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Akutagawa should just leave him on the ADA’s doorstep. It isn’t like the ADA’s location is any secret, and it isn’t like Atsushi needs immediate medical attention with how quickly he heals.
But no. Instead, his feet bring him in the opposite direction. Instead, he carries Atsushi all the way from the port to his apartment. Instead, he lays Atsushi down on his bed, treats his wounds with shaking hands, falls to his knees on the floor beside him when he’s finally done because his adrenaline has finally run out.
Akutagawa doesn’t know what possessed him to do what he did.
Well. That’s a lie.
Akutagawa has gotten better and better at lying to himself ever since he and Atsushi started working together.
Akutagawa knows. He knows there’s warmth in his chest that flares when Atsushi takes a punch for him or tells him see you soon or looks at him like he considers Akutagawa a friend. He knows how often his eyes catch on the curve of Atsushi’s lips when he smiles, on the crease between his eyebrows when he hears Akutagawa cough or sees red staining Akutagawa’s skin, on the length of his pale eyelashes as they flutter when he blinks.
He knows that he’s been falling further and further into Atsushi’s orbit, and it’s almost bizarre , the feeling of knowing exactly what’s happening but being unable to stop himself.
He doesn’t want to stop himself. He doesn’t want to stop working with Atsushi, doesn’t want to stop seeing the kindness that’s been showing more and more often in Atsushi’s eyes, doesn’t want to stop revelling in the fact that they fit so well together.
Akutagawa has always preferred working alone. He doesn’t work well with others, doesn’t like having to look out for anyone but himself. He felt that way about Atsushi at first. I don’t need him, he thought. I’m strong enough to handle this myself, he thought. But it’s Atsushi who’s helped him realize that he’s even stronger with someone watching his back.
Well. With Atsushi watching his back, at least.
He may not need Atsushi, but there’s no one else Akutagawa would want by his side. Not even Dazai.
To a certain extent, Akutagawa is getting what he wants. They only ever seem to fight side by side these days. They’re building a name for themselves, just as feared, as formidable as Dazai and Chuuya were as partners. They’ve reached a point where neither the Port Mafia nor the ADA care enough to stop them from gravitating towards each other. Instead, they’re pushed together, encouraged to grow into each other, to sand down their rough edges until they fit together into a perfect, unbeatable weapon.
It should be enough. Akutagawa should be content with where they are now. It isn’t enough though. He wants more .
He wants to know more about Atsushi. He wants to know something else other than the look in his eyes when he’s determined to finish a fight, or the twist of his mouth when he’s snarling, the shape of his fist when he moves to punch their opponent. Akutagawa wants to know how much worse his hair could look in the mornings, wants to know what Atsushi smells like underneath all the sweat and blood, wants to know what he sounds like when he laughs.
Akutagawa wants to know how it feels, having Atsushi wrapped around him, having Atsushi’s fingers intertwined with his, having Atsushi’s lips brushing against his. It’s a relentless, irrepressible thought, and it crosses his mind every time he has to watch Atsushi’s back as he walks away after another day of fighting together. Akutagawa always wants to reach out to Atsushi, to ask him if he would stay for another minute, another hour, another day.
But he can’t. He can’t because he forfeited the right to do that when he turned down every olive branch Atsushi extended to him, when he ignored Atsushi every single time he’d ask Akutagawa if he wanted to have dinner together, or if he wanted to exchange numbers, or if he wanted to stop by the ADA to see Dazai. Akutagawa wasted all his chances until he finally ran out of them.
Atsushi never asks these days. He’s felt out the boundaries that Akutagawa set, and now he keeps his distance, lingers at the very edge of what he thinks Akutagawa would allow. And Akutagawa should be grateful. He should be relieved.
But he isn’t.
He didn’t realize it until it was too late, didn’t acknowledge the odd feeling in his chest until Atsushi stopped asking, until that feeling morphed from a gentle tugging, urging him to say yes, say yes, don’t let him go, to a crushing, crippling clenching, a reminder of what he let slip from his fingers. And it haunts him—of course it does.
Akutagawa started his life at the very bottom, managed to claw his way up with Gin. He knows the value of opportunities, knows that taking risks ups the possibility of a reward, and yet—
And yet he wasted this one. And yet he got scared, and yet he chose to stagnate. And yet he let Atsushi get tired of trying.
Atsushi, who never gives up in a fight, who gets back up again and again and again until he can’t anymore. Atsushi, who is brighter, stronger than Akutagawa could ever hope to be, who got Dazai’s approval long before Akutagawa did, who holds a fire in his heart that he passes onto everyone around him, even if he doesn’t mean to. Atsushi, who quietly shines with his unshakeable belief in others, who now believes in Akutagawa even after everything that Akutagawa has done and said to him in the past.
He wants Atsushi to ask him one more time. He wants to say yes.
Now, watching the rise and fall of Atsushi’s chest, hyper-aware of the blood that’s dried on his hands, he thinks, maybe . Maybe he could be the one to ask instead. Maybe he could be the one to bridge the distance between them. Maybe he could be the one to take the first step.
Atsushi is hard to injure, harder to kill, but it isn’t impossible. Akutagawa doesn’t want to keep being a coward. He could be the one who asks next time. He will .
Akutagawa almost misses the way Atsushi’s eyes flutter open, the way his hand twitches, reaches out for a moment before he relaxes into Akutagawa’s mattress.
“Akutagawa?” Atsushi says, and his voice is hoarse, scratchy. Akutagawa should go and get him some water, but later.
For now, Akutagawa scrambles onto his knees, pauses, hesitates before he reaches out to take Atsushi’s hand in his, squeezes.
“I’m here,” he says. “You’re in my apartment.”
“You’re alright?” Atsushi asks.
Akutagawa nods, and he’s rewarded with a smile so bright and warm even when Atsushi’s so obviously tired, barely able to do anything but this .
“That’s good,” Atsushi says. “That’s good.”
And that’s it. He doesn’t ask about why Akutagawa brought him to his apartment. He doesn’t ask Akutagawa to call Dazai. He doesn’t ask what happened to the guy they were fighting.
He just trusts Akutagawa, believes in him. That’s been the case for a long, long time now, and finally, Akutagawa sees it.
He falls asleep sitting on the floor next to his bed, holding Atsushi’s hand for the rest of the night.
The next time they finish a fight together, Akutagawa asks Atsushi to stay with him a little longer.
Atsushi smiles. He takes Akutagawa’s hand.
“Of course,” he says. “I thought you’d never ask.”