these people seem to be ability users – they’re no match for him, to the point where his presence seems almost theophanic.
Before he knows it, he’s standing tall amidst a cluster of unconscious bodies, coughing into his hand as he considers whether or not he should follow Nakajima into the mansion. He doesn’t know how much time has gone by, but he suspects maybe it shouldn’t be taking this long to locate and retrieve some files, especially if you’re someone who can turn into a tiger.
He decides against it as a shout of Akutagawa! echoes through the air seconds before a window on the fourth floor is shattered.
Akutagawa’s reaction is instinctive and, before he even realises, Rashōmon is unfolding and rushing towards it, working as a bridge for Nakajima as he runs down its length, more tiger than man, a messenger bag wrapped around him.
Following Nakajima are four other people, dressed just the same as the ones he just took care of and carrying just as large weapons. Two of them attempt to follow down using Rashōmon, too caught up in the chase to realise just how much of a bad idea that is, and Akutagawa immediately uses that against them. He throws them back into the fourth floor, knocking down the two others who were shooting at Nakajima from the window in the process.
And then, everything slows down.
Every femto turns into a minute; from the corner of his eyes, he notices the back entrance of the mansion bursting open, he sees half a dozen people lift up their guns and point them at him. There’s no time to activate space rupture. He sees bullets piercing through the air and towards him, aiming at him and at wherever he might try to dodge.
He sees that there’s no time, and he tries to make his peace.
From the corner of his eyes, he also sees Nakajima’s fearful shock, he hears a desperate shout of his name, he sees a bright blue sky.
Time speeds back up.
He sees at all, and then he sees nothing as he’s tackled out of the bullet’s trajectory and pushed into the ground with violence.
Nakajima’s weight over him is unfamiliar, but not quite uncomfortable so he doesn’t bother with moving before letting out a snarl and bidding Rashōmon into this new batch of people who came with the sole purpose of angering him. Rashōmon’s jaws are wide and fearsome as it tears through their arms, devouring them along with the weapons they’re holding before hurling their bloody mess back inside the manor.
Once everything is silent, he turns to Nakajima and watches as he slowly pulls himself off of him with a grunt and sitting on the floor with a pained expression on his face. Akutagawa is about to question it, but the answer soon becomes glaringly clear, a dark red stain spreading steady through the white of Nakajima’s shirt.
He wasn’t injured as he ran down before, Akutagawa’s certain, which means–
“This is a lot less painful than I thought it’d be, to be honest.” Nakajima says, grimacing as he lifts up his shirt to examine the wound.
It’s not pretty, but then again, bullet wounds never are – a mess of surging blood and exposed flesh, stark against the soft tan of Nakajima’s skin that has Akutagawa frozen in place, unable to even think properly.
He’s dealt with plenty of gunshot wounds before, on himself and on others, bore witness to an even greater amount, most far more serious than the one he’s looking at now, but for some reason this one has shaken him to his very core.
Nobody ever took a bullet for him before.
Akutagawa’s very much aware of the kind of person he is, after all. He knows that others tend to be wary of him, always afraid he’ll explode at the slightest perceived provocation, that he’ll lash out against them. It’s not an image that he works very hard to overhaul, since it had always served to his advantage in one way or another, but it also meant that, for most part, he’s alone.
He doesn’t inspire loyalty, he has no direct subordinates aside from Higuchi – Higuchi, whose unfounded obsession with him is sure to fade sometime soon –, and ever she learnt to keep her distance. Once upon a time there was Gin, and in a way he’ll always have Gin, but she has a life of her own now, completely independent from his, and he rarely sees her for more than a few minutes at a time these days.
All in all, there is not a single person he can think of that would do something like this for him and yet, here before him, stands Nakajima Atsushi, who hates him, but still did something not even the people who like him would.
He wants to be angry, he really does, but this is so beyond his comprehension that it impedes anger from flowing through his body.
Of course, he’s aware that the tiger heals faster, is more resilient, more liable to survive a big injury than him, but it doesn’t help make any of this less unthinkable.
“Are you okay?” For the third time in the past couple of hours, Nakajima’s voice brings him back to reality, and he looks up to see an expression of genuine concern directed at him. At him, the one without the gushing wound in their abdomen.
“You–” Words refuse to come out, and he wouldn’t even know what to say anyway. Instead, he turns his eyes back to the injury and watches as his fingers subconsciously move to hover over it before pulling back. “Why–?” Finishing sentences seems as impossible as wrapping his head around this situation, but Nakajima understands what he’s trying to say regardless.
“Ah.” He has the nerve to look embarrassed, and Akutagawa really has no clue how to process any of this. “I mean… I’ll heal from this in no time. You wouldn’t.”
