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His entire body is weighted down with exhaustion and sweat, each muscle screaming in protest, but he barely notices; all he can feel is the cold barrel of the handgun pressed against his forehead.
“If I pulled this trigger right now, you wouldn’t have time to stop the bullet from going straight through that thick skull of yours.”
He wants to hang his head in shame, like a kicked dog; instead, he forces himself to keep his eyes hard, focused on his mentor’s expression of annoyance. He’d say disappointment, but that would imply that Dazai had expected better of him in the first place, and he hasn’t. Not for a long time. Perhaps not ever.
“Your ability is powerful enough at a distance, but once you let your enemy get too close-” Dazai presses the gun a fraction harder against him. “With your physical weakness, you’d have no chance against a close-combat ability, or a weapon. If I wanted, I could kill you right-”
A red-black flash cuts him off, knocking the gun from his hand; it flies across the room, falls harmlessly to the blood-stained floor, cut cleanly in two.
He isn’t even given a moment to enjoy this small victory; his head is yanked gracelessly upwards by Dazai’s hand in his hair. “Cute. But don’t think your enemies will give you that chance. If you really think they’ll stand around monologuing, rather than put you down on sight, you’re even more of a fool than I thought.”
He doesn’t bother apologizing. I'm not interested in apologies; only results. He’s heard that enough times from Dazai, before he knew better. Before he learned.
So he’s left with nothing else to say as Dazai releases his grip, shoving him away roughly before he leaves the room, the edges of his coat trailing behind him on some invisible wind.
He considers, at first, going to Gin. Of all the people he’d loathe to ask for anything remotely resembling help, she’s the least humiliating option, and she’s always been lightning-fast. He already owes her enough, though - and as ruthless as she is in a fight, he knows she worries about his illness, how far he pushes himself; she’ll pull her punches with him.
The enemy won’t.
Dazai certainly won’t.
There’s only one person he can think of to turn to - one person who, if he can learn to best them in combat, stands a chance of earning him some sort of acknowledgement from Dazai.
He’s bent over a desk covered in papers, scribbling notes in the margins of what look to be building schematics; he doesn’t even look up from his work as Akutagawa approaches. “This’d better be important, I’m not settling any more stupid squabbles between you people today. I’m not your marriage counselor.”
Akutagawa clears his throat. “Nakahara.”
The man in question, the most feared weapon in the Port Mafia’s arsenal, looks up, surprise clear on his face that Akutagawa of all people is the one interrupting his work. He supposes he can’t blame him; they’ve never purposefully avoided each other, just… kept a respectful distance, that’s all. He’s heard even Dazai speak highly of his partner’s abilities, which is like wringing blood from a damn stone otherwise, and for Chuuya’s part, he’s probably heard quite enough about Akutagawa’s lack of control over both his temper and ability. It’s not the most comfortable of dynamics, either way you look at it.
But he’s incredibly skilled at hand to hand combat, even without his ability - Akutagawa’s seen him send men twice his size flying into the air without so much as nudging the gravity around them - and most importantly, Dazai respects him, which hopefully means he’s unlikely to hold back in a fight, even against a subordinate.
“Ugh, haven’t I told you all not to call me that enough times? Chuuya’s fine. What is it?” He taps his pen against the desk; it seems to be not so much out of impatience, but rather for something to keep from being fully still. This close up, he gives off the impression of someone full of potential energy, crackling under the surface and only biding its time until it has the chance to escape; his fidgeting is just the equivalent of a safety valve letting off steam to prevent a full-blown explosion.
I want- Akutagawa almost begins. No. He can’t bring himself to sound that - childish in front of a superior. Want sounds desperate - sounds too close to need.
“Train me,” he says instead. Not the most polite request, but he’s had very little time for social niceties in his life, and he doubts anyone in the Port Mafia still expects otherwise from him.
“What?” Chuuya stops tapping.
“Close combat. My ability is not… naturally suited to it.” Even admitting this much feels far too expository, feels like he’s peeling layers of his skin back, leaving him more defenseless than before.
Chuuya’s eyes narrow. “Did that shithead Dazai put you up to this? Is this just part of another plot to make my life harder?”
He can feel himself bristle at the mere mention of his mentor’s name. “Dazai doesn’t know I’m speaking to you at all.”
“Huh.” He tilts his head, considering. “Well, that’s… interesting, I guess. Sure, why the hell not?”
He says it like he’s responding to - God, Akutagawa doesn’t even know, like he’s responding to someone asking if he wants another drink, or something. Like he doesn’t even know that Akutagawa’s ability to finally, maybe, take another step closer to good enough is riding on this. Which, to be entirely fair to Chuuya, he probably doesn’t - he doubts Dazai’s even bothered to bring up his training in conversation.
But he’s still responding. He’s still saying yes.
And Akutagawa tries not to linger on just how relieved he feels at that.
“Right.” He stretches his arms out in front of him, palms out, fingers threaded together. “What exactly is it that you want me to do here?”
“As I said.” Today Akutagawa is the one who can’t keep still; he’s been pacing, hands in his pockets, since the moment Chuuya arrived, and he’s never understood the phrase “itching for a fight” so clearly in his life. He’s been itching, since the word sure crossed Chuuya’s lips days ago. Teach me. Fight me. I don’t care. Make me worthier than I was. “Close combat isn’t… my area of expertise. I can’t afford to let that continue.”
