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The first time it happens, it is on a muggy, summer night. There is a festival of some sort – the night sky is periodically lit by a smattering of fireworks. A mountain in the distance has kanji carved up into its side, coordinated fires against a background of trees. There are food stalls lining up the streets and there are too many people in different stages of inebriation with swaggering steps all over the pavement.
Given that operating under the cover of the night is riskier than usual, the Port Mafia’s operations have mostly been declared to be on a halt.
Gin had used it as a chance to check up on him and ask about his medicine for his lungs. Akutagawa, because he does not want to disappoint one more person in his life, does not wait for his sister to barge into his sparse bathroom and check the medicine cabinet. He makes his way to a pharmacy on the far edge of the city, far away from the vibrant streets and noisy merrymakers.
As with his expectations, the small pharmacy only has two other people in it. The cashier with huge eye bags and is seemingly half-asleep. And then… someone who looks so faint and sick that Akutagawa even thinks that the person’s life force is about to give up any moment now. But the cashier does not end up face-faulting to the desk and the other buyer does not keel off while perusing the box of pills in his hands.
Akutagawa makes his own purchase. It takes him less than a minute to locate the proper box; he does not bother with re-reading the labels at the back of the box. It is a generic, over-the-counter medicine that he has always taken, after all.
It is on the same aisle as the other buyer. The other customer’s fingers look thin and malnourished. The customer brings up a set of his fingers to his mouth and nibbles on the nails. His other hand is on the box of pills.
Akutagawa does not make unnecessary small talk. He moves to the cashier and pays for his purchase. He leaves, blending into the night.
-
The next time he has to purchase medicine for himself, Akutagawa decides to go back to the same pharmacy he went to last time, even if there is no ongoing festival.
The small pharmacy is open, the doors sliding open to admit him inside. The inside of the store is warmer compared to the early evening air, of summer making way to autumn. There are already a couple of yellowed leaves on the welcome mat just outside the store.
The cashier this time is a different person. This one looks like a part-timer, much younger compared to the last one. Perhaps a university student wanting to do some sort of honest business to help pad their pockets. Heh. How normal.
Akutagawa hunches his shoulders and make his way to the same aisle that he went to previously.
No.
The medicine boxes there are for stomach ailments, not for respiratory tract illnesses. Did this store also change its arrangement alongside its cashier? How vexing.
“It’s over here,” a soft voice calls out. “For your cough.”
Akutagawa bristles at that. It is not exactly classified information: that he suffers from lung problems. It is obvious if one cared to pay attention. And his enemies do, certainly. So, it is with barely-restrained violence that he shifts and approaches the person who called out to him. He does not lunge for him, but it is a close call.
“I remember you,” pale lips tell him. Sharp cheekbones and even paler pallor greet him. “From last time.”
Nobody really approaches Akutagawa or attempts to draw him to casual small talk. Of course, Akutagawa does his part in discouraging it. For the people he could not kill before they could even attempt to speak to him, Akutagawa has mastered the act of bluntly ignoring them. It mostly works for Higuchi, Kajii. It has varying results with Chuuya-san, but that person is extremely powerful – nothing can escape him.
Nobody really approaches Akutagawa in a friendly, casual manner. Even if he does not go around yelling about his ties to the Port Mafia, the dangerous aura follows him unconditionally.
So, a bit taken aback, he ends up admitting, “…I remember your presence too.”
Vivid violet eyes look out of place in the pale, sickly and monochromatic color scheme of the other person. But they glitter a bit, as they widen to allow the overhead fluorescent lights to shine on them. “Is that so? Fufufu, I am honored.”
“I have good memory,” Akutagawa bristles again. Something about the other man’s laugh sounds grating to his ears. It sounds a lot like Dazai-san when he’s tricking Chuuya-san to accepting a bet. The memory makes his angry. “I remember a lot of things.”
“I’m sure.”
Akutagawa ignores the other man and reaches for his box of medicine.
-
The third time it happens, autumn is in full swing, dead leaves crunching underneath his heel as he makes his way to the pharmacy. This time, instead of a couple of yellowed leaves waiting for him by the doormat, there is a sickly-looking man wrapped up in a fur-trimmed jacket waiting for him.
A tilt of the head. A white ushanka sways along the motion.
“I had a feeling you’d be here today.”
“I have no need for stalkers.” Akutagawa already deals enough with Higuchi as is.
…Akutagawa is about to become a stalker too, fairly soon. There is a mission that he has been assigned to: the capture of a weretiger with a seven billion dollar bounty. Akutagawa himself does not care for the monetary compensation, but he does know that an organization needs a good financial foundation. It is one of the things that he has learned from working under D—
“Perhaps this is fate,” the man says. “Without worrying about the future, I let my feet take me to this place, at this time. And then, I found you. Perhaps, that is fate.”
Akutagawa narrows his eyes. Electricity crackles under his skin; Rashomon is ready to go and fight this man. “Perhaps, it will be fate, if I end up silencing you forever.”
“My, how feisty.” The man’s skinny figure looks like it is one breath away from dissipating into the air. The man does not say anything about a ‘mad dog’. “Come inside, don’t let me stop you from buying your medicine.”
Akutagawa deliberately knocks shoulders with the other man on his way to enter the pharmacy.
To his surprise, the man does not end up falling down from the collision.
Instead, the man merely chuckles and says, “You are a bit interesting, Akutagawa-kun.”
By the time Akutagawa whirls around to demand how the other man learned of his name, the man is gone, as though carried away by the wind.
-
…perhaps Akutagawa should have paid more attention to those encounters. Instead of merely waiting for the other’s attack, instead of looking at it with the perspective that the other man would reappear again to attack him.
The fourth time they meet, it is with Akutagawa coughing up blood, knees shaken and legs injured as he crawls on the ground in all fours. Port Mafia’s Headquarters is burning from the attack by the Rats in the House of the Dead. And above Akutagawa, there is a man with a blood-splattered ushanka. Cloaked in black and white, with shining violet eyes, Fyodor Dostoevsky tells him, gently, like he is about to be soothed like a wild animal:
“Unfortunately, there is no cure for this, Akutagawa-kun.” A small smile, so gentle compared to the way that he has stabbed Akutagawa in the stomach just minutes ago. “If you agree to work with me, I promise to help heal you back to health.”
Akutagawa makes sure to cough up blood directly to the other’s shirt this time.
Dostoevsky smiles at him like they are merely two civilians coincidentally shopping together.
Akutagawa’s vision swims as he lashes out using Rashomon, launching his Ability to every direction, like an explosion of blades. Dostoevsky continues smiling, even as Akutagawa loses more and more blood.
The other man only says, “…Well. Maybe it is time for a different medicine for you,” and then, Akutagawa feels another blade slice into him, and then, darkness.
-
By the fifth—
The first time Akutagawa sees those violet eyes, Fyodor Dostoevsky smiles at him and asks, gently, caringly, “How do you feel, Ryuunosuke-kun?”
“I’m…” Akutagawa searches for the word and takes five minutes to say, “…fine.”
A raised, expectant eyebrow.
The statement feels lacking. He searches for what’s missing; it takes ten minutes for him to add, “…master.”
It feels wrong, sickening, but Dostoevsky smiles and pats his head.
“That’s great to hear. I’m proud of you, Ryuunosuke-kun. You’re really strong.”
It feels wrong and sickening, but Akutagawa also feels relief at hearing the words that he has waited for his entire life.
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end