“You could’ve just let it kill me. It wouldn’t even have been your fault.” You could’ve been rid of me goes unsaid, but it carries across anyway.
“I wouldn’t do that.” His answer is brisk and his voice is firm, and though his face betrays the pain he’s in, he gives no attention to the amount of blood his losing, eyes focused solely on Akutagawa as he tries to make him understand. “I don’t want to kill you, Akutagawa.” Surprise fills him and he lifts up his head, only to find himself staring at Nakajima’s odd-coloured eyes. Akutagawa tries, searches restlessly for something other than the almost unbearable candor pouring from his eyes, but it’s fruitless – the candidness in Nakajima comes from his soul, and not even the anger and sorrow that paint his expressions following his next words are enough to vanish it. “The only person I have ever wanted to kill is already dead.”
He’s silent after that, the adrenaline that carried him so far depleted and Akutagawa takes the opportunity to lead Rashōmon over towards him, slowly so he can see it coming, and wrap it around his middle, putting pressure on his wound to stop the bleeding.
With more care than he’s used to, he helps Nakajima up, taking the bag he was carrying from him.
“You can just drop me off outside the Agency, someone will find me probably,” His words are slurred and his eyes are heavy and Akutagawa only has time to brace himself for the extra weight before he passes out.
Atsushi wakes up with a startle, as he always does.
It takes him a minute to situate himself, fight off the clutches of his nightmares and ground himself.
He’s not in the Orphanage anymore. That man is dead; he cannot harm him anymore. All the others are far, far away from here, they cannot reach him. He’s free – he’s free, and he’s safe, and he’s not defenseless at all.
He takes a deep breath, eyes still closed tight as he tries to calm himself down.
Something hurts somewhere in his body, he realises. It’s a vague pain at first, but the more he sinks back into reality, the more intense it gets. It’s far from unbearable, he’s had worse in the past, but it’s enough to have him scowling as every breath seems to spike it.
He opens his eyes, blinking at the fading brightness of what feels like a setting sun, and looks down at the source of his pain. The first thing he notices instead is that he’s not wearing his own clothes; the sweater he’s wearing is dark green and far too fine for it to be something he owns.
The second thing he notices are the bandages wrapped around his middle.
And then, all at once, everything comes back to him; he remembers the woods, the greenhouse, the mansion. He remembers pain as he jumped to tackle Akutagawa out of the way, remembers delicate fingers hovering over a weeping wound, and an expression of wide-eyed confusion.
It has him ignoring the pain that surges through him as he jumps into a sitting position, wary and on alert all of the sudden. “Akutagawa?” He asks, frantic, looking around as he does.
“Please refrain from yelling.” A voice calls from his left, and he turns to see Akutagawa sitting comfortably on a spacious armchair, a book on his hands and a steaming cup of what appears to be tea sitting on the coffee table before him.
“What– Where–?” He looks around, trying to assess his surroundings, checking for anything that might seem familiar and finds nothing. They’re in a small, modern looking apartment, high above the ground if the view from the balcony to his right is anything to go by. Everything around him looks expensive, from the couch he’s sitting on to the art on the walls, and even the teacup Akutagawa’s drinking from. Akutagawa, who looks very much at home, holding a book in a language he doesn’t understand and drinking a tea he whose smell he doesn’t recognise. “Where are we?”
“An apartment I own.” His expression is neutral and his posture doesn’t change, but his voice is tight, and he gives Atsushi a calculating gaze before speaking again. “You said before you didn’t want to kill me. I’m holding you onto that.” The words weigh down on him, and suddenly he’s hyper aware that this is Akutagawa’s home. This is Akutagawa trusting him, trusting him with something other than watching his back during a fight, trusting him into his home, even if it isn’t the only–
“You own more than one apartment?” He exclaims before he can even think of stopping himself.
It seems to lighten the mood however, and Akutagawa’s posture loosens from a tension Atsushi hadn’t even noticed was there.
“I’m a criminal, Man-tiger.” Akutagawa answers, cheeks pink from breathing in the vapor coming from his tea. It must help with his coughing, Atsushi thinks. ”Of course I own more than one home.”
“I can’t believe you’re rich. This is so unfair.” He mumbles to himself, but it seems to echo around the apartment and Akutagawa–
chuckles.
Atsushi gapes at him.
It’s silent and short, barely a shadow of what anyone else would call a laugh, but it’s more than Atsushi has ever seen from him. It only serves to make this whole situation feel even more surreal; though he and Akutagawa have gotten better at dealing with each other’s presence, this level of civility between them is completely foreign. This is someone who has, more than once, openly announced their desire to kill him, who’s actually tried to do so on various occasions.