“So, what… you want me to try and punch you in the face, or something?”
Akutagawa shrugs, which, given how tense he holds himself, is more like a jerk of a shoulder. “Or whatever you see fit.”
“See fit - I’m giving you a hand here, kid, a hand you asked for, by the way, not… evaluating you.” He pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, sighs. “Look, why don’t we see where you’re at first, go from there? I’ll try to hit you, you try to stop me. Just don’t actually skewer me with-” he gestures vaguely in the direction of Akutagawa’s coat- “That.”
“I’m perfectly capable of holding back.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.” A brief look of concern crosses his features, but it’s gone as soon as Akutagawa blinks. “Just don’t want to have to go explain to Dazai that his favorite subordinate turned me into yakitori.”
He’s joking, obviously, but the thought is horrifying. Dazai’s reactions to his missteps when it comes to dealing with the Port Mafia’s enemies are bad enough; he still wakes, drenched in sweat, from half-remembered dreams about them - his response to Akutagawa hurting his partner because he can’t control his damned ability is unthinkable. “Believe me. You won’t have to.”
“Alright, then.” It’s Chuuya’s turn to shrug, and before Akutagawa is able to fully register the fact that he’s begun to move forwards, he’s launching himself into the space between them, a blur of copper and black. Jaws of black shadow tear at the air where he was seconds before, but they don’t even graze the tail of his jacket, and Akutagawa doesn’t even have time to call Rashoumon back to shield him; he braces his body for impact in the split second he does have, for what little good it will do.
Except the impact never comes.
Chuuya’s gloved fist hovers right between his eyes, millimeters from his face. The level of precision he must have to come that close - but he doesn’t even finish the thought before the wave of shame crashes down on him.
He could have hit you. And he didn’t. Like you need to be shielded. Like he thinks you’re weak.
Not thinks - knows.
“Again,” he manages to growl, through a throat that suddenly feels much tighter than it should.
Chuuya takes a step back, cracking his knuckles. “Alright. First time doesn’t count, anyway, right?”
Every time counts, a voice that sounds very much like Dazai’s says, in the back of his head. You think that your enemy’s going to give you a second chance? That the Port Mafia’s in the business of second chances?
This time, when Chuuya steps, quick as a flash, towards him, he’s ready, Rashoumon devouring the space between his body and where he expects Chuuya’s fist to land; at the last moment, Chuuya springs into the air, landing easily behind him, hands slipped casually into his pockets.
“You learned from what I did last time, and you adapted - that’s good. But your enemy’s gonna adapt, too. You’ve got to be ready for it, and anticipate their next- hey, are you listening to me or not?”
He’s listening. Of course he is, even if he wishes he could press his hands over his ears and block out the words, instead of balling them into fists, nails digging into callused palms. He can’t bring himself to look Chuuya in the eye; it suddenly seems impossible to look anywhere but at the floor between them. Neutral ground. Maybe.
His voice comes out choked. “Why didn’t you hit me?”
“What?” Chuuya sounds as if he’s just been asked something utterly ridiculous - why didn’t you do a pirouette in midair? - rather than, as Akutagawa considers it, an entirely fair question.
“I said why didn’t you hit me?” He knows how he must sound - utterly pathetic, a child crying why, why, why - but the words spill forth anyway. “You had every chance to - both times - how do you expect anyone to learn with no consequence?”
“The hell do you mean, no consequence - you just want me to knock you around until you learn something from it?”
There’s a note of something in Chuuya’s voice he can’t quite identify, something he can’t hang a name on that nevertheless makes him feel like he’s going to be sick.
“You think the only way you can be better is if someone beats it into you?”
He remembers fists driving into his stomach, into his face, the unmistakable sound of a bone breaking; of blood spattering the floor, dripping down his chin, wiped haphazardly away on the back of his hand. The gun’s barrel against his skin.
He remembers slight, almost imperceptible nods of acknowledgement. A cold voice. Almost acceptable.
Again.
Chuuya curses under his breath. “What the hell has that idiot been telling you?”
Akutagawa looks up; now he’s able to identify that tone, easily - concern, the same emotion evident in Chuuya’s eyes, causing his own eyes to harden even further. “Don’t talk about him that way.”
“I’ll talk about my partner however the fuck I want, and he’s-”
“I don’t need your pity.”
There’s enough steel in his tone that Chuuya takes a slight step backwards before attempting to respond. “What you need is-”
“You know nothing about what I need.” Or you wouldn’t have held back, he adds, mentally. You would understand. Pain has always been my best teacher.
“This was a mistake,” he says, more quietly. “My apologies, for wasting so much of your time.”
“You didn’t-”
He doesn’t stick around to hear what he didn’t. At this point, he doesn’t want to hear anything Chuuya has to say, and certainly not with that expression still on his face. He’ll find someone else - throw himself into battle, if he has to; God knows the Port Mafia has enough enemies. Surely, he thinks, one of them will grant what he’s looking for; surely one of them will be enough to earn him the words he’s been waiting for.
Good enough.