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There is something divine about Nakajima Atsushi that echoes in the hollow of Akutagawa’s bones when he looks at him.
Mid-battle, Nakajima is a sight; there is beauty in everything he does, be it the elegant curve of his back as his arm is raised for a strike or the careful positioning of his body as he readies for a jump. He is motion, a whistle of displaced air, an angel’s whisper resonating with freely flowing power and wreaking havoc onto the deserving.
His steps are fleeting gold, carving craters into concrete as he runs, an image of white hot righteousness rushing past and into their enemies. Even the gentle brutality with which he tears through their opponents and the feral look of his eyes seems innate, acquired from birth and sharpened by a lifetime of suffering.
No royal purple remains when he fights, unrefined gold sinking its claws into the colour of his eyes, shadowing his every movement and his every strike. Nakajima does not fight to kill—the need to do no harm is ingrained and branded into him to the point of self-harm, a lesson in sacrifice carved into his bones and his soul—, but even that does not lessen the effects of his wrath, as righteous and non-lethal as it might be.
Akutagawa has been on the receiving end of that stare as it turned to anger and though he’d loathe to admit, it is not a sight to be taken lightly.
In his state of calmness, Nakajima is not very imposing; he makes a comforting presence, with wide caring eyes that carry the colour of the sky at its most beautiful and soft white hair that frames the healthy glow of his face. He smiles enough to dismiss all concerns about his level of danger, gentle and real, and the lack of grace and the fear with which he carries himself only serves to cement that.
It’s a strange shift, Akutagawa thinks. He understands where they stem from, the anxiety and skittishness Nakajima deals with in his quotidian life, but he doesn’t understand how could they vanish so quickly in the face of actual peril.
The every day is what seems to scare Nakajima the most, but amidst danger he shines.
Confidence replaces fear and anxiety gives way for determination. There’s no hesitation in his movements as he dives into a sea of enmity, and Akutagawa would think him mad if he had any room to place judgment upon this kind of act.
Before, the very vision of Nakajima angered him, fueled the misguided fury that lied dormant within him. It seemed easy for Nakajima to get everything Akutagawa had been grasping at with the tips of his fingers, had been beaten into wanting and needing, had always failed to achieve.
He knows better now, or at least he likes to think he does.
The change was slow and painful for the both of them but certain in its coming, almost unavoidable. It was carved into the trust that had formed between them long before they were even able to be in the same room together for too long—born from their past, from their suffering and their bitterness towards the world and each other.
They were complimenting forces rather than opposites, standing in different shadows of the world. What they were meant to become had been inevitable the moment they set eyes on each other, it seems; the bells of fate had been rung and echoed across their future.
Every mission together was a step in the right direction and every step was dyed with the prints of each other’s influences. Violence gave way to reluctance, then for resignation and at last, the comfort that was always woven into the layers of their partnership surfaced for good.
Fighting alongside Nakajima had always seemed natural and exciting, but once they walked past the heavy fog of their hatred, once Nakajima proved above all of Akutagawa’s expectations, it became—electrifying.
The thought of it, the sight of it has shivers running down his spine, a too hot gushing of blood around his heart.
It was where he was meant to be, even if he wasn't keen on admitting it.
“Akutagawa!” Nakajima yells, his voice breaking the spell Akutagawa had been under as he watched him fight, thrusting him back into the reality of the present with no grace.
Akutagawa frowns, eyes focusing on Nakajima with clarity now that he's present again. He catches him just as he attempts, unsuccessfully, to take out the last lines of their enemies, huffing with exasperation and exhaustion as he glares at Akutagawa whenever possible.
Akutagawa sighs as the unspoken request is registered in his mind, and moves forward from where he’s been standing and waiting.
Rashōmon is unleashed with a breath of wind, swirling in the air before diving into the remaining opponents around Nakajima.
The black tendrils of his ability wrap around each of their enemies ankles, throwing them far away before retreating back into his coat. He’s got in the habit of not killing his prey unless there’s a great necessity after their bet, and these people proved harmless enough if somewhat tiresome.
Nakajima’s expression is painted with annoyance as he walks over to Akutagawa once he's done. There’s hair sticking to his face, sweat pooling on his brow and the sleeves of his shirt are torn, but he looks uninjured, if a little worn down.
“You could’ve helped, you know!” He says, but the outrage in his voice is too light these days, a betrayal of the current status of their relationship. Akutagawa pulls a handkerchief from one of his pocket, extending it toward him as a gesture of good faith. He doesn't miss the way Nakajima's eyes widen for a split second before he takes it with a whisper of thanks.
“You were handling it well by yourself. I saw no reason to interfere.” Akutagawa doesn’t mention he was too distracted, caught in watching the grace of his movements and the emotions flickering on his face. His words are true enough, at least.
“That’s not the point.” Nakajima frowns, and Akutagawa has to fight the urge to chuckle—something that’s been happening more often than he's comfortable with lately.
“It’s done, that’s what matters.” Nakajima opens his mouth to protest again, but Akutagawa doesn’t let him. “You did good.” He says, calm and slow with truth lingering in his voice and a clear attempt at changing the subject; the response is immediate.
Nakajima’s eyes widen further than before, purple and yellow tinted with surprise. His mouth falls open in a soft exhale and his cheeks flush as his entire posture relaxes at once, relief brushing off an invisible weight that took home on his shoulders.