Right now though, Akutagawa looks – soft, even with his sharp angles and sickly complexion. His usual clothes are gone, harsh tones replaced by muted colours and finer fabric, and though Atsushi is very much aware that Rashōmon is still there, it feels like a faraway threat, something not quite worthy of concern right now.
“Of course that’s what you’d choose to focus on.”
He’s about to reply that it’s a perfectly reasonable thing to focus on when the door is thrown open, and he jumps, startled, looking away from Akutagawa like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t.
Akutagawa himself doesn’t move, only whispering a soft welcome back before turning his attention back to his book.
Atsushi looks up just in time to see Akutagawa Gin walking through the door, looking the same as she did when he last saw her, a bag of groceries in her arms and an impassive look on her face. She doesn’t look surprised to see him, barely sparing him a glance as she makes her way to the kitchen, dropping the groceries atop the counter that divides it from the living room.
“I bought pomegranates.” She says in a soft voice, and Akutagawa hums in response. It’s so domestic, so normal and unlike anything he ever imagined that he’s still having trouble believing this is not some strange dream he’s having.
He watches Gin pour a cup of tea and walk towards them.
“You couldn’t have offered him some? He is injured.” She sends Akutagawa a look as she offers him the tea, to his utter confusion.
“No.” Akutagawa doesn’t even look up from his book as he answers. Atsushi looks from him to Gin as he takes the cup, and back again. He hadn’t seen it before when he first came across Gin, but now that they are side by side their resemblance is so striking that he feels lacking for not having noticed the moment he saw her.
“Rude.” She clicks her tongue at her brother, who remains unbothered. “I bought some groceries. I’ll be gone for a couple of days, maybe a week. No more than two.” That has Akutagawa looking up at last, and he watches her intently for a second before nodding.
“Do well, come back.” He whispers before turning his attention back to the book. It’s surprisingly tender, far more than Atsushi thought him capable of, and he feels like an intruder, seeing something he’s not supposed to.
Gin squeezes his shoulder and she turns away, quickly walking into one of the rooms and coming back with a bag.
“I’ll come back. See you later, Man-tiger.” She waves at him before walking out the door just as suddenly as she came in.
They stay in silence after that as Akutagawa reads and Atsushi sips his tea. He doesn’t recognise the blend, but he enjoys it nonetheless. It warms him up, soothing the muted ache on the side of his torso, and he lets out a sigh of relief.
There are questions he wants to ask, but it doesn’t feel quite right to break the silence now, when everything is so peaceful. The itch of curiosity will soon grow untenable, but he wants to enjoy the quiet for now, he wants to drink his tea and not think about how none of this seems real, how something seems to have shifted and he can’t put a finger on it.
It doesn’t take long before he caves, but when he tries glancing at Akutagawa to gauge his mood, he finds him already staring back.
“If you want to ask something, just do it.” He says, head tilted like he’s studying Atsushi, trying to figure out what to expect.
“I– I mean. Why, I guess? Why are you doing this?”
“Be more specific.” It’s petty, being deliberately obtuse and making him have to spell it out, but it’s also very in character of him, so Atsushi almost doesn’t mind.
The fact remains, however, that Akutagawa helped him, and though it’s not the first time, it is the most significant ever since he dragged him off the Moby Dick. Being helped like this on itself is still foreign to Atsushi, to the point where it’s jarring, even if he’s getting better, getting more used to it. But for years he had nothing; none of the other kids in the Orphanage ever helped or offered their friendship for fear of calling attention onto themselves and ending up another target, and the adults.
Well.
For a long, long time, Atsushi patched up his own wounds. Grabbed the first aid kit that was thrown onto him, wiped away his own tears and got to work.
For years, there was no one.
“Helping me, I mean.” He looks down, avoiding Akutagawa’s eyes. “You brought me to your home and patched me up, lent me clothes and gave me tea even though you didn’t want to. You didn’t have to do any of this.” Atsushi’s words are mumbled and barely comprehensible even to himself, but Akutagawa understands, somehow.
“No, I didn’t.” He answers, almost pensive. “But I owed you a debt. You got hurt for my sake; it was my responsibility to help.”
To this, Atsushi has no retort. It’s a reasonable enough explanation, but for some reason he expected something else. He tries not to dwell on this.
“Thank you.” He says instead, sounding far more honest and tender than he’d like. He grabs his teacup, lifting it up to his face and taking a sip to stop himself from saying anything else and to hide the blush that he feels rise up to his cheeks.
Akutagawa’s eyes widen for a split second before he schools himself back to stoicism and looks away.
“I’m only payin back in kind.” He turns his gaze back to his book, but Atsushi can tell his attention is not in it at all, and smiles.
Something has definitely shifted, he thinks before turning his own attention back to his tea. It feels like a wrong between them has finally been righted, finally started falling into shape.
It finally feels like a beginning.