Akutagawa doesn’t understand the reaction at all and its effects on him are even further beyond his reasoning—he feels his own face burn at the sight of Nakajima’s flustering, and the sharp inhale he lets out is one he cannot explain.
He doesn’t get to dwell on it, though.
A blur of darkness moves behind Nakajima, the pulling of a trigger echoing loud in the quiet of the room.
There’s little time to act, but Akutagawa does it regardless, pushing Nakajima out of the way to stand in front of him, summoning space rupture.
The first bullet grazes his cheek as he dodges.
The ones that follow don’t get the same privilege.
A resonating cry of anger foresees the end of their attacker’s ammo, and Akutagawa is about to move towards them when a shadow rises above him and pushes forward with the speed of—
Nakajima mirrors thunder as he falls onto the floor, standing between him and his would-be attacker, the sound reverberating around them. Akutagawa can’t see his face, but the growl he lets out is feral enough to betray his emotions and a gasp falls from Akutagawa’s lips at the sound of it.
The fight that follows is not very long.
Something Akutagawa can’t place dyes Nakajima’s movements, wilder and sharper than before; the attacker has no time to breathe before he’s being knocked out with greater violence than Akutagawa had seen Nakajima deal all night.
It's shameful in its ease, but Nakajima's voice rushes out before Akutagawa can ever formulate a question to ask him regarding it.
“Don’t do that.” Nakajima says, voice tight with an emotion Akutagawa can’t discern.
“Do what?” The confusion in Akutagawa’s voice is sincere, as is the tension on the line of Nakajima’s back. There’s something he’s missing, some information he’s not privy to that shifted the air around them but he can't figure out what it is.
“Just—” The quality of Nakajima’s voice is off, too breathy and borderline panicked. It makes Akutagawa’s stomach feel heavy, and he’s moving before he realises it, standing next to Nakajima with a hand reached out.
He pulls it back.
“I can take damage.” Nakajima takes a deep breath. “You can't. Don’t try to shield me.”
Oh, Akutagawa thinks.
He hadn’t thought that action through—it had been instinct taking over, an urge to protect overwhelming rationality. There was no thought embedded into his actions, no conscious meaning to it.
It was not an instinct he had in a long time. At least not since Gin was taught to defend herself—Akutagawa’s default since then had always been destroy, never protect.
“There was no point in letting you take a shot when I could—and did—stop it.” He tells Nakajima and himself.
“You could’ve died.” Nakajima turns to him, eyes heavy with panic and anger. It’s off-putting to see it directed at him, to feel the weight of someone else’s concern over his head, the idea that someone would mourn his loss.
Akutagawa was always trusted to do what he needed to do, to be quick and efficient and brutal. And if—when—he got himself killed, well.
Given who he was, given the reputation that preceded him, they all knew it was bound to happen eventually, sooner rather than later.
He was perishable goods, made for self-destruction in the name of honour.
Being thought of as anything else was jarring.
“Yes.” He says, trying not to squirm under the intensity of Nakajima’s gaze on him, under the tightening of his expression at the sight of his face. “So could you.”
“I heal.” Nakajima says, taking a step closer to Akutagawa. “I can take bullets, I heal.”
They’re roughly the same height, Akutagawa’s mind provides from nothing. Nakajima’s face is inches away from his, at this distance; he can see the sweat dripping from his temples, the tension between his brows, every droplet of colour in his eyes. He seems much healthier than he was when they met, but there is no attributing the colour in his cheeks right now to that, Akutagawa thinks.
“Just because you can, doesn’t mean you have to.” He says, slowly, and Nakajima’s expression melts into surprise at the words, a sign something beneath the surface was hit. “There are alternatives to sacrificing yourself.” Akutagawa watches as he closes his eyes and sighs. It's a sound that comes from deep within, he recognises, of a weight being dropped, if only momentarily.
“You’re hurt, though.” There’s only faint guilt on his face when he blinks back at Akutagawa, raising his hand slowly to hover at the cut the bullet left on his cheek.
Nakajima does not touch him, but Akutagawa feels electricity spark in his skin anyway, feels shivers run down his spine as if he had, and suddenly, the proximity feels suffocating, the air feels too heavy.
“Barely.” He says and his voice is raspy, now. He turns and coughs, trying to break whatever is hovering around them, but there’s no real success as he looks back to find Nakajima still staring, still frowning, eyes still full of things Akutagawa hasn’t had directed at him in far too long.
Nakajima drops his hand.
Akutagawa’s skin burns for its return.
“Let’s move on.” He says, stepping back and finally cutting through the tension that filled the room. Nakajima exhales again, lighter this time, and nods.
He’s halfway to the door when his name is called, in a voice softer than he had ever heard it before.
“Akutagawa.” Nakajima says, and he turns as if pulled by it, automatic and immediate.
Nakajima smiles and the air on Akutagawa's lungs rushes out of him all at once—it’s the tender kind, he realises, the softer kind he tends to reserve for the people at his agency, for stray dogs on the streets, for children and the old ladies he surely helps cross the street.
“Thanks.” Nakajima’s voice is gratitude and candour and Akutagawa is shocked into a stillness that he takes too long to snap out of.
“I’m repaying a debt.” He whispers and turns back around, not believing a word he said. And by the chuckle he hears echoing in the room as he leaves, neither does Nakajima.
Strangely enough, though, he doesn’t mind.